Constant Prometheus - First Chapter (Lost in Fog)

[Nick Galluzzi]

Chapter 1: Lost in Fog 

 

The air was filled with a thick and oppressive industrial fog as Constant worked. It hung across the workcamp in a uniform haze almost suffocating in its intensity, forcing Constant to breath slowly throughout the day lest he find himself gasping helplessly for breath. Was this fog the work of the Panathema Box and its opening, or was it merely the work of mankind’s industrial greed? The answer was beyond Constant’s vision. The pun was almost funny.

Constant was busy hauling. It was the job that had been given to him by the Assignment Bureau three weeks ago. He had been visited by one of their agents, in a military uniform, flanked by two soldiers, and taken to the workcamp of the assignment where he had been staying ever since, slowly making his way through his job along with the other thousand or so fog-obscured faces who had been doing the exact same thing. They were all strangers to him, and most were wearing the same Arcane Umbra military uniform as those who brought him here: that of their city state’s current military regime.

Given the terrible political situation the city was in, a responsible citizen might try to do more than merely cling to their life and survive, but unfortunately surviving seemed like all that Constant could do or be good for when his horizons were just 3 feet in front of him.

In that sense, he was the same type of garbage as the rotting plant matter he was so busy moving around.

The fog was better now than it had been a few weeks ago, when even the ground and his footing had been obscured. At this point, he could finally see the flat stone ground that he was standing on, and finally see the situation for what it was.

During his first few days at the camp, Constant had questioned why they hadn’t been given so much as a wheelbarrow to help them with their work and whether such a tool would help the company complete their assignment faster, but after three weeks he was just thankful for their lack of tools. If there were still things to be hauled around, then the government would still employ haulers, and if they still employed haulers, one of those haulers might still be him, and he’d be able to stay in this job instead of slipping into something worse.

In hindsight, it was still better to be here, than in the smoke-filled cul-de-sac of his former home, where the pollution had gotten so thick that living without sickness had become impossible. This smoggy workcamp, in a ruined city district, was where the new government had put him, along with all of the other troublesome cases. At the midpoint between its valued citizens and its criminals, this was where their military government decided to send those various people who they just didn’t want to deal with, through the remains of its legal system or otherwise.

Hauling was his occupation. In the truest sense of the word, he was definitely being occupied.

Or at least, his body was. His mind wandered off, far afield, to sunny skies and open fields where all of the buildings were intact, such distances from his monotonous work that part of him often forgot he was even at this pointless workcamp: particularly the main part of him.

There, he would forget the reality that he had to pull himself, along with the rest of this trash, this broken biomatter and rotting wood, from one end of this yard to the other end for, hopefully, the rest of his life. 

In his mind, he was flying through the clear and empty skies of his youth when even the urban landscape was covered with trees, flowers and fruits, rather than the rotting carcasses of green plant-life that he was now putting away. In Constant’s mind, those moments in his work where he’d be allowed to zone out and think of the past, were the only salvation he had left.

Yet surprisingly, despite how often he daydreamed, it was in a moment of rare lucidity, while he was concentrating on his hauling, making sure he wasn’t stumbling over the spillage from another person’s bag, that he heard the voice of his salvation.

“You ought to get out of here.”

Constant had never heard any of the other workers talk in the middle of their shift before, so the voice itself was startling. Glancing around, he couldn’t see anybody. If somebody was talking to him, with a voice that unmuffled, their shadow ought to be visible at the very least. The fog which surrounded them had already demonstrated how good it was at blocking out sound.

That voice… Had he just imagined it?

“I mean, in a certain way you did. Telepathic sounds aren’t technically experienced, so a person’s imagination has to do at least some of the heavy-lifting on that front.”

There was a voice in Constant’s head. He had reached the point where he was hearing things.

“Yes, to the first one. No to the second one. I mean, as I just explained, you’re not really ‘hearing’ anything. You’re really just imagining that you’re hearing something. The meaning of my words might be coming from me, but everything else is coming right from your head right now.”

That wasn’t what Constant meant.

“Oh, come on… Let me throw in the occasional comedic misunderstanding to lighten the mood a little here. After all, if I have anything to say about it, we aren’t going to stick with this depressing mood for any longer than we have to.”

So, Constant supposed, this being in his head must simply be the incarnation of his futile desires. How depressing it was, that they’d grown so overwhelming while he wasn’t paying attention, that they caused him to start hearing things that didn’t exist.

“Claiming that I don’t even exist is pretty ridiculous…” the voice continued, responding to Constant’s inner thoughts. “Even if I was just a voice in your head, I’d still be part of existence since I’d still exist as a voice. And for the record, I’m definitely not a thought or mere figment of your imagination, and I’m definitely going to get you out of here.”

