The Legion: Heartson

Rachel's footsteps boomed through the hallway, each one heavier with growing irritation. This ridiculous chase—it was becoming tiresome. Annoying, really. She had already closed in on the boy, only for him to slip away like a wounded animal clinging to the last vestiges of life? She couldn't decide whether to pity him or be amused by his sheer, dumb persistence.

Mason Heartson.

The name felt like a joke, something spoken with far too much importance for someone so utterly pathetic. She should've been done with this by now. She was tired of his stupid game of tag, tired of watching him flail around.

But then the tremor came, shaking the floor beneath her feet. Rachel paused, her sharp eyes narrowing as the dust settled. Up ahead, she saw them—the soldiers, disoriented and stumbling from Mason's desperate attack. They looked dazed, like helpless sheep who had wandered into the path of a predator.

Her lip curled in disgust. 

Pathetic. Every single one of them.

She strode toward them, her anger simmering. 

Soldiers. Trained men. Weaklings. 

They had one job—one simple task—and they had failed. Worse than failure, they looked lost, blinking stupidly at the cracks in the ground like they couldn't even understand what had just happened.

Tools for someone else. Too blind to even know how easily they could be replaced.

Blind devotion, mindless obedience—these were things she could never respect. They were hollow, soulless traits.

Rachel's fingers twitched. The soldiers looked up at her, still trying to recover from Mason's half-hearted attack. 

They didn't even see it coming.

In one smooth motion, Rachel reached for the knife hidden beneath her armor. She moved faster than they could register—faster than thought itself.

One throat slit.

Then another.

And another.

No room for weakness.

Each soldier fell soundlessly to the floor, blood pooling around them. Her anger simmered down as she wiped the blade clean, watching their lifeless bodies with cold satisfaction. That was better. Much better. Silence was always preferable to incompetence.

Stepping over the crater Mason had left in the ground, Rachel continued forward. 

She knew. She could feel it in her bones. Mason was at his limit—his body was giving out, his mind already slipping into delirium. That last attack had drained him. She could taste his desperation in the air, the scent of blood lingering, leading her right to him.

Her eyes traced the obvious trail of blood smeared across the floor. 

Amateur. 

It led to a nearby artillery room, the door firmly shut. She smiled—a disappointed smile, really.

Illusions belong to me, Mason.

The audacity of him, trying to pull something so obvious. She reached for the door handle, turning it slowly, savoring the moment. Mason Heartson, backed into a corner, broken and desperate. She raised her knife, ready to find him slumped and defeated.

But as the door creaked open, the room was empty.

Rachel frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the area. No one. No Mason. Her mind raced, flickers of realization coming to her. Tricked. Somehow, the boy had managed to slip out again. Her irritation flared, her body tense, but she forced herself to remain calm. He couldn't have gone far.

As she turned to inspect the room one last time—

SLAM!

The door crashed shut behind her, and before Rachel could react, something heavy collided with her from behind. A body. Her mind registered the weight, the familiar scent of blood. Mason. The boy had tackled her, his arms wrapping around her throat in a clumsy, desperate attempt to choke her. She let out a sharp grunt as they hit the floor, the impact jarring her bones.

His hands tightened around her neck, his breath ragged, foaming at the mouth. Bloodshot eyes, glazed with madness, stared down at her.

Mason: G-give me... it... the... antido—... whatever you... I need... give it...!

His voice was a mess of broken words, half-formed thoughts, desperation leaking from every syllable. His grip around her throat tightened, his entire body trembling with the effort. But Rachel... she laughed.

Rachel: You're... really pathetic, aren't you?

She spat the words at him, her smile widening even as his hands squeezed tighter.

Rachel: If you want the antidote, you're gonna have to take those hands off me first.

Mason's grip faltered for a second, his fogged mind trying to comprehend her words. He didn't listen. His grip tightened again, harder this time, enough to make her choke. But she still laughed, her voice strained but mocking.

Her chest burned as he pressed down harder, the air leaving her lungs, but she could see it in his eyes—he didn't understand. He wasn't thinking. He wasn't capable of thinking.

And then it hit her—he might actually kill her. He was delirious, out of control, and if he squeezed any harder, she'd be dead before he even realized what he'd done.

Dammit.

With the last of her strength, she pressed her hand to the wound on his chest, shoving her fingers deep into the slightly open gash. Mason let out a strangled cry of pain, his grip loosening as he slumped, his body trembling from the shock. He fell back, gasping.

Rachel rolled away, her throat raw as she gulped down air, her body trembling with a mix of relief and irritation. That idiot—he had almost done it. Almost killed her by mistake. She backed away, glaring at the boy who now lay on the floor, barely able to move.

Mason tried to stand, his body shaking violently, but his strength was gone. He collapsed again, his breath ragged, his eyes wild.

Before Rachel could decide what to do next, the door burst open. Three soldiers rushed in, their guns raised, aiming straight at Mason.

But Rachel... she didn't even hesitate.

Without a second thought, her hand darted into her armor, pulling out a sleek pistol. 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

Three shots, clean and precise, and the soldiers dropped to the ground, dead before they could react.

Mason stared in disbelief, his eyes wide as he watched the bodies fall.

Rachel sneered, her eyes narrowing in annoyance as she stepped over the corpses.

Rachel: Enough of the interruptions.

She glared down at Mason, her voice cold, commanding. 

Rachel: My turn to talk.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mason was dead. He was sure of it. Everything felt cold, distant, like he had already crossed some line he couldn't come back from. The Moon... shimmering and beautiful, had beaten him. Every step of the way.

