07-20-2016, 05:22 AM
Name: Cain Belasis
Age: 23
DOB: January 19th, 2023
Hometown: Tees Valley, England
Psychological Description: Cain grew up with a fiery temper that he had to learn to suppress and control throughout his young adulthood. He's generally a quiet, soft spoken person. He grew up very poor, and had his ambitions stoked by his grandfather to someday escape his poverty and his hometown and make something of himself, but he had to give up those desires once it became clear that he didn't have some glorious destiny awaiting him. Despite his acceptance of his poverty and low status, he still secretly yearns for some sort of glory, even while expecting nothing but anonymity.
Physical Description: 5'10, blocky build, red hair. Worked as a laborer in a factory, so he's a weathered and calloused kind of man.
Powers: Channeler
- Block: Cain can't channel unless he's afraid, because he first channeled by using his fear as an impetus.
- Currently he can't control his channeling, and ends up creating fire or explosions accidentally when he gets too scared.
Current Strength: 5
Potential Strength: 35
-
“Ya know, there was a time once when those of us named Belasis ran things. Why, that big ol’ church up in Durham used to be ours!”
“Yeah I know Grampa,” Cain muttered, focusing on scrubbing the grime off his hands.
“Are you on about that church again, you old fool? We all know damn well that you’ve never even seen the place!” His Gran limped past them into the small kitchen, and his Grampa waved as if he were swatting at a gnat.
“I ‘ave too now! My grandad took me ‘imself when I was a boy. Like I would’a done with that one,” he jerked his head towards Cain, “If we had two pennies to rub together. Not that they would’a let ‘im in with a name like that.”
“Cain is a fine, biblical name,” Gran protested loyally, just like she always did.
“Phaw! D’you even read that damn book woman? Lord knows his fool of a mum never did-”
“David!” hissed Gran, scowling darkly at her husband.
“What? It’s the truth ain’t it? Cain… now he were a damn demon punished by the Lord God himself for his envy,” Grampa wheezed, repeating his old Sunday school lessons, just like he always did. Any second now he would- “Then again, maybe the girl knew somethin’. What’d ya say boy, ya feeling the old greed come upon ya?”
Cain didn’t bother responding. He’d heard this conversation too many times to think anything he ever said would make one lick of a difference. Even so, he couldn’t control the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tightened. His Grampa cackled.
“There it is! There it is! You’ve still got the old blood in yer veins, boy!”
“Quit it you old bastard,” snarled Gran, her affected London accent fading into a more natural Northern drawl. “Better for him if ‘e didn’t stick his head into trouble!”
“Can’t help it can he? Look at his head there! His hair’s the colour of fire, like the old blood in ‘im. Was a time when we were warriors and knights, when we took what was ours! Belasis men are worth more than working in the coal mine-”
“You ain’t never seen the inside of a coal mine,” Gran scoffed.
“Coal mine, shipyard, steel mill, what damn difference does it make?”
“Not a difference at all!” Gran said slyly. “You worked in the steel mill just like your pa worked in the shipyard and his pa worked in the coal mine, just like Cain works in the factory. The Belasis men are right where the Lord Jesus wants them to be, and it’s best if you stopped putting foolish ideas in that boy’s head!”
Cain slipped out the door, ignoring the argument that he must’ve been hearing for the thousandth time. He pulled a fag out of its pack, stopping when he noticed his hands were trembling. The man closed his eyes, breathing deeply through the tight clench of rage in his chest. Much as he hated to admit it, his Grampa had a point about him. That was the only reason the old man kept bringing it up, and the same reason that the old woman never stopped getting mad at him for it.
He’d been a hellion growing up. Cain had a short temper and a never ending list of ammunition for the other kids to use against him, bastard child that he was (not that three quarters of the others weren’t bastards themselves). The redheaded boy had gotten into a fight every day, or at least it seemed that way looking back on it. His Grampa hadn’t helped things, egging him on with talk of the Old Blood and taking what belonged to him. The old man had always seemed so certain that Cain was going to be the first Belasis in centuries to be something more than a day laborer.
