Father Of Hundred WretchesAnd all of them had gathered around, all the immature and ugly, all the wicked without identity. They were a sad lot but persistent and they had remained in this polluted land waiting for this day to come. Decades ago they lost their purpose, roaming these forlorn streets like dead spirits that didn't know how to move on. This was their empire, built by their father from steel and cogs and springs. The sky above them had lost its brightness permanently, stained black by coal. The sun and moon and stars had stopped visiting the town a long time ago, repelled by the pollution of the different machines and factories that operated on a daily basis. This was the home of these poor wretches and there was absolutely no one who loved them. “Daddy! Daddy!” Their moans filled the air of the town of misery, sounding so extremely haunting that it would disturb even the bravest. They marched through the streets like veins of filth upon the paved ground. One could easily find their appearances pitiful, for they had been mutilated and molded into something unnatural. But these were the unholy children of the father, such a bond would never break. Some of the wretches had mutated into beings that barely resembled a human anymore, having either too few or too many limbs. Some had even grown spikes on their bodies. But mostly they had crudely become half man, half machine. A black metal now tarnished their grotesque bodies, replacing parts of them with varied severity. Limbs, organs, patches of skin… Some had a clockwork running their rotten brains. They were absolutely hideous, an insult to mother nature. And yet, they existed and had become part of this world. The little wretches had all got drawn to a mansion at the edge of town, summoned by a mysterious force, almost like telepathy that connected their fragmented minds. There hadn't been much going on inside their skulls during their miserable pointless lives, but this was something that had ignited some sort of thoughts and even longing. They were all part of something bigger; they knew this deep down in their rotten souls, but since their creation, since their rebirth, they hadn't been quite complete yet to be useful in the grand scheme of things. They knew nothing but loneliness and violence, but now, they could sense that things were about to change, that they would learn something else – but what, they didn't know yet. It was almost impossible to tell, but as the wretches were joining together, it had become nighttime. The sky was even more black than usual and made it look like their little polluted town was floating in the middle of a void where there was no escape from. The darkness was somewhat cast away by the lamps powered by electricity, but even in their illumination the town was dim. On the courtyard where the wretches were gathering, a cluster of lamp posts that had been carefully crafted into black pieces of art were surrounding the area, offering light for the grandest celebration the most miserable dwellers of the town had ever participated in. While the whole town was vastly in a state of decay and disrepair, the mansion appeared surprisingly well kept. The pavement in front of the building was still in good condition and the flower beds had actually been taken care of. They were blooming, thriving, unlike anything else in the town. But how could they possibly flourish in a place that hadn't been graced by sun in a lifetime? And yet, they did, blossoming in black and purple and white, as if mocking the rest of the plant world for being able to do this while everything else was withering. Perhaps it was one of the father's achievements as well. “Daddy! Daddy!” The creatures of filth and sin were crying out in front of the great building that had once been the home of their father. Still it appeared as a place suitable enough for the country's elite to wine and dine in. The mansion was black, like drenched in ink. But it had a grand design, all the windowsills and the one magnificent balcony on the front were beautifully shaped. Even after the passing of father, it still retained the look of belonging to a wealthy and successful man. It wasn't abandoned at all, no, somebody else had taken it as their home. The door on the balcony slowly opened and forth came a figure. Somebody who appeared as a young man even though they had already lived decades, just another testimony of the father's brilliance. His right eye, part of skull, the whole contents of his chest and right arm and hand had been replaced by the black metal. This was the first son of the father and the only one who was his own flesh and blood. And still he had made him part machine, perhaps to prolong his life, loving him too much to let go. But alas, it was the father himself who had lost his life. All that was left behind was his heart. Right at that moment, the first son was holding this heart in his hands. He stepped forward on the balcony, to be closer to the crowd that had gathered on the courtyard. He raised the heart above his head with both hands, holding it up for all the wretches to see. They cheered loudly after catching a glimpse of this one and only piece that was left of their father. The heart was still beating, although slowly. It almost looked like a normal human heart, but it had turned black. Perhaps by coal, perhaps by his own design. But to the wretches this was the most precious relic, it was the one thing that connected them. They would even be prepared to die for it if they had to. “Brothers!” the first son shouted loudly, his voice carrying into the ears of the wretches, and they suddenly went silent. “We were left with the ultimate sorrow when those beasts that called themselves righteous slayed our dear father. In the end, after all these decades, nothing was left of him except his heart – and his