The Agency of Elements: Prologue II

Prologue II

Olympus City Slums, 3591 BSE

Bolt had done many infiltrations in his time. Never failed, never caught. He’d also never been told to walk through the front door.

So that’s exactly what he did.

He and Wesley Hylara, Bolt’s assigned partner and a Senior at the Olympian Military Academy, walked through the front door of a frequent crime spot, whose employees were known to kidnap those who were weak in their Elemental Aura.

Explaining perfectly—to Bolt, at least—why there had never been any successful kidnappings in Olympus City itself.

Bolt shoved his way through the crowd, Wesley trailing closely behind.

Bolt had to grit his teeth to avoid looking above the heads of this sorry lot, who were all funneling towards a doorway at the end of this spacious entry room. The room was lit dimly, so you could only see the backs of heads and vague details that hinted at this building’s previous uses. There were many intricate stoneworks lining the sides of the room, indicating that this may have once been a temple to the Spirits.

One of which lived inside of Bolt himself.

It was at this time that Sellana spoke to him.

“I really hate places like this.” Her voice—or, rather, mental impression—was soft and precise, every syllable carefully sounded; it had once annoyed Bolt to no end, but Bolt had grown to love the girl like a sister.

“Why’s that?” Bolt asked her, mentally.

“It was once a place of worship, as your thoughts indicate. How could people do such horrible things in such holy places?”

Bolt took a moment to think before replying. “Many people have stopped caring. Why else would we be seeing so many Priests and Priestesses from the Islands as of recent?”

This seemed to satisfy Sellana for a few moments, after which she added, in a voice that was slightly deeper than normal, “The Desecration of Temples…” She trailed off.

“What was that?” Bolt asked, frowning.

“I’m not sure, honestly.” Sometimes, from an immortal Spirit, that was the best you were going to get.

Bolt liked to consider himself lucky. Sellana was the only Electricity Spirit in the entire universe, and she’d chosen him. All he had to do was keep that secret to himself; something he was rather good at. He had to be; he held a great deal of information inside his head. Information and an immortal, eternal Spirit with unfathomable power.

Wesley bumped into Bolt from behind. “Hey, sir?” He whispered, trying to keep pace. The lanky boy seemed very regal in uniform, but now looked like a child in his father’s old clothing. He was a competent boy, but a jittery one. He was only nineteen, barely older than Bolt had been when he’d graduated the Academy.

“Call me Bolt, Wess.” Bolt muttered back at him. “Stop looking so nervous; keep your head down. What is it?”

Wess brushed his loose hair out of his eyes, revealing his pale face and gray eyes for a moment before it was hidden again. “Where do we go from here?”

“In.” Bolt pressed, trusting Wess to follow, like he’d been trained. “Plug your ears. Vibration Suppressor on the doorway.”

As soon as they entered through the curtained doorway, their ears were bombarded with sounds of drunken laughter, loud pops of electricity and the swooshing sounds of flames.

Wesley shook his head; the shock of the ruckus had clearly gotten to the boy. Still, Bolt was impressed at how well Wess was handling his first real mission.

“You alright?” Bolt asked, unfazed by the sudden clamor. He looked over his shoulder.

Wess nodded, his eye giving a twitch before refocusing.

“Good. Keep your head down. Discreet. Be ready for trouble.”

Bolt and Wess shoved their way through the crowd, nobody seemed to be giving them a second thought. Plenty of other bashful first-timers walked around, hoods up, while the far more plentiful regulars waved money in the air, shouting and being fed grapes—no doubt supplied by Hipraar and that slob, Gallay. Clearly, betting on people was profitable.

Too bad it was highly illegal.

In the center of the room, illuminated by a bright spotlight were two scared-looking young boys, who seemed to be taking turns firing shots at each other; one boy was crying as he threw a bolt of yellow electricity at the other. Both were in tattered, brown clothing, the edges of which were scorched. Bolt couldn’t tell if the bout was a death match—Spirits knew he hoped not—but he didn’t intend to let the match rage on long enough for anyone to find out. But for now he had to play along, as if he was a quiet enjoyer of the “festivities”.

Wess didn’t look very certain anymore, but there was only so much Bolt could do to shield the boy from the world’s nightmares. These things were, after all, what they had signed up to witness so many years ago at the beginning of their training at the Academy.

Bolt spotted a waitress—a blonde girl, looking only slightly older than the two battling kids—making her way through another black curtain, carrying a silver platter with drinks and grapes upon it.

Bolt tapped Wess’ shoulder, turning him away from the staging area, where the fire boy stood above the one who’d been crying before; a sickening chorus of “burn him to a crisp!”, “kill him!”, and “end him!” was heard echoing through the dark chamber. The boy, a fire in his eyes far brighter than the one creeping up his arm, raised his fist to end the bout.

Just as the boy was about to bring his fist down upon the blonde youth, Wess took a decisive step toward the stage, but Bolt grabbed his shoulder, a small jolt of electricity surging into Wesley’s shoulder.

