Guardians of the Dark

Samael roused to the faint beeping of his transmission band. He rolled over on his stomach and felt around his nightstand for the vibrating object. He grabbed it, turned on his back, opened his eyes on a screen, and silenced it.

12:00 PM.

Noon.

The sun’s shadow cast through the windows into his loft, although it brought no more light than a withering candle in a cave. It nonetheless proved enough for him to see. This was one of the few perks of being a Corrupted. The Dark seemed as bright as daylight in the Metropolis of Light. Or so he remembered.

Samael sat up and latched the transmission band around his wrist. He slid out from under his blankets, his chest and feet bare. He trotted across the cold, cement floor to his closet, grabbed the first shirt he could reach, and pulled it over his head. A pair of cargo pants, socks, and tattered, leather boots followed.

He swiped his hand to the right, and his closet slid shut to reveal a mirror on the door. He stared at himself, studied himself. His pale, grey-almost-blue complexion, his slick, ebony hair and matching eyes. A blueish shade encircled them – proof of his lack of sleep. He had been out all night, tracking an out-of-control Roamer.

It always baffled him how the people without darkness in their hearts turned into such brainless beasts when corrupted by the Dark. They were once honest, innocent people, now a bunch of predators in the night, preying on other Corrupted. Perhaps it would’ve been easier if he himself had turned into a Roamer that night …

The night he was abandoned by General Bentley Traynor.

Alas, a part of him had disagreed – a deep, dark, bitter part of him – and, instead of a Roamer, he just became a Corrupted. A normal-looking, normal-acting person with a not-so-normal heart. (And not so normal thoughts.)

Samael combed his fingers through his hair, wiped under his eyes, and felt around his mouth. A stubble had sprouted under his nose and around his chin, but another day without shaving wouldn’t do much harm. He slapped his cheeks to fully wake himself, turned around, and walked to his supposed-to-be kitchen.

The transmission band around his wrist buzzed, and he tapped it. A calendar popped up, along with a notification. Samael’s heart skipped a beat. Was it the 12th of July already? He hesitated before he opened the notification, curling his index finger through the air. Every year, every 12th of July, always just as hard.

Samael clicked on the notification, but only to close it again. He needn’t be reminded to remember Kasen’s birthday. Eighteen years old. Woah. Neither of them were children anymore. He lowered his wrist and placed his palm on the control counter in front of him. The panel lit up, displaying several selections of food: cereal pellets, fruit gummies, protein bark, and a vanilla cupcake. He tapped on the latter.

The panel turned from red to green, and up emerged a plate with a vanilla cupcake on it. Samael had traded his last two cups of powdered eggs to get it, and had saved it for exactly this occasion. He took the plate, returned to his bed, and fished in his nightstand drawer for a birthday candle. For Kasen’s birthday candle.

After fourteen years of use, it looked a mere stub.

Samael popped the candle in the cupcake. He lit it with an old lighter he had rummaged some weeks ago, and sat the plate on his nightstand. He lowered onto his unmade bed, facing the line of floor-to-ceiling windows. The Metropolis of Light glittered in the distance, radiating the type of light that would scorn a Roamer’s eyes.

“Happy birthday, Kasen,” he whispered, barely loud enough for himself to hear. “Wherever you might be.”

Samael sat in silence for a minute. He shut his eyes and tried to recall Kasen’s face. His bright blue eyes, ashy blonde hair, and fair-yet-tanned skin. The two of them were complete opposites, as the Light and Dark itself.

The flame crackled, letting off a mixed smell of wax, frosting, and fire. Samael reached for the cupcake, but before he could latch his fingers around it, someone knocked – hammered, was more like it – on his loft door. The person’s fist collided with the steel in a steady, yet impatient, pace, forcing Samael to jump. He hastily blew out the candle, wafted away the smoke, and popped the cupcake under his bed.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

“Room service … who do you think it is, Samael? Now, open up for Dark’s sake!” The man behind the door grunted to himself, still hammering away. He was Olaf, one of Emperor Kai Sumuri’s right-hand lackeys.

And, wherever Olaf went, his comrade, Ollie, surely tagged along.

