Project:Imagine

Maxwell awoke, his head spinning and his body aching from the cramped, uncomfortable position he had been in. His first conscious sensation was the overwhelming stench of rot and decay, a pungent odor that seemed to cling to his skin and clothes. As he forced his eyes open, the dim light filtering into the dumpster revealed a grimy, foul-smelling world of discarded refuse and filth. He grimaced, pushing himself up with trembling hands, fingers sinking into the slimy, unyielding grime coating the edges of the dumpster.

He stumbled as he climbed out, the bright lights of the bustling city assaulting his senses. Neon signs flickered and glowed, casting garish colors across the streets. Cars zoomed by, their headlights cutting through the night, and people hurried along the sidewalks, oblivious to his plight. The sounds of the city, honking horns, distant sirens, and the murmur of conversations were overwhelming, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the dumpster.

Maxwell looked around, disoriented, and bewildered. None of this was familiar. The towering buildings, the city's frenetic energy, the constant movement, and the noise were all alien to him. He clutched his head, trying to remember, but his mind was a blank slate. His memories were locked away, inaccessible, leaving him adrift in an unfamiliar world. Panic began to set in, but he fought it down, focusing on the here and now. He had to figure out where he was, and more importantly, who he was.

A sharp pain burned through his mind as he recalled a name: Maxwell Lumiar. He looked upwards and saw an electronic sign, displaying the time as eight o’clock on August 27th. Yet, this date didn't mean a thing to him; they were just symbols he couldn't understand. Maxwell walked through the city aimlessly, unsure of what to do. He saw a cold puddle on the ground and witnessed his reflection for what he believed to be the first time.

He looked around twelve years old, with orange hair streaked with black and eyes filled with the same vibrant orange color. He wore a white button-up shirt and jeans, with white socks and black shoes, both riddled with holes. A necklace with a key around it hung from his neck, yet for some reason, he couldn’t see or acknowledge it. As he stood up, he felt a strange sensation in the right corner of his forehead and noticed a keyhole.

“What is this,” Maxwell murmured as he placed his fingers against the keyhole, but he wasn't sure of what to do with it.

He wandered through the streets, each step feeling more uncertain than the last. As he passed by, a small restaurant caught his eye. A sign above it read, “Best chili in the entirety of Starlight Haven, the greatest city in the U.S.” To Maxwell, these were random symbols and gibberish that meant nothing to him. His nose twitched at the smell wafting from the restaurant, and his stomach growled in pain. Driven by hunger, he walked inside aimlessly.

“Excuse me, are you lost? Where are your parents?” a young waitress asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Maxwell looked at her blankly, not understanding the words she was saying. The waitress's face became more distressed as she took in the boy's disheveled appearance and the horrid condition he was in.

“Are you hungry?” she asked gently, gesturing toward a booth. “Here, sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat.”

Maxwell followed her lead, sitting down at the booth. The warmth of the restaurant was a stark contrast to the cold, harsh world outside. He watched the waitress disappear into the kitchen, her kind demeanor a boon to his confused and anxious mind. Moments later, she returned with a steaming bowl of chili, placing it in front of him.

“Eat up,” she said with a smile. “This will make you feel better.”

Maxwell stared at the bowl, the rich aroma making his mouth water. He picked up the spoon and took a hesitant bite. His movements with the spoon were mechanical, similar to that of a toddler. The flavors exploded on his tongue, a comforting warmth spreading through him. For the first time since he had woken up, a sense of calm washed over him. He continued to eat the chili, ignoring the slight burning sensation on his tongue from the heat.

The waitress came back and gave Maxwell a glass of water. Instantly, he grabbed the glass and drank the entire contents in moments, slightly choking as he gulped it down. After a bit of time, he finished the entire bowl of chili and fell asleep on the table, a small smile appearing across his face as he did.

As Maxwell slept and the restaurant began to close, the waitress went to speak with her boss about what should be done with him.

“I’m not sure what we should do. He’s most likely homeless. His clothes are a mess, and the way he ate the food was as if he hadn’t eaten in years,” the waitress said.

“Let him stay here for the night,” the older boss said. “We can turn him into the cops in the morning to see if he has any parents who are looking for him.”

Night began to fall, and the waitress decided to stay at the restaurant to watch over Maxwell.