“The time to be a hero is soon.” Bolt whispered, averting his eyes from the weak fire that began to burn the blonde boy. “But not now.” Slowly but surely, the fire upon the boy’s tattered clothing grew, brightening the dark room and enveloping the child in a blanket of scorching agony. Among the boisterous cheers of undeserved victory and groans of misplaced misery, a single voice rose above the crowd: that of a boy whose life ended in misery, excruciating pain, and a single, terrible scream.

Red-orange light engulfed the stage, illuminating dozens of faces who cared little for the life that had just been destroyed, and more for the profit or deficit they’d acquired off of the careless murder of a child.

“You can’t save everyone.” Bolt whispered, his fist clenched. “Come on.”

Wess, clearly shaken, followed in silence.

The pair made their way through the black-curtained doorway, into a rather plain-looking room, adorned only with a table and two chairs, each seating a guard. The pair of guards, both clearly wearing Bracers—wrist-devices that amplified Aura-based powers—looked up from a game of cards, scrambling to their feet. “You’re not supposed to be back here; this is for the servers only.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Bolt replied, calmly removing his hood. “Yet here I am.”

One guard, whose face bore an ill-shaven black-brown goatee and a nose that had been broken multiple times, grimaced. “Of course it’s you.”

Bolt shrugged. “We don’t need you, James. You can step aside and I’ll just break your nose again, or stick it out and I’ll break a lot more.”

Wess’ hands began glowing a soft orange as he took a fighting position, near perfect in form. The only problem with his stance was the shaking.

“Your new buddy?” James grinned. “Bit nervous, is he?”

Bolt smiled. “Unnecessarily.”

James growled. “Big talk for a guy with a scarred lip. Does it still hurt to talk?” He remarked, mockingly.

Bolt stepped forward and time slowed.

He loved this feeling; the electricity—the lightning—coursing through him and out towards James and his associate.

Bolt grinned as he watched the lightning spread, crackling, towards the pair of criminals.

Just as time returned to its normal flow, James raised his fist, the shock striking his Bracer, reducing the blow.

His colleague wasn’t so lucky, and was instead struck in the chest, flying backwards and knocking over the card table they’d been playing at, sending cards fluttering gently through the air.

James quickly took a jab at Bolt’s face, which would have connected had it not been for the wispy, copper-colored energy that moved James’ fist to the right, as if he'd been aiming for the air next to Bolt’s head.

Bolt kicked at James’ leg, but missed; before Bolt had time to react James was rearing back for another punch.

Ducking beneath the blow, Bolt rolled away towards the other man, who was regaining his balance. The tan criminal was beefy, well-muscled. He stood like a boxer, hopping back and forth, fists raised to shield his bearded face.

Wess was doing a fine job holding his own against James; dodging easily by using his misty, auburn aura to misplace each of James’ blows, causing the latter to become increasingly aggravated.

Bolt turned his attention to the large man, who cracked his neck, snarling. “This will be easy. Like crushing a bug.” The man’s deep voice carried a heavy accent, though Bolt wasn’t sure where from.

“Big talk for a big guy.” Bolt nodded. “Well, bring it on,” Bolt said, assuming a similar fighting stance.

The man’s loud yell rang through the air as the largest fist Bolt had ever seen soared toward his face, stone plates seeming to emerge from and then meld to his skin as it neared.

Bolt dodged easily with his Aura-induced speed and grabbed the man’s bicep, sending a surge of electricity through the man, causing his voice to cut short, mid-shout.

A low grumble emitted from the man’s throat, but the man stood firm, a strong blow connecting with Bolt’s side. Had he not been using a bit of his Aura to shield himself, a few of his ribs might have broken. Instead, Bolt let the force of the blow throw him backwards, and he crumpled to the floor, letting the beefy man think he’d won.

As the large man approached Bolt’s seemingly helpless form, Wess was beginning to tire against James’ relentless attacks, which were growing sloppier by the second.

Bolt weakly rolled over to see the hulking figure towering above him, forearms morphing almost entirely into stony plates, a spike-like knife protruding from where his knuckles would’ve been.

“Goodbye, boy,” came the triumphant bellow from above as the man raised his fist to deliver the killing blow.

Bolt rolled beneath the man’s legs just as the knife stabbed into the ground with a crunch, and an audible grunt of confusion was heard, followed by sounds of struggling as the criminal attempted to pull his fist from the ground.

Bolt rushed to flank James, so quickly he would’ve been barely visible to the naked eye, then sent a momentum-powered kick to James’ skull, no doubt giving the man a concussion, and likely a new scar or two. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

Wess exhaled in relief. “That—” he said, between shaky breaths. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“Save your breath, kid. We’ll probably have more company soon; I doubt all those doorways have Vibration Suppressors. Someone probably overheard us fighting."

Bolt turned back to the large man, who was still struggling to pull his fist from the ground. “Consider a different line of work when you get out of prison.” Bolt sent a powerful bolt of lightning towards him, throwing him backwards. Or, well, most of him.

