What We Are: An Eyes Story

Life was a constant balance of lies and facades. An endless facade everyone pretended to not be distinctly aware of. He was perfect proof of that, walking off the stage with an exaggerated sway in his step. Nodding along to a beat he had learned to pretend to enjoy, pretending to love the way he was living, though in reality the beat was much too bass-heavy, and the company left much to be desired. Chains were expensive and meaningless to him, yet they were displayed and bouncing off his chest with each step. His blonde hair tied into cornrows, a white designer headband, golden gills shining in the light, his pale skin contrasting with the low light of the back half of the concert hall. A look that marked him as hip, wealthy, desirable. 

But if he were truly honest, he found the whole thing tacky. If not for his dedication to his act he would dread it, but he was a Company man. He trekked through the back halls of his concert, pretending to be in a drunken stupor. Fitting for all the other drunk audience members, truly. Several workers and agents attempted to stop his seemingly random leaving of his own concert. But they were shrugged off with the ease only a rich celebrity could act with. They assumed he was slinking off for some degenerate time waster, fitting for a rapper of course.

He was 2 Cleen, the newest Hip-Hop sensation taking over the globe. Laced in controversy over his abrasive lyrics and “cultural appropriation”. Or so it appeared anyway, in truth, The Company ensured his rise, and made him obnoxious to assure his virality. All the more fitting for his cover story and to drum up some more income for them. There were dozens like him, strategically placed all around the world. Ensuring The Company had its fingers in all aspects of society, from culture to the economy.

But his day job was over, he would disappear to the public and his team alike for a while. They were used to it. 2 Cleen wasn’t the kind of man who lived by anyone else’s convenience. He was a party animal, an addict struggling with several vices, a free spirit unbound by responsibility and duty. Yet another bender where he went dark would hardly be anything to note.

​And all fabricated, of course. He put up these fronts whenever needed, motivated both by loyalty to The Company and gratitude for the structure it provided him. When his talents were needed, he’d go on these ‘benders,’ secretly taking up his true passion—carrying out missions in the service of The Company.

​He had been young when he was first recruited. His parents were among many slain by the chaos of the A-World, and he was yet another orphan taken in by The Company afterward; they always needed more hands and the young ones were easy to win over, and since that day 2 Cleen had regretted little. The work was grim, deadly, and questionable, but it was a purpose beyond himself, something he never had before it. It provided something more to someone who had always craved just that. So it was pride he was prepared to serve yet again. And would be equally to his pride the day he died in service.

​His latest assignment was simple. He only had to ensure one of The Eyes candidates reached his destination safely—a poor soul destined for sacrifice. Others were already assigned and would be transported later, but this case was his sole duty and opportunity. This was a high priority mission, success would be more than merely beneficial.

​Normally, there would be no need to be worried. The Company often manipulated the US government into doing its bidding, and had done the same here. All of the candidates had been imprisoned; under the tender care of Uncle Sam. There would be little need for The Company to be involved further than passing along orders. But of course, something has to come up; it always does.

​2 Cleen slipped past his obnoxious sports car, which he hated, deliberately choosing his secretly owned plain white maintenance van parked nearby. As he slid into the driver’s seat, he started the engine and hummed a rap song he hated—he kept up the facade even now—as he pulled out. He immediately reached for his phone, intent on checking what had triggered the alert that had caused him to slip off his mask.

​It seemed the prison bus carrying the candidate had changed its planned route. The previous one was along a well-maintained highway, which had been nixed after a massive pile-up slowed traffic to a crawl. Potentially adding days to the trip, a delay they could not tolerate. So the prison system had set up a new route through old roads. It would add hours to the original time frame, but it would be better than days. Though The Company was never keen on a shift of strategy.

​The new route wouldn’t have been a big deal if not for the town it was passing through. Creek’s End, a small town that used to live off its luxurious river, has now aged to a crumbling town built around a dying creek. But it was the activity there that was the concern. 2 Cleen wasn’t surprised when his phone rang, if he was aware they had been for a while.

