The Rage

La-VAA was angry. He opened his throat, a pit of fire that still burns. The warring raged. He released a demon. The 'melding' flew. Leathery wings and breath of fire. It roamed the skies. It watched us. It didn't fear us. Slowly, peace returned.

___a birthed guardian

HOLLOWSTONE: AN UNEDITED HISTORY

the Abbot of The Spires

The stone hung from a chain.

It bobbled in the breeze as Billy leaned to grab the edge of the bluff. It settled against his shirt as he pulled himself up onto the large, flat surface and reached the top. The morning rays had warmed its surface as he positioned himself to take in the view. The heat beneath him mirrored the simmering tension within, a reminder of the burden he carried and the choices lying ahead. A sudden glint caught his eye—a patch of glassy obsidian embedded in the earth, reflecting shards of light like scattered fears.

It was expansive. It reached the edge of the lake and the distant shore beyond. Belmore City sparkled, its towers like hematite, refracting light from their fractal surfaces. A flash against the dark waters and black mountains beyond. A familiar blend of beauty and foreboding that echoed Billy's journey toward acceptance or defiance.

The pigments in the rock walls were a myriad of colors. Large sections radiated warm hues of yellow, ochre, and viridian green. As the sunlight touched them and the shadows of the diaphanous clouds danced across, they transformed into something magical, mystical, and haunting. A place of beauty to be treasured and revered. Layer upon layer of rock stretched into the distance, turning them into hazy, translucent sentinels.

Known as the Spires, it was a significant geological formation created eons ago. Over time, rain and weather made them what they are today—stone formations towering into the air like fingers, hands reaching towards the heavens. Fissures raced down their faces, forming cracks, gaping openings that made them appear to flex. Some of the fingers have blunted ends and large, oversized mantles at their tips. Giving them an awkward appearance, as if they could topple at any time.

Having read history, Billy knew this area had been a national park. 'Hoodoos,' an ancient people named them. They believed them to be people who did evil and were turned to stone. Sometimes he felt the darkness, but mostly he felt peace. Mood was a big factor, his not being too mythic. A religious sect staked a claim once Hollowstone was founded.

'The Brotherhood of the Spires' called it home. They found it calming and spiritual. Mystery shrouded it, and so they were left alone. Legends tell of a brother who once turned from the Spires' teachings and vanished into shadow. His absence is a reminder that to ignore darkness is to become lost. Billy felt safe here, knowing the brotherhood felt the same, so he could come here to clear his thoughts. And after recent events, he definitely needed it.

Billy had reached one of the shorter mantels. A place where he could meditate, breathe, and dream. Seeing this sight made him feel centered and at peace. The information that Kye dug up about the Empirium Syndicate and its connection to his parents left him feeling a mix of anger and confusion. He wasn't sure how to process these emotions or what steps to take, but he knew he wanted answers. He wanted the truth. It made him think about what his life really was before his parents' death.

He felt the warmth penetrate his hovers as he sat, a reminder of the solitude that marked his life. It radiated into his bones, penetrating the emptiness left behind the day he lost his father. A single, vivid image flashed in his mind: his small hand slipping away from his father’s grasp. Now, he sought the closure that could only come through facing the shadows of that fateful day.

The Spires swallowed him. Their jagged silhouettes sliced the horizon like watchful sentinels. A melding's cry shattered the hush. Its reptilian shadow anchored him in the untamed world and compelled him to choose between remaining trapped and moving toward freedom—these foreboding peaks cut through the illusions of guilt, urging him to face the truth.

As the creature soared overhead, his father's memory flickered, more vivid than ever. Regret pressed down like the weight of the craggy rocks, pushing him toward redemption. He traced invisible shapes on the stone, seeking solace in its repetition. The motion sparked fragile hope that he could finally move beyond guilt. Billy's slumped shoulders carried the invisible weight he had borne since believing himself the cause.

He ached to be free of it.

But how do you shift the way you see the world? How does one bridge the chasm between doubt and action, fear and courage? Is it through acceptance of past shadows or forging a new path in the light of truth? Billy wondered, "Can truth ever heal?" In seeking answers, he grappled with this question. This dilemma would guide his journey and reshape his identity.

His fingers curled around the crystal his father had given him, its chill biting into his palm, echoing the ache in his heart. The citrine gem shimmered with silver sparks, tiny stars trapped beneath its surface. The smooth yet uneven texture whispered of life's imperfections.

He spun the crystal between his fingers, breathing in a faint earthy scent, reminiscent of rain-soaked soil and distant childhood days. It slipped from his grasp, clattering across the stone, each bounce echoing the cracks within. Shadows lingered, a flaw now hardened into a scar. He slipped the necklace back on, its weight pressing close, unmoving against his chest.

