Wielding a waning consciousness, Azrael barely recalled the string of events that followed. In a blink, the wreckage of his orphanage became a holding cell.

  Behind the abyss of closed lids, silver hair and a headless corpse emerged amidst the pitch-black backdrop, willing a surge of bile up his throat and yet his bare innards hardly spilled a drop.

  He switched from a tear-streaked coughing fit to a waxing and waning state of mind, till at last he heard steel clambering over cemented floors, dipping his consciousness into the void.

  *

  Water trickled down a clogged basin at irregular intervals, its incessant tap against the cracked ceramic, reverberating throughout the brick laden cell. Faint embers were lit outside his barred gates, lighting up a path along the corridor, feeding him traces of the world beyond.

  Stirring from his sleep-deprived slumber, with bruised bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes, his hair stuck out at odd angles. Awoken by the pitter-patter emanating from a leaky basin, Azrael rolled over from his back to chest, pushing off the floor. A sudden burst of pain shot up his limbs, toppling his stance, till he was reduced to a wincing coil. He clutched his face and gave in to the throbbing ache, resigning to his rotting excuse for a creaky cot.

  “Did he have to hit that hard?” asked Azrael, biting back a curse.

  You live with pain, a small price to pay to escape death’s embrace.

  Briar’s voice resounded in his head, subduing the throbbing ache. He eased his battered body out his bed. Rising to his feet, he fell over, again. Extending a hand, he eagerly clutched the barred metal for assistance.

  “Is any of this worth it?” he asked, clamping his bruised palpebrae over his eyes. His focus zeroed in on the blood-stained haunting corpses, seared onto the back of his lids.

  “Living’s a pain, ain’t it?” A feminine voice perked up from an adjacent cell, her voice as clear as a summer sky, a misplaced tone in a desolate cell. “If ye’re gonna exist like those brain-dead zombies fer people, it really makes ya question what really qualifies as living.”

  Scratching his head, Azrael opened his eyes, turning towards the source of the feminine, summertime melody of a voice. He hoped to catch a glimpse of his newfound intrigue, in spite of the brick wall dividing their cells.

  “Where’re we?” he asked.

  “I’ve no clue to be honest. But I can assure ye, we ain’t in the human world. If we’re, I haven’t heard ‘o a place called the Abyzz anywhere.”

  “Abyss? Like a chasm?” The place sounded vaguely familiar. Mol’okh had briefly mentioned the name offhand, in the midst of his jabber.

  “Chasm, hell, whatever ye wanna call it. Apparently spelt with a pair ‘o zs at the end. Anyways, it’s been forever since I’ve talked with a person in this hellhole. I thought I was gonna lose it in solitary confinement.”

  “Solitary confinement? What about the people across?”

  “Like I said. They’re all nothing but walking corpses. Yer hearing’s a lil’ lacking.”

  Wailing sirens cut through the conversation, upending the flow of questions Azrael had had. The barred doors creaked open.

  Nearly halfway through, a gust of wind propelled the prisoners out the cells, including the redhead. Stumbling over, he nearly welcomed the floor with a smothering smooch.

  A sturdy arm grabbed him by the collar before he hit the ground, hoisting him to his feet. For a moment, he thought the serpentine shadows Mol’okh had commanded were tailing him, piercing his heart with a round of terror.

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  “Get yer act together,” chided the summertime melody, her voice lulling the horror he had recalled.

  “Thanks,” said Azrael, wearily rising to his feet. He took note of his conversational partner’s firm grip, as he turned around to express more of his appreciation. In that moment, he found a second helping of gratitude stuck in his throat, failing his tongue.

  Anticipating a slender maiden with clear blue eyes and flowing blonde hair, he was taken aback. Coming face to face with a hulking mass for a woman, framed by dishevelled chocolate hair and piercing amber eyes with beefy arms nearly as thick as his slight physique, and legs almost double her arms’ thickness; he couldn’t help but falter.

  “Ye alright in there?” asked the summertime voice, nudging the redhead’s forehead with a thick finger. Instantly, she dispelled his stupor with a sturdy touch.

  Rubbing his smarting temple, adding to the throbbing headache he had had, Azrael opened and closed his jaw, wordlessly flapping his gums.