“2 Cleen.” George’s smooth tone spoke from the cell phone. “I’m assuming you’re seeing what I am?”

​“A route change, and one in a dangerous area,” 2 Cleen replied. “What the hell is 12 doing?”

​“It’s incompetence, of course, some sort of miscommunication,” George explained with a sigh. “I have already made steps to ensure this sort of oversight doesn’t happen again, but there is no undoing it now without overplaying our hand. Instead, you’ll be moving to keep an eye on the situation.”

​“No intel or support? Gonna leave a G to thug it out?”

​“Still a black zone in that regard. The Followers of the Rot have gained more sway within Creek’s End these days. Besides, it would be risky to stir up trouble between them and us for nothing. The recent lack of clashing has been beneficial to us. You will shadow the candidate and ensure their survival, and report to The Directive if it seems there’s trouble.”

​“I don’t see the point,” 2 Cleen pointed out. “It seems like we could always replace the candidate if something were to happen. There are plenty of useful busters in the world.”

​“We can’t be certain that The Eyes will settle for such, the candidates were chosen for their latent A-Energy. So it would be preferable to avoid having to find another. Though we obviously have had the Athens prepare a backup plan.”

​“Understood, am I getting some love then?”

“Other than your standard kit, we are sending a rather considerable A-Item to your location as I speak. A-Item #24 is included in such, and we have a full squad on standby as well.”

​“Am I to directly oppose the Followers if they interfere with my duties?”

​“Those cultists are something to be watched, but we have plants within their ranks to watch them. Your goal is purely the ensured delivery of the candidate. Nothing more, nothing less.”

​“Understood. I’ll be reporting to you soon.” 2 Cleen answered, he hung up the phone, and switched applications to a tracker secretly sewn into the jumpsuit of the candidate. It currently appeared that the bus had begun its route and was traveling as expected.

​With that in mind, 2 Cleen glided his car out of the concert hall parking lot and began to travel the dim roads of the city late at night. He kept his mind empty as he traveled, focused entirely on what was to come.

2 Cleen had been a detective for far too long. The Company’s field unit was divided into two ranks.

On one side was the militant division, those without A-Energy or A-Abilities—the side 2 Cleen avoided. Opposite was “The Department,” structured into four ranks.

He was among the lowest, permitted limited command of the military, tasked with exploring the world, discovering new Entities and A-Items, and serving as a disposable but effective field agent. Detectives focused on investigation. His goal was the next rank: Chief, akin to a sheriff, leading teams and managing Detectives and Military staff. Next were Special Agents—skilled in both Company disciplines, with high A-Energy, A-Abilities, experience, and results. At the top were the Council Members of The Directive, like George. One day, he hoped to reach the summit as they had.

2 Cleen took pride in his work and even more in his career progress, motivated by an intense desire to prove his value to The Company. To pay them back for all they had done for them. If he could just succeed at a single big time mission, he could assure himself a promotion. Someone as experienced as he only needed a success to get Directive’s attention, one paltry success. So he would die before he let his charge do so, determined not to let failure stand in the way of his ambition.

​Plugging in earbuds 2 Cleen first selected the candidate’s profile. Richard Wilkins, AKA Ritz, was a seemingly unremarkable man. Working a dead-end job, having dead-end friends, and having found himself in a situation that would lead him to much the same kind of end.

He came from a family full of farmers, some of whom seemed to have ties to some rather unsavory characters. But by all accounts, Ritz was yet another young man in a small town, finding trouble to replace the boredom.

Unremarkable really.​It was odd to think such a man would be so vital to The Company. Then again, The Eyes and its ways, including preferences, were strange and unknowable. Though if it was interested in him, he must have some potent, latent, A-Energy. Not that such alone was so abnormal, plenty of regular folk had such, and didn’t necessarily enter the A-World or awaken their A-Abilities. Those were the unlucky ones; their A-Energy would attract the denizens and chaos of the A-World, but without knowledge of it, support from those already residing within, or access to their own A-Abilities, they were hapless, and most died without ever knowing why.

