Story A:
Isaac roamed the streets, starving. His thoughts drifted to his parents, they had it worse than he did. And so he continued on, searching for food.
The twelve year old boy eventually laid his eyes upon a group of missionaries. And as they looked at him, they smiled. Maybe he'd be able to get some food out of them.
"Ah, you look like a hungry one."
For some reason as the missionary smiled at him, he felt a twisted feeling. His face looked... wrong somehow. But that didn't deter Isaac any.
"Please sir, my parents are starving. I beg you, help me," he bowed to the man.
The missionary reached into his pack and handed Isaac a small loaf of bread.
"Eat first, then we'll take you back to the temple and give you some supplies for your parents."
As Isaac scarfed down the loaf of bread, he was overjoyed. He couldn't believe his luck! Whatever god they worshiped, he'd gladly follow it for this.
But the loaf tasted strange, and flames started to roar in his insides. He tried to scream, but his tongue didn't work. The world spun around him, and everything went black.
-----
Isaac awoke to the cold, blistering wind cutting through him. Then, pain. He went to scream again, and as he did his throat felt as if it was going to rip open. The dryness was unbearable, worse than when he got lost in the desert.
Memories flashed to him, memories of that trip, memories of his brother. Of his brother falling into the sand pit. He pushed them back for now, but the delirium started to form images in his head. After what felt like hours, laying on the ground, his throat cracked and bleeding, he heard a sound. The crackle of a door swinging open. It felt so distant to him, lost in delirium. Soon, hands grabbed him, forcing a liquid into his mouth.
He almost spat it up, it tasted so disgusting. But at that point, liquid was liquid, poison or not. It made him feel stronger, more lucid. He gulped down every cup the stranger gave him, too fast, opening the wounds in his throat wider. But he didn't care.
A few days later he gained the strength to open his eyes and sit up. Looking around, he saw he was in a small cage. Even if he had the strength, there wasn't space to stand up. Outside his cage he saw rows and rows of other cages, full of children. And he noticed that they all wore the small identical brown strap of cloth, barely giving them any modesty. Looking down, he saw that he was wearing the same. And he saw the cuts.
There must've been hundreds of them, deliberately carved, like the marking in his dad's wooden statues. They hurt, but it was the same dull throbbing he'd become accustomed to at this point. The sight of them frightened him more than anything. He went to scream, but as he started he became aware of his throat. So instead, he laid on the floor of his cell. And cried.
----
A week later and his pain had become more manageable. He saw the liquid they were feeding him now, a black, slimy substance. They never fed him, and he was never hungry, so he assumed that it functioned as both a meal and a drink. As he consumed it over days, he started to notice the effects. The cuts all over his body didn't scab over with blood, instead oozing a black substance that eventually went on to seal the wound together completely. Not just closing it, but leaving a black mark in his skin where the cut had been. And the throbbing became worse, but he felt like he could cope with it better now. He had no idea if that was an effect of the black liquid or if he was just stronger now.
One day, they pulled him out. His legs buckled, falling to the floor, but they grabbed him and dragged him back to his feet. As he was dragged through the hallway, he took the time to look at the cages. There must've been hundreds of them, three stacked on top of each other on both walls.
The room extended for what felt like forever, and Isaac was surprised at the scale of it all. Looking at a few of them, some of them had the same cuts as him, some had different cuts, and some had no cuts at all. Some of them had cuts of different colors, from yellow to red. Though as much as he looked he saw no blue. The thought struck him as interesting, but as he mused he snapped back to reality. Why was he fixating on the particulars of the cuts, examining these humans like they were nothing more than pets in cages. It should sicken him, but he found it hard to feel anything. Except when he looked at his captors. Upon seeing them, he had to fight with all he had to keep himself from throwing himself at them. He quelled his anger with a single promise. Soon.
As he was taken away from the cells, he was led through multiple hallways until he reached a room. The guards threw him inside and men with scientist robes grabbed ahold of him. First they stripped him of his rags, and then they strapped him down to a table. He struggled, but it was no use, his bounds held tight. They examined him, making extra incisions with their scapples, muttering about mistakes. After what felt like an eternity they left him, making notes on a table in front of him.
"After the subject's wounds fortify, we can proceed. The other subjects should be ready by then."
The other scientist nodded, "Good, what's its number?"
"6489," the first scientist replies, not looking up from his papers.
With a nod the first scientist walks back over to him, scapple in hand, and begins to carve into his forehead. He couldn't see at the time, but a few days later he managed to catch a glimpse of it in the reflection of a puddle in his cell.
6489.
----
6489 was led from his cell. It could've been more than two weeks since his meeting with the scientists, but the incisions in his skin were just like the rest. Completely healed.
He barely spared a glance at the others now. Since he regained his strength he watched them a lot. The screaming was deafening to a sane person, but was he even sane? Was the delirious him more sane than his current numb state? The numb state who knew logically that he might die today, but still barely felt a thing?
Eventually 6489 reached a large room, with a circle inscribed into the ground. Ten scientists, 6 other prisoners, and 5 guards stood there, including the guards who brought him.
They cut off his clothing and shoved him into the circle with the other naked prisoners. They didn't step into the circle themselves, but they instructed 6489 where to go, and he cooperated. What’s the point in resisting? They told him to get into the middle, and so he did, the six other prisoners in positions on the outer parts.
Before he could understand what was happening, a golden rod pierced his chest. He looked down in shock, and turned behind him to see one of the guards holding a crossbow like contraption. The pain seared him from the inside out. His screams pierced the air like a demon, which was ironic, because it was his blood that made the circle come to life.
The other six prisoners fell to the ground, writhing in agony. 6489 somehow kept on his feet, despite it all. Horrors blinked in and out of reality in front of his eyes. Chaos erupted around him. His senses stopped making sense, his life flashed before his eyes. His brother's death, his mother's illness, his father's injury. Without him, his parents had likely joined his brother. And it was all their fault, the fault of whatever sick organization did this to him. But he didn't believe that.
It was his fault, his weakness, that killed them.
Suddenly, it all stopped. The chaos, his vision, all of it. Black enveloped him, and as he looked in all directions, there was nothing. Nothing but him.
Then, she appeared. A woman, horrific and misshapen. Her features corrected themselves, until she resembled a form that was almost human, save some features like her horns or fangs. And her eyes. As he stared into them, his soul trembled.
She smiled at him, "Hello boy. I've been waiting for you."
He went to speak, but his voice didn't work.
"I've come to offer you a deal," she says. "Join me, and I'll give you the power to save yourself from this hell. And seek retribution."
His mind swims with thoughts. He realizes that there's no pain here, and that he can think clearly. And he realizes this is the first time he's thought clearly in a long time.
"So, here's your choice. If you let me, I'll grant you power, but you will live in absolute agony. The pain will be unbearable, and you will be irredeemable. But you will be strong.
Or, you can rest. No more pain, no more suffering. It's what a tiny child like you deserves. You can die a victim, morally pure."
And finally, he found his voice, "Weakness is no virtue. Come, join me."
She smiles, "Well, I guess child is inappropriate now. Well said Isaac, I accept these words as a contract of our souls. Let us return."
And with her words, he appeared back in the room, golden rod still through his chest, but the flesh around it had completely healed. Pain shot through him again, and he nearly fell to the floor. But he didn't, a new found resolve flowing through his veins.
Isaac looked around the room. Ten scientists, five guards. Horror spread across their faces and a smile crept across his. And with his newfound voice, he did not scream.
He laughed.
