The Brass Door

It was before everything went to hell. A man was seen running through the busy night streets of Angkara, tried to navigate through the crowd. Different emotions seemed to be alternating on his face, like the neon street lights around him which emanated different colors. Or perhaps the alternating colors changed his countenance, I couldn't really tell. What I know is, the man was in a great hurry and under an unspeakable horror. His running was sloppy, but he would not stop to catch his seemingly expiring breath. Every ten steps or so he glanced behind and about him, looking for something, or someone. Real or imaginary. His sweat has coalesced with tears. What caused him to sweat was obvious. After so much running, letting his overcoat off would not help relieve his fatigue. Despite that, I couldn't tell the reason why he was crying. Yet.

He worked his way into an alley, which was darker than the street from which he came. Smellier too. It was now also quieter, so we could hear what he was muttering under his breath, "No, no..., please...", he said, in between his wheezing. He didn't slow his running, despite it was getting harder to navigate through the alley with its scattered and dirty objects here and there. He kicked some bottles and banged his body loudly on some oil drums. Or garbage disposal. Or whatever. The deeper he navigated, the harder it was to see where he was going. The festivities in the main street before dissipated, the sounds shifted ever so slowly to those of crunching broken glass under his soles, of his shoes against the pavement, and his terrible ragged breath. There were also people in the alley, almost all of them were doing something illegal or depraved, and therefore they needed the shadow from the ever-darkening alley. If a man ran through and passed them without noticing, it was not their problem. They were not our problem either. Our problem was the man in question, huffing, and puffing and running and crying through the dark alley of Angkara.

He then came upon a door at the end of the winding alley. A heavy metal faux-brass door made in the nautical aesthetic, with a round window at head height. A halogen light shone right on top of it and made the door seem to glow. After the twist and turn and the general darkness of the alley, the door seemed like a golden treasure at the end of an adventure, or the light at the end of a tunnel, whichever fit the fate of this running man. The man banged on the door, ignoring how loud it was echoing throughout the alley. "Open up! Goddamnit! Julian! Open up!" He shot his head around and behind him, every small shadow that moved seemed like his real or imagined pursuer. Maybe a policeman, maybe people who already found out what he'd done, and now relentlessly chasing him, maybe the undead. The undead? he thought to himself, already? Or is it just my imagination? He suddenly realized that Julian hadn't opened the door yet, so he continued banging, "JULIAN! OPEN UP! IT'S MARCO!!"

At the mention of his name, the door clanked and banged from the inside and opened with a loud grating sound. A hand grabbed Marco's wrist and yanked him inside, and by that, yanked along your narrator with him. After Marco entered, Julian slammed the brassy door with both hands and hastily worked on the mechanism of makeshift locks and slots. The room they were in was surprisingly spacious, with warm lighting that kept some dark corners. Besides the red sofa and a coffee table, there was a hammock and a single bed tucked at one side, and a series of identical lockers filled the whole other side of the room. There was a huge table with miscellaneous metals and power tools in the middle of the room, surrounded by different types of chairs, seemingly taken from a landfill somewhere. Marco slovenly helped himself to one of the chairs and slumped his upper body on the table, catching his breath. Julian didn't move after shutting the door and followed Marco's movement only with his head. "Did you do it?" he asked.

"I think they know," Marco finally answered after he caught his breath. He then turned to see Julian,

"This is all wrong Julian, this is not what I think it is! What the fuck is that?"

"Did you do it?", Julian persisted.

Marco was looking at Julian dubiously, "I did. But what the fuck is that? Why are they..."

"Good," Julian cut him short and started to walk toward the wall where the red sofa was, "then you can have the rest of your payment." His voice was loud, but unlike Marco's hysterical tone, very calm.

Marco slammed his fist onto the table, sending some of whatever was being done on top of it leaping a couple of centimeters,

"I DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING PAYMENT! YOU GUYS ARE SICK! ALL THE BEL'S FOLLOWERS ARE SICK!!" His eyes suddenly wandered and his tone changed again into a trembling uncertainty, or shall I say, fear,

"I shouldn't have taken this job. I shouldn't..." Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.

Julian stopped on his track, "You don't want it?" he asked placatingly. "Very well, then we will take back the first half of your pay."

Marco seemed stunned by this request. He glared at Julian, seemingly in disbelief.

"Go on," Julian continued, "If you want nothing in this, we're fine by it. Just give us back the money we gave you, and we assure you that you wouldn't be involved..."

Marco still glared at Julian, "You bastard..."

Julian scoffed, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and moved his weight to the side.

"What is it? Did you spend it all for BE?" he smiled.

Marco let his gaze off of Julian and stared to the wall in front of him, looking at nothing in reality, but a huge mental wall. His breath was still an unregulated mess, and his tears kept running down, now with added snot from his nostrils.

"I assume so," concluded Julian, "That explains your behavior. Maybe you took some BE before the job, and you're seeing things during the job..."

"No..." Marco hesitated.

"Yes," Julian countered calmly, then continued moving toward the end of the room, "Did you open the suitcase?"

"Yes, but..."

"Good. So you deserve your last payment. Don't worry. When you're sober, you'll find that what you saw was nothing, that you're imagining it."

"No..."

"Yes.," Julian pushed a part of the wall above the red sofa and it gently moved with a very light 'click' before the wall opened upward, revealing some sort of huge safety box inside, about 60 centimeters wide, long, and deep. He opened it and inside there was a gas mask and a suitcase with a green light on the top side. Julian then put on the gas mask.

"Wait..." Marco felt a sudden terror inside of him, "Wait— Julian? What are you doing?"

"It's too bad that our friendship should end like this, Marco." Julian's voice was muffled inside the mask, ���but this has to be done."

"Wait... Julian... is that the same suitcase?" Marco tried to push himself to stand, but his feet failed him as he stumbled backward, toppled his chair, and fell onto the floor, "Julian... wait! WAIT! I'M SORRY!"

"You ridiculed Bel. That cannot be, Marco... You know this..." Julian pushed the green light on the suitcase. It turned red. The suitcase then opened with a noxious hiss.

"NO STOP JULIAN! I'M SORRY!!! I'M SORRY!!! I'M ALSO BEL'S DEDICATED SERVANT! PLEASE!" He scrambled to the door, tried to open the complex locking and slotting mechanisms, but lost his grip. He couldn't control his trembling hands. Not long after, his legs gave in as he slumped onto the floor again. He turned his body pathetically, "please...pleeaahhh...." he glared toward his masked friend. His fellow Bel's Brothers. I couldn't tell if he was shocked, disappointed, sad that the money he was promised was now lost forever, or simply... he lost control of his body movement, and his internal organs slowly failed him.

"She who darkens the lights, for it will reveal the truth..." Julian started chanting, in a muffled voice. The suitcase's light beeping red, and its hissing noise grew louder.

"No.... this is not..." Marco tried to shout, but what he managed was a raspy whisper.

"... she who commands the evil, for it will balance the good..." Julian continues.

Marco coughed, he could see some of his teeth fall to the floor. He now struggled to breathe. His tears now contained blood.

"... she who smites those with a conscience, for it will halt the true nature..." The suitcase abruptly opened at last, with a very loud shrieking noise came forth.

Before everything turned black, with the little wit he had now, he thought of the BE he bought. Would it be different now if he didn't use it before going to the gallery with the suitcase? Shoulda woulda coulda, poor Marco... shoulda woulda coulda. Turned out… that brass door? That light at the end of the tunnel? It was just a train that was going to smash him to a bloody pulp.

And where was I? Oh yes: This was before everything went to hell.