Reality kicked in eventually though. He’d been bigger than most boys, but eventually the fights stopped being with boys and instead with men. The physical beatings probably wouldn’t have stopped him though; he grew into a large man himself surely enough. The real kick came after secondary school. Getting a boy like Cain through A-levels wasn’t an easy task, and bless his Gran for doing it, but unsurprisingly no Uni was going out of their way to offer a space to some rough and tumble boy from Tees Valley with a record like his. It wasn’t like he could afford to study at any of the places that he did get into either. And once Uni was out of the picture, the only avenue left was the factory, doing exactly the same kind of work that every Belasis man had done for generations.
Cain’d had to learn how to push back the rage. His temper had gotten him fired from his first job, and he’d lived on the streets for a while until his Gran came and dragged him back. “You can’t feed yourself on pride,” she’d told him. She was the one who’d gotten him his second job, the one in the factory he couldn’t afford to lose. There weren’t that many bridges in a little town like Tees Valley that he could afford to burn, and if he weren’t working, then his Gran would have to. Her pension didn’t stretch that far.
So the fire in his chest had become familiar, as had the knot of anger boiling at the base of his throat. But he’d learned, despite his Grampa’s best attempts otherwise. It was easier if he just accepted his fate, and maybe someday he’d be able to without trembling in anger. Finally, he lit the cigarette and inhaled a deep drag. It seemed appropriate that the only thing that could quench his flames was breathing even more fire. Cain tapped the fag on the railing of the small balcony outside their flat, watching the ashes drift into the wind.
-
The TV was showing images of a city wreathed in flame. An enormous gout of fire appeared over a road. A man was throwing lightning from his hands. According to the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen, the city was Moscow and the feats were magic, or perhaps clever technology. According to the newscaster, a terrorist named Theo Andlain was claiming responsibility, as well as claiming that the government was covering up magic. That the sickness the WHO had been worrying about actually gave survivors magical powers, and that he could teach people how to use them. Cain’s Grampa was cackling.
“Look at them bastards! Finally getting what’s coming to them, ain’t they?”
“David!” Gran snapped. “That’s horrible. What’s Moscow ever done to you?”
“Not a damn thing woman, and that’s the problem! Those Dominion folks all promised we’d have a better life if we joined them, and Westminster caved like the bunch of cowards they are. I didn’t vote to join no CCD. When I voted to leave the EU we were supposed to get our sov-ern-ity back!”
“Sovereignty,” Cain corrected under his breath.
“Fat load of good that did anyone,” Gran countered.
“At least it was something! CCD said we’d all ‘ave better lives if we joined them, well I’m not seeing any of that ‘ere in Tees Valley! Westminster says everything’s fine now that London’s the capital of Dominance VII, just like everything was fine for them when London was the capital of the United Kingdom, or the British Empire, or whatever. It don’t matter in Tees Valley whose flag’s up in London. We’re poor just like my grandad was poor just like his grandad was poor. Maybe when this magic fellow shakes things up a bit, whoever rules London next will finally see fit to send a little something up North for once!”
“They won’t,” Cain muttered.
“What’d you say boy?”
He must’ve spoken too loudly. Normally he’d just ignore his Grampa; he’d gotten pretty good at it the last few years. Something about his temper, about the fire in his veins, seemed more intense today though. Lord knows he’d almost snapped back at his supervisor in work earlier. “They won’t send shite up here and you know it. Moscow can burn if it wants but you’re going to die a miserable death, just like your grandad did and just like my grandkids will!” It wasn’t until he found himself standing up that Cain realized he’d been screaming at the end.
“Cain,” Gran whispered, staring at him, shocked. Even Grampa looked alarmed. They must have seen him in a rage hundreds of times, albeit back in his teenaged years. But something about him felt off and they must be able to see it. Suddenly the throbbing in his ears didn’t seem like the normal jolt of anger, the fuzziness in his head not simply a cloud of rage.
