Guardians of the Dark

Kasen Traynor sat with his elbows on his knees, twirling his thumbs. He watched the projection pad on the wall with wide eyes, unable to pry away his gaze. The waiting room had the volume turned all the way down, but he kept watching as they replayed the clip: a woman toppling over the edge of Craedor Fortress, the central hub of the Metropolis of Light. Her clothes fluttered in the gust of her descent, seemingly lifeless – alive, but without the will to live. The videoclip cut off right before she hit the concrete.

Silence.

Then, the projection pad switched to an interview with an onlooker. The headline on the bottom of the screen read, “BREAKING NEWS: Mary Bates, a Guardian in the Army of the Light, leaps to her death from Craedor Fortress.”

“I’m not surprised,” his best friend, Clay, commented. “Guardians, am I right? They’re like the black sheep of the Army of the Light.” He rubbed his head – a tangle of springy curls – and reclined against the wall.

“You really think so?” Kasen replied.

“Of course, they work with the Dark all day. That type of corruption is bound to mess with one’s head.” Clay gazed up at the projection pad again, then smirked. “Honestly, I’d jump too if I was selected as a Guardian.”

Kasen shifted and the chair squeaked under him. He looked about the stale, white waiting room at the tens of other Army of the Light applicants, guys and girls combined. Like him, they had all recently turned eighteen, and were waiting upon the psychological analysis section of their aptitude test. By the looks of them – the frowns between their brows and waxiness in their eyes – they likely shared in Clay’s opinion. No one wanted to be selected as a Guardian. Not even Kasen. But that was the risk in applying for the AOL.

“What do you think they do, exactly?” asked Clay.

“Who?”

“The Guardians, dude, aren’t you listening?” He pointed at the projection pad, now displaying an interview with another Guardian. Tall, well-built and with big, brown eyes, he looked a completely normal person. Except the badge on his uniform gave him away.

Kasen focussed on Craedor Fortress in the Guardian’s wake. It towered fifteen flights high, all floor-to-ceiling windows, and with a beam of Dark – thick, black, and bubbly – shooting out at the top. While not the tallest building, Craedor Fortress was actually more than just the central hub of the city. It stored all of the gathered Dark – the mist-like substance that corrupted anyone it touched – inside. If it hadn’t been for inventor and scientist, Samuel Craedor, the Metropolis of Light might never have existed, and its inhabitants would’ve walked among the Corrupted outside.

“What do they do?” Kasen repeated, mostly to himself, then pulled up his shoulders. “Well, they guard the Dark, don’t they?”

“Guard the Dark … that’s not a job! If you ask me, the Gatherers are the real heroes. They risk their lives each day to gather the Dark and expand the borders. Without them, this city would’ve been overflowing with people.” Clay extended his legs from under the chair. His boots tracked a streak of mud across the plush, white carpet, but he didn’t seem to care. He put his hands behind his head and let out a satisfied lungful.

“So you’re that sure of yourself, eh?” Kasen raised a brow.

“You and I, my friend,” replied Clay with a nod, “are bound for the front lines.” He rubbed across his head again, but left his hand there. His brown skin glowed under the ceiling-lights and his nostrils flared with pride.

Kasen smirked. “Happy Application Day, Clay.”

Clay punched him on the shoulder. “Yea, happy Application Day. Am I allowed to acknowledge your birthday yet?”

“Nope,” Kasen insisted, “as far as I’m concerned, today’s just another day.”

“A very important day that may very well determine the rest of our lives!” Clay leaned so far in, he nearly toppled over in Kasen’s lap. He immediately sat up, however, when one of the three silver doors in front of them slid open and an applicant walked out. His blank face said it all. He had failed the aptitude test.

Clay whispered behind his hand, “Seriously? This is the psychological analysis section … how did he fail?”

“No idea,” said Kasen and swallowed.

A woman with a tablet in her arms followed the applicant to the reception, after which she showed him the way out. The glass doors clicked shut behind him, breaking the eerie silence that absorbed the waiting room.

