. . . ugh, my head . . .

Pain, blurred vision-- fire, smoke-- nighttime-- banking-- check on grandma-- wake up. An illogical series of events unexplainable through any series of events; even reverse chronological order could not make any sense of the day, especially worse because he, himself, could not make any sense of his day, either. It was as blurred as his vision was, with or without rhyme or reason.

Ignoring all that was around him, including the awkward feeling of being cramped back first against some sort of vertical incline, he lifted his hand weakly to his skull. As his eyes slowly parted, he found that his vision was still blurry, but at least he could make out a few details. His pants were still on. That was a plus. That meant he still he had legs. Large chunks of stone scattered by his thighs were a bad sign, though. He felt more discomfort than he did pain, that much was for sure, but seeing chunks of stone laying there as if they'd been blown apart, while remembering last that he was in a stone building, was certainly cause for alarm.

The more he blinked, the better his vision became, but it didn't get perfect; not while he was paying any attention, at least. As he could see more, he found that there were much larger chunks of stone dropped, most of which originated from the newly included, fundamentally massive air ducts somehow blown out of the ceiling and outer wall. He couldn't tell if there was anyone under the slabs of stone, but he could tell that there were many an ember still burning, scattered throughout, but mainly focused upon spots of carpet not covered in dust or debris. It was still nighttime, too; the last he remembered, he was at least able to see the moon.

What the hell happened . . .? It's like a bomb went off in here . . .

Across the room, a man slowly emerged from a pile of rubble, metal more prominent around him than stone. His face was smeared with black soot, but he seemed fundamentally uninjured. His body was toned and muscular, which kept him alive, from the looks of things, and still at a high level of functioning despite his close presence to the origination of an apparent explosion...

"Hey! Hey, come on!"

He would reach into the pile of rubble next to him, shaking the arm of a man mostly covered by dust and fallen stone. The second man would be able to slip out of it, though. The mobile man would stand up, though, looking eagerly at a second pile, something that seemed untouched by the ruined metal around it. Fortunately, there were several bags that hadn't been harmed. Bags full of... Money, from the looks of it...

For the bystander, this would perhaps clue him in on where he was. He was in a bank, and the two men had barged into the rear area of the bank, and after just a matter of second, the building was in pieces. And the people... Several of the tellers and the security guards appeared to be buried or worse... Much as the customers. They wouldn't be able to tell this was a mistake, though, a problem caused by an overeager robber and his love of explosives...

Nhh . . . damn. Everything is torn to hell here.

Everything was in ruins, some things were still on fire. Some individuals were buried, some were lucky enough to not be--or only partially be. There were a ton of injured, though. Now that his eyes were starting to adjust, he began to realize the necessity in trying to help them. He was a bit of a wreck, too, but it was mainly his skin and clothes. His dress shirt was torn and burnt, much worse than his pants were, and he had bits of dust and ash all over him, but not in any supreme amount. He had some muscle, though--average for his age, but enough to get him by. More than enough to begin the process of standing up. It was the moment that he was able to use the wall behind him as support to stand that he saw a shady deal . . .

Is that . . . oh, hell. You can be serious . . .

They could move, though--perfectly well, all things considered. Better than he could, and it wouldn't be too long before he'd be moving around fine. These two, though . . . they were robbing the place. He hadn't yet made the distinction that they were the cause of the explosion, but if they had the strength to drag money out of the bank, then they had the energy to drag injured out, too.

". . . h-hey! Wait!!" he cried out, reaching out for the two men that could move perfectly fine, "--there are hurt people, here! If you can move, we have to--"

--help get them out of here.

But he couldn't say it. Inhalation of smoke over time caused his lungs to rebel against him, and he immediately began to cough wildly. He was likely going to just be some strange young man to them, someone to ignore completely. They could easily have gotten out of there by the time he stopped coughing--one could only hope that those guys had something of a conscience.

The second robber wasn't inclined to help anybody, but the plea made him realize something... There was a lot of gravity to what he had just done, and perhaps most pressing was the fact that he couldn't be around when other people arrived. Reaching down again to grab his compatriot's hand, he turned his attention to the money and the exit...

The second robber was less lucid about the whole situation. As he slowly pulled himself from beneath the small debris, he was in a foggy state, much as the bystander had been. He could at least see his friend, though, while his friend was busy scooping up bags full of... Something.

"Samson? Where are we? Did we get the money yet?"