As she had fallen asleep herself, she suddenly heard a window break. Two men opened the door, unlocking it through the hole in the window. They both wore black suits, one had red hair, and the other had green hair.

The waitress grabbed the now-awake Maxwell, and they hid under the table together, their breaths shallow and filled with terror.

“That is a really bad hiding spot,” Suit A said coldly. “Come out from under there.”

Maxwell's heart raced as the waitress tried to comfort him. Her grip on his arm was firm, a futile attempt to reassure him, but her fear was palpable, radiating from her trembling form.

“Listen,” she whispered to Maxwell, her voice trembling, “stay quiet, and don't move.”

The ominous footsteps of Suit A and Suit B echoed through the empty restaurant, growing louder with each passing second. The red-haired man, Suit A, crouched down to peer under the table, his eyes cold and calculating.

“There you are,” he said with a sneer. “Come on out, kid. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Maxwell shook his head, clutching the waitress tighter. She tried to shield him with her body, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and fear.

“Leave him alone!” she shouted. “He’s just a child!”

Suit B, the green-haired man, stepped forward, his face devoid of emotion. “We’re not here to negotiate. Hand him over.”

Before Maxwell could react, Suit A reached under the table and grabbed his arm, yanking him out with brutal force. The waitress screamed, trying to pull Maxwell back, but Suit B intervened, holding her back with a vice-like grip.

“Let him go!” she cried, struggling against Suit B’s hold.

“Just kill her. We can frame this as a break-in,” Suit A ordered, his voice devoid of any humanity.

The waitress's scream pierced the air as Suit B held a knife to her throat. In one swift, horrifying motion, the blade sliced across her flesh, a crimson line appearing almost instantly. Blood poured out, staining the floor as Suit B let her drop to the ground. Her skin turned pale, her eyes wide with shock and pain, as life slipped away from her body.

Maxwell could only watch in horror, paralyzed by fear and grief, as the waitress's final breath left her lips. The world around him seemed to slow, the reality of the brutal scene searing itself into his memory.

“Why must we get all the difficult missions? Why does the boss even want this kid anyway? All the materials going to the beta facility are just random homeless people. What’s so special about this one?” Suit B questioned.

“Apparently, the Bookkeeper requested him. Just go and rob the cash register; this looks like a simple break-in. Got it?” Suit A ordered.

Suit B grabbed all the money in the cash register and stuffed it into his pocket as they began to leave. Suit A held Maxwell in his arms while he attempted to break free. Maxwell clawed and bit the man, but to no noticeable effect.

Frustrated, Suit A punched Maxwell in the face, causing him to pass out. He then threw the unconscious boy over his shoulder as they left the restaurant, walking toward the black van they had arrived in. The once peaceful restaurant now stood in eerie silence, with only the distant hum of city life in the background.

A few hours later, Maxwell woke up. His hands were bound together, and a blindfold covered his eyes. He felt himself moving, but had no idea where he was. It was cold, and a bump would jolt him every so often, causing him to thrash around. The van seemed empty, leaving Maxwell with his fears, unsure of where he was going or why he had been taken. He struggled desperately against his bindings, but it was futile.

“Let me out! Let me out!” Maxwell screamed, his voice filled with desperation. Yet, the words he spoke were unintelligible to human ears.

“What’s that brat yelling about?” Suit B muttered, clearly annoyed.

“Ignore it. We're almost there. They always scream meaningless crap,” Suit A responded indifferently.

“I want to go home.”

“Why can’t I remember my home?”

“Why don’t I know who I am?”

“Why does my head hurt so much?”

“Why did they take me?”

“Why am I crying?”

His thoughts cascaded through his mind like a broken dam, drowning him in a flood of hopelessness. Tears soaked his blindfold, and the same question echoed in his mind. Why? Every question he could think of began with “Why?” and none had answers.

The more he pondered, the more intense the throbbing in his head became. Suddenly, his eyes began to glow with a searing, bright orange light. A tempest of pure aura erupted from his body, filling the air with crackling intensity. The aura swirled in a maelstrom of colors, each vying for dominance before settling into a dynamic, uneasy harmony.

A spastic yellow streaked through the chaos, vibrating with frenetic energy. A darker aura, black laced with tendrils of orange lightning, exuded authority and power. An indigo shade flickered about nervously, as if trying to escape the turmoil. Another aura, black with green lightning, pulsed gently, radiating a serene, nurturing presence. Intriguingly, an aura black as night with purple runes floated within it, whispering secrets of ancient knowledge. A calming blue aura flowed smoothly, bringing peace amidst the chaos. Lastly, a vicious red aura roared through the mix, fierce and unyielding.