He sprang to his feet and began to pace, restless energy surging through him as his hands flexed and clenched. The crunch of gravel beneath his boots echoed the storm inside. Overhead, clouds gathered and thickened, mirroring his turmoil. The biting wind lashed at him, cutting through his clothes with icy fingers, as wild and relentless as his frustration.

Billy felt a knot tightening in his chest, a tumult of anger mixed with an unspoken fear he couldn't fully acknowledge.

The rage was rising.

"YOU LEFT ME!" he shouted into the wind, but his voice, carried away by the passing gale, revealed less of accusation than of a desperate longing for understanding.

The wind howled louder, swirling around him as if answering his cry. The storm's fury underscored his anger, rage, and loneliness.

"WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?" he bellowed, his voice raw against the wind-swept wilds. His face flushed, a brightness against the bleak landscape. Tension wound through his body, muscles taut, fists clenched, veins throbbing at his temples. Arching his back, rising on the balls of his feet, he let out a primal scream.

"WHHHYYY?"

His cry ricocheted through the canyons, lightning splitting the sky and revealing its unrest. The echo reverberated, haunting him as if the land itself demanded answers. That single word resonated with clarity, creating an uncertainty that mirrored his heart. As the sound faded and the echoes dissolved, his feet settled. Lips quivered with unspoken anger. The tension escaped him.

“I didn't love you enough to make you stay,” he said, slumping, lowering his head. "You were supposed to come back."

He let out his breath, sinking onto the slab, angry tears erupting. Confusion, grief, and a stubborn resolve held him. The weight of new truths pressed down. Amid this storm of emotion, clarity emerged: his parents were caught in something far bigger. That realization sparked in him. He smelled the earth of his flower farm, steadying his thoughts. ‘If I do nothing, the truth will disappear in the wind. The guilty will remain free.’

Justice was no longer a wish. Purpose hardened his resolve. He might be a flower farmer from Raingate, but his parents' legacy urged him to dig beneath the surface. He would unearth the secrets of the Empirium Syndicate. And Praxus.

Who was he to hold power?

Yet, who was he if he did not try?

He sat up and brushed away his tears—a small but real act of change. He reached for the crystal, its weight pressing against his chest. A reminder of the past and a vow to uncover the secrets buried in darkness.

The Empirium Syndicate, a shadowy force rumored to pull Merica's strings, thrived in secrecy. Their name spoken in hushed tones, their motives unclear. His father only ever mentioned Praxus, celebrated for its technology, but hinted at a darker side. Whispers claimed Praxus funded both projects for enrichment and covert missions. These contradictions gnawed at him, questioning their true nature. Determined, he wondered if these tangled alliances hid the truth behind his parents' deaths.

He closed his eyes and flattened himself back onto the stone, covering his face with his arm, letting tension slip away. He breathed deeply, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he whispered. “What do I do, Dad? Who am I to change anything?”

Silence followed, punctuated only by the soft rustling of the air through the crevices and the distant call of a melding. Each sound amplified his vulnerability, leaving him more exposed yet oddly hopeful.

It was a plea, nothing more—a fragile hope to clear his mind, heart, and the storm of anger. He let the ledge's coolness draw the heat from his rage. A gentle breeze stirred his hair as the melding glided silently above. Shadows and time shifted. Silence and peace came to him as his eyes closed to the area around him.

A figure appeared beside him, clothed in a suit and tie, peculiar in this wild place. The suit had a small, dried coffee stain, adding an unsettling realism to the apparition. The figure placed a broad hand gently on Billy's chest.

"Dad, even here you look out of place," Billy whispered, noticing his father's familiar cerulean eyes, bright and alive.

Billy fought back tears as his heart thundered at the sight of his dad made real. Emotions crashed into him—anger, confusion, a trembling uncertainty. Time seemed to freeze, the world narrowed to this impossible moment. An ache bloomed in his chest, heavy and real—a chance he yearned for, suddenly within reach.

A storm of anxiety and hope swirled around him as he faced his father's ghostly form—a vision that might vanish at any moment—words pressed at his lips, a flood of questions desperate to break free. His hand reached out, fingertips quivering, then snapped back. He dug his nails into his palm, trying to shake off a weight he could not name, only to clench it once more.

Love.

His breath caught as he processed the familiar, yet painful, presence.

Anger.

His eyes narrowed, torn between yearning and accusation, while his fingers twitched at his side.

Resentment.

He sat up and faced his father, an involuntary act as his inner struggle lay bare. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Joy flickered, mixing with surprise and a sharp edge of regret. Billy took a breath, the words hanging in the air. His voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of unspoken years.

"You lied to me," he said, staring at his father, waiting for the truth that had always been out of reach.

Silence stretched, thick tension in the air, as if the unsaid was louder than the words. His father remained steady. His eyes held a depth of sadness that only silence could convey. Instead of denying, he asked, "Did I protect you or abandon you, son?"

