"Collapse" – The Weight of Survival
Luke runs.
Every step is a scream through torn muscles and fraying nerves.
His boots slap the wet stone—SLAP. SLAP. SLAP—leaving a trail of blood that marks him like prey.
The tunnels twist. The walls blur. Time stretches.
But he doesn't stop.
He can't.
Just a little more... they're just ahead...
He grits his teeth, lips white, eyes burning.
I made it out. I made it—
His vision pulses.
The torchlight fades.
The world tilts sideways.
His legs buckle.
He crashes into the stone wall with a thud, then falls to his knees. His breath hitches.
No. Not now. Not here...
He pushes forward on one hand—the only
one he has—dragging himself like a wounded beast.
But everything is spinning now.
The blood loss.
The searing pain where his arm once was.
I survived. I escaped. Why does it feel like I'm still dying...
He hears footsteps. Voices.
Shouts.
Gasps.
"LUKE!?"
"OH GODS—"
"NO NO NO—SOMEONE—HELP HIM—!"
He tries to lift his head.
Everything is red.
Elarin's silhouette breaks through first—blurry, glowing faintly in the dark.
Mira's voice cracks.
Caelan's hands are already steadying him, trying to hold him upright.
Singnet's voice is choked with disbelief.
Even the gray-haired boy speaks—for the first time in a while—his voice calm, cold:
"He's dying."
Luke smiles—barely.
At least they're safe…
He opens his mouth to speak.
Nothing comes out.
The world fades.
His body collapses forward—
SLUMP.
Unmoving.
Breathing shallow.
Then—
Darkness.
Silent. Cold.
No weight. No pain.
Then—
Light.
Golden, blinding.
He opens his eyes.
He's seated—once more—on the throne in the royal court.
A room gilded with obsidian banners and banners of gold, chandeliers swaying from an unseen wind. His hands rest on the cold arms of the chair—both hands.
I'm here again...
Did I survive...?
He tries to stand, legs trembling.
His body is weak. Hollow.
And then—collapse.
CRASH.
He hits the floor. And the golden throne room crumbles into—
Darkness.
Then—
Light.
He blinks.
He's staring at the ceiling of a tunnel. Flickering torchlight.
Pain floods back in like a dam breaking.
He feels arms beneath him—carrying him. Someone's shouting. Elarin's voice? Caelan barking orders. Mira sobbing. His blood paints their arms red.
His throat burns.
I'm... still alive...
Then—
Darkness.
Then—
Light.
He's back in the throne room.
But this time—the court is twisted.
The chandeliers are upside-down, bleeding wax.
The pillars are bent at wrong angles.
The carpet beneath him is made of stitched skin.
What is this...
A laugh echoes from the halls. Loud. Mocking. Familiar.
Then he collapses again.
Darkness.
Then—
Light.
A blinding white, like a sunburst.
He opens his eyes.
Surrounded by floating motes of glowing light—amber and green and gold—like fireflies suspended in time.
In the middle of it all stands a blurry figure, face obscured, voice unmistakable.
"Opener," the voice snarls, "I WON'T LET YOU DIE LIKE THIS—HAHAHAHAHA!"
It laughs again—inhuman, glitching, like a beast trying to speak through a man's throat.
The light turns red.
Luke gasps.
---
Then—
Darkness.
Complete.
____
The Thinning ends with a scream in the wind.
And then—silence.
No more screeches.
No more puppets.
No more collapsing tunnels.
Only the aftermath.
Hundreds if not thousands of survivors went out of their hiding spot knowing they survived hell.
The six survivors emerge from a shattered service hatch, blinking into the artificial dawn beyond the perimeter of the 'Center.'
A landing zone—sterile, humming, surrounded by black transport ships marked with gold crests.
Armed personnel in black exo-armor sweep the area, weapons trained low but fingers twitching on triggers.
Medical units wait with caskets, stretchers, and biostabilizers.
Drones fly in slow, spiraling patterns above.
Luke is slumped across Caelan's back, his body barely warm.
One arm missing.
His lips pale.
Breathing—barely.
"ID 000001 — still breathing."
A Knight with black armor reported.
Elarin's voice is barely audible. Her hands are coated in Luke's blood, and she doesn't even notice.
Mira clutches Luke's ruined shirt. She refuses to let go until someone pries it from her fingers.
The gray-haired boy walks with a blank face, silent as ever, but his eyes flick constantly between the medical crews and Luke—calculating, defensive.
Singnet, noble as he is, stands upright. But he's trembling.
They're all trembling.
---
Two armored officials approach—high-ranking personnel with the sigil of wings colored black with a golden hue under that it read as BLACKWING Division across their chests.
Behind them, biohazard medics push a containment stretcher forward, lined with glowing runes and strange fluid tubing.
"We'll take him now."
Caelan steps forward, teeth bared.
"You treat him like another test subject—I swear I'll gut the lot of you."
Elarin puts a hand on her dagger.
"He's not yours."
