Ut revertar in domum suam-LXXXIII
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DATE:17th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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Someone shook me awake. The room was dimly lit, the air cold and metallic.
I blinked, groggy, and saw her standing over me. Emily.
But something was off. She wore a prison guard's uniform, complete with a baton at her hip and a ring of keys dangling from her waist. Glancing down at myself, I realized I was dressed in a prisoner's jumpsuit.
"Fuck me," I muttered. "Another one of these dreams."
Emily crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "Get up," she said, her voice firm but oddly playful. "The psychiatrist wants to see you."
"Who?" I frowned, sitting up.
She shrugged. "Don't know. I woke up a few hours ago for my shift and heard the instructions over the intercom."
Keys jingling, she opened the metal gate, her cheeks reddening slightly as she searched my pockets. I chuckled at her embarrassment.
"Find anything interesting?"
"Shut up," she snapped, stepping back. "Let's go."
---
The hallway stretched on forever, its cold cement walls and metal grates illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights. Emily led me to a bulletproof door, her footsteps echoing in the silence.
She knocked, and the door creaked open from the inside.
The smell hit me first—iron, wet and pungent. Then I saw him.
My father.
He stood in the doorway, dressed like a surgeon, his coat drenched in blood. A massive surgical saw hung loosely from his right hand, dripping onto the floor.
He didn't say a word, just gestured for me to enter.
Uneasy, I stepped inside. Emily followed, her hand instinctively hovering near her belt as if she were armed.
The room was lit by a single overhead light, casting long shadows across the walls. In the center, strapped to a table, was Naomi Sayahara. Her arms had been severed, blood darkening the straps that bound her.
Unlike the real Naomi, who had glitched in and out of reality, this version was horrifyingly still.
My father pointed to a couch in the corner. "Sit," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
I hesitated but obeyed, sinking into the worn leather as he dropped the saw to the floor with a metallic clang.
Grabbing Naomi's head, he wrapped his fingers around her temples and began to squeeze. Blood erupted from her eyes and nose, staining his hands as he screamed in rage.
"Look at this fool," he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. "She thought she had mastered time."
With a sharp twist, he broke her neck, the crack echoing in the silence. Then, with an almost casual motion, he ripped her head from her body and raised it above his own, tilting it to examine it in the dim light.
"A mere mortal," he said coldly, tossing the head at my feet. "Like yourself."
I stared at him, my chest tightening. "Who the hell are you?"
This wasn't like the father from my previous dreams. Before, he had been animalistic, a mindless predator. Now, he was something much worse—methodical, deliberate.
Emily tensed beside me, shifting into a fighting stance.
But he didn't attack.
Malice filled the room, thick and suffocating, but it lacked the frenzied energy of violence. It was calm, steady, like a storm waiting to break.
He stepped closer, the shadows stretching around him as he loomed over us. "Come home," he said, his voice soft but commanding.
I swallowed hard, my voice trembling slightly. "What home?"
He laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent chills down my spine. "The one you burned." With that, he lightly threw her head at my feet. The head of the enemy I fought so long to kill, he just casually tortured in this very room.
In the same motion, he raised the saw with a kick, before grabbing it.
Turning sharply, he strode toward the exit, the saw swinging in his grip.
Emily's breathing was heavy, her eyes darting between me and the head at my feet.
"Home, huh?" I muttered, my gaze fixed on Naomi's lifeless eyes.
The door slammed shut, leaving us in silence.
I sat up on the couch, rubbing my temples as the surreal nature of the dream set in again.
"How do I wake up from this?" I muttered, glancing at Emily.
She tilted her head, her brow furrowed. "I don't know. Your kind of dreams aren't exactly similar to those I read about."
My gaze darted around the room, searching for an answer. If this *was* a dream, I probably had to knock myself out, right? That's how it worked in movies, wasn't it?
I stood, grabbing one of the wooden chairs in the corner.
"What are you doing?" Emily asked, her tone laced with suspicion.
"Testing something."
With a sharp crack, I broke one of the chair's legs, gripping the splintered wood firmly. Before she could stop me, I swung it toward my head.
The world spun.