“I… I don’t feel so good,” he muttered, staggering back towards the couch. The last thing he saw was the panicked eyes of his grandparents before he passed out.
-
Cain had brief moments of lucidity in which he could hear his grandparents’ flustered chattering.
“It must be the Sickness. It must be!” Gran murmured. “We have to get him to a hospital!”
“A hospital?” Grampa scoffed. “Sickness survivors just attacked Moscow. Ya think they won’t be experimenting on ‘im or whatnot?”
“Don’t be ridiculous David-”
“Sandra,” Grampa sighed heavily. “Folks’ve been sending their kids off to quarantine or whatever for years. Do ya know a single one that’s come back?”
Gran’s silence spoke for itself.
“Give it a day,” Grampa pleaded. “We’ll see what happens.”
-
“Who’s this then?”
“A nurse, she said,” Gran replied.
Cain groaned, wiping the sweat off his brow. Objectively speaking, his illness was getting better. His periods of consciousness were growing longer, and he’d been able to keep down solid foods earlier. His fever hadn’t broken though, and Gran was getting more and more worried.
“I thought we agreed-”
“You agreed!” Gran spat. “It’s been nearly four days David. I’m not just going to sit by and watch our grandson die!”
“Excuse me,” interjected a stranger’s voice. She had an accent, Italian maybe. “Do not fear. I am well practiced in treating this disease.”
“Of course,” Gran agreed, cutting off Grampa’s protests. “This way, he’s through here.”
The door opened, and Gran entered with the nurse. The woman was handsome, in her late thirties or early forties. She had a kind smile and sad eyes. “Please, it’s best if you wait outside. The treatment is often hard for family members to watch.”
His Gran was a strong woman, but she’d spent decades obeying superiors – the kind of people who dressed and talked like this strange nurse. With barely any protests, the newcomer ushered Gran out of the room, flipping the lock as she shut the door.
Cain stilled. “Why’d you lock the door?” he croaked.
The woman smiled at him. “My name is Abrianna. I’m sorry that we had to meet like this.” She walked towards the bed and sat in the chair placed next to it. Abrianna pushed her sleeves up absentmindedly and Cain’s eyes were drawn to the odd tattoo on her forearm. It looked like a stylized image of a snake eating its own tail.
“What… I don’t…”
“Shh,” the nurse soothed, smoothing his hair from his forehead. “You’re very sick, Mr. Belasis. Do you know why?”
“I… it’s the Sickness, isn’t it?”
Abrianna nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to agree. You see, the Sickness is less of an infirmity and more of… a transformation perhaps.”
Cain thought back to the news program he’d seen before his collapse. “You mean… those magic people in Moscow?”
The woman grimaced. “Yes. And if it were just them, then perhaps the problem wouldn’t be so dire. Unfortunately, among these false gods is one prophesized to destroy all of humanity. My Organization exists to prevent that fate.”
Cain furrowed his brow. “False gods? What…” The redhead felt the blood drain from his face. “You aren’t here to cure me, are you?” he whispered.
“On the contrary,” Abrianna disagreed, “I am here to give you the only cure. Mr. Belasis… I truly regret that there’s no other way.” Her gaze softened, and an expression of profound sadness overtook her. “Please forgive me, but the fate of humanity is a burden too great to ignore.”
Before Cain understood fully what was happening, Abrianna was on top of him, shoving a pillow into his face. He immediately tried to scream, or struggle, but he was weakened by his Sickness. Distantly, he could hear pounding at the door, and his Gran screaming. A familiar fire coursed through him. He’d been in enough fights in his lifetime that the rush of anger was almost comforting. But after a few moments of futile writhing, the anger drained out of him. He was too ill, too weak… there was no way he could get Abrianna off.
In that moment, Cain realized that he was going to die. Each breath was a struggle, and he wasn’t getting nearly enough oxygen. It was only a matter of time… Oh God, he was really going to die. Where anger once coiled in his gut, terror now arose. It was all he could feel. Every fiber of his being seemed to resonate with the sensation of pure fear. Cain didn’t want to die. He didn’t want his grave to be another forgotten stone marking a forgotten laborer in the forgotten town of Tees Valley. Desperately, he reached for anything that could save him, any last forgotten reservoir of strength.