Samael made over to the door, placed his wrist over the scanner, and stood back. The steel door slid aside, revealing two crimson-faced men. They glanced past him into the loft, almost as though they didn’t trust him.

“You hiding a guy in there, Sam?” asked Ollie. He adjusted the metal plate on his chest and craned his neck even further. A series of thick, swollen veins traced up his neck into the side of his face. Samael himself had similar markings – alike all other Corrupted – although not nearly as amplified. “It’s about time you brought someone over. You don’t have to hide him, you know, we’re all relaxed about your romantic preferences. Unless you’re afraid we’ll put a spear to his back and lock him up with the Roamers?”

“Which we won’t hesitate to do,” added Olaf, half-grunting. “No unauthorised visitors are allowed in Ominoura Tower.”

Samael frowned. “A guy? Oh – Oh!” He cleared his throat. “No, there’s no one in there. I was out tracking until early this morning. Rounded up a few more Roamers for Emperor Sumuri. So, what do you want?”

“The Emperor wants to see you,” declared Olaf, less relaxed than his comrade. “In his throne room, now.”

“Right now?”

“Now.”

Samael dropped his shoulders. Emperor Sumuri always summoned him on the worst of times. He had just woken up, and was barely even dressed. He looked over his shoulder. The cupcake just sat there under his bed, gathering dust and attracting insects. But when the Emperor said now, one couldn’t possibly refuse.

“Let me just grab my jacket real quick,” he said and ran to the side of his bed. His jacket lay on the floor, exactly as he’d left it when he got in earlier. The leather crunched under his fingers, and his eyes caught the official Tracker emblem on the front: a pointed knife, dripping with blood. Not red, not purple, but black.

The colour of Roamer blood.

“What’s that smell?” asked Olaf, stepping into the loft.

Samael jerked. “Smell? What smell?”

“Mmm … it might be smoke.” Olaf took a deep whiff, then nodded his head. “Yep, it’s smoke alright.”

“Did you burn something, Sam?” asked Ollie, also smelling the air.

“Nope. No smoke and no guy. Sorry to disappoint.” Samael ushered them out of the loft, and the door slid shut behind them. Before either Ollie or Olaf could ask any more questions about smoke, he said, “And I don’t need an escort to the throne room. I’ve been summoned there enough times to know my way.”

Olaf parted his lips.

“Yes,” Samael chimed in, “I know the Emperor doesn’t like unannounced guests, but I’m probably already in trouble.”

“Whatever … I really hope he feeds you to the Roamers,” murmured Olaf, half-jokingly, but still serious.

“Good luck,” added Ollie.

Samael slipped on his jacket and paced down the corridor to the elevator. He took the stairs instead, hoping the exercise might relax his tingling arms. He couldn’t be in trouble, of course, as he’d done nothing wrong. The only other reason for a summoning, then, was a promotion. Yes. He was finally going to be promoted from a Tracker, to a Raider. Tracking wasn’t too bad a job, but he really wanted to raid.

The Raiders were Emperor Sumuri’s frontline soldiers. A team of highly-trained Corrupted, they’re tasked with marching upon the Metropolis of Light in an attempt to stoop the city’s expansion, and raiding its four Collection Points in search of food, water, weapons, ammo, and anything remotely useful-looking.

Samael reached the top floor, heaving. He trudged down the corridor, his heels clicking on the concrete floor and echoing off the walls. Beads of sweat decorated his forehead, and his heart throbbed in his fingertips.

A set of tall, steel doors loomed at the end of the corridor. They reached all the way to the ceiling, decked with spikes, chains, and electrical wire from the Metropolis of Light’s fence. Beyond them, lay Emperor Sumuri’s throne room. He insisted on calling it that, as he regarded himself king of the Corrupted. Everybody just went along with it, considering his great, great, great, great grandfather was Lo Ominoura, founder of the Dark Capital.

Samael stopped short of the doors. He held his wrist over the panel to scan his Chip, but it instantly flashed red.

“ACCESS DENIED,” said a computerised voice.

Another, slightly more real, voice followed, “Who dares seek entry to my throne room without an escort?”

Samael rolled his eyes. Must they go through this every summoning? He sighed and said as per usual, “It’s Samael.”

