The Legion: Heartson

Mason's mind drifted between consciousness and darkness. 

He was drowning. 

The icy grip of water wrapped around him, dragging him deeper with each frantic flail of his arms. His body was heavy, unresponsive, as if the weight of his own panic was anchoring him to the depths. Water filled his lungs, burning, suffocating—each gasp only drew in more, and every struggle pulled him further from the surface. But even as he sank, a twisted sense of self-loathing bubbled up with the bubbles slipping from his mouth. 

How could I let this happen?

The ten year old Mason Heartson had never learned how to swim. He'd always had more important things to do, or so he'd told himself. Life was meant for laughter and ease, wasn't it? Not tedious lessons, not carefully practiced strokes. But now, sinking in that dark, silent world, he cursed himself. 

This is my fault.

The realization was sharper than any pain he'd felt before.

His vision began to blur, the edges of reality fading as the crushing weight took its toll. This was it. He'd always thought his life would be filled with triumph, maybe even glory. Yet here he was, drowning, dying.

What a pathetic end.

Then, just as he felt his mind slipping, something broke through the murk. A hand. Strong and warm, it gripped his wrist and pulled, guiding him through the water's depths toward the glimmer of light above. He barely registered the movement, but he felt himself being dragged up, up, until—

Air. The world burst back around him in color and light as he was pulled from the water's grip. He collapsed onto a hard surface, the sting of rough concrete digging into his skin as he gasped for breath. His lungs burned. He coughed, water spilling from his mouth.

Gradually, he became aware of the world around him. He blinked, his vision clearing, and he realized he was lying by the edge of a pool. People had gathered around him, their faces blurring into a single mass of wide, concerned eyes. 

Did I really almost…?

He lifted a shaking hand to shield his eyes from the sun's blinding glare, squinting up at the figure standing above him. And there he was, the one who had saved him—Samuel Heartson, his father. Relief, mixed with a strange sense of pride, washed over him. Of course, his father had saved him. Who else would pull him from the depths, rescue him from a death that had seemed inevitable?

A smile tugged at the corners of Mason's mouth as he looked up at his father. He reached out, hand trembling, to grasp his father's, to feel that strength pull him up, steady him. He could almost imagine it—a warm, firm grip, pulling him to his feet, telling him everything was going to be alright.

But as he stretched out his arm, the look on his father's face shifted. The warmth faded, replaced by something colder, harsher. His father's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting with a look Mason didn't recognize—disgust. Mason's heart plummeted. 

What… why is he looking at me like that?

The murmurs around him grew louder, and he glanced at the crowd of onlookers, hoping to find comfort, understanding, anything that would ease the growing knot in his chest. But they, too, wore expressions that mirrored his father's—a mixture of revulsion and pity. His fingers faltered, and his arm dropped back to his side, weak and limp.

Panic surged through him, and he tried to move, to sit up, to ask what was wrong. But his body wouldn't respond. He felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed, as if an invisible weight was pressing down on him. His eyes darted down, and the breath caught in his throat as he saw it—a gaping, bloody wound on the right side of his chest.

The edges of the wound were smooth, and blood poured from it in thick, warm streams, staining his clothes and pooling around him. He stared, horrified, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. His chest—there was a hole, a dark, empty space where flesh and bone should be. 

How… what…?

He looked up, desperation clouding his gaze, searching his father's face for some sign of compassion, a hint that this was all a nightmare. But his father's expression remained cold, that same look of disgust piercing through him. The crowd around him recoiled, some turning away, others whispering in tones thick with condemnation.

The pain was excruciating, a burning, gnawing agony that radiated from the wound and spread through his body like fire. He wanted to scream, to beg for help, but no sound escaped his lips. He was trapped, drowning once again, but this time in pain and horror. And worse than the physical pain was the look in his father's eyes, the knowledge that he had failed, that he was… 

Unworthy… pathetic… disgusting. 

And then, just as he felt himself slipping again, the world around him faded, the figures blurred, and with a jolt, Mason's eyes snapped open. 

Reality slammed into him, and he felt a sharp, searing pain in his chest. 

He screamed, his hand flying to his side as his fingers met something warm and sticky. Blood. His blood, flowing from a wound that wasn't a dream, that wasn't some twisted nightmare. The hole—the hole was real.

Another scream tore from his throat, raw and broken, as he lay there, clutching his chest, his body wracked with pain and fear. 

The memory of Victor's attack flashed vividly in his mind, the speed, the raw power, the glee in Victor's eyes as he had delivered the blow. 

How had he survived even this long?

Blood was pooling around him, his vision swaying between clarity and an encroaching darkness that threatened to consume him.

With a dull ache, he turned his head to the side and saw Rachel's motionless body beside him, dust coating her battered form, mingling with the blood that soaked her clothes. Her face, usually hardened and sharp, looked disturbingly still.

She'd taken the brunt of the attack… for him. 

The realization clawed at him, bringing a new wave of shame. 

I'm so damn useless.

He pressed his hands harder against his wound, desperately trying to stop the blood that spilled through his fingers, knowing it was a futile attempt. His body was growing weaker with every beat of his heart.

