The Legion: Heartson

A word, a shape, an idea that slips through the mind, but when you reach for it––gone. It isn't something you can hold. It's slippery, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. You think you've grasped it, that maybe you understand, but the moment you try to pin it down, it vanishes. 

No, not vanishes. It transforms, shifts into something else entirely. A reason becomes a lie, a dream becomes a burden, and a burden becomes… nothing. But isn't that what it is? The endless chase after something that should define you?

But if this thing is meant to define, then why does it feel like it escapes every time you come close? Like a phantom just out of reach. Something more abstract than real. Or maybe… maybe it's real, but only for a moment. The second you claim it, it loses its shape, and you realize it was never yours to begin with.

It belonged to someone else. 

But how could that be? It's yours, isn't it? It has to be. But no, the thought persists, creeping into the back of your mind––what if this thing, this idea you've built your life around, wasn't yours at all? What if you borrowed it, unknowingly, from something larger? A person, a system, a story.

But then, who are you without it? If it is borrowed, if it can be taken, then what's left of you? Identity? But identity is tied to this, isn't it? No, wait––identity is this, or maybe it's the other way around. 

The self is shaped by what you think you're meant to do, but if that shifts then what does that leave you? A blank? A hollow shell? No, that's too simple, too neat. It's more like… a shadow. An echo of something that was once whole, but now fractured. Broken pieces trying to fit into a puzzle that's constantly changing shape.

It's maddening, isn't it? To think that this idea could be so fluid, so unreliable. Yet people chase it, as if without it, they'll drown.

But that's the contradiction, isn't it? It's supposed to save you, to guide you, but in reality, it just pulls you under. It makes you drown in yourself, in your failures, in the endless question of "what now?"

Maybe, in the beginning, you were something, but that was before you needed to be something.

Do you see the trap now? It makes you need it, forces you to shape yourself around it, and then, when it's gone––because it always goes––it leaves nothing behind but questions. 

What was it all for? What were you for? Were you ever really more than the roles you played? No, no, that can't be right. But then why does it feel like that's all you are? A series of roles, a collection of moments trying to form a coherent story.

You chase it because without it, you'd unravel. But the cruel irony is, chasing it only makes you unravel faster. You run, and run, and run, thinking that you're getting closer, but the truth is––you're only losing more of yourself. And when you stop, when you finally stop, what's left?

A hollow name. A title without meaning. A person without a path.

So, what does it mean, then? Maybe it means nothing. Maybe it was always supposed to mean nothing. Or maybe that's just what you tell yourself to keep from losing the last bit of you that hasn't disappeared into the endless, gnawing void of questions.

And yet, despite it all, you keep searching. Because what else can you do?

No, that's not quite right.

Just forget it.

Mason paused, his thoughts scattering, drifting away with no sense of direction. His eyes blinked slowly, the world around him fading into something distant, hazy. He could see stars, or at least, he thought he did. Bright pinpricks of light danced at the edge of his vision, weaving in and out of strange shapes, abstract ideas that didn't belong.

Wasn't there… something? Something he was supposed to worry about?

He exhaled, the weight of a forgotten thought pressing down on him, a nagging sense of urgency that kept flickering in and out, but never fully taking shape. His chest felt tight, like he was waiting for something, but what? What was it?

That's right.

I'm dying aren't I?

Mason's vision snapped back into reality. The familiar circular chamber he had been in all this time seemed to close in around him, the cold stone walls looming with an unsettling weight. His heart pounded, heavy and uneven, matching the sickening throb in his chest. 

He pressed a trembling hand to the blade—a wetness oozed between his fingers, the blood sluggishly flowing from the gash the knife had left. The blade had pierced deep. 

His mind swam in a haze of pain and confusion, his body refusing to cooperate, but even through the fog, he could hear it—the soft, measured breathing of the woman behind him.

Her.

Slumped against the hard floor, Mason forced himself to remain still. His eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow, he could feel the presence behind him. The woman—no, the dangerously attractive soldier—watched him. 

Her blade had nearly ended him, but she didn't move. Not yet. Perhaps she was waiting for something, or maybe she was savoring the moment, like a predator observing its prey's final twitching breaths.

Her gaze burned into his back as she pressed forward. Mason's heart raced, but he kept his body limp, his mind calculating. He had no intention of dying here. Not like this. Not on the first level. 