​But 2 Cleen couldn’t see why in this case. Ritz was in over his head and likely to pay for it. With him now in the hands of the authorities and presenting no danger, 2 Cleen would have no problem keeping him in line.

​But the Followers of the Rot were something else entirely.

There weren’t many humans that The Company bothered their time with, but the Followers of the Rot were an exception. They weren’t dangerous outright, especially to The Company. But their goal was dangerous; if they ever found a way to achieve it, the Company would be forced to raze them to the ground, and the world in its entirety would suffer the consequences.

​But the Followers of the Rot hadn’t been a major problem since the A-War. Back then, they had been different; the world had. The Company was still in its infancy, ignorant and unprepared for the task they had chosen for themselves. But even still, the Followers and their allies had been defeated, nearly crushed, but it was nearly impossible to fully destroy such a group.

​There hadn’t been any significant moves made by them since. They met, achieved their minor feats of power, and acted in secrecy that even The Company struggled to shatter. But with them being ineffective and nearly wiped out, there were only three cities known to contain coordinated members these days. But that thing they worshipped? Now that was something dangerous.

X-X

A man, sickly thin, was covered in mud. His hair was matted and tangled. His wrinkled, sore-covered skin made him look far older than he was, as if he was almost on death’s door. His eyes and mouth, cracked open, revealed his bloodshot eyes and stained teeth, exposing that he was simply a younger man brought low by hardship. To a casual observer, he seemed to be dying, but that assumption would be mistaken.

​Charles was in a rare good mood. So upbeat, in fact, that his meditation wasn’t going very well—he simply couldn’t sit still or calm his racing mind. Today promised to be the payoff for years of struggle.

He inhaled deeply, drawing the heavy scent that thickened the air around him. The room was small and dark, its corners full of mold, dead insects and creatures, and wilting, decaying plants.

​The odor from such would make a less enlightened man weak; they would gag from apparent disgust, and some would even grow sick. But they were fools, unable to look past the surface of the world, tied to the now. But that would soon change, soon everyone would be dragged to the fitting future.

​Realizing his worship was ineffective in his current state, he sat up, leaving the small, death-filled closet behind for now. The rest of the shack was in similar disarray—every surface covered with mold, dust, and filth. Crude candles smelling of burning flesh gave off dim light. Just outside the closet, his attire hung: an old, tattered robe marked with decorative green blisters, and his mask—a green, pus-covered creation resembling a patch of dirt sprouting mushrooms. Charles smiled as he put on the robe and mask, shedding his ordinary identity.

​The second they were on, he could hear it. The silent whispers of The Rot called to him always, its voice impossible to hear, but also impossible to ignore. It was like insects crawled into his head, just to whisper their commands to him. They have grown in intensity recently. A sign their work was going as intended. When he donned this gear, he became his true marred self, Rotten Meat.

​He stepped out of the small shack into a massive party. The forested area was somehow infested with massive glowing green mushrooms, growing from the trees, the dirt, and every surface in sight. A massive green fire burned, strange shapes that were its fuel burning away beneath it. Around the flames and mushrooms danced his flock. His fellow Followers, whom he was to lead as The Shepherd.

​It seemed the mood tonight was particularly festive. His followers were filthy and deranged, a combination of the muck they moved and the festive Rot Brew they had gotten into. It clouded their minds and whipped them into a frenzy, further aided by the rhythmless hypnotic beating of massive drums. Some danced so wildly it could scarcely be referred to as such; others pranced around mindlessly; some lost themselves to the passion, erupting into violence against one another, or engaging in a different kind of physical bout. It was sickening, degenerate, and unhygienic. It made Rotten Meat smile widely, his stained and crooked teeth greeting the flock as he stepped forward.