“Not everyone is mentally equipped to do the AOL’s work,” the woman clarified, turning to the remaining applicants. She scrolled down and zoomed in on a name. “Next up is… ah, what a surprise, Kasen Traynor.”

“That’s you, man,” Clay cheered, slapping Kasen on the back.

“Chill, will you? I know my name …” Kasen got up. He rolled down his sleeves and followed the woman into her office. He glanced over his shoulder to see Clay giving him a thumbs up, just before the door slid shut.

Kasen turned back around. The woman’s office greatly resembled the waiting room, decorated in all-white and all-fibreglass. She strolled to a leather chair by the window, then sat down with one leg over the other and the tablet in her lap. She displayed such an upright posture, Kasen’s back ached just looking at her.

“Take a seat,” she said-half-advised, much gentler now.

Kasen adjusted his sleeves again. He wore the standard applicant tracksuit, made of an almost canvas-like, grey material. The suit itself fit alright, but the sleeves were too long – or maybe his arms were too short.

“I must admit, it’s an honour to meet you,” continued the woman as Kasen took a seat on the sofa opposite her. “It’s not every day one gets to psychologically analyse the son of the Army of the Light’s General.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed.” Kasen forced a grin. His eyes wandered to the art on the wall behind the woman – three canvases with identical ink splotches. They looked like mere oil puddles at first, but the longer he stared, the more he made out a face in them. A grieving face. A face that was sobbing its eyes out.

“I’m Doctor Marx,” said the woman, snapping him awake. “But I don’t want you to think of me as someone about to pick your brain. Think of me as … a friend. Someone you can share your innermost feelings with.”

Kasen nodded.

“Alright, let’s look at how you faired during the rest of the test.” Doctor Marx swiped through his statistics on the tablet. She raised her brows. “I must say, I’m overwhelmed. You passed the physical and metal sections of the aptitude test with flying colours. And what’s this? It seems a happy birthday is in order.”

“Oh, yea … thanks.”

“What an honour to have the Application Day fall on the same date. I bet it’s the best gift one could ask for?”

“Mmm, I guess so.”

Doctor Marx stilled. She looked up at him for a moment – skimming his eyes and nose and mouth with precision – then renewed her grin and continued to scroll. Once satisfied, she sat back and raised her chin.

Kasen felt compelled to do the same.

“Tell me, Kasen,” she started up, “why did you apply for the Army of the Light?”

“Why did I apply?” Kasen dried his palms in his lap. His eyes drifted to the window, to the view of the city outside. He could barely make out the Southern Collection Point by the fence and, beyond it, the mass of total darkness. The Dark. “I applied because I want to set people free. As magnificent as the Metropolis of Light is, we’re all trapped in here. And the only way to possibly change that is to clear the Dark.”

Doctor Marx nodded and said, “Good answer.” She took a moment to type something in, then switched her legs.

Kasen kept staring out the window, unable to pry his eyes from the distant eternal night. He only half-listened as Doctor Marx went on with the next question, “Now, as the son of Bentley Traynor, the General of the AOL, you must know quite a lot about the Dark, and the civilisation of Corrupted that inhabits it?”

“Yep,” he murmured, still-entranced.

“In your opinion, do you consider the segregated societies a good thing? Or should the Corrupted be allowed passage into the city?”

“I don’t know. People say that while the Corrupted look and act normal, they’ve got no moral responsibility and kill without hesitation. If so, I applaud the segregation. But then again, I’ve never met a Corrupted.”

“Never? Didn’t you know Samael of the Dark?”

Kasen’s head snapped back to Doctor Marx. His jaw worked, but no words formed. He looked straight into her blue-grey eyes. Neither of them blinked, and neither of them spoke. Seconds passed in utter silence.

“Kasen –”

“It’s just Samael.”

Doctor Marx adjusted her posture, still too upright for his taste. Her eyes flicked to his hands in his lap, both of which were balled into fists. She typed something into the tablet, but said nothing, asked nothing, in reply.

More silence.

Kasen repeated, “His name’s just Samael, not Samael of the Dark. And he’s not a Corrupted, he’s my brother.”