Slowly, he tensed his muscles, preparing himself. His hands tingled with the faint heat of the black flames as he reached for the Astral of Death within him. His heart pounded harder, the fire coursing through his veins, even as his body screamed in protest. 

Just a little more.

The woman shifted, her boots barely making a sound as she stepped closer. 

Just a little closer...

And then—she moved.

That was it.

In an instant, Mason spun, his body twisting violently as he unleashed the flames, pouring the energy into his legs and torso. The motion was so quick, so sudden, the air cracked as he moved. He aimed his strike directly at her, his fists blazing with dark fire.

But at the last second, she braced.

Her arm came up to block his strike, her eyes meeting his with a calm, almost playful look. Mason's fist collided with her forearm, but instead of toppling her, she absorbed the blow, skidding back across the floor. Yet, she remained upright, barely fazed.

Mason's blood boiled. He wouldn't let this woman, no matter how skilled or beautiful, stand in his way. With a snarl, he grabbed the hilt of the knife still buried in his chest, the metal slick with his own blood. 

His fingers tightened around it, and without hesitation, he yanked it free. Pain flared, sharp and biting, but Mason grit his teeth, refusing to show weakness. He held the bloodied blade aloft, his eyes locked on her.

Mason: I'm not done yet y'know! I don't care how beautiful you are—I'm not holding back! I'll fight my way out of here! You think some pretty face and a fancy knife can take me down? Do you have any idea who you're dealing with here? I've survived worse than this, way worse! I'm the kind of idiot who burns his toast every morning and still eats it because who's got time to make another? I've fallen asleep in the middle of class with a pen in my hand and woke up with my homework stabbed through!

He could see her blinking, completely bewildered by his rambling, but he wasn't stopping now.

Mason: You think this is where I stop? Here? In some creepy base in the middle of nowhere? No way! I've been through too much crap for it to end like this! I've had teachers throw books at my head because I spaced out mid-lecture! I've been chased by stray dogs more times than I can count! Do you know what it's like to be relentlessly pursued by angry geese? Do you?! I don't care if you've got the looks of a goddess and the attitude of a stone-cold killer, I'm not going down without a fight! You can keep your knives, your smug smile, and whatever else you're hiding under that armor, but let me tell you something—

He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes narrowing as the words tumbled out before his brain could catch up.

Mason: —If you think I'm backing down, I'll fight you until... until the moon crashes into the sea and... wait, no, I meant the stars, and…

The woman blinked, her confusion melting into open laughter. It started as a chuckle, but soon enough, she was laughing aloud, her voice ringing through the chamber.

Mason froze, blinking rapidly. He was momentarily stunned by the sound of her laughter, but then it hit him. His brain lagged behind his own mouth, the words tumbling out like a broken faucet.

Why can't I think straight?

Woman: So fiery. But don't you think you should at least let me explain before making such bold declarations?

Mason: Like hell I'm giving you the chance!

With a roar, he ignited his fists and feet, the black flames blazing around him, wrapping his body in a deadly aura. He lunged at her, each punch filled with more power than the last, the flames crackling through the air with every strike. He didn't hold back—

But the woman was fast—faster than anyone he had fought before. Her body moved like water, effortlessly dodging his blows. Each time his fist came close, she slipped just out of reach. 

She pulled a second knife from her armor, the gleaming blade catching the dim light of the chamber, and with a swift motion, she countered. Mason dodged the first few strikes, his mind working in overdrive, but something was wrong.

His body wasn't keeping up. He should have been able to dodge her strikes with ease, but his limbs felt sluggish, his movements delayed by just a fraction of a second.

Slash.

A burning pain tore across his arm, then another across his thigh. Small cuts, but enough to make him falter. He gritted his teeth. Inside his mind, the Astral of Death chuckled.

And that voice. That damn voice.

You're not helping!

But the laughter only grew louder, more sinister. His body wouldn't listen, his limbs not responding the way they should. His mind felt foggy, his thoughts scattered. Something was wrong.

The woman darted in for another strike, her knife flashing toward him, and Mason barely managed to sidestep. But his vision blurred, and the pieces fell into place. The sluggishness. The disconnect between his mind and body. The nonstop laughter. The knife wound.

The knife.…? 