greatest work yet.” The first son paused his speech for a moment and lowered the heart to look at it fondly. He had taken care of it all these years, so this day would finally come. Then he returned his attention to the crowd and they were hungry to hear more, he and the heart were their full focus. It was almost like their brains were working as one, like cogs in a machine. And the first son started to speak again: “I took it as my responsibility to care for our father's heart, to ensure his legacy was safe. Most of you don't know this, but our father was working on something grandeur that was then left unfinished when he passed away. I believed it was my sacred duty to continue our father's work and I studied his notes with utmost care. And I understood them, our father's ingenuity, I could claim his visions as mine. I continued his work where he left it, but it truly was a tough one. It took me decades to finish what he had started, but I did it! And because of this, my dear brothers, we have gathered here tonight. Our father shall live once more!” The group of wretches cheered again, this time even louder, and their bellow was heard by the whole town. The first son disappeared back into the mansion with the heart while the crowd of the mutilated ones were left to wait. Their excitement was immeasurable, but they were patient. After all, they had already waited for years. And then, finally, their wait was over. The wretches were practically screeching from joy, their voices distorted when they saw the main entrance of the mansion creaking open. From the dark bowels of the grand building came forth a figure, one completely made of black metal. The wretches hadn't seen this form before, but they knew who it was. This person marched out of the mansion with heavy steps and walked closer to the crowd, the light of the lamps shining on his black metal body. He was twice as tall as a regular man and all his plates of metal had been carefully crafted to perfection. He had the head of a hawk with shiny blue eyes and there were other bird-like details in his body, such as talons on his feet and hands and wings on his back. And in the exposed metal ribcage, a black heart was beating; the heart of the father. After all these years, they had got their father back, in the form of a metal deity. He had seen the awfulness of the mankind who had forgotten their god. Disgusted, the father had then begun to build a new god for people, something real they could pray to. A machine was perfect for this, for it was something that would not get bewildered by human emotions. And its body would last the tides of time, the fangs that would normally gnaw at the bodies of mortals would be deflected by the perfect metal shell. These were the visions the father had been guided by when he started to work on creating a new deity for this broken world, but he had never thought that he would be the one to give his machinery the consciousness. But so it happened after the first son had inserted his heart into the machine. There was no more flesh on his body, no more blood running through his veins. Physical human weaknesses didn't apply to him anymore, except maybe the heart, the only organ he still had, his very core. He was a perfect organism, god of metal and steam. But a machine can't show fondness, can't bring warmth through a mere touch. As the father stood there by the entrance of his mansion, in this moment of reincarnation, he felt proud for his children, especially for the first son. But alas, he couldn't show this for all these miserable little beings he had disfigured, he couldn't show any emotion at all. He could just look at them all and feel the pride in his core. The first son had appeared by his side, a loving expression on his face as he looked directly at the metal structure that was now hosted by the father's consciousness. “Welcome back, father. We missed you.” Shifting his gaze from the crowd of wretches to the first son, the father replied with a metallic sound: “I didn't expect to become a living being anymore. But your love has brought me back from the dead, in a greater form than when I was killed. My son, I am proud of you; you did a magnificent job at completing my last project.” The first son gave him a respectful bow and said: “I appreciate your words, father, with all my heart. I simply couldn't stand your unjust death. I did what I had to.” “You have my gratitude.” The father then looked at the wretches again. If he could smile, he would be doing it right now while observing the beings he had personally turned into these hideous abominations that were against human nature. So royally he had wrecked their brains that they thought of him as a holy figure, feeling affection rather than resentment. It was just one more thing he had succeeded at. And now, his brilliant mind had returned into this world. Tonight, a new era shall begin, and he, as the deity of the machine, would bring forth a better future and make people believe again.Just A Needle To Your HeadThere was this sickness in Rowan's brain. And it was getting worse. An invisible disease, but far worse than some physical ailments. It made him question the reality itself and turned him weak and was barely even a person anymore. There was suffering Rowan couldn't describe. When walking outside on the streets of this wretched town, he was envious of other people. They knew nothing of the mental anguish. Or maybe some did, but had learned how to live with it, thus making Rowan jealous. To him, even the sun didn't bring warmth and brightness anymore to his miserable soul. But the question was, should he seek help? Could someone like him even be helped? He pondered this many days and nights, but eventually he came to the conclusion that he would at least try. You don't have that option anymore after you die. He visited a