“Your brother? I see.” Doctor Marx didn’t type anything in this time. She just sat there, her forehead glistening.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Kasen, but instantly bit his tongue. This was the final section of the aptitude test, and he couldn’t afford to lose his cool. Not now. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? He’s my brother.”

“You were very young when your father brought him to the Metropolis of Light. You must’ve heard the stories –”

“Yes, and they’re all false.”

Doctor Marx uncrossed her legs. She clutched the tablet against her chest and leaned forward in her chair. “Kasen,” she said-half-whispered, “my job is to analyse every applicant based on emotional experiences in their past. And, whether you like it or not, Samael is a part of said past. You have to be patient with me.”

“My father took him out into the Dark and left him there.” Kasen copied Doctor Marx by also leaning forward. He tightened his fists, puncturing his palms with his nails. “What more is there to say about it?”

Doctor Marx, much to his surprise, grinned. It wasn’t a sincere grin, although neither one of pity. It was a grin of satisfaction – as if he’d said exactly what she wanted to hear. Kasen at once sat back, nearly banging his head against the wall behind the sofa. He tried to calm himself by remembering why he was there.

For the Army of the Light.

For the people.

For Samael.

“How much do you remember of him? Of Samael?” Doctor Marx spoke as if the previous exchange had never happened. She still leaned forward with the tablet against her chest, but had a creased forehead now.

“I remember …” Kasen rubbed his left elbow. He couldn’t go on. What did he remember? His face? His voice? Fourteen years had passed since he last saw Samael, and everything about him ought to have changed.

“You remember the idea of him, am I right?”

Kasen bit his bottom lip. As much as it pained him, Doctor Marx was right. He only remembered his name.

Samael.

“It’s alright, I don’t really expect you to answer that,” Doctor Marx said, swiftly moving on. She sat up and unlocked the tablet again. Her fingers moved rapidly across the screen, likely typing in everything that was wrong with Kasen, everything that disqualified him from ever serving on the Army of the Light.

Kasen’s tongue became heavy. “I mean, I know he was hard to discipline … and I know he cut my mom with a knife …” He briefly paused to swallow. “But Samael is, and always will be, my only brother.”

“I understand,” said Doctor Marx, plainly.

“You do?”

“I don’t expect you to know this, but I trained under the woman who evaluated Samael during his stay here.”

Kasen nearly choked at that term: his stay.

Doctor Marx spoke on, “Of his four evaluations, three came back as inconclusive, of which one was borderline. Samael might not have been clean of any corruption, but he wasn’t consumed by the Dark either.”

“Why isn’t he here, then?”

“I’m – I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that.” Doctor Marx briefly glanced down. When she looked back up again, her entire demeanour had changed. She smiled as she said, “The good thing is, though, despite your struggle, you didn’t let that stop you from becoming the man you are today. A proud soldier.”

Kasen scooted forward. “Does that mean –”

“Yes, you passed.”

“I did? How?” Kasen’s heart accelerated. He thought he’d blown his evaluation the moment he snapped at her.

“Your father’s got nothing to do with it, if that’s what you’re thinking. You excelled in the other two sections of the aptitude test – the physical section especially – and displayed a will of steel just now during the psychological analysis section. You’re ever so slightly hot-headed, sure, but all Guardians usually are. ”

“Wait … a Guardian?” Kasen leapt to his feet.

“Yes, you’re a perfect match! Guardians make up only five percent of the AOL, and very few applicants are given the honour.” Doctor Marx put the tablet under her arm, got up, and made for the control desk on the other end of the room. She placed the tablet on a pad in the centre of the desk, then pulled up Kasen’s stats.

“There has to be a mistake,” Kasen insisted, pacing after her. “My father’s a Gatherer, and my uncle’s a Monitor.”

“Nope. No mistake.” Doctor Marx entered Kasen’s Citizen Number, and a hand-shaped outline lit up next to the pad. “Place down your palm for me, please. I have to scan your results onto your Citizen Chip before you leave.”

Kasen refused. “Doctor Marx, please,” he pleaded, “I can’t be a Guardian. How are the results calculated?”