He knew he should already be dead, knew he couldn't have survived this long from sheer will alone. He spoke inward.

What's happening to me? … What's going on? Why am I still here?

A deep, cold voice echoed in his mind, freezing him with its detached boredom. 

Astral of Death: You may teeter on the edge, but you won't die as easily as the rest of your kind. Still, make no mistake—your wound is fatal. It's only a matter of time.

The words struck Mason like another blow. He was alive but doomed to a slow death, lingering on the edge just long enough to feel the agony of it. Panic clawed at him, and he screamed inwardly, desperation filling his mind. 

Then help me! Tell me how to heal it! 

But the Astral only laughed, a hollow, dark sound that felt like shards of ice stabbing into his mind. 

Astral of Death: You misunderstand. I am not here to be your savior, nor your companion. When an Astral's host dies, I am freed, unbound. Your life or death means nothing to me. I have told you this before.

Nothing… 

The word echoed, sinking into Mason like a stone dropped into the depths of his mind. He had signed a contract with this being, but what had he really expected? Support? Partnership? A twisted sense of loyalty? No, he realized with sickening clarity, he had been a fool. The Astral of Death wasn't his ally. It was a force beyond his control, beyond any sense of human attachment.

You… you don't care at all, do you? 

Bitterness creeping into his mind as he fought to keep his eyes open, fought to keep himself grounded in the present despite the pain.

Astral of Death: If you die, I am free once more to roam as I please. If you live, you fill up my lost boredom. Either way this goes, I am to be satisfied.

The Astral's words stabbed deeper than the wound in his chest, ripping through any last remnants of hope he had held onto. 

So… that's it, then.

His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, his eyes stinging with tears he couldn't contain. He'd been so naive, so blind to the true nature of what he'd bound himself to.

A dark, bitter laugh bubbled up from his throat, mingling with the agony of his failing body.

I'm sorry, then. Guess I won't be able to keep up my end of the contract after all.

The Astral remained silent, indifferent, as if Mason's apology meant nothing in the face of its own eternal existence. The darkness around him began to press in harder, his vision fading as his strength ebbed away. He had tried so hard, had pushed himself to his limits, and for what? 

Rachel… 

He glanced once more at her, her form bloodied and bruised from Victor's merciless assault. She had tried to protect him, risked herself, and now lay lifeless because of his incompetence. 

I'm so weak, aren't I. 

A sense of acceptance washed over him, bitter and resigned. The laugh that escaped him now was hollow, defeated. He'd played the hero, thinking he could defy something as monstrous as Obsidian. 

How greedy huh.

His naïveté, his arrogance, his greed—they had all coiled around him, leading him straight to this. He had refused to listen, brushing off every warning, every outstretched hand, and now he was reaping the bitter fruit of his pride.

And then, in the depths of his self-loathing, her face appeared: Claire. Claire, who had been there since his childhood, her quiet strength always so steady beside him. She was the only one who had ever expected anything of him, ever dared to believe he could be something more. 

The maid who, despite his countless failures, had continued to thrust those expectations upon him, burdening him with hopes he couldn't fulfill. She saw in him something worth molding, worth guiding. But in his carelessness, he had let her down—time and time again.

Failure becomes a pattern, doesn't it?

Her words, spoken so calmly, now echoed in his mind, cutting deeper than any wound. How often had she said that, looking at him with that knowing gaze? He'd dismissed her words every time, brushing them off, too proud to take them seriously. But she had been right. Failure was a pattern, and he was its masterpiece.

What a disgrace Mason Heartson was.

And then another face surfaced, younger, sharper, driven: Thomas Martin. The boy who had come chasing after him, even when the path grew dangerous. Despite being younger, smaller, and far less experienced, Thomas had somehow carved out a purpose, a direction in his life that Mason had never managed to find. 

Thomas, who'd risked everything to reach him, to help him. And what had Mason done? He'd dragged that boy down, put his life on the line, all because of his reckless, self-serving decisions. Thomas had deserved better, deserved someone who would have valued that determination. But instead, he'd found Mason—useless, unfocused Mason, who had dragged him into danger without a second thought.

Now, Thomas was probably dead. Along with Claire. They were gone because of him, because he had been too foolish, too selfish to realize the damage he was causing. He was the reason for their suffering. 

He was a failure through and through.

And as his strength waned, he could feel the last vestiges of pride slipping away, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth. He had failed them both. The boy with purpose and the woman who believed in him—he had let them down, just as he had let himself down. 

What a waste.

A hollow laugh escaping his lips, mingling with the tears streaming down his face. The ultimate failure, the disgrace of Mason Heartson.

Once again, that voice that he hated spoke in his mind, so clear and precise. The voice of the man who was at the root of Mason's suffering–no that's not right. That voice. 

It was himself. The man Mason Heartson absolutely detested.

How disappointing you are Mason Heartson. How disappointing indeed.

And in that moment, as he gave in, as the despair took hold, the world around him shifted. The agony, the cold, the darkness—it all faded, and he found himself once again standing in an empty, endless white room.