Prototype's Gate

As Alex stared into the nightmare’s cold blue eyes—eyes that mirrored his own but held none of the warmth, none of the humanity—he felt a chill seep into his bones. The nightmare’s voice was soft, almost coaxing, as it promised him a kingdom, an empire reborn from the ashes. There would be no hunger, no sickness, no suffering. It was a promise crafted from his deepest fears and desires, a twisted mirror of everything he had ever dreamed and everything he had fought to deny.

"You will rule it, just as you always wanted," the nightmare whispered, its finger pointing directly at him.

Alex felt a weight settle on his shoulders as he looked at the nightmare, unable to tear his gaze from the creature. The nightmare was all that he dreaded he might become, and yet a part of him trembled with something close to recognition. He could feel the dread pressing against his mind, scraping at the edges of his sanity, like a wave threatening to pull him under.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and in that darkness, memories surged to the surface—memories He had buried long ago, or tried to. Scenes flashed through his mind, vivid and merciless. A childhood soaked in hardship and loneliness, in bruises and broken promises.

He saw the flickering light of a dingy apartment, the slurred voices of his mother and her boyfriend, the hollow anger in their eyes as they turned to him and his little sister, Dana. Dana, with her big, trusting eyes and innocent smile. She had been his only source of warmth, his only friend. But even she couldn’t escape their mother’s wrath. One night, Alex had come home to find her cowering in the corner, her face streaked with fresh bruises, tears streaking her cheeks. Their mother loomed over her, her rage relentless, striking blow after blow until Dana’s small cries faded into silence.

“Stop!” Alex had screamed, his voice a thin, desperate thread. He had tried to shield Dana, but he was small, too small, and the boyfriend had pulled him back like he was nothing. A fist slammed into his face, the world going black as pain radiated through his skull. When he awoke, he was on the floor, the room spinning, his head throbbing.

“Is he dead?” his mother had asked, her voice as casual as if she were asking about the weather. She barely spared him a glance as she went back to beating Dana.

The boyfriend’s cold eyes flicked to Alex, his grip harsh as he shook him. “Nah, he’s just fine,” he muttered, dropping Alex’s head back onto the floor.

“Good. We still need his welfare check,” she muttered.

It was then that something broke inside Alex.

He wasn’t weak because he hadn’t tried; he was weak because he hadn’t learned. In the weeks that followed, he poured over old martial arts magazines he found discarded in a thrift shop, studying each movement, each stance, desperately trying to learn how to protect Dana, to protect himself. He practiced each day, every punch and block fueling his need to be stronger.

Finally, one day, he snapped. The boyfriend came home drunk, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Alex with the same hatred as always. But this time, Alex fought back, throwing a punch, small fists swinging in defiance. The moment felt victorious, triumphant even—until the boyfriend retaliated with a force that shattered Alex’s tooth and sent him reeling to the floor, his vision blurred by pain.

As their situation wasn't already miserable , even at the school they couldn't find peace . The bullying at school grew worse. His torn, ragged clothes became a mark, a brand of his broken home life. He and Dana became outcasts, ridiculed, mocked, humiliated. He fought, he struggled, but he was just a child. He had no power, no hope—just a bleak reality where survival was his only goal.

Alex often fantasized about leaving, about finding a way out for both him and Dana—a new life, somewhere far from the endless darkness of their home. Every night, he would dream of a place where they could be safe, where no one would hurt them. And so, determined to create a future for them, he threw himself into his studies, realizing that knowledge was his way out. Books became his sanctuary, a place where he could lose himself and forget the bruises, the insults, and the relentless feeling of being trapped.

To his surprise, he found that he was gifted, his mind sharp and quick, absorbing information faster than his classmates. His teachers took notice, especially one professor who suggested he transfer to a school where he could be challenged, where his potential wouldn’t go to waste. But Alex refused, knowing he couldn’t leave Dana behind, couldn’t abandon her to face their mother’s wrath alone. Every time he thought about leaving, he saw Dana’s face, fragile and innocent, and knew that he was her only protector. The promise he had made to himself—to keep her safe, to shield her from as much pain as he could—tethered him to that place.

