The Legion: Heartson

A fowl taste pervaded Mason's mouth as he woke up. His mind swam, thick and sluggish, the world around him hazy and warped. He blinked, the motion heavy and slow, as if even his eyelids refused to cooperate. Everything was blurry, disjointed, like a bad dream.

Mason: What... happened...?

His limbs felt heavy, his body burning, as though his skin had been set aflame. The heat was unbearable, searing him from the inside out. Was he sick? No, this wasn't sickness... It felt worse. Much worse. For a moment, he wondered if he was still asleep. He had to be. This had to be some terrible dream.

But then he blinked again, and his surroundings came into a focus. This wasn't his room. No soft mattress beneath him. No familiar walls. No... He was sitting—sitting?—in a narrow, damp alleyway. The rough, cold ground bit into his skin through his clothes. His mind reeled, trying to grasp at something, anything that made sense.

Mason: A... kidnapping?

It was the first thought that surfaced, weak and shaky. Someone had taken him, right? That's the only explanation. People get kidnapped all the time in movies. But where was the kidnapper? 

Shouldn't there be ropes or a blindfold? 

He tried to reach for his phone, but the moment he stretched his arm, every muscle in his body screamed, pain coursing through him like wildfire. He gasped, choking on the agony as if his flesh were melting under a burning stove.

What the hell is going on?

He rarely left the manor in the winter. He hated the cold, the way it bit into his skin, numbing him to the bone. And he had been home last night. Hadn't he? Yeah, he'd gone to bed, snug and warm under his blankets in his room. There was no way he could have ended up outside. None of this made sense.

The pain flared again, a hot, stabbing sensation that refused to let him think clearly. Mason lay still for a moment, the world around him spinning. His breath came in shallow gasps as he fought to make sense of what was happening. Stay calm, stay calm... 

But how do you stay calm when everything feels like it's falling apart?

Then, in the midst of his panic, things began to change. Slowly, like fog after a storm. His vision cleared, sharpening. 

Oh. Oh, he could see now. That was good, right? His nose, which had been assaulted by that awful stench, cleared, and the burning in his body, the fire in his veins—faded away. Just like that. Gone. As if it had never been there in the first place.

A strange, almost euphoric sense of relief washed over him, and for a split second, Mason thought maybe it really was all in his head. Maybe he'd wake up, laugh about it later, and go back to normal life. 

Normal... That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

But then, as his eyes finally took in the scene around him, the real source of the putrid smell hit him.

Mason: Oh God...

Lying at his feet were three grotesque, dead creatures. They weren't just animals, they were something... else. Something wrong.

Their bodies were large, unnaturally large, like something out of one of those old monster movies he used to sneak into. Their fur—if it could even be called that, was burnt, charred, with deep, jagged scratches running across their flesh. Spikes, unnatural and jagged, jutted out of their backs, twisting and curling in ways that made his stomach churn.

The sudden, searing pain in his hand cut his thoughts short. He yelped, clutching his left hand as a burning, intense heat ripped through his palm. 

Is my hand melting?

It it gonna fall off?

He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the worst, for his skin to burn away like wax under a flame.

But when he opened his eyes again, what he saw was far worse than anything he could have imagined.

He held the palm of his left hand out in front of him, and watched as a flame, black as night, danced across his palm.

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Mason Heartson was found passed out in an alley on December 12th. Cold, alone, unconscious—just another boy who had wandered too far after a reckless night. That's what they said. 

That's what everyone assumed.

Too much to drink, they all said. 

Another rich kid with too much freedom and not enough sense. And maybe, just maybe, that would've been easier to believe. But the truth? The truth was far less convenient.

After all the tests, after every question, even after he told them everything—no one listened. Not really. His parents, the doctors, the police, even his own mother, they all wrote it off as nonsense. 

And why wouldn't they?

It sounded absurd, like something out of one of a comic or movie.

Gabrielle Heartson: Whatever's on your mind, sweetheart, we're here. You know you can tell us anything, right? No judgments.

No judgments. But the way she looked at him... her eyes, soft but distant, her voice too careful, like she was speaking to a fragile thing that might shatter with one wrong move. 

She didn't believe him. 