It wasn't stronger than him—physically, sure. Mason knew, deep down, that if it came to it, he could beat The Moon in a 1-on-1 fight. He was certain of that. But The Moon hadn't fought fair. It had tricked him, deceived him. The poison... damn poison.

Poisoned. That's it. So annoying. Stupid moon.

He braced himself for death. Wait. No. They couldn't kill him. He was needed for something, wasn't he? Something important... but what was it again? His thoughts scrambled around like mismatched puzzle pieces. 

Something... something big. What was it?

But then The Moon... stopped. It hovered there, looming above him, staring down at his motionless body. Mason lay on his back, unable to move his muscles, his limbs limp, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. The Moon stared. Silent. Watching.

Why are you looking at me...? Why won't you move...?

For what felt like an eternity, the moon stared. Then, it spoke.

The Moon: Tetrodotoxin, that's what's in your veins right now.

Mason blinked slowly, his eyes glassy, confused. The words hit him like static, fuzzing around the edges of his brain. What the hell was it talking about?

The Moon stared at Mason, annoyed, rolling it's eyes.

The Moon: Pufferfish toxin.

Puffer... fish? What do pufferfish have to do with the moon? And why... why was there a river? Wasn't there supposed to be a river? No... wait. Poison. 

Right. 

He'd been poisoned. 

Did he eat a pufferfish? None of this made sense.

But the moon ignored his disjointed thoughts. It spoke again, its voice flat, like it was explaining something obvious to a child.

The Moon: The toxin wasn't supposed to stay in your system this long. But... well, you chose to run instead of talk, and now here we are.

It's words slithered into his head, but they didn't settle right. Run? Talk? He wasn't running. Wait. He was. Why was he running again? The pieces wouldn't fit together, no matter how hard he tried to focus.

The Moon: You have minutes left, so I'll be quick. You have a choice to make.

Mason spat, his mouth dry, but somehow managing to find enough strength to let his frustration bubble up. He didn't want anything from the moon. It lied.

Mason: I don't... want anything from you... anymore... tricky... moon...

The Moon rolled it's eyes, clearly annoyed but unmoved by his nonsense.

The Moon: Fine. Let me get to the point.

It's voice droned on, explaining things Mason couldn't quite grasp. Something about Obsidian. Something about the organization that had captured him. Their goal—ending the world.

Mason blinked. Ending the world? What did that even mean? The words drifted in and out of focus as The Moon continued talking. It explained more, it's tone as casual as if it were explaining the weather.

The Moon: They need the Astral of Death inside you to do it. 

Astral... of Death... inside... me...?

The pieces didn't click, but he nodded absently, feeling like he was supposed to understand.

Rachel went on. Rachel Parker, she said her name was. Vice captain for Obsidian. She didn't want to end the world. No, she was against that sort of thing. Naturally. She had her own agenda. She wanted out. Wanted to use him to get out. Or something like that.

Out?

Mason: W-why... kill me... then...? Why... all this...?

His words barely formed, but Rachel didn't seem to care.

Rachel: I needed to make sure you didn't get any ideas about immobilizing me. Plus, my commanding captain was watching, so I had to keep up appearances. But... well, I killed a bunch of soldiers, so he's probably figured it out by now. What a big waste of time.

Her words blurred together into a mess of generals, divisions, and Obsidian hierarchy. Mason's brain just couldn't keep up. What was she talking about?

But then, a new question wormed its way through the fog.

Mason: Why... me...? Why... Astral... of Death... choose... me...?

He expected a grand answer, something that would explain everything, something that would give him the clarity he so desperately needed. 

But Rachel's eyes were cold. Her voice flat, matter-of-fact.

Rachel: You have maybe minutes left. You need to decide now.

Mason tried to think, but his brain wouldn't cooperate. His body felt heavy, the poison dragging him down. But... Rachel. Maybe she could help him escape.

He thought of the poison, of the minutes ticking away, of death creeping closer. He didn't want to die. Not yet. Not like this. If she was offering him a way out, maybe... maybe he should take it.

Help... her... maybe... don't die...

He nodded, his mind barely holding on. He would trust her, at least for now. He had no other choice.

Mason: Fine... help me...

Rachel didn't waste time. She reached into her belt and pulled out a syringe, jabbing it into his arm. The antidote flowed into his veins, cold and sharp.

His vision swam, but he forced himself to stay awake, to stay conscious. He had one more question.

Mason: Why... me...?

Rachel sighed, her face softening—if only for a moment.

Rachel: You think you were chosen for something greater. That this... this power was some gift, something meant for you. 

Mason blinked, his mind struggling to keep up with her words. The poison still fogged his thoughts, but he could hear her clearly. Too clearly.

Rachel: But that's the lie. The lie you tell yourself when you want to believe you matter. 

She paused, her eyes narrowing as she crouched down to look at him more closely, her tone now cold, deliberate.

Rachel: You're not special. You never were. You weren't chosen, you were marked. From the moment you were born, they had already decided what you'd be. Everything—every choice, every failure, every scrap of hope you've ever clung to—it's all been leading you here. Like a lamb led to slaughter. You know that expression right?

Rachel watched him, her gaze cool, detached. This was the truth. She was laying it bare, stripping him down to nothing.

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if savoring the moment before she delivered the final blow.

Rachel: And do you know who led the way? Who made sure you'd end up here? It wasn't some faceless enemy..

Rachel: It was your parents. Your own flesh and blood. Gabrielle and Samuel Heartson. Obsidian's most devout soldiers.

He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but no words came out. The room spun, and darkness clawed at the edges of his vision.

And then, everything went black.