Abysra

Fletcher barely moved, his monstrous form restrained by a series of energy binds that crackled against his skin like chains of living lightning. The restraints, forged with Nexus-grade anti-mutation technology, adapted to his biology in real time, dampening any attempt to lash out. Two heavily armed CPG Juggernauts, clad in reinforced exo-armor, flanked him on either side, their plasma rifles humming with deadly precision.

As the reinforced containment lift descended, the cold metallic walls of Abysra Prison pulsed with faint blue energy lines—security nodes designed to counteract any mutant ability. Each passing level sank Fletcher deeper into the Earth, each floor more fortified than the last.

LEVEL ONE: The Warden's Watch: The first level was where mutants deemed "high-risk" were processed—a sprawling command center monitored by CPG officers and Nexus scientists. Rows of holographic screens flickered with prisoner data, their crimes displayed in cold efficiency. Fletcher's name blinked red at the top of the priority list.

A synthetic voice echoed through the chamber: "Subject 019, 'Fletcher.' Status: Critical Threat. Proceed with full containment protocol."

The guards did not speak. Their fear was hidden behind emotionless visors, but Fletcher could smell it. The scent of dread lingered in the recycled air, thick and heavy like rusted metal.

LEVEL TWO: The Obsidian Barracks: The next level was where the elite guards resided—men and women trained specifically to neutralize mutants. Their weapons were experimental, crafted with Nexus alloys that could cut through the hardest mutant skin. Some carried anti-psionic pulse generators, devices that sent crippling feedback into the nervous systems of those with psychic abilities. Fletcher snarled at them as he passed, but the energy binds held him still.

One of the guards muttered, "I thought he'd be bigger."

Another scoffed. "He's plenty big. You weren't in Yuccavale. You didn't see what he did."

Fletcher let out a low chuckle, the sound dark and guttural. "If I wasn't bound, you'd be seeing a lot more."

They fell silent.

LEVEL THREE: The Echo Vault: Here, the corridors stretched longer, the walls thicker—designed for mutants whose voices alone could kill. Cells were soundproofed with reinforced obsidian plating, and inside them, figures lurked in the dim light. Some were mere shadows, whispering threats through the reinforced barriers. Others had empty eyes, their minds shattered by years of imprisonment.

One inmate, a gaunt woman with hollow cheeks and silver scars, pressed herself against the transparent cell wall. Her lips curled into a grin.

"New meat," she hissed, her voice distorted by the containment field. "You won't last long down there, monster."

Fletcher met her gaze, unflinching. "Neither will you."

The lift did not stop. It sank lower.

LEVEL FOUR: The Abyss Gate: This was the final barrier before the true depths of Abysra. The Nexus technology embedded in the walls. The containment lift slowed, its humming mechanics dampened by the oppressive silence of Level Four—The Abyss Gate. This was the last stop, the deepest hell within Abysra. No sunlight had ever touched these walls. No voice had ever risen beyond a whisper. This was where monsters were left to rot.

Fletcher's escort—two heavily armored CPG Juggernauts—dragged him forward, their rifles trained on his restrained form. The air was thick with the scent of cold steel, ozone, and something far older—something rotten, something festering in the darkness.

The hallway stretched long and featureless, lined with a series of reinforced containment units. Each one housed an entity so dangerous, so incomprehensible, that even the CPG feared their existence. No one of them spoke.

Fletcher could feel their presence. Some were watching. Others lay in complete stillness, their bodies hidden in the void behind energy-shielded doors. There were no names here, no identities. Just monsters who had been deemed too dangerous to exist.

The guards led Fletcher to the farthest cell, a reinforced obsidian vault laced with Nexus suppression sigils. The energy field surrounding it pulsed, reading his genetic structure before adjusting to counter any potential mutations.

A synthetic voice echoed from the cell's control panel: "Cell 66-B. Subject 019, 'Fletcher.' Confirming transfer."

The bind around his body tightened, locking his limbs in place as the cell door slid open. The inside was featureless—a black void of metal and silence. No bed. No light. Just a sealed space where time would cease to matter.

The Juggernauts shoved him forward, and as soon as he hit the floor, the containment field snapped into place, sealing him within a perfect vacuum of isolation. Fletcher smiled.