But life had a way of breaking even the strongest spirits. The strain of his home life began to seep into his schoolwork, and despite his efforts, his grades began to slip. The endless nights of studying, the exhaustion, the bruises and constant fear—it was all too much, and it showed. The very teachers who once praised him and believed in his potential now wore expressions of disappointment. Their warm smiles, once a rare comfort, faded, replaced by the same indifference he saw everywhere else.

They spoke of his “wasted potential,” their voices tinged with contempt, as if he’d chosen this life, as if he’d asked to carry this weight alone. The praise, the encouragement—it had all been conditional, contingent on his ability to perform, to meet their expectations. In their eyes, he was just another failure, another kid who wouldn’t amount to anything.

And so, Alex learned the hard way that even kindness had limits, that even the people who were supposed to care would turn away when he could no longer meet their standards.

When Alex tried to explain his situation at home, he’d spoken in half-truths and hesitations, hoping the teachers might see through his silence and understand why his grades had plummeted. The weight of his home life had pressed down harder with each passing day, pulling him under as he struggled to balance school, caring for Dana, and merely surviving. When his story finally slipped out, it caused a stir—one that he hoped, foolishly, might lead to a way out.

His mother was summoned to the school, and he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, finally, someone would intervene. But when she stepped into the principal's office alone, Alex’s stomach churned with dread. He waited outside, counting each tick of the clock, his heart pounding in his chest. When she emerged with the principal by her side, her clothes a little disheveled and her smile a mask of smug satisfaction, his heart sank.

The principal’s reassuring smile only made it worse. “There’s no problem, Ms. Mercer. Kids these days, always exaggerating.” His mother chuckled at that, her gaze cutting into Alex like a knife, her eyes cold with barely concealed malice.

As soon as they got home, the beating began. This time, she didn’t hold back; it was the worst he’d endured yet. Each strike, each word she spat at him, hammered away at the last of his hope. He could barely stand when she was done, bruised and trembling, his mind reeling from the sting of betrayal. He realized then that even the outside world would not save him. He was truly, utterly alone.

Day after day, the bitterness inside Alex grew, carving out hollow spaces in his heart and filling them with a venomous resentment. He became colder, the quiet anger in him transforming into something darker, something more twisted as he looked at the world around him. Humans, he thought, were nothing more than selfish creatures, willing to inflict pain and suffering on anyone they saw as weaker. Trust was a luxury he could no longer afford; love, a poison that left nothing but scars.

Then, the memories shifted, and he found himself back in the grimy, suffocating apartment he had called home. The scene was dim, shadows dancing across the stained walls as his mother and her boyfriend sprawled lazily on the couch. Their forms were slack, their eyes half-open, blood trickling from their noses and staining their cracked lips. Their faces were slack, lost in a haze, a grotesque reflection of the indifference they had shown him and Dana.

Alex’s hands trembled slightly as he looked down at the small table in front of them. Laid out on it were little piles of white powder and an assortment of pills—a cocktail they had consumed so thoughtlessly, too lost in their own vices to even suspect his quiet plan. A dark smile played across his lips, tinged with a satisfaction he hadn’t felt in years. This was justice, he told himself, a fitting end for the ones who had made his life a living hell.

He watched them as they lay there, their bodies slowly succumbing to the poison he had laced into their drugs. They didn’t struggle, didn’t even try to fight it. The irony wasn’t lost on him; for all their cruelty, all their power over him and Dana, they had been easy to fell. They had been weak, helpless—just as they had made him feel for years. And now, here they were, fragile, vulnerable, at the mercy of the very person they had tormented.

As he watched them drift deeper into unconsciousness, Alex felt a strange, hollow satisfaction. He expected triumph, a sense of victory, maybe even joy. But there was only emptiness—a deep, cold void. The hatred that had sustained him for so long flickered, replaced by a sharp, painful realization. Nothing had changed. The damage they’d inflicted on him was still there, etched into his very being. And as he looked at them, lying there on the edge of death, he realized that even their demise couldn’t erase the scars they’d left behind.

He had wanted them gone, had craved their suffering, and yet… it didn’t bring the peace he had imagined.

Then from within came a torrent of memories, he felt the weight of every life he had absorbed pressing down on his mind, an endless stream of faces and voices flooding his consciousness.

