Mac advanced, abruptly halted by an enormous wall of pure muscle. He had managed fifteen minutes of running before getting caught. A guard– a senior officer with a purple uniform– glowered imperiously at him. He was sturdy and well built, with robust arms to rival an iron bar. Though, his teeth were stained russet due to the effects of beetle chewing. While the guard's build was as tough as the still-standing wall of China, Mac looked like... a Mac should. With not-so-real muscles and not-really-acceptable features along with not-appreciated-cowardice, he resembled nothing less than an ill-grown, chapped toenail.

"Uhh yeah. Just heading back." A feeble excuse, considering that he was bleeding like an orange squeezed of its juice. He mentally prepared himself to muster another mutable excuse or (try) to shove past the guard.

"Just how stupid do you think I am?" The guard narrowed his eyes as if daring Mac to repudiate him.

Honesty is the best policy. "This much." He stretched his hands as further as they could go. However, he didn't wait for the other man to answer before kneeing him where the sun don't shine and sprinting in the opposite direction. "Sorry!" He yelped, as he skidded over the smooth carpets and almost banged into the wall while trying the turn left. He had been about to take the right when voices sounding suspiciously like the usual "guard voice" came from there. And they seemed pretty ticked.

Unfortunately, after the guard fell over, he quickly got up and somehow managed to chase after Mac. Guards were nearing from two directions– too many hunters and not enough victims. One good thing was that only one of the guards was swift enough to catch speed with him. Bad news, it was the same guy who he'd brutally kicked. Once or twice glanced back, and that somehow tripled his pace. One thing was chasing the most unfit person with anger waves radiating from you along with the intent to kill, and quite another was to do the same after a groin attack.

The last time Mac had run this fast was when he was escaping the serial-killer in the sixth turret, and that realization did not bring about pleasant memories.

Honestly, he didn't care about which turn he took. Sometimes he zoomed through the middle sector, other times careening through the nearest hallway, and once or twice, he levered himself up vents with shocking agility. Even tumbling the vases, statues– anything that could slow down the ninja-guard reaped little results.

It might slow him down, he warned himself. But it won't stop him forever.

He was rushing at an impressive speed with surprising deftness when suddenly he slammed into an invisible barrier, which was solid enough to squash his face. The guards' calls became distant, including the one who'd nearly caught up to him. The world was spinning faster and faster. He could see some weird black dots popping up in his vision. There was blood in his mouth– probably a bitten tongue. His knees had plausibly skyrocketed from their joints. Hands touched him, but there were too many. And they felt... strange. As if alive yet dead; cold and unperturbed. An overwhelming sensation of exhaustion overtook him as everything dissolved into a thick mast of darkness.

----

He groaned. Mac wanted to massage his sore limbs, but he soon found out that he was paralyzed. Even if he forced his entire nervous system to concentrate on shifting his pinkie, it wasn't enough. Breathing required effort. He could see, think and do everything that didn't need movement. It was like he was mentally present but physically absent.

"Here's the little boy, " Someone cooed. "Come here, boy."

Something crashed against his inner self, spurting the necessity of crawling towards it. Even as his body protested unconditionally, he was drawn towards an ethereal power. Smiling, he rolled up and lagged in the direction of the sound.

----

His eyes opened, yet without even trying, he knew he wouldn't be able to move a finger. He didn't care enough to attempt it.

Eventually, he could see without the black dots or random spurts of blurriness hindering his eyesight. He guessed he was slumping on his bottom, pushed up against the wall.

He heard moans, but that could've been his imagination. Shuffling here and there, but nothing else. He couldn't move anyway, so if anything wanted to kill him right now, this was a perfect time. No hungry bodies flung at him. He didn't know how many hours had passed, but the faint light in the room had begun to blanch. The passage behind him had shut decades ago.

"Little boy, I need your assistance!"

Unwilling, his mouth formed the words. "Yes, master."

----

"-Zey, isn't it?" He'd been listening intently to master for quite some time, and learned some curious facts about her. She refused to reveal her true identity. She insisted that he call her 'master' and not 'mistress'. It was about now that he wasn't just blindly listening to her ranting, and felt the strength to move, though it wouldn't make much difference as he was drained. He felt a huge weight shrug off his shoulders, the pressure in his head ease.

A gasp– "No, this is not possible."

Then the world became remote and isolated again. The desire to fill his master's heart coursed through him, though the power was a little depleted.

----

An almost unheard moan sounded from somewhere at the end of the cell. At first, he thought it was the earth trembling beneath him, but he soon realized that he'd been shaking so much that boots had embedded hollow groves in a weak part of the floor.