They thought this would hold him. Then, a voice broke the silence. Soft. Amused. Dripping with malice. From somewhere within the darkness of the isolated wing, a woman's voice coiled through the air like a whisper of silk and venom.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

Fletcher didn't turn his head. He didn't need to. The presence behind that voice was suffocating. It slithered through the cracks in reality itself, seeping into the corners of his mind like fingers dipped in ink.

The Blood Artist. A name spoken only in hushed rumors, a phantom whose work was carved into the bodies of her victims. They said she could rewrite flesh, sculpt pain like an artist with a blade. No one knew her real name. No one had ever seen her face and lived.

Her cell—the only one reinforced with a triple-layered Nexus field—was just a few meters away. Unlike the others, her door was marked. A crimson symbol had been etched into the reinforced metal. Not by the guards. By her.

A grotesque spiral of veins, tendrils, and twisting human faces—screaming, laughing, crying. A living piece of horror, pulsing as if it had been carved from flesh itself.

Fletcher chuckled, his voice hoarse. "Didn't think you'd still be alive."

A pause. Then, soft laughter. "Oh, dear. You should know by now… true artists never die."

Her voice slithered closer, brushing against his mind. "Tell me, Eldritch One… do you dream?"

Fletcher's grin faded. For the first time in a long time, he felt something he had long forgotten. A slow, creeping dread.

On the other, Barry walked through Yuccavale's muddy streets, the weight of the town's judgment pressing against his shoulders like iron shackles. They had released him, but they hadn't welcomed him.

Some villagers avoided his gaze, muttering under their breath as he passed. Others nodded stiffly, offering hesitant gratitude for his past deeds—but only from a distance. No one invited him in. No one called him 'Sheriff.' Not anymore.

Barry stopped at the town square, where the gallows still stood—a looming reminder of justice, or vengeance, depending on who you asked. The wooden beams were stained from past executions, the noose still swayed gently in the wind.

The verdict had been read. The people had spoken.

But what did it matter?

They still feared him.

He clenched his fists, staring at his own reflection in a windowpane. His eyes burned golden, feral and wrong. Even after suppressing his transformation, the monster within him never truly left.

Behind him, a merchant woman whispered to her husband. "Maybe he'll leave."

Another man muttered, "Maybe he should."

A hand rested on his arm.

Lillian. She searched his face, her voice soft yet steady. "Give them time."

Barry exhaled slowly. "And if they never do?"

Lillian didn't answer. Because she didn't need to. Barry already knew the truth. Some scars never fade. Some wounds never heal. So what now?

Did he stay, fighting for a place among people who could barely look him in the eye? Or did he walk away, leaving behind everything he had built, knowing he would always be chased, feared, hunted?

For a fleeting moment, Barry considered leaving. Maybe it was the way the townfolk watched him—like a rabid animal who had been leashed but not tamed. Maybe it was the way their whispers followed him, always just loud enough to hear but never brave enough to be spoken to his face. Or maybe it was just easier. Easier to walk away than to keep fighting for a place that didn't want him.

His feet carried him down the dirt path leading out of town, past the fields where golden stalks swayed in the breeze, past the familiar wooden fence of Samuel's family farm, past the last marker that still tied him to Yuccavale. If he just kept walking…

If he disappeared into the wilderness, back into the shadows where beasts belonged…

Would anyone even try to stop him?

A bitter laugh rumbled in his chest.

Of course not.

They would be relieved. Even Lillian—no matter how much she had fought for him—would eventually find peace without him here. Safer, without him here.

Alas, weeks passed, and Yuccavale settled into an uneasy peace. The townfolk slowly returned to their routines, the fear that once gripped them now dulled by time and distance. Even the outcast settlement, despite its losses, had begun to rebuild. No mutant attacks. No strange killings. No warnings scrawled in blood. For the first time in a long while, it seemed like the danger had passed.

But deep beneath the earth, in the lowest levels of Abysra, a far greater threat was stirring. Fletcher sat in his isolated cell, watching. Listening. Learning.

The facility was a marvel of Nexus technology, a prison built to hold the worst of the worst—mutants, witches, and creatures too dangerous to exist freely. Every level descended deeper into the abyss, with security increasing tenfold at each stage. Automated turrets lined the hallways, force fields pulsed with energy strong enough to liquify bone, and patrol drones scanned for the slightest anomaly.