The lives, all 3,754 of them, were woven into his very being, a tapestry of sorrow and regret. They weren't just memories—these were fragments of the souls he had consumed, lingering remnants that refused to fade. Each life, each death, was etched into him, like scars on his psyche, a brutal reminder of what he had done, what he had been, and what he is. Some were from his old world, remnants of Blackwatch and soldiers, simple grunts who had been just as much pawns as he had been, following orders they scarcely understood, believing in a cause they’d been conditioned to support. But he could see them now, clearer than he ever had when they were alive, and the enormity of his actions weighed on him like lead.

He could see their faces—young men and women, some barely more than teenagers, with eyes that had seen far too much but still held a glimmer of hope for something better. They hadn’t chosen this; they’d been drawn into it, indoctrinated, swept along by the currents of power they could never hope to understand. How many daughters and sons had he left without parents? How many mothers and fathers had fallen to their knees, grief-stricken, clutching the folded flags they’d been handed in place of a child they’d never see again? In his pursuit of finding who he was, he had taken from them all, not just their lives but the futures they had hoped to build, the dreams they had clung to, the families who would never be whole again.

He could see them now—families left broken, hollowed by loss, clutching onto fading memories of people he had erased without a second thought. He remembered them: the mother who wept silently on the subway platform, still wearing the uniform of the fast-food job she’d come to despise, because it was what kept food on the table for her young son; the father who had once been a teacher but took up a rifle for the promise of a paycheck, his knuckles white with tension every time he pulled the trigger. These people had not been monsters, yet he had slaughtered them as though they were, driven by a survival instinct so fierce it had eclipsed any sense of humanity.

Some, he told himself, deserved it—those who had reveled in their power, who had acted out of cruelty, who had lost themselves to their own hatred. But for so many others, it hadn’t been about power or cruelty. They were just doing their jobs, trying to stay alive in a world that demanded everything from them and gave so little in return. He had never stopped to ask if they deserved it, if they were truly his enemies. At the time, he hadn’t known better. He’d been lost, more weapon than man.

And now, as he looked back, he could see his own ignorance reflected in their faces, feel the weight of his choices pressing down on him. The reality was brutal and raw, and he could no longer escape it: each life he had taken wasn’t just a number, a statistic in his mind—it was a whole world, a life full of complexity, love, fear, and hope. And now, all of those worlds, all of those lives, lived on within him, stitched together into a twisted, painful mosaic, a haunting testament to what he had done and what he could never undo.

Others were from this world, a place both strange and painfully familiar. Together, these lives formed an endless, restless symphony within him, each life a story unfinished, an existence snuffed out.

The flood of memories surged, cascading over him like waves crashing against rock, relentless and overwhelming. He felt himself pulled deeper into the collective pain of those lost souls—each memory more vivid, each life more haunting.The echoes of their thoughts, their emotions, filled his mind, each voice clamoring to be heard, each existence demanding acknowledgment—those who had been assimilated by the mindflayer colony.

The child’s terrified whimper echoed persistently, her small body curling inward as if she could protect herself from what was to come. He could feel her heart racing, a tiny drum beating against a tidal wave of dread. She had clung to that worn doll with all the strength her tiny hands could muster, her last sliver of comfort in a world that had turned monstrous. Her fear lingered, wrapping around his mind like iron chains, binding him to the innocent life she could never fully live.

Then came the warriors, proud and defiant, each one fighting not just for survival but for dignity. He could feel the sensation of weapons gripped in calloused hands, the sting of sweat in their eyes, the overwhelming urge to survive. They had fought with ferocity, clinging to the belief that their lives had meaning, that they could prevail against the mindflayers. Yet, one by one, they had fallen, their final thoughts not of anger but of regret and despair. Their faces haunted him, eyes glassy and unseeing, each warrior carrying the weight of a life they would never return to.

The memories shifted, bringing forth the lives of those who had lived simpler, quieter existences. He felt the farmer’s hands, rough and cracked from years of hard labor, each creased line telling a story of toil and sacrifice. This man had lived with an undying love for his family, braving each day with quiet resilience. The images played on, showing him a healer, her hands steady as she tended the wounds of the fallen. The healer’s heart had ached with each life she couldn’t save, her hands stained with the blood of countless souls. Her fear of failure weighed heavily on him now, the memory of her grief sinking deep within him.