Once again, Constant glanced around, but there was nobody there. Only an encroaching screen of misty white, enveloping him from all directions. Suddenly aware of the moments he had wasted, paused in the middle of the hauling route, and the sting of the warden’s punishment for when he arrived late to the drop-off point, Constant picked up the pace.

He’d have to escape if he wanted to avoid punishment for his time waste.

“Great! To freer pastures we go! The empty sky awaits us! First we’re going to have to sneak around the guards… Then we’re going to have to mask our presence in order to escape through their barrier…”

*He’d have to escape from this fog and apologize to the warden if he wanted to avoid punishment for his time waste.

“If you really want to avoid that punishment, the only surefire way is to get out of here. You want to escape with all your heart, don't you? Well, I’m saying that we should try with all of our heart to get out…”

Yet it was a matter of life or death against guards who held the power to kill him on sight. He longed to escape with all his heart, but since the outcome of such an attempt was obvious, wouldn’t it just be better to live?

“If it was only you, maybe the outcome would be obvious, but if it’s the both of us trying to accomplish it…”

Both Constantine and his imaginary friend? Wow. What a team.

“I told you! I’m not just imaginary!”

Then what exactly are you going to contribute to our escape cause, my ‘not-just-imaginary friend’?

“Well a plan, for one. The fog on days like this would be perfect for trying to run away.”

Literally anybody could tell you that. It wouldn’t matter though. In a perimeter outside of the worksite, defogging magic was used to make the fog much thinner, and thus wouldn’t hide him from the perimeter guards.

“Not if we used a little fog-magic of our own…”

The fog magic that Constant didn’t have the ability to perform, and had never learned?

“Just watch.”

And suddenly there was a change in the air, and the fog, which had been moderately thick before, became so dense in the area immediately around Constant, that he couldn’t even see the shadow of his hand when he put it an inch in front of his face.

How? Constant wondered. How had this voice managed to casually use fog magic if it was only part of his head?

“Well it’s largely about spreading your mana around an area with a uniform distribution, and then masking and altering it into the shape of opaque gasses. On the other hand, it’s also largely due to my skill in obfuscation and my ability to hide the inconvenient truth, even when it’s in plain sight” the mystical voice explained, as if that was remotely close to answering Constant’s question. He continued though, only giving the minimum information necessary to avoid argumentation. “Suffice to say, this isn’t my only trick… I’m going to get you out of here safely! Trust me!”

The trust that Constant felt was pretty minimal. He didn’t even know what this voice was, and couldn’t wrap his head around what its arrival ultimately meant for him. You only ever really heard one type of story about powerful voices communicating with poor disenfranchised people in this world. Given its lack of introduction, it only made sense to assume that this being was not any sort of god, but given the lack of any other feasible alternatives, maybe it was a divine being.

“Sure. Whatever. For the sake of simplicity, let's say that I am.”

Of course, to say the least, gods themselves often couldn’t be trusted either. Consider Kriegott, their society’s current God of War and the entity responsible for…

“My god, there's no pleasing you, is there… Look: you have somewhere to be, don't you? If we don't escape soon, the warden will start to question where you are and we’ll be searched for. We can clear up this entire question about what I am and whether you want to stick with me long term later, can't we?”

It was true. They’d need to hurry, but now was definitely the wrong time to escape.

“What is it now? We have a solid initial plan, don't we? You trust me, right? I have answers for what to do once we get out as well. But we really need to go before people start to get suspicious.”

But the problem was, if a worker like Constant made their escape before dropping their  cargo off, then what exactly were they supposed to do with the huge bag full of rotting garbage they were carrying around? A giant pile of evidence to be abandoned in the middle of the path, way too large to sneak out or to hide anywhere on the flat surface that was Constant’s hauling route. A hauler could only hope to make a break after he dropped his cargo off, while his bag was empty and while it could be made to hide under his shirt or within his pocket. Anyone could tell you that.

“Uh… Ok. Yeah. Yeah; fine.” the probable god said, “But right after dropping off our cargo here, we’re going right out, ok? If we delay this for any longer people might start to notice something different about you.”

Constant agreed, and with a newfound sense of energy and purpose, he started to sprint forward, towards the shape of the looming free skys which marked out his best life.

 

…

 

Constant was in pain.

“Oh; don't worry! We should be almost out…”

Constant was in serious pain.

“Well you can still walk, right? The punishment spell they just used on you doesn’t cause you any bodily harm, right? I was paying attention. It only creates the sensation of pain within your body, made to stimulate your pavlovian response and discourage you from defying orders. It’s not like anything could be broken or sore, just from that.”