The rock-covered fist remained stuck into the ground and fell to pieces as the man flew through the air, brown sand pouring from his arm-stub. Screams of pain filled the air as the man clutched at his arm. It would take a while for that to grow back, but it would eventually.

A metallic clatter caused Bolt to turn quickly to the girl they’d followed in here, an empty silver tray, at her feet. Her eyes were wide in fear as she surveyed the scene, and her mouth was open as if screaming, though no sound came out.

Bolt’s expression softened, hoping she wouldn't turn on her heels and run, but ready to stop her if needed. “Hey, we’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help.” He stepped forward, and the girl cowered backwards, her foot going through the doorway she’d just emerged from.

Bolt signaled for Wess to bring her closer, which he did with a wave of his hand, still enveloped in orange-colored wisps. It was always strange to see a Space-user's work; like having Deja Vu, but somehow less confusing.

The girl now stood between Bolt and the doorway, about three yards from each, though she hadn’t made a step.

Her face was stained with dirt, but Bolt could tell that she was fair-skinned. Pale in complexion, she had a slim face, nearly as slim as her stomach. She was quite pretty, which Bolt guessed was why she'd been kidnapped; the scum in the fighting room wouldn't likely settle for just one form of "entertainment".

“That’s not the kitchen is it?” Bolt asked, gently.

The girl shook her head, now shaking in fear. “N-no. Wh-who are…” She stuttered.

“Shh…” Bolt smiled, hopefully comforting the girl slightly. “Just find somewhere safe to hide. We’re freeing you and the others here.”

The girl nodded, nearly in tears now.

“But first,” Bolt asked. “What’s through that door?”

The girl began crying softly.

Earth, 2024 AD

Bolt sat on a log made of a coarse wood with which he was unfamiliar, gazing into a crackling fire; a real fire, made with sticks and leaves, not a FireSwitch device or a little boy.

Screams.

Bolt shook his head, grunting, forcing his eyes closed to relieve his mind of those awful, innocent screams.

He opened his eyes and he was back; no longer in a memory.

No longer in a nightmare.

To his right, on the cold dirt, slept a girl, only eighteen, and to his left slept a boy, barely a year older. He hated that they’d been dragged into this, but he hadn’t known what else to do when he’d run into them; he couldn’t just let them get killed.

Still though, he felt a sense of guilt at getting them involved. They knew practically nothing about what they stood up against, and he hadn’t just stowed them somewhere safe and told them to wait.

Idiot.

“Bolt,” Sallana’s voice rung in his head. “You did the right thing.”

“You keep saying that,” Bolt thought back. “But all I did was endanger two helpless kids.”

“They’re not helpless.”

Bolt closed his eyes and found himself met with Sellana’s bright yellow figure; a young woman, dressed in a loose-fitting dress that fell to her ankles. “They are, Sellana. I’ve doomed them, and maybe even the mission.”

“The mission isn’t all that matters, Bolt. You don’t need to be so hard on yourself.”

Bolt clenched his fists. “The mission’s completion is imperative. I was sent out there because failure wasn’t an option. And I messed it up. I’m a godstalking imbecile!” He yelled, his voice echoing around the cloudy void they stood within.

“Bolt—”

“No, Sellana!” Bolt growled. “I’m a failure—a shame to the Academy; I’ve endangered two civilians, failed one of the most important missions the Olympian military has ever faced, and got us stuck on a different world, Sellana. A world in which—may I add—our powers barely work!”

Bolt opened his eyes again, huffing to himself, his breath fogging in front of him. They were surrounded by trees, with no man-made buildings within sight. A white moon shone brightly overhead, illuminating little of their surroundings and contrasting against the dark-blue sky.

Sellana, her voice once again a mere mental impression, sighed. “Bolt, I know it seems hopeless right now, but you’ll think of something. You always do.”

Bolt scoffed. “Always.”

Sellana went silent.

Bolt sighed. He was lucky he had a mission to complete. He felt like he was ready to become a Spirit himself; just end it all.

He had to complete this mission, no matter what it took. He just hoped these two kids didn’t end up getting killed along the way.

A single tear came to his eye as Dawn, the boy, stirred. He groaned and slowly sat up, combing his dark hair back with his fingers.

“Go back to sleep, Dawn,” Bolt grumbled.

Dawn blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim, flickering light of the fire. “Yeah, right. You look awful.” He paused, rubbing his eyes. “And also tired.”

Bolt growled.

“You seem like you know what the heck is going on, a trait neither I nor Chelsea possess. Ergo, you need some freaking sleep.”

Bolt sighed. “Fine. Don’t let anything sneak up on us, and wake me up if anything happens.”

Dawn sat up and scooted over to the log opposite Bolt.

Bolt reluctantly laid down and was about to close his eyes when a twig poked into his back. He threw it away furiously, lying down and closing his eyes, slowly letting sleep overtake him.

There, he was met again with the screams and faces of that night. That horrible night in the desecrated temple.

The night the soldier inside of him died.