He almost wept in relief– he could move again! On the downside, he was sure he'd screwed up badly. There was blood on his hands, and it definitely wasn't his. It reeked of the unnatural odour of freshly coated paint and of something else he couldn't quite grasp.

Another moan.

While shambling at exalted momentum, the adrenaline pulsing within was enough for the pain to be close to ineffective. Undeterred, he'd kept on, nearly flying with the energy. Only when lying on the bare ground did he realize that no matter what happened he would still remain the same, unathletic Mac. The chase had cost him– He wanted to move but couldn't. No imperceptible bars were restraining him, yet his body refused to take orders. His limbs were sore, and his legs were on fire. His ears tingled. Neck sweaty. Overall, he was starving, so much that digestives seemed a heavenly blessing.

Shuffling of something heavy.

His head throbbed from rallying focus– one second off guard, and he might never wake up again.

A shrill grating.

He was going to die no matter what. The temperature was hard to describe– As if he'd been stashed into a burning oven and chilling refrigerator at the same time. There was frost settling upon the tip of his nose, though he was sweating enough to fill the large buckets. He vaguely recollected punching a mushy body with pure muscle that wasn't his, but the memory was fuzzy.

Chain clanking.

Mac pushed himself further away to the wall, somewhat against his will, shrinking away from the sounds until he stumbled upon the adjacent corner of the oblong room.

Choked wheezing.

His pulse quickened; stomach sunk to such a low level, it would be a wonder if it refurbished. He knew the stakes, but when he was truly going to meet them, the situation became more real and less acceptable.

A pair of gleaming eyes flaring open.

Yes, he knew what was coming ahead, yet he shrank back, scooting farther and farther until the point where even the slightest movement might puncture a bone.

The eyes neared, closing the distance until they were right in front of him. A couple of shining yellow-white eyes glowered at him.

Suddenly, a white slash of light cut through the middle of the eyes, and with a gurgling hiss, the form dissipated into mist. The scene was too much for his already protesting brain, and the cables in him short-circuited. He fell down and down into a vortex of swirling fog, this time though, willingly. 

----

Stop!" Mac's father rushed out to the howling winds. The whole place threatened to blow off in one giant whoosh of the air. The ragged cloth draped over the hull of the canoe flew off, revealing the boat. The grass danced soberly in the breeze. The trees shook their branches disapprovingly. The water rippled dangerously, conveying: WANNA DIE? The signs of an oncoming thunderstorm were not to be ignored.

A little boy sank behind his parent, unsure of what to do. His father advanced past the fields, counseling his mother to stay.

He was what? Ten? Ignorant about his surroundings, he hid behind his mother's billowing fabric. His father petitioned for forgiveness, but his mother stood cold. She shook her head, sat into the raft, and pushed away. She was agile enough to perform that in such swiftness that she nearly forgot him behind. Not wanting to be left in the ghastly weather, Mac sped forward but tipped onto a stone, in turn, fumbling the chance to step onto the platform.

"Mama!" He cried out. The unhelpful wind elbowed him into the deep waters. He lunged for the boat handle, but the surface was too greasy.

The currents, unrelenting, refused to side up with the forsaken boy, eddying him un and down in the water. The waves crashed against him, downing out his father's cries for help, which his mother perpetually ostracized.

The woman tried to assist her child, but she couldn't do much with a pregnant belly, a month old pregnant belly. However, she tossed over a piece of fabric over the edge, temporarily securing the boy.

The shoreline had now dissipated from view. Rain poured down in sheets, enlarging the water level. Old chunks of discarded waste bubbled in the waters, occasionally colliding with Mac. He was pretty sure his blonde hair now resembled a bird's half-done nest, and his blue eyes had yet lost their sparkle.

He'd soon hit something on his head and blocked out. When he woke up, he was coughing out spurts of water out his lungs. There was no sign of his mother, but a boy a few years older than him, with rigid green eyes and hounds of guards. He'd looked at Mac as if disgusted and then ordered the men to haul him over for a trial. Mac had lost his strength and didn't even care if those men sent him away for execution.

He'd heard tales about the prince, and none of them appeased his interest in the royals. In fact, he hated their guts.

The guards dragged Mac to the palace, regardless of his ragged breathing or his near-drowning. Sheesh, Mac had thought, these guys needed lessons on first aid safety. Instead of executing him, the prince had turned him into a servant to work for the palace. Since his royal majesty already had an abundance of slaves, it would be quite unnecessary to have the burden of another human. Make the servant pay for his meals, but pressure him to work three times as much. If not for the unfortunate slaves, Mac would've turned into one of them– made to work tirelessly without proper equipment or facilities. That's when the daunting prince made the grave mistake of assigning Mac to share a room with a classroom of kids; particularly one annoying idiot named Zey shu.