These auras clashed and intertwined, their energies struggling before ultimately deciding to coexist in a vibrant, dynamic equilibrium. The storm of colors illuminated the night, casting strange, shifting shadows around Maxwell as he stood, transformed and empowered, at the epicenter of this extraordinary display.

“What the hell is this,” Suit A looked in fear.

The force of the aura storm overwhelmed them, causing the van to crash violently. The two men stumbled out, their heads covered in blood as they assessed the damage. Maxwell emerged as well, his aura burning away the restraints with its sheer density and power. Blood poured from Maxwell's head, only to be quickly healed by the same incredible energy that now coursed through him.

Maxwell glared at the two men with a mixture of determination and hatred, his aura reflecting his rage. The sheer intensity of his aura caused all other forms of aura to wane and fade, overwhelmed by its raw power. Anyone awakened within a fifty-mile radius could feel the crushing pressure, though its source remained obscured by its dense force. The abilities of all Awakened in the vicinity were nullified as the aura swirled around like a deadly typhoon.

The two suited men tried in vain to activate their abilities, but under such oppressive conditions, even a sliver of aura could not be gathered. The typhoon of energy gradually subsided, drawing back to its epicenter and slowly fading away. The shock of the display lingered in the eyes of those who had witnessed it.

A single word resonated in Maxwell's mind as his aura shifted to a glowing yellow, hypercognition. Fueled by a searing focus, Maxwell charged at the men, his eyes burning with fury. As the two men scrambled to react, Suit B released a flurry of long purple chains from his hand in an attempt to ensnare Maxwell. To Maxwell, the attack seemed slow and ineffectual. With a swift leap, he soared through the air and landed directly in front of Suit B. Without hesitation, Maxwell bit into Suit B's neck, who struggled frantically to dislodge him.

“Just shoot him and get him off of me! I don’t care if we kill him!” Suit B shouted in desperation.

Suit A complied, releasing a barrage of crimson bullets from his fingertips. The attack, however, proved to be a grave miscalculation. Maxwell kicked off Suit B's chest, tearing away a chunk of flesh in his mouth, and deftly dodged the incoming bullets. The projectiles, fired with lethal intent, struck Suit B instead, killing him instantly.

Maxwell grinned, spitting out the bloody chunk of Suit B's flesh onto the ground and stamping it into the dirt as a cruel gesture of triumph.

Suit A continued his assault, each bullet crackling with energy and driven by his mounting anger. The air sizzled with tension as glowing projectiles whizzed past, leaving trails of luminescent energy. Maxwell moved with fluid precision, effortlessly evading each shot. His movements were a blur of agility and grace, his eyes still blazing with an intense orange light.

As Suit A's frustration mounted, his shots became more erratic and rapid. Sensing the change, Maxwell began to close the distance between them, weaving through the hail of bullets with uncanny ease. His gaze remained fixed on his opponent, unwavering and determined.

“Stand still!” Suit A roared, his voice a mix of fury and desperation, unleashing a particularly powerful volley. But Maxwell was already in motion, darting to the side with a streak of motion.

In a swift counterattack, Maxwell leaped into the air, narrowly avoiding another barrage, and landed just a few feet from Suit A. He could feel the raw energy emanating from his opponent with each bullet fired. Maxwell's aura flared in response, a vibrant mix of swirling colors.

He charged forward, using the momentum to close the gap. With a deft sidestep, he avoided another shot and delivered a powerful punch, his fist enveloped in his swirling aura. The impact sent Suit A staggering backward, momentarily stunned.

“How can a brat like you already be strengthening his body with aura?” Suit A shouted, struggling to regain his footing.

Without hesitation, Maxwell pressed his advantage, delivering a rapid series of precise strikes, each blow infused with his aura’s energy. Suit A attempted a desperate, wide swing, but Maxwell ducked smoothly, retaliating with a sharp kick to Suit A’s midsection.

As Suit A reeled from the blow, Maxwell saw his opportunity. Channeling his aura into a concentrated force, he thrust his hand forward, unleashing a focused blast of energy. The explosion of light and power sent Suit A crashing to the ground with a heavy thud.