But everything had a flaw. Fletcher had spent weeks memorizing the guard rotations, the timing of energy surges, the whispered conversations of terrified staff. He took note of which prisoners were docile, which were dangerous, and which were useful.

And he was not alone in his hunger for escape. From the shadows of their cells, the forgotten monsters of Abysra waited—some whispering, some plotting, some merely waiting for a leader bold enough to light the match.

Fletcher's fingers traced the cold metal of his restraints, his grotesque, tendrilled face twisting into something almost human. The people of Yuccavale thought they were safe. They had no idea what was coming.

The first explosion shook Abysra to its core.

Deep in the lowest level, security sirens wailed as red emergency lights flickered across the cold steel corridors. Automated turrets whirred to life, scanning for targets. Guards scrambled, barking orders into their comms, trying to contain the impossible—a coordinated escape. But it was already too late.

Fletcher stepped out of his shattered cell, flexing his grotesque limbs as the restraints fell away. His tendrils slithered through the air, pulsing with unnatural energy. The plan had worked. The guards above had been slow to react, believing the lower levels too secure, too unbreakable. A fatal mistake.

And he was not alone. From the surrounding cells, the worst of Abysra emerged, each one a nightmare in their own right.

The Hollow Man: A towering, emaciated figure with skin as thin as parchment. His entire body was a void—no eyes, no mouth, no soul. The Hollow Man absorbed sound itself, rendering the chaos around them eerily silent. Every footstep, every gunshot, every scream was swallowed into nothingness.

Vael, the Withered Witch: A once-beautiful sorceress, now reduced to a skeletal husk, her body wrapped in ancient, crumbling rags. She fed on life itself—a touch from her fingers could wither flesh into dust. The guards who got too close collapsed into piles of shriveled remains, their life force drained in seconds.

Garrick the Iron Maw: A mutant with unbreakable metal plating fused into his skin. His mouth stretched unnaturally wide, revealing rows of jagged, metallic teeth. He tore through reinforced doors like they were paper, ripping steel apart with his bare hands.

The Red Hound: A beast in human form, his entire body covered in scarlet fur that burned like embers. His mutation allowed him to move faster than the human eye could track, appearing and vanishing like a phantom. One moment he was there—then gone—then suddenly behind a guard, ripping out throats before they could scream.

Together, they ripped through the lowest levels, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

Fletcher led the way, his tendrils lashing out at anything that dared stand in their path. Automated turrets tried to fire, but the Hollow Man's aura of silence made them useless—without sound, the turrets couldn't detect movement. The facility's greatest weapons were reduced to blind, useless machines.

Vael drained the life from security personnel, their bodies crumbling into dust before they could raise their weapons.

Garrick tore open reinforced doors with his iron-jawed strength, clearing the way to the upper levels.

The Red Hound moved between shadows, a blur of blood and fire, ensuring no survivors were left behind to raise the alarm.

One by one, the levels fell. One by one, the barriers meant to keep them in were shattered. Until they reached the final gate.

As the doors to the higher level slid open, Fletcher hesitated. Across from him, still seated in her cell, was The Blood Artist. She hadn't moved since the chaos began.

The Blood Artist was a legend, a living nightmare in the world of mutants and witches. Some claimed she could paint the future in blood, her visions guiding her like an unseen force. Others said she could reshape reality itself, bending it like a canvas under her brush.

Fletcher stared at her through the thick glass of her isolation chamber.

She only smiled, her sharp, blood-red eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"You're not coming?" Fletcher's voice rasped, his monstrous tendrils twitching.

The Blood Artist leaned back against the wall, tilting her head. "Why would I?"

Fletcher's tendrils tightened in irritation. "This prison won't hold forever. You'd rather rot here than rise?"

She chuckled, low and knowing. "I am rising. You just don't see it yet."

Fletcher studied her for a long moment. The Blood Artist was not one to make empty statements. But he had no time to decipher her meaning.

The alarm systems above had been fully activated, and CPG reinforcements were inbound.

Without another word, Fletcher turned and led his monstrous allies toward the final gate. The surface. Freedom.

The Blood Artist simply watched.

And smiled.

The monsters had escaped. But the worst was yet to come.