Samson, as he appeared to be called, looked at his friend, dragging him to his feet bodily. There were several bags hung over his free shoulder, and with his other hand, he stuck a remaining few bags into his friend's hands, pulling him towards the door. They'd be gone in a matter of seconds, without taking the time to help any of the people injured...

“H-hey! C’mon!!” the man shouted again, before erupting into yet another fit of coughing, paralyzing him from stopping the two thieves.

It wasn’t so much the money he was concerned with, though. There were injured people all over, some of which would die if they didn’t get medical attention in the very near future. He couldn’t justify leaving these people to die, even if there were some huge some of money waiting for him if he did. Even if they had left after helping out with the injured, and took all the money in the bank with them, there’d have been no disdain . . .

But in the end, the man wound up feeling nothing but unpleasant emotions for the two robbers, one of which seemed to go by the name of Samson. Who were these guys, anyways? Small time thieves? That couldn’t be it, though. If they had anything to do with the explosion, there was no way that this was just a small job. The man reasoned these bits out as he watched them go, unable to do much more than cough until his lungs felt raw.

Unfortunately, it turned out that the thieves were the only ones capable of rescuing anyone, and they had abandoned the bank. Shortly after their departure, the coughing fit began to take its toll, and one of the last people left conscious in the bank soon found his vision growing dark. Desperate to try and save something—anyone—he blindly trudged onward, trying to remain standing, but barely succeeding. All he did was feel the ground, and when he could discern a body, he grabbed it by the shoulders and pulled, not paying attention to gender or size. He couldn’t. He was losing consciousness. By the time he got out of the building, there were two bodies laid out upon the ground: the one he had dragged out of there, and himself. He had finally blacked out as soon as he got out . . .

The men wouldn't stop, the second robber being supported by Samson, who still had some strength remaining. The death rate from the explosion was fortunately small. While there were quite a few injuries, the police and clean up crew would find no loss of life at all. They were extremely fortunate in that regard...

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"And so we commit his body to the ground and his soul to the keeping of the Master of Death..."

Samson stood nearby to the burial site, dressed in black, still free. His accomplice, however, had not been so lucky. It had only taken a day before he was unable to talk, his lungs overtaken by a respiratory infection. A day later, he had slipped into a coma. It was the fourth day, and the only death from the explosion had occurred, the gravity of the situation driven home by its closeness...

"We shall not worry for him, for he shall find his rewards in heaven."

Any other attendees to the funeral, he was unlikely to know. He hadn't even been the person to organize this job. For that matter, he was still the sole possessor of the money that had been stolen... He had no contacts within Rasmid's organization to speak to, or pay tribute to, or make further arrangements with. Instead, he focused on paying his last respects, his thoughts filled with guilt, however late it had been in coming...

As the precession continued, more arrived, and some left. This may have been the only casualty experienced during the incident, but quite a few people were paying their respects. Some looked important, well dressed and in groups, and some looked like bums off of the street.

It wasn't too long before he was addressed. "You're Samson, yes?"

Shorter, wider, but well dressed. The man addressing Samson was a few inches shorter and just a bit heavier, but predominantly in the area of his gut. He must have gained weight in his middle age. The man had dark skin, tanned, but comparatively light complected when put up beside of someone who was outside all the time. The easiest way to tell that he was well off and wealthy--therefore important--was his style of dress: New Xexorian suit and tie, perfectly tailored for his body type, and it kept him modest.

The second tip-off to his importance was the fact that he had bodyguards--two, in particular, both well dressed like himself, one tall and wide, the muscular type, while the other was short, pale, with oriental features and natural blond hair. Both of them were wearing dark glasses, however, limiting any further details regarding them.

"I am..."

Samson was a bit wary of the man, partially for fear that he may be involved with organized crime. If he was his friend's contact, then he was likely here looking for some of the money he'd stolen the other day... Or worse. Samson didn't really have any illusions about what he was doing. It was illegal, and bad things happened, as evidenced by the events of the day. It was the only job he'd ever succeeded at, though...

"Who are you?"

Samson was quick, and imagined he could outrun these men if it came to it...

"Ah, good, good . . ." the older man replied.

He smiled ruefully, yet joyously. Even in such a sad event, he just seemed like the type of man who never stopped smiling--the jolly type, easy to get along with, impossible to consider dangerous. His bodyguards, maybe. He, himself, wasn't that threatening of a man in appearance, but his bodyguards were. The taller one, wide as he was, muscular and well beyond "athletic," was intimidating by himself. The shorter one--the blond Cizokian, who had his hair shaved on the sides and back, and long enough to be pulled back into a pony tail, would have been altogether tolerable, were it not for the scars on his cheeks, up on his brow, and his hands--from what could be seen. Scars from cuts, it seemed. He was short, thin, and presumably in his twenties, and yet he appeared to have gone through more combat than his beefier counterpart.