​The Followers had recently gained much support. The town of Creek’s End was close to ruin, and as people grew poorer and more desperate, they sought help—help Rotten Meat intended to provide.

It took great effort and extreme measures, but now Creek’s End had become one of the few places to welcome his kind. With further effort, they became the dominant force of the Greater Flock.

​Tonight, roughly a fourth of the city was present. Rotten Meat had ordered their prompt arrival and the beginning of the Festering Ritual. His Followers knew the ritual well; from the start, Rotten Meat had spoken of this promised day. Still, some had hesitated. This party served a purpose: to strengthen their conviction and weaken their doubts. In unity, they must bear the great burden to fulfill the Rot’s vision.

​The Followers fell silent upon seeing them. The only ones daring to move were The Keepers of the Festering Flame. Dragging forward a pair of screaming and tied-up men towards it.

They struggled and fought, haggled and begged, but The Keepers were well trained and devout. Mercilessly dragging both into the flames and using prods to keep them from escaping. The scream soon died out as the living became fuel, their bodies among many used to create the holy flames.

The victims, non-believers from within their own home, were carefully abducted and prepared for this moment. It took much work to make a sacrifice worthy of the Rot’s attention, but they loved their work. And all could be brought to glorious misery with just a bit of care.

​Rotten Meat smiled as the flames doubled in size, green bolts of energy surging from within. It seemed the Festering Flame was nearly ready; it just needed its catalyst. First to rouse his flock. He sent dual nods to his most loyal and beloved followers. The two joined his side as he addressed the rest. His loyal and devout Disciples.

​“The time has come, my Flock. Our work has been perilous and hard on our hearts and souls. But rest assured that pain and deviance have meaning here and now! The Rot is not heedless of us, even a being as ascendant as it recognizes us as its Followers, its Flock, its Heralds! The Rot has been growing, festering beneath the surface, unseen by the naive and wasteful surface world around us!”

​There were nods, mutterings of agreement from those below. The men, women, and children all recognized the truth of his words. Some of the bolder words called out their approval. They threw back their drinks as they listened, enraptured with his every word.

​“Our work to nurture the Rot has succeeded. We have stoked the Festering Flame and finally grown the Blight Rot! With these two holy relics, we have what we need to begin the Pollenization of the clean. The Festering Ritual will soon be complete. Let this corrupt world fall deeper into depravity—let the clean become filth, the innocent be tainted, and rules and laws collapse as The Rot brings the inevitable end!”

​“Blight Rot!”

​“Festering Flame!”

​“May The Rot fester!”

​The crowd was getting into it now. His speech might as well have been the words of The Rot itself. For Rotten Meat alone was anointed to be such, the Mouth of the Filth, the Herald of Decay! Even The Keepers were affected now, dragging even more sacrifices into the Festering Flames with such ruthless aggression that the victims could barely even plead.

​“The first step is known to all of you!” Rotten Meat’s voice thundered. “First, the Rot requires its initial Avatars. Then, its excellence will spread. Your flesh and souls act as nutrients for The Rot—divine carriers of pestilence. I will make it so. Do not worry about death or the destruction to come. Death is a part of The Rot, the natural end to all things. Decomposing flesh becomes sustenance; it transforms you into beings more suited to follow. Your souls will unite with the Rot, becoming the first, glorious Festering Warriors. We three—the Sages of Infestation, Heralds of the Rot, and our chosen few—must remain outside its embrace. Our task is to stop those who might oppose us. The Rot’s will must be fulfilled precisely. Even as I weep to see you become more beloved than we...”

​“Fester,” Rotten Apple, his first disciple, said.

​“Forevermore.” Rotten Egg finished.