The doors slid open. They crashed against the sides of the doorframe, all the trimmings scraping and scratching. The throne room beyond it lay dim and quiet, lit only by a line of illuminated tiles on the ground. The line led all the way to a supposed-to-be throne at the end, upon which sat a bony, narrow-eyed man.

Emperor Kai Sumuri.

“Samael,” he said, his voice raspy, “where are your escorts?”

“I didn’t need any,” replied Samael.

Emperor Sumuri rapped his nails against the throne’s armrests. “I know you don’t need any, but it’s customary.”

Samael stayed put.

“You may approach.”

And he did.

“I heard you caught me some more Roamers,” the Emperor went on, “and apparently a feisty bunch too. My collection is coming along brilliantly. I’d say we’re just about ready for another raid on the Metropolis of Light.”

Samael halted before the Emperor’s throne. He stood with his arms by his sides and his eyes to the wall. No one dared look Emperor Sumuri in the eyes. Not without his consent, anyway, and he hardly ever consented.

“It’s all thanks to you, Samael,” he added.

“I’m just doing my job,” responded Samael with a curt nod.

The Emperor shifted in his throne. He wore an old-fashioned kimono, and the material flowed over his limbs. He flexed his ringed fingers, then asked in a troubled tone, “Samael, are my praises not to your liking?”

“Not at all, Your Imperial,” said Samael, still with a lowered chin. “It’s just, I’ve been a Tracker for so long now –”

“Stop yanking my chain and spit it out already!”

“I want to do more.”

Emperor Sumuri’s brows raised, and a grin tickled at the sides of his mouth. He got up from his throne, slowly, gracefully. The ends of his kimono dragged across the floor as he descended down the steps toward Samael.

“You want to do … more?” he repeated.

Samael shook his head. Something came over him and he looked up, right into Emperor Sumuri’s eyes. “I want to become a Raider,” he said, but whatever possessed him faded at once, and he fell on one knee.

Emperor Sumuri stopped in front of him. The tips of his sandals were right by his toes, grazing his boots. The Emperor raised his hands. He wrapped them around Samael’s shoulders, then pulled him to a stand.

“Your Imperial,” Samael began, “I don’t know what came over me, I –”

“You want to become a Raider?” the Emperor forestalled him. He made a point of it to meet his eyes this time.

Samael nodded.

“Well, you’ve surprised me.” Emperor Sumuri let go of Samael, wiped his hands on his kimono, and strode past him down the line of glowing panels. He stopped by the doors with his hands behind his back. “The Metropolis of Light was once your home. You grew up there, lived there, had a family there.”

“Those people weren’t my family.”

The Emperor spun. “You know, ever since I stumbled upon you in the Dark as a child, abandoned by that horrid General Bentley Traynor, you’ve constantly professed your hatred for them, vowed to seek your revenge.” His speech slowed. “And yet, after fourteen years of knowing you, you’ve never once shown me.”

Samael darted forward, but the Emperor raised a hand at him and he stopped. “That’s because you never give me the chance, Your Imperial! Those people looked down on me. They thought of me as an outcast.”

“How am I to know you’re not just saying these things, Samael? It’s like Sara, my late cook. She told me time and time again she uses fresh pig’s blood for my nightly bloody Mary, but when I investigated, I discovered five vats of old blood in the freezer. Are you like Sara, Samael? Do you have blood stowed away?”

Samael gritted his teeth. His cheeks warmed and he growled under his breath. “Let me prove myself to you.”

This piqued the Emperor’s interest. He raised a thin, perfectly-sculpted eyebrow and said, “Prove yourself? How?”

“When’s the next raid on the Metropolis of Light?”

Emperor Sumuri didn’t seem as impressed as Samael had hoped. He nonetheless stood his ground, slowly rotating as the Emperor passed by him on route to his throne. He raised his kimono, upped the steps, and sat down. He crossed his hands in his lap, twirling the ring on his index finger, around and around and around.

“Please, Your Imperial,” Samael pleaded.

“The next raid’s tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Why during the day?”

Emperor Sumuri drew up a calendar on his own transmission band. His was a much newer model than Samael’s, and the calendar popped up twice as big. He clicked on the following day, then zoomed in on an event.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “is orientation day for the new recruits.”