Though neither of his bodyguards seemed interested, the older man turned to look upon the precession. It was coming to an end. Soon enough, everyone was going to start going home, but for the time being, they had the opportunity to pay their final respects to the deceased. The older man remained near Samson, though, and when he spoke, he was addressing Samson himself, more than he was himself or the deceased.

"He was a good man. A good man and a hard worker," he said with a nod, "I'm going to make sure his family is well taken care of. It's the least I can do."

"That's good to hear..."

Samson definitely felt a certain amount of guilt at the way his friend had died, but he only had a bit of an idea of where their jobs had come from. He'd always been intentionally blind, and had just received a cut of the money at the end. That way, he wasn't really responsible for everything...

"You're Rasmid?"

Samson knew Rasmid by reputation if nothing else, though. No one else would walk around with bodyguards and offer to help the families of his workers. But what did he want...?

"That I am," the older gentleman replied.

It was true; a person didn't go around with bodyguards, dressed as nicely as he was, without being someone of significant social importance--someone like Rasmid. To what end he was important, one may never understand; how many contacts he had, one may never know, but to understand such was to get in good with the man, or get in bad, neither of which any smart man would ever want to do.

The regretfully deceased had done a lot of jobs for Rasmid, and Samson had tagged along on a few. Two, three, maybe more. That was just it, though: he was a tag-along, not someone that had personally met Rasmid or any of his associates. He wasn't on the pay-roll or anything.

"I'm curious," Rasmid began, but paused for a moment, "And forgive the inquiry on this solemn day--but, Samson, do you still intend to do much work around here?"

"Yes."

Samson was quick to respond, having already known his answer, if it came to this. His friend had tried to protect him from this, while taking the best rewards for himself. He had no other real skills. He was a terrible student. He didn't know a trade. The best he could hope for was some of low-paying, menial job. Unless he worked for Rasmid. There was a certain amount of danger involved, but the payoffs were so much better...

"I want to work for you."

He had an idea of what he was getting into.

"Very good," replied Rasmid with a smile upon his lips.


He tossed in his bed, rightfully hating the situation he was finding himself in. Flashes in his mind distributed flames throughout, images of blood and fire, bodies all over the place. That was . . . traumatic. His body was as wracked as his mind, too, clinging to the night before. NIght before? Or was it two nights before? Or more? As he slowly opened his eyes, he started to realize that his situation wasn't a dream at all.

Nhhh . . . everything hurts. Where the hell am I?

Whitewash floors, metal trays, an iron cart beside of thin bed, elevated off the floor--much unlike his actual bed. A curtain surrounded it. What was this place? It couldn't possibly be . . .

Oh, fuck, I'm in a hospital.

That explained the bandage all around his forehead, and the feeling of one around his back and chest--the fact he was shirtless, and covered in a white blanket with a sorely uncomfortable pillow under his head. The worst part about this was exactly how much he loathed hospitals.

The hospital itself seemed to be little more than a single room, with perhaps a dozen beds, separated by curtains. A small knock would come at the wall beside the edge of the curtain, apparently just a courtesy, as the person behind it wouldn't wait for a response before entering.

"How are we feeling?"

The woman who entered would appear to be a nurse by her young age and voice, but the long white coat, clipboard, and stethoscope she wore appeared to designate her as a doctor. Still in her teens by the look of things, she had black hair cut to ear length, and an expression that wasn't very patient. There were other patients to attend to, as well...

There were always reasons for a person's hatred of hospitals, if they hated hospitals. Usually, those were good reasons, and people talked about them openly whenever they were actually in hospitals or nearing one. His reasons were his own, though. He didn't talk about them, nor did he think about them.

With the arrival of a nurse--or a doctor?, rather--came a disintegration of all thoughts. He simply stared at her blankly, not moving his lips, breathing out of his nose, and realizing that even that was painful.

"Like I've been hit with a wrecking ball."

Though, his health was a fairly decent concern of his--it wasn't top priority. There were several thoughts that came to mind shortly after he responded, many of which were essentials in learning what the hell happened to him.

Then, he asked the first thing that came to mind: "Where am I?"