---
When I came to, my head was ringing, and my vision was blurry. Through the haze, I felt a warm pressure against my scalp.
Emily.
She was holding my head in her lap, her face a mixture of annoyance and concern.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she snapped. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"
"Didn't really have another option," I muttered, my voice slurred.
She sighed heavily, adjusting her grip to keep me steady. "Well, it didn't work, genius. You're still here. And now you've given yourself a concussion."
I tried to sit up, but dizziness hit me like a freight train, forcing me back down. Emily kept one hand on my shoulder, her grip firm.
Her thighs pressed against me through the coarse fabric of her uniform, surprisingly soft despite the stiffness of the material. This physical form... was it how I saw her, or how she saw herself?
"Stay still," she said sternly. "I'm worried enough as it is. I heard screaming earlier, distant but loud. It's getting closer."
A chill ran down my spine. "Screaming? You think it's my father torturing inmates?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. But whatever it is, it's not something we want to meet."
I glanced around the room. It was oddly normal—a standard therapist's office, complete with chairs, a desk, and a bookshelf lined with generic self-help titles.
"Naomi was a prison counselor," I muttered to myself, the absurdity of the thought sinking in. "And my father's a surgeon. Who comes up with this crap?"
Emily raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it supposed to be... you?"
I shook my head slowly. "I don't buy that. This doesn't feel like something I'd dream up."
The room fell silent, save for Emily's steady breathing.
"Do you have *any* idea how to get out of here?" I asked eventually.
She hesitated, her gaze distant. "When I woke up earlier, I think I saw a map of the prison on the wall. There was an elevator marked at the far end of the building. It might be our way out."
"Let's go," I said, forcing myself upright despite the protests of my aching skull.
"You're in no condition to walk," she snapped, grabbing my arm to steady me.
"Whatever," I muttered, slapping the side of my temple lightly to clear the dizziness.
Emily's frown deepened, but she didn't argue. Sliding her arm around my shoulders, she helped me stand. Her support was firm but gentle, her presence grounding me in the chaos of the dream.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice steady but tinged with worry.
"No," I admitted, pulling myself upright. "But let's move before the screaming gets closer."
Leaning on her shoulder, I staggered into the dark hallway.
It seemed to stretch endlessly before us, its silence broken only by the faint echo of our footsteps. My head still ached from earlier, and my thoughts felt sluggish, like I was wading through molasses.
"If this is my mind palace," I muttered, gesturing to the oppressive walls around us, "why can't I control it? Shouldn't I be able to change something? Anything?"
Emily glanced at me, her expression unreadable. "Maybe you're not the one in control."
I stopped briefly, her words sinking in.
If I wasn't in control, then who—or what—was?
Shaking my head, I pushed the thought aside. "Something else must be at play," I said quietly, more to myself than to her.
We passed a cantina, the glow of flickering lights illuminating the chaos within. Inmates fought each other with primal savagery, their screams and snarls reverberating off the walls.
Some had bloodied faces, others wielded shards of broken furniture as makeshift weapons. They moved with a mindless, animalistic fervor, tearing into each other like wild beasts.
I heard a woman's scream from deep within the cantina.
Was I supposed to stop and save her?
I paused for a moment, but Emily kept walking, her focus on the elevator ahead. After a brief hesitation, I followed.
Whatever this place was—whatever my subconscious wanted me to do—I didn't care. I just wanted to leave.
---
The security checkpoint was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of rust and decay. Several desks with old, dusty computers were scattered near the elevator, which was blocked off by a rusted metal railing and a heavy padlock.
"Sit," Emily said, guiding me to a chair. I sank down, grateful for the momentary rest, as she moved to block the hallway entrance with another set of bars. Her keys jingled softly as the metal gate clicked into place.
"Good thing you woke up as a guard," I muttered weakly.
She gave me a wry look before turning her attention to the elevator padlock. "This one's not working," she said, frowning.
I scanned the room and spotted a key hanging on a nearby hook. "Try that."
Emily grabbed it and unlocked the railing, swinging it open with a metallic groan.
The elevator looked ancient, its cracked buttons barely legible, but it was still intact.
"Power's out," Emily noted, glancing at the dead control panel. Without waiting for my input, she moved to a nearby electrical box, prying it open.