doctor, a person who had clearly seen many sad and broken people in his life. What would lead an individual to seek such a profession? Is it merely the noble idea of wanting to help people? Or is there something else? Rowan didn't know and it didn't really even matter. It was hard to be vulnerable in front of a complete stranger. The doctor probably wouldn't call him crazy – or maybe he would – since that would be quite unprofessional. He was a quiet and calm man, asking questions from Rowan, but mostly let Rowan tell his story and listened. Somehow this felt wrong for Rowan. He was a grown independent man, he should be able to handle life better than this, now he was way too fragile. And when life gets too hard, you turn to the bottle. Maybe Rowan should have tried that instead of sitting in the office of a stranger, complaining about his disease-ridden brain. Such a stupid brain he got. And the strange thing was, that's where Rowan's memory blacks out. For a moment he was in the doctor's office talking to him, but then something occurred that just simply erased all his memories after that. Did he ever finish the session with the doctor? Has he ever made it home? Maybe he got into a severe accident while walking back to the place he called home; his safe space, though it was infested with the darkness of his mind and felt like anything else but a sanctuary. And Rowan tried and tried, so hard to grasp the strings of his memories to recall what the hell had happened to him. It seemed they were there barely out of his reach, but anytime he managed to get close to them, they would drift away from him, taunting him in an infuriating way. Perhaps he should just give up on this task and focus on the present. Rowan couldn't help the feeling that he had ended up in a scenario straight from a horror movie. He was a prisoner, lying on a table with numerous straps wrapped around various parts of his body, preventing him from moving. Even his head was confined, so he couldn't really look around. Anxiety was no stranger to him, but the fear that now tiptoed into his heart was on a completely different level. He wiggled like a lowly worm, struggling against his bindings. It was no use. He could only stare at the ceiling and let the terror grow inside. He looked at the tiles above him. They had probably been white at some point in time, but now they were filthy and some even cracked. There was a dome-like lamp on the ceiling, but it wasn't currently lit. Some source of light was clearly giving him illumination, but being tied up like this, he couldn't tell exactly where the glow was coming from. A few times the light flickered ominously. For a moment Rowan was pondering whether the unreliable radiance was a friend to him or an enemy. It didn't take him long to come to the conclusion that it indeed was an ally, because in total absence of light he would be devoured by utter darkness. That didn't sound pleasant at all. He would probably even go insane much faster if there wasn't light; the inner demons love darkness. All Rowan could do was stare at the ceiling and think. He wondered where he was, but maybe he was in a basement of some sort; the air felt a little cold and damp. But where exactly this room was, that was the question. His memory gap didn't really help him at all, it just made it more difficult to figure out what the hell had happened and what kind of situation he was in now. Obviously this wasn't anything good, but he was afraid to let his mind wander together with his inner demons to delve into the worst-case scenarios. It was hard to not do that and Rowan tried his best to think something else, something nicer. Though that was also hard for him since his brain was rotten with disease and thinking about good things wasn't easy. But maybe it was essential now, so the fear wouldn't completely take over his mind. Though, the dread multiplied instantly as he suddenly heard something. So far he had been enclosed in silence, which Rowan had found a little comforting in a strange way, but now his ears were pierced by a sound of a metal door screeching horribly as it was forced to move and grant access to somebody. Then it was closed again. Rowan listened as someone was walking down the stairs and his heart was beating in terror in the rhythm of the descending person's steps. Whoever was coming down didn't sound like a large person, but that was rather meager solace; Rowan was still tied up and utterly vulnerable. He had never been more afraid in his entire life and he dreaded the second when the one descending would come to him – he had a hunch that they would bring nothing but unspeakable nightmares. The steps were getting closer until finally, Rowan could sense that the person had come rather close to the table where he was lying. How such light steps were able to deliver so much fright, Rowan couldn't understand. And then, suddenly a person popped into his limited view. It was a woman; that explained how light her steps had seemed. She had a very young face; in Rowan's eyes she probably wasn't even thirty years old. He noted that she was also very beautiful, but that beauty was ruined by the wickedness that stained her face. It could be seen especially in her eyes; they were abnormally light blue and gleamed with madness. Her long hair, tied to a ponytail, had such a pale hue of blonde that it looked almost white. She was wearing a doctor's white coat and this detail just made her much more terrifying; Rowan's mind was getting flooded with the horrific scenarios that he was being used in some cruel experiments. “Oh, good, you're awake”, the woman said and there was a terrifyingly deranged expression on her face. “Or maybe, not so good for you. We'll see.” Then she moved away from the table, Rowan couldn't see where she had gone or what she was doing. Of course he had to vocalize