​“But I rest easy knowing the best of the best are chosen! Roar in delight, open your bodies, minds, and souls as The Divine Rot invades them!” Rotten Meat roared. Ripping out a sizable puss-covered green mushroom from his pocket. With his speech given and the sight of two holy relics, he incensed them beyond belief. As he prepared the final step, the three of them, before the crowd of Flockmates, covered their faces with gas masks, purchased off the black market for this express purpose.

Rotten Meat chucked the Blight Rot into the Festering Flames. Nearly sobbing as it was consumed by such the instant he touched, he was overfilled with joy as the flames erupted from the combination. A vibration of a sound filled the air, the other heedless of it. But Rotten Meat recognized the cheerful roar of the Rot. The flock paused before it, opening their arms wide as well as their mouths and standing eerily still. The Blight Rot, the burning corpses, and flames mixed, and the concoction’s power and smell were so far-reaching and unique, the Rot answered.

​It had been years since he had seen it. But the three of them collapsed and sobbed tears of joy as the sight of the Pollen of the Rot graced their eyes. The green haze and smoke flew from the Festering Flame, covering them all. The spores of the Rot were in the air, and the rest of the flock inhaled, swallowed, and danced in it gleefully as it did.

​Rotten Meat and his two men regained their composure. Removing three more copies of the Blight Rot and holding it in front of them as if warding off an unseen attack. A moment later, the screaming began.

​The Rot’s touch was holy but overpowering and invasive. They screamed in pain and ecstasy in equal measure; it invaded their every orifice. Their skin decayed at absurd speeds, their teeth and hair fell out, their bones warped as if aged in an instant, their eyes and blood turned green, and dozens of small green mushrooms and blisters formed throughout their bodies. A prominent and long green mushroom grew from the top of their skull.

​Timed perfectly, Rotten Apple and Egg approached the cage containing the remaining prepared sacrifices. The captives cried in terror and helplessness as they approached and removed the padlock from the door before stepping aside, Bright Rot held high as they did. At first, the sacrifices cried out in glee, some charging towards the gates excitedly, some merely sobbed in despair, overwhelming them even as escape presented itself.

​But their true motive for opening their cage was revealed as the now transformed Followers reacted. Their heads snapped towards the cage, and they sprinted forward at speeds most humans could never hope to manage. The crowd of Followers stopped just before the cage. Rotten Meat smiled as he realized even now, the Blight Rot’s hold was holding strong. A method given by the Rot to ensure its goals were completed.

​They cried for mercy, for freedom, for compassion. And Rotten Meat was not a man lacking in any of those categories. So he snapped his fingers, and the Rotlings charged forward, tearing into their prepared food.

​The sight was grisly. The love of the Rot changed you, made you fester as it did, but also made you more than a mere human. Rotten Meat smirked as the Rotling grabbed their victims, tearing into them as if they were made of tissue paper. Their teeth had become sharp and numerous, allowing them to bite into the bodies and rip chunks from them. Even as the sheep were fed upon, they changed too; they festered as all should, transforming and feeding on those yet blessed.

​“It’s truly a sight…” Rotten Apple said, amazed. “I can’t believe we can control them… the Rot truly loves us…”

​“There’s more than I imagined…” Rotten Egg agreed. “It’s almost terrifying.”

​“Those who have ascended will seem strange and alien to the ignorant.” Rotten Meat chided sagely. “Do not dare look down on them; it should be envy that fills your heart instead. Do not forget that our time to ascend will come well for us. Rotten Egg, you are with me; we have work to do to ensure the fall of Creek’s End came properly. Rotten Apple, the enlightened among the blasphemous have warned me of interlopers within these lands. I believe they will serve our purposes greatly. Take a dozen or so Rotlings, have them spread filth as the Rot would intend, leave no survivors…”

​“Sir!” Rotten Apple agreed with glee, quickly gathering his group together using his Blight Rot and taking off with them. Somehow, he was manipulating them to carry him.

​Rotten Meat and Apple took the rest, slowly walking a disaster into their own home…