The elderly woman’s laughter echoed faintly, a remnant of happier times, her voice rich and warm. She had told stories to her granddaughter, tales of adventure and wonder, her face lit with love. She had been a source of light in the darkness, yet now her memory flickered like a candle threatened by a gust of wind. He could feel her warmth slipping away, leaving only the hollow ache of her absence.

Each soul, each fragment of humanity that had been absorbed into the mindflayer’s colony, brought with it a profound weight, and within him, they all swirled, restless, aching to be free. He could feel their final moments, the terror, the defiance, the acceptance of a cruel fate as they realized they would become nothing more than parts of a vast, indifferent mind.

The memories of those from this world, those who had wielded magic and clashed with eldritch forces, were sharper, more piercing. Their lives were colored with strange energies, bound to this world’s unique power. He could feel the thrill of their magic and the tragedy of its cost. Some had been mages, pouring their very essence into ancient rituals, hoping to protect their people; others were defenders who had met the mindflayers head-on, believing themselves invincible until their own strength was turned against them.

Each memory tore at him, filling him with emotions he couldn’t entirely call his own. Every breath he took was heavy with the weight of thousands of unfulfilled lives, their voices an endless chorus of regret, anger, love, and sorrow. He was not simply haunted; he was bound to them, each life intertwined with his own, each voice becoming part of a dark symphony within him. And for a brief moment, he felt the despair of a thousand souls, the yearning for release, the agony of an existence that had been swallowed up by a force beyond their control.

In his old world, he had fought to survive, carving a place for himself in the unforgiving shadows. But here, in this twisted existence, he was more than a survivor—he was a vessel, an receptacle for the lost and broken, a monument to lives extinguished before their time. He felt less than human, yet more than a monster, trapped in the chasm between life and death, an unending witness to a pain that was no longer solely his own.

As Alex opened his eyes, he felt a profound calm settle over him, like the stillness of a deep lake untouched by wind. His gaze sharpened, hardened by the countless lives and memories that surged through him, and he met the nightmare’s stare with a defiant, unbreakable intensity. His lips twisted into a bitter, resolute smile as he rose taller, letting the weight of all he had done and all he had endured fuel him. He would not bend, not here, not to this.

The nightmare dissolved, the creature’s twisted, mocking form melting into a thick pool of black ichor. It had been no true fight. Alex had known from the beginning—these specters were illusions conjured from the shadows, tricks meant to fracture their minds and break their resolve. From the moment he’d stepped foot into this cursed forest, he’d used the truesight spell he’d cast on himself, exposing these nightmares as hollow deceptions. Around him, the pools of ichor lay still, their dark surfaces broken by faint ripples, each containing a creature, its form a grotesque blend of mud and despair, grasping at their deepest fears.

He scanned the clearing, searching for his companions. Each of them had faced their own terrors, their own hidden wounds brought to life by these cursed illusions. Shadowheart was steady, her breathing ragged but victorious, and Karlach, her stance defiant, shook off her own fear. But as his eyes moved to Wyll, his heart tightened. Wyll lay curled on the ground in a fetal position, his face hidden, eyes squeezed shut. Tiny spiders, each with the heads of his father and Florrick, skittered across his chest, whispering words meant to cut deeper than any blade. Above him loomed a flaming, twisted cambion figure wielding a sword, its form bearing a resemblance to the one Alex had first encountered on the mindflayers' ship.

A flash of pity surged through Alex. With a single, focused wave of his hand, he incinerated the apparition, the flames of his elemental magic devouring it in an instant. The nightmare dissipated with a hiss, leaving only the faint smell of smoke in the air. Karlach was already rushing to Wyll’s side, pulling him up, whispering words of comfort as he struggled to regain his breath.

Once he saw Wyll was safe, Alex reached into his psionic vault, his hand closing around Valni’s doll. Its delicate stitching and worn fabric had guided them this far, pointing them toward hope in the darkness. He focused his mind on it, his psionic compass unfurling in his mind and pointing the way they would follow, leading them onward.