the mandatory questions one would utter in this kind of situation: “Who are you? And where am I?” “Ah, obviously you're confused by all this, that's normal”, the woman replied and she came back to the table and to Rowan's view. She had an unnerving smile on her face. “You can call me Amelia. And right now you are in my own little clinic of sorts. How did you end up here, hmm? I bet that was the next question in your head. You're not my first patient. Let's just say, there are so many broken people that other doctors can't deal with them all. We live in a defective world. That's where I come into picture; I snatch patients from others, taking a little bit of their burden away.” Rowan wasn't sure what Amelia meant by her last bit of information, but it gave him horrific visuals of corrupted doctors that would just pass their patients to lunatics like Amelia. And who knows what she was planning to do since Rowan's situation definitely didn't look good. Once more he opened his mouth: “What's going to happen to me?” “Oh, don't you worry”, Amelia responded, her smile growing even wider and she tenderly caressed Rowan's cheek, obviously in a mocking way. “I'm not going to torture you. I'm just doing a little operation. It's a swift one, I promise.” Rowan didn't like the sound of this and he started to feel even more terrified, if that was even possible. “But I don't need any operations! I'm okay!” “We both know that's not true”, Amelia almost whispered and she grinned in a way that expressed she knew more than seemed. “Your brain is a nest of disease. But I'll be honest: I haven't performed this procedure to anyone before. You're my first one. Be proud of that little fact.” Then she walked away again and Rowan had this horrifying awareness that second by second he was getting closer to something horrible. “What are you doing to me?” Rowan asked, his voice almost trembling from fear. “Ever heard of lobotomy?” Amelia turned the question. Rowan's blood ran cold and it almost felt like his spirit had just left his body. He knew nothing but horrible stories revolving around this surgery. “No, no, no, no, you can't!” “Of course I can. I've been curious about it for some time, but like I said, I haven't done this before. I'm doing this for science”, Amelia explained. “I need to see the effect myself.” Out of utter desperation, Rowan began to struggle against his bindings again. Panic had taken over his mind, demanding him to fight against the forthcoming horror. He squirmed, trying to bring forth strength fueled by terror. But no matter how much he writhed, the straps kept him in his place. All his attempts to get free were futile. “Have a little patience, please”, Amelia said. “You will get out of here. Eventually.” The doctor appeared on Rowan's view once again, and she was ready for surgery. She had put disposable gloves on her hands and she had a surgical mask covering part of her face; at least Rowan wouldn't see her horrifying smile. In one of her hands she was holding a single tool that resembled an ice pick; it was an orbitoclast. The worst part was that she probably wasn't going to use anesthesia of any kind. “Please don't do this”, Rowan whimpered pathetically, still kept his useless fight going against the straps. But Amelia didn't care about his pleas. All this was because of her morbid curiosity, Rowan was just a subject. “Now, hold still so this will be easier for both of us.” Rowan didn't follow her dark advice. He was in a state of utter panic and fear, primordial instincts had kicked in demanding him to fight and escape. He didn't stop struggling, not even when the doctor's sharp tool infiltrated the insides of his head through his eye socket. The orbitoclast went deeper and deeper and into Rowan's frontal lobe. As Amelia surmised that her tool had gone far enough, she started to wiggle it around Rowan's brain. She was humming to herself while performing the illegal surgery, clearly getting some twisted and sick satisfaction with what she was doing. And just like that, she was done. She pulled the orbitoclast out of Rowan's head and left him on the table. He wasn't moving anymore. Amelia decided to give him a couple of hours before studying the effects of the surgery. Still humming, she left the room and Rowan was all alone again. Rowan simply wasn't the same after this cruel experience. He was an empty shell of a person he used to be, almost seeming like nobody was home. When Amelia returned to him a while later, he didn't really react when the woman had freed him from the straps. The man didn't acknowledge her presence, like he was somewhere else entirely. But Amelia examined him with great curiosity, fascinated by the change. She helped Rowan to shift into a sitting position, but from there, he had no desire to move. This was a man who had desperately tried to fight for their freedom just a while ago, but now, he was quiet and didn't mind being in the room. He wasn't Rowan anymore. But now the delusions and anxieties are gone. Or at least, they didn't bother him anymore. In a sense, Amelia had just cured him. She gently stroked Rowan's cheek. “Can you feel it? The mental anguish?” “No.” His voice was monotonous; there was no will behind the single word he had just uttered. “Interesting.” This gave Amelia the crave to learn more. Human brain, what a mysterious thing it was, it would never stop being fascinating to her. And now, after she had done the little experiment with Rowan using the method of the past, she wanted to do it again, to study and observe how different people would respond to it. Rowan was merely the first subject. There were many things Amelia was interested in doing to people – and had actually done already – in the name of science, but she had just got a new fixation. And out there, the world was filled with wretches no one cared about.gifgif