Maxwell stood over him, his aura still pulsating with vibrant energy. His breathing was steady, his voice calm but firm. “It’s over,” he said. Despite the gravity of the situation, Suit A remained perplexed by Maxwell’s foreign language.

Suit A lay on the ground, his aura flickering weakly, a testament to the fierce battle and Maxwell’s undeniable prowess.

“I knew I shouldn’t have sent two worthless grunts to handle such an important task,” a new voice said, cutting through the aftermath.

A man approached the scene, his presence both unsettling and commanding. He stood at 5′ 6″ (1.68 m), his striking purple eyes gleaming with malevolence. A pristine lab coat draped over his black shirt, but the most notable aspect of his appearance was his hair—crimson tentacles wriggled from the top of his head, pulsating with excitement. His gaze was fixed on Maxwell, a malicious grin stretching across his face.

“Boss, please help! This kid… I don't know what he is, but it's too much power,” Suit A yelled frantically, desperation evident in his voice.

The Boss’s grin widened. “I know,” he replied calmly. “That's why I can't let you report what has happened here today.” With a swift, almost supernatural movement, he appeared directly in front of Suit A.

Maxwell barely registered the motion before the Boss bent down, his hand delving into the depths of his lab coat. Out of pure fear, Maxwell instinctively backed away, his eyes wide with terror as the man pulled out a severed hand. The macabre sight of the dismembered limb was horrifying enough, but it was the way the Boss handled it—with casual ease—that sent chills down Maxwell's spine.

The Boss pressed the severed hand's pointer finger against Suit A’s forehead. Suit A's eyes widened in shock and terror, his body immediately beginning to decay. The process was rapid and grotesque, the decay spreading out from the point of contact, consuming his flesh and bones within seconds. His screams were cut short as his body disintegrated into dust, leaving nothing but a crumbling husk.

The Boss examined the now useless severed hand with a look of mild disappointment. “That used the last of this item's charge,” he sighed, placing the hand back in his lab coat as if it were a mere inconvenience. “I guess I'll have to charge it later.”

He turned his attention back to Maxwell, the malicious grin returning to his face. “Now, what to do with you?” he mused, the wriggling tentacles atop his head reflecting his dark, twisted delight. Maxwell's heart pounded in his chest as he stood frozen, the weight of his dire situation pressing down on him like a suffocating shroud.

Maxwell's eyes locked onto the lanyard around the man's neck, catching a glimpse of a key card with the name “Octavian Payne” printed on it. Though the name meant nothing to him, a surge of fear gripped his mind. His instincts screamed at him to act, and he rushed forward, aura swirling around his hand as he leaped to deliver a powerful punch aimed at Octavian's face.

In an instant, Octavian moved with lightning-fast reflexes, sidestepping Maxwell's attack with a fluid grace. Maxwell's fist met empty air, the momentum throwing him off balance for a split second. Before he could recover, Octavian's hand lashed out, delivering a precise, devastating chop to the side of Maxwell's neck.

The impact was like a lightning strike. Maxwell's vision blurred, his body instantly paralyzed by the expertly executed blow. He crumpled to the ground, the swirling aura around his hand dissipating into the air. Darkness began to encroach on the edges of his consciousness, his fear giving way to an unsettling calm as his senses faded.

Octavian stood over Maxwell's prone form, his expression unreadable, the surrounding aura flickering with controlled intensity. He glanced down at the key card hanging around his neck, then back at Maxwell, as if contemplating the significance of the encounter. The air was thick with tension, the echoes of their brief but intense clash hanging in the stillness of the room.

As Maxwell's world went dark, the last thing he saw was Octavian's calm, composed face, the meaningless symbols that formed the word “Octavian Payne” lingering in his mind like a haunting specter.

Hours later, Maxwell awakened within a glass tube, suspended in a viscous green liquid that restricted his movements. The fluid was cool and clammy against his skin, making his every breath feel heavy and labored. His eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus through the hazy greenish tint that surrounded him. Outside the tube, a dimly lit laboratory bustled with activity. Cold, clinical light bathed the room, reflecting off the sleek, metallic surfaces and the array of complex machinery that lined the walls.

Scientists in white lab coats moved with precision, their faces obscured by masks and goggles. Their movements were methodical, each one absorbed in their tasks as they monitored various screens and adjusted controls on the machinery. The air was thick with an eerie silence, punctuated only by the occasional beeping of monitors and the hum of equipment.