Not really. And that stung. More than he wanted to admit. She was his mom. Wasn't she supposed to believe him no matter how crazy it sounded?

It's fine. It's fine... Of course, she doesn't get it. No one would. If I were her, I wouldn't believe me either.

But the hurt still simmered, a small burn in his chest that he couldn't quite shake. It was the same thing, over and over, people not believing him, brushing off what he knew was real, turning him into the punchline of some joke he wasn't in on. Maybe that's why he stopped explaining it. Stopped trying to convince them. They'd already made up their minds.

Lying in his hospital bed, Mason felt the sterile white walls closing in. He nodded when his mother left, the barest movement, his throat tight. He didn't know if he could explain it to anyone. 

Not anymore.

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Again.

The thought barely registered before Mason felt his body slam against the hard wall of the Heartson Manor's gym. Pain shot through him like a live wire, rattling every bone and stealing the breath from his lungs. 

How—how did she do it so easily? 

His mind reeled, struggling to keep up with the ache and the humiliation as he slumped to the floor. But he forced himself to look up, to take in the maid's stance, calm and unbroken, like his effort was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

She tilted her head, her gaze softened with a distant concern. 

Maid: Young Master, perhaps that's enough for today

Her voice was even, as though she hadn't just thrown him like a ragdoll.

But Mason pushed himself to his feet, feeling the throb in his head which reminded him of his shortcomings. He clenched his fists, attempting to steady his breathing.

Calm down. Calm down.

Mason: Shut it.

The words laced with defiance, his lips curling into a smug grin that didn't quite mask his frustration.

Mason: I'm not done yet.

He forced himself into a low stance, feeling the tension in his legs. She didn't understand. His goal was within reach. The thing he had been pushing himself towards, he would grab hold of it today.

He lunged forward, launching himself at her with reckless abandon, the familiar burn of exertion spreading through his limbs. But she sidestepped with ease, her movements leisurely as she twisted out of his reach. 

Before he could react, her foot hooked behind his ankle, sweeping him off balance, and in a heartbeat, she had him pinned to the floor. He struggled, but her grip was like iron.

Mason's chest heaved as he lay on the ground, feeling the bruise blooming across his back where he'd landed. A wry smile twisted his lips even as he winced. 

Mason: I'm not gonna stop.

The maid hesitated, her brows drawing together in a faint frown. 

Maid: Young Master, you've pushed yourself enough these past days. There's no need to—

Mason: Enough talking! 

He didn't need her sympathy. His fists clenched tighter, knuckles whitening. 

With a grunt, he launched himself at her again, ignoring the sharp protests of his battered muscles. His focus tunneled on one thing—to land a hit. This time, he moved faster, weaving, dodging.

But she moved even faster, sidestepping his every strike with such ease it almost seemed unfair. Her counterattacks were light, even her blows were calculated, pouring in just enough strength to push him back without causing any real harm. He didn't care. Even as bruises blossomed along his arms and legs, even as his breath came in ragged gasps, he threw himself at her, inching closer each time, until—

Mason's foot snagged on the edge of the mat, and his balance wavered, his own body betraying him in that crucial moment. The maid's hand shot toward him at such a speed he knew he could not avoid it. He braced, muscles tensed for the impact, but—

It never came.

Mason blinked, his gaze lifting to see Claire, the ever-dutiful head maid, her expression as unreadable as ever, standing between him and his opponent, her hand raised having caught his opponent's blow with ease.

Clair, just Claire, the head maid of The Heartson Manor, was a terrifying force indeed. Despite being in her early 20s–younger than every other maid in the manor–she managed to use her immense aura and presence to commandeer respect from every resident.

Every resident except for Mason of course.

Claire turned her gaze down to him.

Claire: Young Master, continuing would be pointless. This exercise serves no purpose if all it does is exhaust you.

Mason struggled to his feet, his jaw clenched as he forced himself to stand tall, ignoring the ache that gnawed at his bones. 

Mason: I was doing just fine until you decided to interrupt.

Her expression remained impassive as she met his gaze.

Claire: If fine means blindly throwing yourself into failure, then yes, you were.

The words stung, but he masked it with a defiant scowl, turning his back on her. 