“I don’t know the specifics of it, but we use an algorithm created by Samuel Craedor himself. It takes your physical, mental, and psychological results respectively, and categorises you under the corresponding position. Either a Gatherer, Monitor, or a Guardian. Like I said before, it’s very accurate.” Doctor Marx motioned to the illuminated spot on the pad. She didn’t have to say anything for Kasen to understand.

“Fine.” He placed down his palm.

The hand-shaped outline switched from red to green, and a beep told him to withdraw. It was done, written onto his Chip. Onto his identity. He, Kasen Traynor, son of the topmost Gatherer in the Metropolis of Light, was selected as a Guardian. A borderline Corrupted, so to speak, and the last AOL position he ever thought to serve under. He could already see the look on his father’s face: absolute disappointment.

“I guess I should start looking for a building to jump off of,” Kasen tried to joke.

Doctor Marx took the tablet from the control desk and walked over to his side. She said, “You joke, but the work of a Guardian is dangerous. Gatherers go out and collect the Dark, and Monitors patrol the city, but that’s it. That’s their job. Guardians, however, work with a mass of concentrated Dark every moment of every day, depositing it and keeping it in check. The Dark corrupts them, but they fight against it.”

“No one can fight against the Dark.”

“Guardians can.”

Kasen thought about scoffing, but Doctor Marx looked at him with such seriousness, he opted for a sigh instead.

“Do you know the secret about Guardians? The thing that allows them to fight the Dark? Well, it’s the Dark itself.” Kasen frowned, which only made Doctor Marx smile. She explained on, “You have a bitterness, a darkness, inside of you, Kasen. Whether you realise it or not, it’s a part of you. And it’s that very darkness which makes you resistant to the Dark, as well as the perfect candidate to become a Guardian.”

“What about Mary Bates, then? The Guardian who jumped from Craedor Fortress?”

“I said you were resistant to the Dark, not immune to it.” Doctor Marx tried to lighten the air by chuckling, but that only made things worse. She cleared her throat. “Mary, like many a Guardian before her, lost the fight.”

Kasen recalled the videoclip. He thought of how Mary had fallen – so peacefully, forlornly, and without a struggle.

“You don’t need to look for a building to jump off of,” said Doctor Marx, placing a hand on his back, “because you won’t lose the fight, Kasen Traynor.” She flashed him another grin, then beckoned him to the door.

It slid open, revealing a much emptier waiting room than when he had entered. Clay was no longer there, but the projection pad on the wall still showed news reports on Mary Bates. Kasen looked away when they replayed the clip of her fall. Now that he was one of them – a Guardian – he couldn’t bring himself to look at it.

Doctor Marx strutted past the reception – “No release documents required this time, Vicky.” – and ushered Kasen into the corridor outside. The remaining applicants all stared at them through the glass doors, curious to learn his selected position. One of the applicants, a guy whom he went to school with in the Eastern Living Section, showed him a thumbs-up. Kasen promptly looked away, afraid the truth was written on his face.

“I know you were hoping to be selected as a Gatherer,” said Doctor Marx, just before she let him leave. She stood with her back to the applicants, blocking their view of him. “You’re the General’s son, after all.”

“So I keep hearing,” muttered Kasen.

Doctor Marx took a step back, still smiling. The creases around her mouth didn’t deepen as much as before, but her eyes still sparkled under the ceiling-lights. “You made it into the AOL, Kasen. Yes, you were selected as a Guardian, but as the first one in your family, I think it makes for a pretty magnificent achievement.”

“I doubt my father will see it that way.”

“Guardian or Gatherer, you’ll still free this trapped city one way or another.” Doctor Marx attempted a wink. “Good luck, Kasen Traynor, and happy Application Day. It was a privilege to psychologically analyse you.”

Kasen didn’t even attempt to force a smile as she patted him on the back one final time, turned around, and re-entered the waiting room. He just stood there for a moment, breathing in the stale, odourless air of the corridor. The entire hospital building – no – the entire Metropolis of Light smelled that way.

“A Guardian of the Dark,” he repeated. That didn’t sound too bad. But, then again, this might’ve just been the worst thing that had ever happened to him.