Constant didn’t know. Maybe his body wasn’t literally dying after that round of severe punishment he got for being five minutes late to the drop off point, but it certainly felt like he was, and frankly, it was taking all of his focus just to keep his feet from falling out from under him at this point.

“*Sigh*. This is why I didn’t want you to go back. If I used my abilities, I’d be able to hide you pretty effectively, even from pursuers, but if you can't even walk any more without noisily wincing, there's not much I can do about it.

Which was really dumb. It seemed that this voice of his was severely underestimating their city's current dictatorship and the sort of pursuers that might be called to come after them once they noticed his escape. Many had tried to escape before, but historically, merely having a god in your corner was never going to be enough to defy the might of the great city of Arcane Umbra.

An article in the paper from some months ago came to mind. There had been pictures of recently caught deserters, hung up for execution, long before Constant had ever been sent to the camps. The new government had been so gleefully proud to broadcast how many people they had caught trying to run away, how powerful and capable these people had been, and the numerous methods which the Bureaus of Pursuit would use to catch them. This mysterious voice in my head hadn’t seen any of those, right?

“Well, I can’t claim to know everything about that, but surely your absence at work would be way more conspicuous than a spare piece of equipment laying around…”

On the contrary, he had existed as just another body within that work camp, unnamed and unimportant. If Constant didn’t show up to the drop off point in a timely manner, the wardens would assume that he was having trouble, or slacking off, or had been pulled over at the pickup point and had been harassed. Rather than searching aimlessly through the thick fog, they would’ve just waited for him to reappear again and punished him then, but abandoned equipment was much easier to track and stumble over. That was the sort of thing he’d actually seen reported.

If a fully loaded abandoned bag was found without his corpse attached to it, they would be tracking his scent, his trail, and his mana within minutes.

“What? So your fellow haulers would’ve ratted on you?” the voice asked, apparently not realizing that they had ratted on others and had gotten awarded for it. “Do you seriously doubt their basic sense of comradery?” the voice continued, apparently not realizing that they had never once spoken to him. “Have you seriously never felt any sort of comradery with them?” It asked, as if it felt ashamed by Constant’s justified caution for the people whom he had never properly interacted with, many of whom wore the same military suits of the new regime, and thus worshiped Kriegott, the new god of war. “I’ve got to ask, was there seriously nobody who you tried to trust?”

Whatever the case, now that the incline of the ground was starting to go downhill, Constant couldn’t help but wonder if they had passed the soldier’s perimeter detection range yet, and could thus release the incredibly dense layer of fog that the voice had surrounded him with.

“Not yet, and please don’t change the topic. This is incredibly important. Probably more so than escaping in the first place. Putting aside the few haulers you saw in the camp who also had military uniforms, why did you never actually try to befriend or trust anyone!?”

‘What good would it even do!’ Constant thought, red-faced and practically yelling into his mind. What did it matter that he had never relied on anyone to keep his discontent secret and his hatred disguised?! What did it matter that he had no friends to eventually betray him or acquaintances to pick on him and extort him for whatever they thought they could get away with?! To be frank, even if such a trusted soul did exist in the camp, he wouldn’t want to bother them with the burden of that knowledge anyway!

“Well for one, one of those people might have been capable of helping you in the same way that I did…” The voice said, though Constant felt that was kind of ridiculous. “I’m serious: fog manipulation is not some sort of rare and exclusive ability. It comes naturally to people. Statistically speaking, several of your fellow haulers in your worksite must have once learned it.”

But realistically speaking, if someone had the ability to do some magic as advanced as fog-manipulation, they wouldn’t have been sent to such a low security camp in the first place.

“It’s not like it’s easy to check whether someone is capable of such a thing…”

*But realistically speaking, someone with an ability like fog magic would’ve found no use in me as a companion anyway and would’ve already left.

“Think about it this way. Would you have left without the push I gave you? Even if you had the innate capability?”

And wasn’t that a point. Embarrassingly, Constant probably wouldn’t have. What a confusingly inept state of things for the captors who had otherwise seemed so imposing just a short while ago. In the end, if that was true, it seemed like the structure of their workcamp must’ve logically maintained itself mainly through fear and it seemed as if Constant had hardly known anything after all.

And that confusion applied to all things. At this point, rather than figuring out the nature of the voice within his head, Constant wondered if he would ever even learn the voice’s name…

“You wouldn’t want to know exactly what I am. You wouldn’t like the details.” the voice confessed as Constant sank deeper into the fog rolling down the hill. “But if you want a name, you can call me Prometheus, and for me it’s a matter of pride and gratitude: I'll definitely get you to where you want to go. In fact,” Prometheus intoned, dispelling the fog that covered them in a dramatic flourish, “I think we’re out.”