Maxwell's gaze drifted to the other glass tubes scattered throughout the room. They stood in neat rows, each one containing a different occupant. Some were humans like him, their expressions serene, as if caught in a deep sleep. Others, however, were grotesque, deformed monsters, twisted and misshapen figures that bore only faint resemblances to their once-human forms. One had multiple arms sprouting from its torso, each ending in claw-like appendages. Another had a distorted face, with eyes that glowed a sickly yellow and teeth that jutted out at unnatural angles.

Despite their monstrous appearances, there were remnants of humanity in each of them—an eye that looked too human, a hand that seemed almost normal, or a mouth that, when closed, resembled that of a person. These fragments were haunting reminders of what they once were, adding a layer of tragic horror to their current state.

Suddenly, one of the scientists approached his tube, clipboard in hand. She peered at him through the glass, her eyes cold and analytical. She made a note on her clipboard and turned to speak with a colleague, their voices were muffled, but it was clear they were discussing him.

“Are you sure we should go ahead with the experiment on this one, it was a special request from the bookkeeper and our success rate has only been that of 5%,” The women said worried.

“It's the boss's orders, he has a backup plan he has been working on if it fails,” The colleague reassured.

“The “Cinderella” formula, right? That hasn't had a single success yet either, are sure he perfected the formula this time?” The woman questioned.

“He’ll kill us if we don't do our jobs, so just do it,” The colleague ordered.

“Alright, but I still find this odd, why did the boss request we use this special formula, we've never tested it out yet?” The Woman asked.

“Apparently it's orders from the very top, the leader A.E.G.I.S’s mysterious council himself,” The colleague gossiped.

“Yeah sure, no way the big boss would be that interested, let's get this over with,” The woman said

The woman pulled out a small vial, its glass surface gleaming under the dim light. Inside, a viscous red liquid swirled slowly, its consistency thick and syrupy, like blood. Suspended within the crimson fluid was a delicate, pristine feather, its white purity starkly contrasting against the vivid red. The feather drifted lazily, caught in an almost hypnotic dance as the liquid gently ebbed and flowed around it, creating a mesmerizing and eerie display.

The woman inserted the vial into a complex machine connected to Maxwell's test tube, and as the red liquid flowed into the chamber, the green fluid around him began to change, turning a deep, ominous crimson. Maxwell's body started to convulse, a sharp pain coursing through him as the transformation began.

At first, it seemed like everything was progressing smoothly. Large, pristine white wings unfurled from his back, their feathers shimmering with an ethereal glow. The wings were magnificent, almost angelic, spanning wide and powerful. But soon, the transformation took a dark turn.

Maxwell's body twisted and contorted painfully, bones cracking and elongating. His skin took on a sickly gray hue, veins bulging and pulsing with the crimson liquid that now surrounded him. His once human eyes morphed into glowing orbs of fiery red, devoid of any semblance of humanity. His mouth elongated into a grotesque snout filled with rows of jagged, razor-sharp teeth, each one dripping with a viscous, dark saliva.

His hands and feet mutated into massive, clawed appendages, fingers, and toes extending into talons capable of rending flesh and bone. Muscles bulged unnaturally beneath his skin, creating an uneven, monstrous physique. His spine jutted out, forming a series of sharp, bony ridges down his back, and his chest expanded, giving him an imposing, hulking appearance.

The once beautiful wings now appeared more sinister, as dark veins marred their white purity, pulsating with each beat of his corrupted heart. His body was a horrifying amalgamation of angelic and monstrous traits, creating a nightmarish creature that radiated both power and malevolence.

Maxwell's transformation complete, he floated there in the crimson liquid, a grotesque parody of his former self, a terrifying blend of beauty and horror, the sheer pain he had experienced caused him to pass out. The two scientists panicked, watching the procedure fail as Octavian walked by.

“Throw him into the pit with thirty others. If he survives, I'll use the Cinderella on him. The Bookkeeper has ensured this formula will work. That is an order, hurry up,” Octavian commanded, his voice icy and authoritative.

The woman nodded briskly and pressed a button on the machine. A low rumble echoed through the room as a hatch beneath Maxwell’s glass tube slowly opened. The machinery groaned as the floor beneath him gave way, and he plummeted downward, the crimson fluid still clinging to his monstrous form.