Crimson Vector

A dark spire built upon ashen land twisted through the sky, piercing the clouds like an invasion of heaven, or a mockery of it. Inside, the once luxurious gothic scenery was replaced with the aftermath of a great battle. Fiercely loyal minions of a infamous warlord were now reduced to bloodied corpses to be counted and hauled away. Near the top of the spire a story was nearing its end. Heroes on their last leg limping up the steps towards salvation, and the warlord who had sunk their teeth deep into this land raging after them refusing to let even a brick of his monolith fall out of place. A group of four, reduced to two, who were not quite boys and not quite men were the ones who besieged this place. At first for glory and riches, now for righteousness and justice they were determined to finish what they had started; there was no retreat without stepping over their comrades.

Two reduced to one. He reached back as they were dragged down, but the echoing scream that followed assured there was nothing to go back to. They all knew from the start that their own strength would not be enough for this task choosing instead to rely on faith, faith in the greed of the enemy. The hero burst into the treasure room covered with the blood of friend and foe, reaching for something glowing in the center as the warlord’s wrath neared arms length. This tyrant had collected many spoils over the decades. Mountains of gold, unique artifacts from the most remote locations, and items that have been a mystery since their creation. At one point or another the warlord had acquired, what is considered to be by most, the most valuable relic in the world: The Crimson Orb. It’s worth lying not in its composition, but in its purpose. A purpose that our hero knew all too well...

A man becomes myth. Myth becomes legend. Man becomes forgotten. It is no different this time. One who could move as fast as will itself traversed the world’s surface with no true equal. Adventure, revenge, wealth, fame, nothing could escape this man’s reach. Kings were killed, people vanished without so much as a footstep left behind. Was he truly a higher being who did as he pleased? Or was he just a tool to be bought and loaned to others to enact out their wills? Perhaps this is what made him step away from the light. Nothing could tempt the man. Nothing could make him run again. All that was left of his legacy was a single crimson orb. If you held it you could feel it pulsating with life. Its purpose unknown to all...

The tip of the hero’s finger made contact with the Orb. In the same moment a figure in a far away land vanished leaving a cloud of dust and confused expressions in his wake. Across land and sea ascending the spire all the way to the treasure room. His fist connected with the warlord’s jaw sending them through the wall and down to the land below, disturbing the loose treasure with a shockwave the following moment. The hero took his finger off the orb and looked up at the incredible force that trekked over anything and everything to arrive at this very spot. He blinked and the force was gone. Still out of breath from the climb up, the hero stumbled to his feet and gazed down from the gigantic hole in the wall. His role in this story was finished. Now he watched to see how it ended.

The warlord stared not at the the meddling force in front of him, his gaze intensifying with anger and nostalgia.

“Machina...” Machina showed little to no reaction to the first utterance of his true name in many, many years. The tyrannical beast before him wearing barbarians armor on a body bathed in revolting magic was not someone whom he wished to recollect with.

“I’ve been called to defeat you Alaric.” Machina took his fighting stance for the second time in his life. Tarnished robes and copper skin were all that dressed this myth.

Machina vanished and Alaric, without moving a muscle, unleashed a shockwave leaving embers and electricity swirling in the air. Machina reappeared with a furrowed brow before vanishing once again.

“All these years...and nothing to show for it.” Alaric said disappointingly.

The hero was pulled from thoughts of a life after all this by the grains of sand blowing into his eyes. Rubbing them clean he saw nothing but desert surrounding him, and Machina standing over him with that same furrowed brow.

“...is it over?” The hero said.

“No. Alaric has grown in many ways since our last encounter. The most I can do now is buy time until we are ready.”

“We?” Machina thrust all 5 of his fingers dead center into his chest. Machinas arm and the hero’s body began to violently vibrate.

“Yes, ‘we’ Vector.”

Years of adventuring, yet the pain was like nothing he had every felt before. ′A million ants marching on my spine, my eyeballs slowly rising from their sockets, every hair on my body twisting back into the pores on my skin.′ Vector thought as his body began to convulse, frothing at the mouth with his limbs flailing about as if his brain had completely lost control. Machina pulled his hand out and Vector’s body immediately went still. He sat up, shocked at how quickly he felt normal again, the bloody holes in his chest aside.

“This will be your first trial Vector.” Machina turned his back towards him. “Keep up.” He vanished and a blast of sand hit vector in the face. He didn’t have time to think, he just had to do what Machina said. Breaking in a full sprint he ran as hard as he could, but extreme exhaustion didn’t mix well with scalding temperatures, add in zero footing on these dunes and you’ve barely got a light jog. Vector fell to his hands and knees broken in body and spirit.

“So much pain...” His irritated eyes finally found some relief. “...I want this to end...” Finding a second wind he grit his teeth, got back up, and started to run. Harder and harder until he felt a small tingle down his spine. “Ah...there it is.” Another explosion of sand sent Vector sprinting into a tunnel of blurry colors. The harder he focused the more they changed shape, from brown blobs to mountains, blue streaks to rivers, darkness to a spire. When the picture became the clearest Vector was blown back once again, this time surrounded by embers and electricity.

“Welcome back.” Alaric said with a hint of surprise, still in the same spot as when they left. Vector turned to Machina who was breathing heavily, his robes and torso singed.

“We do this on a 1-2-1 count. Aim for the forehead. GO!” Machina immediately charged Alaric’s defense and was blown back the same as before, but before Alaric could smirk he felt a heavy weight slam into his forehead. Now dazed he noticed the hero was still on his feet. Machina charged again and the process repeated.

"Not fair.” Alaric thought in between the blows. “Only supposed...to be...one...of you.” Eventually Alaric fell to the crowd, his body twitching every other second.

Vector and Machina stood at the freshly dug graves of Vector’s comrades.

“Why were you fighting Alaric?” Machina asked.

“Why did he know your name? Machina suddenly found himself disinterested with his question. He began to back away sensing that Vector needed to grieve.

“Machina.” Vector turned to his brother, tears blurring his vision. “Why did our people leave?” Machina did not hesitate with his answer.

“Our people chose to run amongst the stars.”