Of course. The blade hadn't just pierced his flesh—it had delivered something else, something slowing him down. The Astral's laughter echoed again, louder this time, feeding off his pain.

He wasn't going to win like this. Not in a straight fight.

Desperation clawed at the edges of his mind. He needed to change the game. His eyes flicked to the ground beneath his feet, and in an instant, he slammed his foot down, drawing the maximum output of flames his body could handle. 

The stone floor cracked under the force, sending a tremor through the chamber. The woman's eyes widened as she staggered, momentarily off balance.

That was all Mason needed.

Without wasting another second, Mason turned and ran.

He blasted through the door, smashing it to pieces with a surge of black flames, and sprinted down the hallway, his mind racing faster than his legs could carry him.

He had to get away. He couldn't win this fight—not in his current state. Not while that damn poison was coursing through his veins.

Mason sprinted down the endless corridors, delirious, his vision clouded with stars that blinked and swirled, shimmering at the edges of his sight.

Stars? 

No. He blinked, trying to clear his head, but they only grew brighter, streaking past him like shooting stars. Something wasn't right.

The poison wasn't the only thing tearing him apart—he was bleeding out.

He glanced down at his chest, the gaping wound still pouring blood. Too much blood.

I'll die like this.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Mason gritted his teeth and slammed his hand against the wound, summoning the Astral of Death again, this time forcing it to flare against his own body. Black flames ignited in his palm, burning with a vicious intensity as he pressed the fire into his chest, trying to cauterize the wound.

Mason: AAAHHHHH!

The scream tore through him, louder than the pain itself. His vision flashed white with agony as the flames seared his skin, sealing the wound, but the shock of it knocked him to his knees. His body convulsed, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as he slumped to the ground, gasping for air.

More laughter.

Mason's head swam, the world fading in and out of focus. He couldn't stay down. He couldn't let her catch up. He had to move.

Through sheer force of will, he staggered to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him like they could collapse at any second. Behind him, he heard it—the unmistakable sound of her footsteps, closing in. 

Calm. Steady. She wasn't rushing. She didn't need to.

She knew he was already finished.

Mason forced himself forward, sprinting blindly through the halls, the walls around him twisting into something incomprehensible. 

Sirens. Flashing lights. Were they real? He wasn't sure. The world felt wrong. He couldn't see the corridors anymore—just space. An endless expanse of stars and galaxies, swirling and dancing before his eyes.

Am I... floating?

In front of him, the stars seemed to shimmer, moving toward him in clusters. Closer. Closer. Their light flickered, and for a moment, Mason thought he was being drawn into the cosmos, until—

Guns.

The stars—they were drawing guns.

Stars don't carry guns.

He blinked, his mind struggling to catch up with reality. Soldiers stood before him, their weapons raised, their faces startled by the speed at which he approached. No.

Mason pushed harder, his legs burning with the effort as he blitzed past them. His vision blurred, the stars mixing with the flashing lights as more soldiers joined the pursuit. He couldn't see the hallways anymore, just endless space, endless stars.

His thoughts were tangled, rambling, incomprehensible strings of words and images that made no sense. He was losing himself, his mind fracturing under the weight of it all. He couldn't win. Not like this.

Mason gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to scream. 

Shut up. Just shut up.

Desperate, he activated the Astral of Death again, pouring the last of his strength into his feet. He stomped, hard, sending a shockwave through the ground. The stone floor cracked beneath him, a deep crater forming as the tremor rattled the walls and sent the soldiers stumbling.

But he couldn't keep this up.

His body was breaking down, the poison eating away at him, slowing his movements, clouding his vision. He had to stop.

Finally, Mason turned and ducked into a side room—an artillery room, filled with crates and weaponry. The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, he felt a fleeting sense of safety. He staggered to the far wall, his legs giving out beneath him as he slumped to the ground, gasping for breath.

The stars and galaxies still danced in front of his eyes, but he forced himself to ignore them. Focus.

His chest heaved, the burn of the wound still fresh, but he wasn't dead. Not yet.

Death continued to laugh inside his mind, a low, cruel sound that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

Shut up. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the stars out of his mind, trying to pull together the last threads of his consciousness. He couldn't let it end like this.

He couldn't think straight. He couldn't fight. But he needed a plan. Anything to get him out of this alive.