Heroes to Hunted

Hard limestone, a chorus of voices, and the scent of sweat and mold; all my senses flooded back. I hoisted myself up when that voice echoed throughout the room.

"I welcome you! Heroes!"

I turned my body and appraised my surroundings to find the voice's source. What came into view was a room filled with a shifting crowd. At least two dozen people were crammed within this small space, and each appeared as disoriented as I was.

"Where are we?"

"What's going on?!"

"Mom?! Dad?! Where are you?!"

"What? Where?! What the f*ck?!"

Various other lines of panicked confusion were spouted off and repeated within the room.

If there were any hints why we were gathered here, you wouldn't find them within the demographics of our group. The only trait we all shared appeared to be our Japanese ancestry, given the names being called out, at least.

Aside from that, I could see students, office workers, bookworms, and athletes. Yet, despite this randomness, I stood out like a sore thumb. Unsurprisingly, military-grade combat gear was rare amongst the civilian populace.

I moved my attention to the room itself. Discerning fine details about it was impossible; the room was poorly lit at best. It relied upon a few rudimentary torches to illuminate its walls. Despite that, I could still glean that we'd been left in some rustic, cellar-like space.

The walls were built from crudely cut, gray stone blocks and thick wooden support beams. Above and below was a layer of creaking wooden planks.

Though the scenery was jarring, what captured my attention were the dancing yellow-red flames of the mounted torches. I tried to look away but couldn't. I was ensnared by the fire.

I instinctively moved a hand to my chest and grimaced. 'I died. I burned. I know I did! That's what killed me!' Seeing the exposed flame, my heart constricted with a crippling tightness, and my gut was wracked with a queasy squirm. The sensation was so intense I had to clutch my hands over my mouth for fear of vomiting.

I gasped rapidly for air while reliving the scene of my supposed death. It was unrelenting, so I staggered away, looking for any kind of safety. I sought shelter within the darkest corners of the room to regain my composure. Once wrapped in a shadow's embrace, I recovered enough to investigate the situation further.

What came next was standard with a soldier's paranoia. 'Gotta calm down and look for exits,' I thought, my breaths still shallow and sporadic.

A plan of action always came first, and it seemed any would be limited to a single wooden door on the opposite side of the room. Obstructing it were several cloaked figures, each focusing their attention on the unruly crowd.

Gripped within their hands were strange, symmetrical objects. They weren't guns, blades, or weapons of any kind. Instead, they were…books?

"What?" I questioned under my breath. I thought kidnappers would've been armed with more than just an arsenal of literature.

Despite the figure's initial greeting, none of my countrymen dared to respond. The air was still shackled in unease, so the best they managed was awkward staring. That is...until the commanding voice of a young woman filled the room.

"Heroes? What are you talking about? Where am I?! Is this some kind of cult?!" matching her every word were expressive hand gestures.

Based on her youthful appearance and mannerisms, I was confident the girl was in her late teens. Uncommon for her age, she had a ferocity in her voice that'd make platoon instructors proud. Look-wise, she was just as flamboyant. She boasted a pair of attractive eyes that shimmered a vibrant, golden amber and an equally golden tied-back ponytail. She was the color yellow personified.

Though the young woman spearheaded the verbal charge, our group was anything but organized.

Rather than an orderly questioning followed by civilized decision-making, the interrogation devolved into pure chaos. It became the norm for my countrymen to avoid questions altogether, resolving to hurl insults at the figures instead.

"Pointless time wasting," I scowled. I wasn't interested in haphazardly gleaning information during all that disorder, but I was grateful for it. Thanks to the distraction, I could check for the wounds I succumbed to a bit ago.

I pressured the straps and heard a light snap. Once the buckles were undone, I shifted my vest and lifted my shirt to reveal my scar-ridden stomach. Setting aside that my incinerated gear was once again pristine, I was utterly shocked by what I saw...didn't see on my body.

I took my free hand and brushed my fingertips across my abs and chest. Though the skin was rough and calloused, a byproduct from four years' worth of wounding, it wasn't what I expected. There were no fresh stitches…no burned flesh. Only scars that had been long healed by the graces of time.

'My wounds… they're gone?!' my rational mind was thrust in turmoil. Numerous questions flared up, but now wasn't the time for answers.

I tried reasoning with myself to shelve my curiosity. 'Okay, as far as I can tell, I'm healthy. My wounds are gone, and my gear is in peak condition. If anything, that's good and not something to question,' I sighed and fixed my gear back into position. Once my vest was in place, another alarming reality struck me.

'My weapon…it's gone too…' Of course, it made sense, but I could only compare the emptiness I felt to that of a husband missing his wife.

You might say I was exaggerating, but that firearm was my will to live manifested. There were so many times when that gun saved my life or the lives of my comrades, and it was gone. Without it, I was at risk of losing half of myself.

As unsightly as it was for me to lose my cool, panic set in. Between my newfound pyrophobia, my missing wounds, and not having my weapon, it took everything I had to concentrate on the cloaked figures.

'Stay focused...' I brought a hand to rub my forehead. 'Gotta keep focused.' After some moments, I, again, cast my attention on the figures.

Black hoods obscured their faces, the only exception being the revealed old man.

Each had a holster with a ceremonial knife. Noticeably, the hilts were impractically ornamental, with various golden engravings that snaked across them. I also noticed the blades were jaggedly curved like kukris. All of these facts meant that they were obnoxiously unfit for combat.

I brought a hand to my mouth in contemplation. 'They have black robes, occult books, AND cosplay daggers?' The prospect of them being members of a cult, like the young woman accused, was becoming more likely by the second.

Though the barrage of questioning by our mob was still ongoing, the hostility ricocheted off of the old man and his allies. They stared at their verbal assailers with vacant expressions. Their faces mimicked that of disinterested parents as they waited for noisy toddlers to tucker themselves out.

My countrymen soon fell silent again. That's when the old man resolved to speak. "Many apologies, dear heroes," he crossed his arms behind his back, "I know you all must have many questions. I'm sad it isn't within my authority to answer them, for I am merely a humble summoner."

A few choice words caught my attention, but nothing was more jarring than his tone of voice and posture. Every bit of it felt empty and stale. He acted more akin to that of an advertiser than a jailor.

The young woman scoffed and took to the spotlight again. "Forget apologies; at least tell us where we are! Surely that is 'within your authority!'"

The old man performed an easing gesture. "I understand your frustration, Miss, but please calm down." The woman's fury wasn't quelled, so he sighed and continued. "I suppose I could explain the basics of the matter to you all."

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