"You don't get to call him property."
The lead officer speaks without flinching.
"He's Priority Alpha. The Opener. Do you understand what that means?"
The gray-haired boy speaks at last, voice low:
"I understand that if he dies, you all do."
That gives them pause.
For a moment, tension crackles—on the edge of bloodshed.
But Luke groans.
His eye twitches open.
Don't… fight…
He doesn't speak. But they hear it anyway.
Reluctantly, Caelan lowers Luke onto the biostretcher.
Elarin pulls a cloth from her belt and wraps it around Luke's half-severed torso.
Mira kisses the cloth.
Singnet scoffs.
"Don't mess up what's left of him."
The soldiers nod.
"He's now top priority. Black clearance. He
won't die. We won't let him."
The door hisses shut. The stretcher rises into the airship.
A final glimpse—Luke's body pale, his blood still steaming, his missing arm leaking strange dark fluid now absorbed by the medical foam.
---
The ship lifts.
And Luke is gone.
They stand, watching the horizon where he disappeared.
Not one of them says a word.
But they all think the same thing—
He better come back.
-----
Facility SIGIL-9: Blackwing Division
Metal. Cold. White light. The distant hum of needles piercing fluid sacs.
The air reeks of sterile rot, like hospital disinfectant mixed with burnt meat and iron.
Luke doesn't awaken—he convulses.
Eyes snap open. White light floods his vision, so bright it stings. His body spasms. He tries to scream, but his throat is dry, torn raw from earlier cries. Only a
rasping groan escapes.
Above him—the ceiling pulses. Vein-like tubes filled with yellow ichor snake across the chamber, throbbing in sync with the low mechanical heartbeat of the facility. Metal arms twitch in the air, holding scalpels, buzzsaws, bone drills.
And there—
Standing over him, hunched and smiling wide, is a man in a blood-splattered white coat.
His hair is matted with grease, one lens of his glasses cracked. A burn scar splits his face, twitching when he grins.
Dr. Murell. SIGMA-BLACK Clearance.
"Oooohhh you little bastard… they almost lost you."
He licks his lips slowly, savoring the moment like a starving man savoring a ripe peach.
"But now? Now you're mine."
He taps at a data-slate embedded in his forearm, screens flickering with Luke's vitals.
PRIORITY: OPENER
STATUS: BODY – 48% VIABILITY
CONSCIOUSNESS – VOLATILE
LIMB REPLACEMENT: PHASE I — ENGAGED
"Royal order. You're top priority, meatboy. Priority Alpha." He laughs like a butcher.
Luke groans, trying to speak, but all that comes out is:
"...w-where… am… I…"
The doctor leans closer, his breath hot and metallic.
"You shouldn't even be breathing.
But you crawled.
You bled.
You made The Maw scream.
You lost an arm, and kept going."
His voice darkens.
"And now, we're going to make history together."
Suddenly—
AGONY.
BURNING.
PRESSURE.
Luke lets out a scream as a searing heat erupts in his shoulder—like red-hot claws digging deep, tearing sinew from bone. His back arches, muscles spasming, jaw clenched so hard his teeth crack.
"AAAGHHHHHHH—!"
"ANESTHESIA IS FOR THE DEAD!" the doctor shouts gleefully.
Metal clamps shoot up from the table, pinning Luke's arms, legs, and neck with bone-snapping force.
He thrashes—eyes wide with terror.
No... what is this... an experiment... a surgery??
The machines descend.
The scent of boiling meat fills the chamber.
He sees it—the replacement.
A monstrous limb—stitched with sinew and tubing, blackened metal plating grafted into mutated flesh. Veins pulse with mottled red and electric blue fluid. The fingers twitch unnaturally, razor claws retracting and extending like they're alive.
"Neural mesh from a dead psionic monster."
"Tendons from Maw-spawn."
"And bone carved from the ribs of something we never cataloged."
He giggles. "You're going to love the claws."
Buzzing. Screaming. Flesh hissing as metal drills enter.
"HOLD HIM! DON'T LET HIM CODE OUT!" a surgical assistant shouts.
Luke's body convulses—his eyes roll back.
He feels everything. Every stitch. Every screw. Every nerve screaming.
He screams until he can't scream anymore. Until only ragged gasps echo through the sterile tomb.
The doctor leans in and whispers, almost reverently:
"Live, Opener. We've already buried too many children."
---
.
.
.
.
.
.
Hours? Days? Later…
Silence.
Luke lies in the recovery pod—floating in bio-stabilization fluid. Tubes run through his chest and neck. His body wrapped in surgical tape and burn gel.
His new arm rests at his side.
It twitches.
Claws slide out with a click—gleaming skin colored steel soaked in something that pulses like blood.
The limb responds before he moves.
It stretches as if alive.
It breathes with him.
Metallic.
He opens his eyes.
Alive.
But no longer the same.
But still alive nonetheless.
He laid there.
Not knowing this was the first of many more experiments.