The fear seemed to stoke the fire within him far better than even his anger could. Something was building in him, and for the first time in years Cain didn’t suppress it, but rather forced every scrap of passionate terror that he could muster into the flames. It rose to such great intensity that for a moment, the redhead was certain that he would be burned from the inside out. He could feel the fires licking at his skin, exploding outwards. He could smell the smoke. Behind his eyelids it seemed like he could see a blinding flash of light.
It took a few heartbeats for Cain to realize that he could move again. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a surreal vision. Ash floated in the air, almost like a scene from a movie. To his right there was open air where the wall to the apartment should have been. To his left…
To his left was his room, scorched and charred. There was no sign of Abrianna, and the door to his bedroom seemed to have been blown off by some strange force.
“What… I don’t understand,” Cain murmured to himself. He stood from the bed, still feeling weak but not nearly so ill as he had previously. Sluggishly, his mind connected the dots. Abrianna had told him that his Sickness was a transformation, and he’d tried to feed the fire within him… Still it seemed too absurd to fathom.
As he walked through the gaping doorway, he first saw Grampa, slumped back against the back wall, eyes rolling in fear. “The fires of hell… the fires of hell!”
Cain looked desperately for his Gran, only to wish that he hadn’t. The woman had been banging on the door, after all… the door that had been blown off the wall. He felt like throwing up.
“Boy… Cain!” Grampa shouted, snapping him out of his horror. “Ya have to go. Ya have to run! They’re gonna come… They’ll lock you away for this.”
Cain stood frozen for a moment, before his Grampa snapped again “Go!” As he was leaving, the redhead could hear the man’s broken mutterings: “The Old Blood… the fires of hell and the Old Blood…”
-
Cain didn’t know how he was going to get there, but he knew where he needed to go. He remembered the broadcast of Theo Andlain saying that he could teach people how to use their magic powers. He needed to get to Moscow.
Age: 23
DOB: January 19th, 2023
Hometown: Tees Valley, England
Psychological Description: Cain grew up with a fiery temper that he had to learn to suppress and control throughout his young adulthood. He's generally a quiet, soft spoken person. He grew up very poor, and had his ambitions stoked by his grandfather to someday escape his poverty and his hometown and make something of himself, but he had to give up those desires once it became clear that he didn't have some glorious destiny awaiting him. Despite his acceptance of his poverty and low status, he still secretly yearns for some sort of glory, even while expecting nothing but anonymity.
Physical Description: 5'10, blocky build, red hair. Worked as a laborer in a factory, so he's a weathered and calloused kind of man.
Powers: Channeler
- Block: Cain can't channel unless he's afraid, because he first channeled by using his fear as an impetus.
- Currently he can't control his channeling, and ends up creating fire or explosions accidentally when he gets too scared.
Current Strength: 5
Potential Strength: 35
-
“Ya know, there was a time once when those of us named Belasis ran things. Why, that big ol’ church up in Durham used to be ours!”
“Yeah I know Grampa,” Cain muttered, focusing on scrubbing the grime off his hands.
“Are you on about that church again, you old fool? We all know damn well that you’ve never even seen the place!” His Gran limped past them into the small kitchen, and his Grampa waved as if he were swatting at a gnat.
“I ‘ave too now! My grandad took me ‘imself when I was a boy. Like I would’a done with that one,” he jerked his head towards Cain, “If we had two pennies to rub together. Not that they would’a let ‘im in with a name like that.”
“Cain is a fine, biblical name,” Gran protested loyally, just like she always did.
“Phaw! D’you even read that damn book woman? Lord knows his fool of a mum never did-”
“David!” hissed Gran, scowling darkly at her husband.
“What? It’s the truth ain’t it? Cain… now he were a damn demon punished by the Lord God himself for his envy,” Grampa wheezed, repeating his old Sunday school lessons, just like he always did. Any second now he would- “Then again, maybe the girl knew somethin’. What’d ya say boy, ya feeling the old greed come upon ya?”
