Dead Man's Trigger

Chapter 2: A Strange Place

When Craig Seven opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the pain in his head. It wasn't sharp or concentrated in one place; it felt like every hangover he had ever suffered had returned at once to settle directly behind his eyes.

His throat was dry and burning, and even swallowing made him wince. Somewhere deep inside his skull, a dull, metallic pounding continued without rhythm, as though someone were striking a sheet of steel with a sledgehammer.

He tried to move his hand, but his limbs felt impossibly heavy. Then, a voice broke through the fog.

"Is he awake?"

Seven frowned. The sound was close, yet he couldn't pinpoint its direction.

He forced his eyelids open, but blinding white light flooded his vision. Squeezing them shut against the glare, he raised a heavy arm to shield his face.

For several seconds he remained entirely still, trying to piece the fragments together. The last thing he remembered was his back hitting the rough garage floor and a pair of heavy black boots standing inches from his face.

Seven tried again, allowing his vision time to adjust.

A little girl stood over him.

"Daddy."

He gasped sharply. She was small, dressed in the exact pink pajamas she had worn the night he carried her into the ICU. Her dark hair fell softly around her face as she looked down at him with those bright eyes he had spent so many sleepless nights trying to memorize.

"Daddy, get up."

Seven stared, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Megan?"

She smiled. "Get up, Daddy."

Seven reached out for her, but his hand passed straight through empty air. His lips quivered.

"Megan?"

The girl vanished.

Who is Megan? The thought flashed without warning, sending a jolt of pure terror through his system. A second later, the real memory crashed into him like a physical blow—Gustav standing before him, aiming a gun.

"Megan!"

Seven jolted upright, his chest heaving as he scanned his surroundings. There was no little girl. No hospital. No garage.

There was nothing.

He was standing in an enormous void with no walls, no windows, and no visible ceiling. The floor beneath his bare feet stretched endlessly in every direction, blending seamlessly into the blinding white around him.

He was entirely naked, but the realization barely registered against the sheer shock of the expanse.

"Hello?" His voice echoed weakly. He took a few cautious steps forward. "Is anybody there?"

Only the fading echo of his own voice answered.

Then, a collective whisper returned.

"Craig Seven."

Seven froze. The voice was sharp and unnaturally clear, speaking directly into the synapses of his brain.

"Who are you?"

There was no answer. Seven turned slowly, searching the blank horizon. A sharp black line suddenly sliced through the air several feet away, stretching vertically from the floor until it disappeared into the white sky.

Another line formed beside it, then another. Within seconds, the rigid outline of a large mirror had materialized.

Seven approached it cautiously. His reflection stared back—thinner than he remembered, his face pale and bruised, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. Then his gaze locked onto his forehead.

A clean, circular hole was punched directly above his right eyebrow. Trembling, he reached up and pushed his fingers into the wound.

He pulled his hand away and stared at his fingertips. No blood. No pain. Nothing. He touched the cavity again, his skin crawling. The hole was real.

Seven stumbled backward, his knees buckling as he hit the floor.

"No." His breathing turned ragged. "No, no, no."

He remembered the shot. The impact. The world spinning sideways. He remembered Megan—still in that hospital bed, waiting for a dad who wasn't coming.

Seven grabbed his hair, pulling hard enough to tear strands loose as the desperation took hold. "How could I die?" His voice cracked. "Megan was waiting for me."

"Craig Seven."

The white void suddenly vanished. Dark blue light flooded the world, and the floor beneath him shifted violently, rising into a circular platform that carried him upward into a massive chamber.

Six towering figures sat above him, shrouded in identical white robes.

Each was seated upon an elevated black throne, their faces hidden behind smooth, featureless black metal masks that offered no hint of humanity.

Seven stared up at the gallery. "If this is heaven, it looks like hell."

The figure seated in the center raised one robed arm. A sharp, agonizing pressure struck Seven in the stomach, forcing him double as he gasped for air.

The pain vanished just as quickly as it had arrived. Seven straightened up, glaring at the dais. "What the hell was that?"

"You will speak when spoken to."

Seven clenched his jaw, tracking them. The six figures remained completely motionless.

"You stand before the Council of Six."

Their voices were metallic, and the cadence sent a chill down Seven's spine. They spoke separately, yet their sentences flowed into one another so flawlessly it felt as though a single, terrifying consciousness occupied all six bodies.