  “Don’t tell me, ye’ve already joined those dolts.” She gestured towards the array of prisoners standing on either side, distaste creeping into her voice. “Before they make yer first day yer last, allow me to introduce myself. Me name’s Stella.”

  “Oh right,” he said, with a jolt. “I’m Azrael.”

  “It’s either nice to meet ya or goodbye,” she said with a sigh.

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Ye’ll see.”

  Fumes poured into the prison corridor, coiling and swerving the corners as a serpent, propelling the lined-up prisoners towards an entryway.

  “Follow the crowd.” She reached out and squeezed Azrael’s arm, nearly crushing the bones underneath.

  He winced, disgruntled. He tried hiding his pain as well as he could but she had gripped the one part of him that wasn’t bruised and yet it still hurt.

  The gust of fumes shuffled them in a single file, nearly toppling over non-compliant prisoners, as the vapours willed them forward.

  The redhead heard an occasional scream or two, from behind. The moment he took a closer look at the rest of the prisoners, he realised what Stella had meant. Blank faced with almost mask-like expressions were plastered across the features of both men and women, who walked about mechanically, like cogs in a wheel.

  “Are they really human?” he asked, walking at a steady pace.

  “Can’t blame ‘em.” She brushed past him, walking at nearly double his pace. “This place can weigh heavily on the hearts ‘o the ordinary. Surviving in here requires real mettle.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Fer now, steel yer resolve. Focus on a reason, any reason, on why ye wanna continue living past this place.” Stella’s warning held a certain edge as she came to an abrupt halt, in front of a pair of unguarded iron doors.

  A nauseating stench welcomed the prisoners past the entryway. Azrael wrinkled his nose in blatant revulsion, taking a tentative step back.

  Maybe it’s something else. He wanted it to be something else. “Did someone forget to clean up their barf?” he asked in a quaking voice.

  “Ye’re not wrong.”

  Every fourth or fifth prisoner, especially the ones shuffling past the iron doors than the ones already there, broke down into a retching and gagging riot. Just plain old vomit then.

  He noticed the expressionless inmates maintained an unperturbed visage, despite the erratic screeches interspersed amongst their ranks.

  “I’m surprised ye haven’t begun wailing like the rest of ‘em fresh meat,” said Stella.

  Swallowing against a lump in his throat, he tore his attention away from her hulking frame. DAMMIT!

  Inevitability gripped him like a tight noose around his throat, as his eyes fell upon a familiar sight.

  Like a blade to the gut, he doubled over.

  He retched, summoning bile from the pith of his existence and out his lips. He wanted to expel every ounce of fluid, shed every tear moistening his eyes. And yet not an ounce of liquid left him.

  Wiping his mouth, he had barely spilled any spittle. His lips were cracked and was on the brink of bruising. Another wound ready to be.

  Shaking his hand and head, he forged on, breaking free from his outburst. His gaze crawled over flecks of crimson staining the white-washed rectangular chamber, like masterful strokes over a blank canvas. Strewn bits of muscle, sinew and bones littered the ground beneath. The whole setup was a reminder of the humbling form flesh could take.

  Over the sights he took in, the plump mounds hoisted silver hair, and a headless corpse. Blinking confusedly, the redhead rubbed his eyes, having a second take of the familiar corpses over the desecrated cadavers. Amidst his turmoil, metal pressed into his hands dissolved the ghosts of the past that he couldn’t shelve.

  “Our job’s simple,” said Stella, leaving a reach extender and a dozen disposal bags in his possession. “We toss the remains into the bags and nab more ‘o the plastic from the walls. Once they’re full, toss ‘em in the opposite corner.” She gestured using the hand holding her own implements, guiding him to the work ahead. “Keep yer hands moving, no matter what. Once ye start, don’t stop until ye hear ‘em alarms from earlier, otherwise…”

  She shifted her gaze towards a sniffling boy, who was only younger than Azrael by a year or two. He had broken down in a full-fledged hysterical bout, his implements strewn about. His wails went on for a half breath longer. Then, he was cut short by a flash of steel, extending off a pole.

  The scythe had materialised from thin air, wielded by a dark garbed apparition who kept adding corpses to the leftover pile. Reach extenders clacked, and plastic ruffled, grabbing and bagging necrotic flesh and coagulated blood globs.

  Azrael could feel the gears of his limbs moving, mirroring the people he had dismissed as mere ‘cogs.’