Cain didn’t bother responding. He’d heard this conversation too many times to think anything he ever said would make one lick of a difference. Even so, he couldn’t control the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tightened. His Grampa cackled.
“There it is! There it is! You’ve still got the old blood in yer veins, boy!”
“Quit it you old bastard,” snarled Gran, her affected London accent fading into a more natural Northern drawl. “Better for him if ‘e didn’t stick his head into trouble!”
“Can’t help it can he? Look at his head there! His hair’s the colour of fire, like the old blood in ‘im. Was a time when we were warriors and knights, when we took what was ours! Belasis men are worth more than working in the coal mine-”
“You ain’t never seen the inside of a coal mine,” Gran scoffed.
“Coal mine, shipyard, steel mill, what damn difference does it make?”
“Not a difference at all!” Gran said slyly. “You worked in the steel mill just like your pa worked in the shipyard and his pa worked in the coal mine, just like Cain works in the factory. The Belasis men are right where the Lord Jesus wants them to be, and it’s best if you stopped putting foolish ideas in that boy’s head!”
Cain slipped out the door, ignoring the argument that he must’ve been hearing for the thousandth time. He pulled a fag out of its pack, stopping when he noticed his hands were trembling. The man closed his eyes, breathing deeply through the tight clench of rage in his chest. Much as he hated to admit it, his Grampa had a point about him. That was the only reason the old man kept bringing it up, and the same reason that the old woman never stopped getting mad at him for it.
He’d been a hellion growing up. Cain had a short temper and a never ending list of ammunition for the other kids to use against him, bastard child that he was (not that three quarters of the others weren’t bastards themselves). The redheaded boy had gotten into a fight every day, or at least it seemed that way looking back on it. His Grampa hadn’t helped things, egging him on with talk of the Old Blood and taking what belonged to him. The old man had always seemed so certain that Cain was going to be the first Belasis in centuries to be something more than a day laborer.
Reality kicked in eventually though. He’d been bigger than most boys, but eventually the fights stopped being with boys and instead with men. The physical beatings probably wouldn’t have stopped him though; he grew into a large man himself surely enough. The real kick came after secondary school. Getting a boy like Cain through A-levels wasn’t an easy task, and bless his Gran for doing it, but unsurprisingly no Uni was going out of their way to offer a space to some rough and tumble boy from Tees Valley with a record like his. It wasn’t like he could afford to study at any of the places that he did get into either. And once Uni was out of the picture, the only avenue left was the factory, doing exactly the same kind of work that every Belasis man had done for generations.
Cain’d had to learn how to push back the rage. His temper had gotten him fired from his first job, and he’d lived on the streets for a while until his Gran came and dragged him back. “You can’t feed yourself on pride,” she’d told him. She was the one who’d gotten him his second job, the one in the factory he couldn’t afford to lose. There weren’t that many bridges in a little town like Tees Valley that he could afford to burn, and if he weren’t working, then his Gran would have to. Her pension didn’t stretch that far.
So the fire in his chest had become familiar, as had the knot of anger boiling at the base of his throat. But he’d learned, despite his Grampa’s best attempts otherwise. It was easier if he just accepted his fate, and maybe someday he’d be able to without trembling in anger. Finally, he lit the cigarette and inhaled a deep drag. It seemed appropriate that the only thing that could quench his flames was breathing even more fire. Cain tapped the fag on the railing of the small balcony outside their flat, watching the ashes drift into the wind.
-
The TV was showing images of a city wreathed in flame. An enormous gout of fire appeared over a road. A man was throwing lightning from his hands. According to the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen, the city was Moscow and the feats were magic, or perhaps clever technology. According to the newscaster, a terrorist named Theo Andlain was claiming responsibility, as well as claiming that the government was covering up magic. That the sickness the WHO had been worrying about actually gave survivors magical powers, and that he could teach people how to use them. Cain’s Grampa was cackling.