As she worked, faint noises echoed down the hallway—the shifting of metal, the scrape of something against the walls.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
"Yes!" Emily exclaimed moments later as the lights buzzed to life, illuminating the hallway behind us.
What I saw made my stomach twist.
Shadows shifted in the distance, and then they came: inmates, rushing toward the checkpoint with unrelenting ferocity. Their hands clawed at the bars Emily had locked, their faces twisted with manic hunger.
"Move!" Emily shouted, pulling me into the elevator.
The doors groaned shut, and the elevator lurched upward, its old mechanisms grinding loudly as it began its slow ascent.
Through the small window in the door, I saw the inmates tearing at the bars, their teeth gnashing against the metal as though they could bite through it.
The floor beneath us rumbled as the elevator rose, the chaotic scene below fading into the distance.
Finally, the ceiling swallowed the checkpoint, and the noise was gone.
---
When I opened my eyes, I was back.
The familiar softness of Alice's bed greeted me, the morning light filtering through the curtains. As Little as it was into her mostly pitch black room, it made an enormous difference. For a moment, I lay there, disoriented, before sitting up and looking around.
Sliding out of bed, I moved to the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against my skin.
Below me, the city stretched out, alive with its usual morning hum.
It was over.
For now.
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The morning air was crisp and cool as I jogged through the quiet streets. My head still felt foggy from earlier, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like cobwebs.
I had poured myself a glass of wine from the cupboard before leaving, hoping it would clear the dizziness from my mind. I never drank, not really, but this morning felt different.
It didn't help.
The run didn't help, either.
No matter how far I pushed myself, I couldn't shake the restlessness inside me. The thought of returning home gnawed at me, a persistent itch I couldn't ignore.
By 7 a.m., I had Emily call Mike. Against all odds, he picked up.
"Mike," I said, surprised to hear his voice.
He sounded rough, his words slurred but coherent. "Battling alcohol withdrawal," he explained, his tone somewhere between proud and self-deprecating. "Figured I should sober up for the upcoming mission."
I asked him where he was, but his answer was vague. "In training," he said before hanging up. When I returned to the apartment, Alice was already at the table eating breakfast.
"I need to go back," I said, my voice flat.
She looked up, her fork hovering midair. "Back where?"
"Home," I replied. "To put some old scars to rest."
Her expression softened, and without hesitation, she set her fork down. "I'm coming with you." By 10 a.m., the paperwork at the Legion was in order, leaving no room for anyone to criticize my departure.
The flight was less than ideal. The aircraft creaked and groaned like it was held together by duct tape and prayers, its rusted wings rattling in the turbulent air.
Alice gripped the armrest tightly, her knuckles pale. "This thing is going to fall apart," she muttered under her breath.
"You can fly, you know," I pointed out.
She shot me a glare but said nothing.
We landed in Ligures before 2 p.m., the southern Ventian province bordering Piemontis. Genova, my home city.
The air was heavy with salt and diesel fumes as we stepped out of the airport. I didn't bother with a taxi to Ventri—I knew the scam too well. Instead, we walked to our hotel. "Vetustate," the faded sign read as we approached the modest three-star building near the airport. The name, meaning "The Old Way," felt oddly fitting for the only establishment in the area not owned by a Ventian.
It was safer this way.
Ventians were just as I remembered—human faces, rotten hearts. They had never treated their own well, but foreigners? That was unforgivable.
The locals despised Concordians, even those like Alice who had nothing to do with the conquest. To them, Concord had been given special treatment, rebuilt and repopulated with immigrants from Normandia while Ventia remained fractured and bitter.
At the reception desk, the attendant barely concealed her disdain as she handed us the key. Her gaze lingered on Alice for a moment too long, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Alice stiffened beside me but said nothing as we made our way upstairs. The room was simple but comfortable, with a queen-sized bed and a small table near the window.
Alice flopped onto the mattress, sighing. "My back's killing me after that flight."
I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes briefly. "I'm more exhausted mentally," I admitted.
The weight of being here—of walking these streets again—pressed down on me like an iron shroud. This wasn't just a trip. It was a confrontation, long overdue.-*-*-*-*-*