What did she know? 

He muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself. 

Mason: I'm getting stronger. I've improved. I know I have.

But as he walked away towards his shower, her words followed him.

Claire: Arrogance dressed up as determination is just denial you know.

He paused, his hand on the doorframe, but he didn't turn around.

Claire: You want to prove yourself? Then learn patience. Right now, you're just fighting for the sake of fighting, swinging wildly, hoping something sticks. But true strength doesn't come from pretending like that.

Mason pushed through the door.

Claire: Arrogance only leads to hollow victories. Build a foundation before you stack all your pride on top of it, or you'll find yourself standing on nothing. Without that groundwork, failure becomes a pattern, a cycle that you'll never break.

He ignored her, letting the words slide over him, refusing to let them sink in. She was wrong. He knew he was getting stronger. He could feel it, each bruise, each ache was proof of the progress he'd made.

But as he stood under the stream of water, the sting of her words settled in, echoing louder than any physical pain.

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Mason rubbed a towel through his damp curly blonde hair as he emerged from the bathroom, the steam trailing him like a mirage.

He moved through his room—if it could still be called that—more like a cluttered battlefield of half-formed ideas and discarded thoughts. His foot knocked into something solid, and he squinted down at a stack of old, glossy magazines, half-open on the floor. 

Dirty dishes cluttered the desk, bits of old food sticking to their edges, a smell just on the edge of unpleasant lingering in the air. Gadgets, long-forgotten projects, even wrinkled sketches of creatures with twisted bodies and flames sprouting from their skin, lay strewn across the room.

He stepped carefully through the mess, hopping over a pile of old snacks, and finally reached his laptop, still open, screen littered with tabs and internet searches. 

Black flames, one read, followed by endless variations of "mysterious alleyways" and "unexplained creatures." His fingers hovered over the mouse, and he shut the tabs one by one until he reached his email inbox. 

The unread message sat there like an accusation: Brentwood Graduation Ceremony. His school was moving on without him. His classmates would be standing in their crisp, new gowns, receiving diplomas, shaking hands with faculty, taking photos with proud parents. 

They wouldn't wait for him to catch up.

Why should they?

He stared at the email, feeling something sour and hot rise in his chest before he muttered under his breath.

Mason: Who needs it? 

His voice sounded too loud, a sound that felt false even to him. His gaze drifted to the cluttered room around him, and his lips twisted into a bitter smile. He could coast forever, couldn't he? Take it easy—who would care? Who'd notice if he slipped off the map entirely, or if he stayed holed up here, buried under his piles of...nothing.

Nah.

He shut his eyes, almost willing himself to believe in the lazy comfort he was painting. 

No. 

The ache was sharper, pricking at him from somewhere deeper than his idle thoughts. He couldn't just vanish. 

He didn't want to.

He closed the email, slamming the laptop shut with a flicker of irritation. It was fine. He'd come up with something to tell the maids later if they asked. His parents wouldn't even bother.

A knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. Mason flinched, stumbling back and landing knee-deep in the mess under his desk, his hand grazed against a half-finished sketch of something monstrous. 

He scrambled through the piles of clutter to the door, muttering curses under his breath as he pulled it open.

The maid, in truth he couldn't remember which one, stood there, her face carefully blank but her eyes slipping past him, widening as she took in the disaster of his room. 

Maid: Young Master. you've been summoned downstairs. I'm afraid the matter is urgent.

Mason felt his stomach lurch. He didn't need to ask why. 

They must've found out. 

His little habit of disappearing from classes had finally caught up to him. Still, he threw on an air of indifference, crossing his arms with a huff. 

Mason: I'll be down in a minute. 

But she wasn't finished. Her eyes flicked again to the room, and she added.

Maid: Shall I call for a cleaning service, Young Master?

The question struck him like an insult, his face flushing as he slammed the door shut with more force than he'd meant to. He pressed his back against the wood, breathing hard. She was gone, but that shame lingered. 

He reached for a shirt—a crumpled, worn one from a heap on the floor—and tugged it on, barely bothering to smooth it out before he headed toward the staircase, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. 

He was still thinking about her look, the way she'd regarded him as though he were a child in need of help.

It burned.