“Look at them bastards! Finally getting what’s coming to them, ain’t they?”
“David!” Gran snapped. “That’s horrible. What’s Moscow ever done to you?”
“Not a damn thing woman, and that’s the problem! Those Dominion folks all promised we’d have a better life if we joined them, and Westminster caved like the bunch of cowards they are. I didn’t vote to join no CCD. When I voted to leave the EU we were supposed to get our sov-ern-ity back!”
“Sovereignty,” Cain corrected under his breath.
“Fat load of good that did anyone,” Gran countered.
“At least it was something! CCD said we’d all ‘ave better lives if we joined them, well I’m not seeing any of that ‘ere in Tees Valley! Westminster says everything’s fine now that London’s the capital of Dominance VII, just like everything was fine for them when London was the capital of the United Kingdom, or the British Empire, or whatever. It don’t matter in Tees Valley whose flag’s up in London. We’re poor just like my grandad was poor just like his grandad was poor. Maybe when this magic fellow shakes things up a bit, whoever rules London next will finally see fit to send a little something up North for once!”
“They won’t,” Cain muttered.
“What’d you say boy?”
He must’ve spoken too loudly. Normally he’d just ignore his Grampa; he’d gotten pretty good at it the last few years. Something about his temper, about the fire in his veins, seemed more intense today though. Lord knows he’d almost snapped back at his supervisor in work earlier. “They won’t send shite up here and you know it. Moscow can burn if it wants but you’re going to die a miserable death, just like your grandad did and just like my grandkids will!” It wasn’t until he found himself standing up that Cain realized he’d been screaming at the end.
“Cain,” Gran whispered, staring at him, shocked. Even Grampa looked alarmed. They must have seen him in a rage hundreds of times, albeit back in his teenaged years. But something about him felt off and they must be able to see it. Suddenly the throbbing in his ears didn’t seem like the normal jolt of anger, the fuzziness in his head not simply a cloud of rage.
“I… I don’t feel so good,” he muttered, staggering back towards the couch. The last thing he saw was the panicked eyes of his grandparents before he passed out.
-
Cain had brief moments of lucidity in which he could hear his grandparents’ flustered chattering.
“It must be the Sickness. It must be!” Gran murmured. “We have to get him to a hospital!”
“A hospital?” Grampa scoffed. “Sickness survivors just attacked Moscow. Ya think they won’t be experimenting on ‘im or whatnot?”
“Don’t be ridiculous David-”
“Sandra,” Grampa sighed heavily. “Folks’ve been sending their kids off to quarantine or whatever for years. Do ya know a single one that’s come back?”
Gran’s silence spoke for itself.
“Give it a day,” Grampa pleaded. “We’ll see what happens.”
-
“Who’s this then?”
“A nurse, she said,” Gran replied.
Cain groaned, wiping the sweat off his brow. Objectively speaking, his illness was getting better. His periods of consciousness were growing longer, and he’d been able to keep down solid foods earlier. His fever hadn’t broken though, and Gran was getting more and more worried.
“I thought we agreed-”
“You agreed!” Gran spat. “It’s been nearly four days David. I’m not just going to sit by and watch our grandson die!”
“Excuse me,” interjected a stranger’s voice. She had an accent, Italian maybe. “Do not fear. I am well practiced in treating this disease.”
“Of course,” Gran agreed, cutting off Grampa’s protests. “This way, he’s through here.”
The door opened, and Gran entered with the nurse. The woman was handsome, in her late thirties or early forties. She had a kind smile and sad eyes. “Please, it’s best if you wait outside. The treatment is often hard for family members to watch.”
His Gran was a strong woman, but she’d spent decades obeying superiors – the kind of people who dressed and talked like this strange nurse. With barely any protests, the newcomer ushered Gran out of the room, flipping the lock as she shut the door.
Cain stilled. “Why’d you lock the door?” he croaked.
The woman smiled at him. “My name is Abrianna. I’m sorry that we had to meet like this.” She walked towards the bed and sat in the chair placed next to it. Abrianna pushed her sleeves up absentmindedly and Cain’s eyes were drawn to the odd tattoo on her forearm. It looked like a stylized image of a snake eating its own tail.