His voice was deep and resonant, each word a carefully weighed stone dropped into the quiet.

“I kept you safe.”

“Safe?--- safe from what?” Billy asked, turning away from him.

Sharpe squeezed his shoulder. "There's a force as potent as the wind stirring a storm, Billy. They stand as the invisible hand behind every upheaval, orchestrating events for their dark ends. Praxus is only the tip of the iceberg. You must follow the shadows and question every truth you think you know. They are the reason behind what happened."

As he spoke, Billy felt the necklace shift slightly against his chest, its subtle weight a reminder of his father's warning, urging him to uncover the truths hidden in darkness.

Sharpe hesitated, a look of contemplation crossing his eyes, before he continued, "Your mother and I knew this day might come. In the heart of your necklace, I placed a shadow—a piece that can guide you. Trust it, and let it lead your journey."

Billy blinked and looked his dad in the eyes as his hands cupped the crystal. He averted his eyes and looked at it. It pulsed in his palm.

“You are braver and stronger than you can know. Believe son,” Sharpe said, a smile returning to his face.

“Why didn't you tell me this before? I've waited so long.”

He pressed firmly on his shoulder, lightly shaking him.

“You didn't ask before; you weren't ready. Dreams don't answer questions. They make you ask more."

They looked at each other. Billy hesitated, then asked, "Must a son bear a father's war?"

The question lingered, suspended in the surreal logic of dreams where blame and innocence blurred. Silence settled over him, heavy as his emotions. The danger of doing nothing, of letting the truth stay hidden, struck him. If he turned away, others might suffer. To walk away would betray his parents' legacy and let the silence grow. He swallowed hard, the gravity of his decision pressing down as he stared at the crystal in his palm.

Sharpe studied him with a solemn gaze, his eyes reflecting the weight of the Spires. Without speaking a word, he let his eyes fall on the crystal, an unspoken message that deepened the mystery. It was a moment when words failed, leaving Billy with a sense of unease and curiosity that filled the silence. Sharpe's expression alone seemed to say, 'The choice is yours, Billy,' urging him to uncover the truths.

“Remember, understanding is not the same as acceptance.”

Billy nodded, decision settling in his bones. A new resolve washed over him. He drew a deep breath and let the crystal drop to his chest. A promise to himself to chase the truths, to face the mysteries that haunted his father's past.

"I will find out, whatever it takes," Billy vowed, his words hanging in the charged air. With purpose sharpening his vision, he would map out his next steps, determined to follow the trail his father had left and bring what was hidden into the light.

Billy heard the melding's call closer as it soared higher into the sky.

“You are my proof— that something good can still grow in a broken world— I love you, son,” Sharpe said, as he stroked Billy's face and started to fade.

A flickering danced across his eyelids, pulling him back to awareness.

A low hum reached his ears. Lying on his back, he spotted a small object overhead—a flat, circular disc with turbines, hovering in the air. It was a surveillance drone, meant to keep hikers safe in the Spires, where people often lost their way. He raised himself to his elbows.

This one was different.

Heavier.

Its watchful gaze spelled danger. The drone's unblinking eyes tracked his every move.

The drone dipped lower, its presence shifting from observer to threat. Adrenaline surged through him. No longer just a silent watcher, the drone became a predator. Spotting a crevice in the rock formation nearby, he slid toward it, using it as cover to conceal his movement. His feet moved swiftly over the uneven terrain, every step a calculated dance of survival.

Urgency pounded in his veins as he reached the ledge's edge and spotted a loose stone. With a glance at the drone, he hurled the stone with all his might, aiming to disrupt its sensors, while the barrier of rocks provided a temporary refuge. Secrets pressed on him, echoing his father's memory, but escape was all that mattered now.

The drone dropped again, closer, hovering with heavy menace as its opticons zeroed in on him. Billy realized it was snapping pictures. His heart hammered, fear mixing with a slow-burning anger. What would come next—endless surveillance, or something worse to keep him quiet? Whatever secrets it carried or whoever it served, only fueled his determination to fight back.

"Why are they taking pictures of me?” he asked, shielding his eyes to look closer.

One opticon slid out, telescoping, its gaze invasive. Instinct took over—he scanned the ground for anything he could hurl, anything to take it down.

Its turbines whined, their pitch rising to a sharp, piercing note, like wind shrieking across a bottle's mouth. He watched as it tilted and shot away, streaking toward the distant lake and Bellmore City. Just before it vanished, he glimpsed a bold emblem on its side, a thunderbolt slashing through an eye. Instantly, a chill ran down his spine, while a heat flushed through him. He felt a surge of anxiety mixed with an eerie sense of recognition, as if this symbol held something he couldn't yet comprehend.

His breath caught in his throat.

He blinked, trying to notice the symbol again.

But the drone was gone.