Samael swallowed. New recruits, of course. The Application Day always fell on Kasen’s birthday, and this year was his eighteenth. He could apply for the Army of the Light now, and if he was anything like his father, he’d be selected as a Gatherer. If Samael went along on this raid, he might just … they might just …

“Which Collection Point?”

“Excuse me?” asked the Emperor.

“Which Collection Point are we raiding tomorrow?”

Emperor Sumuri checked his calendar and said, “The Eastern Collection Point. But what does it matter which one?”

“Well … I guess it doesn’t. ” Samael bit his tongue. The Eastern Collection point – the closest of the four – was manned by General Bentley Traynor himself. If Kasen got in, they’d likely send him there as well.

“Alright,” said the Emperor, shattering Samael’s thoughts, “you’ve managed to convince me.”

“I have?”

Emperor Sumuri pulled up the roster for the next day’s raid. He added Samael’s name to it, then shuffled around several positions. Once satisfied, he swiped it away. “I’ll let you prove yourself. The idea of you, my little Samael, slicing throats is just … I’ve got chills down my backside! And, if the raid goes well tomorrow, I might just consider promoting you. Then you too can play a part in my much bigger plan.”

“Thank you, Your Imperial,” said Samael, “I promise to lead them to victory.”

The Emperor nearly choked. “Eh, lead?”

Samael shook his head. “Yes, of course. I’m the most decorated Tracker in the Dark Capital, am I not? I’ve trained with the Raiders since the day you found me and took me in. I’m both qualified and prepared for this.” He wanted to bound forward again, but managed to stay in place, to stay in control of himself.

“Dearest boy,” the Emperor tutted, “the front lines are cruel and unpredictable. You need experience first.”

“Who’ll be leading, then?”

Emperor Sumuri tapped his transmission band, pulling up a profile. “Theon Crux, second-in-command to me.”

“Theon?” Samael blurted out. He skimmed the profile from top to bottom. From his lack of hair, to the scar across the middle of his face, to his crooked front teeth. Of course it had to be him. Of course it had to be the one person who had hated Samael since the day he showed up and was taken under the Emperor’s wing.

“Yes, I know the two of you ruffle each other’s feathers, but –”

“We don’t ruffle, we shred.” Samael gasped. He had, once again, interrupted the Emperor. “I’m sorry, Your Imperial.”

Emperor Sumuri swiped Theon’s profile away and lowered his wrist. He kept looking at Samael the entire time, almost as though he wanted to set fire to his face. When he didn’t say anything, didn’t scold him, Samael went on, “Alright, I’ll let Theon lead. But don’t expect me to call him Commander or something.”

“Samael,” said the Emperor, more hushed now.

“Yes, Your Imperial?”

“I might’ve given you a home in the Ominoura Tower, and I might allow you to enter my throne room without an escort, but I draw the line at disrespecting my authority. You’ll let Theon lead, not by your own choice, but because I command it. And you’ll call him whatever he wants you to as the second-in-command.”

Silence.

“Am I making myself clear?”

Samael tried not to visibly grit his teeth. “Like crystal,” he said and bowed. He immediately whirled around, marched down the line of panels to the doors, and exited into the corridor without saying anything else.

Olaf and Ollie stood on either side of the doors. They were discussing something, but paused when he came by.

“Sam,” said Ollie, jokingly, “you finally exiled or something?”

“Just shut up, Ollie,” spat Samael without stopping or turning his head. “Guards are supposed to be seen, not heard.”

Ollie muttered something in reply, but Samael was already too far down the corridor to hear what it was.

The elevator arrived quickly, and the ride down to his loft went unhindered. Samael stomped inside, removed and tossed his jacket on the floor, and rounded his bed. He took out the cupcake, holding it in his palm as he turned to face the windows. He aligned the cupcake with the Metropolis of Light and huffed. He was nothing to them, nothing but a monster and an outcast. He had thought things might be different in the Dark, that he was finally somewhere where people would see him as useful and valuable, but, just like in the Light, he was nothing.

Nothing, and no one.

“Happy birthday, Kasen,” he hissed through gritted teeth, then closed his fist around the cupcake and squeezed.