“What… I don’t…”
“Shh,” the nurse soothed, smoothing his hair from his forehead. “You’re very sick, Mr. Belasis. Do you know why?”
“I… it’s the Sickness, isn’t it?”
Abrianna nodded. “I’m very sorry to have to agree. You see, the Sickness is less of an infirmity and more of… a transformation perhaps.”
Cain thought back to the news program he’d seen before his collapse. “You mean… those magic people in Moscow?”
The woman grimaced. “Yes. And if it were just them, then perhaps the problem wouldn’t be so dire. Unfortunately, among these false gods is one prophesized to destroy all of humanity. My Organization exists to prevent that fate.”
Cain furrowed his brow. “False gods? What…” The redhead felt the blood drain from his face. “You aren’t here to cure me, are you?” he whispered.
“On the contrary,” Abrianna disagreed, “I am here to give you the only cure. Mr. Belasis… I truly regret that there’s no other way.” Her gaze softened, and an expression of profound sadness overtook her. “Please forgive me, but the fate of humanity is a burden too great to ignore.”
Before Cain understood fully what was happening, Abrianna was on top of him, shoving a pillow into his face. He immediately tried to scream, or struggle, but he was weakened by his Sickness. Distantly, he could hear pounding at the door, and his Gran screaming. A familiar fire coursed through him. He’d been in enough fights in his lifetime that the rush of anger was almost comforting. But after a few moments of futile writhing, the anger drained out of him. He was too ill, too weak… there was no way he could get Abrianna off.
In that moment, Cain realized that he was going to die. Each breath was a struggle, and he wasn’t getting nearly enough oxygen. It was only a matter of time… Oh God, he was really going to die. Where anger once coiled in his gut, terror now arose. It was all he could feel. Every fiber of his being seemed to resonate with the sensation of pure fear. Cain didn’t want to die. He didn’t want his grave to be another forgotten stone marking a forgotten laborer in the forgotten town of Tees Valley. Desperately, he reached for anything that could save him, any last forgotten reservoir of strength.
The fear seemed to stoke the fire within him far better than even his anger could. Something was building in him, and for the first time in years Cain didn’t suppress it, but rather forced every scrap of passionate terror that he could muster into the flames. It rose to such great intensity that for a moment, the redhead was certain that he would be burned from the inside out. He could feel the fires licking at his skin, exploding outwards. He could smell the smoke. Behind his eyelids it seemed like he could see a blinding flash of light.
It took a few heartbeats for Cain to realize that he could move again. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a surreal vision. Ash floated in the air, almost like a scene from a movie. To his right there was open air where the wall to the apartment should have been. To his left…
To his left was his room, scorched and charred. There was no sign of Abrianna, and the door to his bedroom seemed to have been blown off by some strange force.
“What… I don’t understand,” Cain murmured to himself. He stood from the bed, still feeling weak but not nearly so ill as he had previously. Sluggishly, his mind connected the dots. Abrianna had told him that his Sickness was a transformation, and he’d tried to feed the fire within him… Still it seemed too absurd to fathom.
As he walked through the gaping doorway, he first saw Grampa, slumped back against the back wall, eyes rolling in fear. “The fires of hell… the fires of hell!”
Cain looked desperately for his Gran, only to wish that he hadn’t. The woman had been banging on the door, after all… the door that had been blown off the wall. He felt like throwing up.
“Boy… Cain!” Grampa shouted, snapping him out of his horror. “Ya have to go. Ya have to run! They’re gonna come… They’ll lock you away for this.”
Cain stood frozen for a moment, before his Grampa snapped again “Go!” As he was leaving, the redhead could hear the man’s broken mutterings: “The Old Blood… the fires of hell and the Old Blood…”
-
Cain didn’t know how he was going to get there, but he knew where he needed to go. He remembered the broadcast of Theo Andlain saying that he could teach people how to use their magic powers. He needed to get to Moscow.