"You are dead," another voice continued. "We are the reason your soul has not yet descended."

Seven laughed bitterly, masking his terror with defiance. "Then stop wasting my time and let it drop."

An oppressive silence filled the chamber. Then, one of the figures leaned slightly forward.

"What about Megan?"

Seven's entire demeanor shattered. "How do you know her name?"

"We know you, Craig Seven." A voice chimed from the left. "We know your life." Another from the right. "We know your failures." A third from the center. "We know what you have sacrificed."

Seven’s hands curled into fists. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

The central figure waved a hand, and a massive screen manifested in the air. Seven recognized the corrugated steel walls immediately—his old military base.

The image showed a younger version of himself standing over his commanding officer.

Seven knew what came next before the memory even played; he had relived it in his nightmares a thousand times. The shouting. The insults that shouldn't have mattered. And then his own fists, moving with a life of their own, landing blow after brutal blow into the colonel's face while a distant voice in his head screamed at him to stop.

"Turn it off."

The Council didn't respond.

"Turn it off!" Seven roared.

The screen played on relentlessly. Seven turned his back to it, his breathing shallow. "That was years ago."

"You were one of the most promising soldiers of your generation."

Seven looked back up at his judges, his voice hollow. "And then I wasn't."

"You allowed your anger to destroy your career."

"I made a mistake."

"You allowed your pride to destroy your future."

Seven's jaw tightened until his teeth ground together. "I said I made a mistake."

"And then you turned to crime."

Seven's eyes burned with sudden fury. "Because my daughter was dying!"

The screen vanished into mist. For the first time, the Council fell completely silent, the weight of the room pressing down on Seven’s chest.

Finally, the central figure asked, "What is it that you truly seek?"

Seven didn't answer right away.

"Your career?"

"No."

"Your reputation?"

"No."

"Your old life?"

He lowered his head, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a weight that sagged his shoulders.

His mind drifted back to the ICU room—Megan beneath the sterile white sheets, the hum of the machines surrounding her, her tiny, frail hand resting inside his massive palm.

He remembered the last time he touched her face. Her skin had felt so cold. He had spent minutes just staring at her chest, holding his breath, desperately waiting for it to rise. He had needed to see it. Needed proof she was still fighting.

Seven swallowed hard, wiping his eyes as the tears blurred his vision. "I want my daughter."

The Council remained perfectly still. Seven’s voice grew weaker, stripped of all military posture. "I want her healthy."

His shoulders trembled under the weight of his grief. "I want to see her run again. I want to watch her grow up. I want to be there when she starts school. I want to hear her complain about me. I want to see her become an adult."

He looked directly into the featureless black mask of the central figure, laying his soul bare. "I don't care about my career anymore. I don't care about the money. I don't even care what happens to me. I just want my daughter."

The central figure stood up, the white robes cascading down the throne. "Then we can give you what you seek."

Seven's eyes narrowed instantly, his tactical instincts re-engaging. "How?"

"A second life."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable.

"You will return to Earth," the Council spoke in their rhythmic succession. "You will return with the body you possessed at death, altered far beyond its former human limitations."

Seven slowly rose to his feet, balancing his weight. "And Megan?"

"We will provide the means to save her."

Seven studied the faceless jury, looking for the catch. "What do you want in return?"

"You will become a Soul Eater."

Seven frowned. "A what?"

"An elite force," the voices echoed, overlapping. "You will hunt those whose souls have been marked."

"You will separate those souls from their bodies and deliver them to us."

"In return, your life will be restored, and the cure for your daughter will be placed within your reach."

Seven looked down at the platform. He understood the math perfectly.

They wanted him to become an assassin. He had killed before—he had been trained by the government to do it, spending years convincing himself that there were lines that had to be drawn for the greater good.

Seven shook his head. "No."

The Council didn't react. Seven wiped the white dust from his face, looking up at the towering masks.

"Craig Seven died in that garage. Whatever you're offering, it isn't worth turning what's left of my soul into a state-sponsored murderer."

The central figure raised his hand. A violent, swirling vortex of dark energy opened on the floor beside the platform, humming with a terrifying, hollow roar. It led to an absolute, crushing nothingness.

"Then step into the void and face judgment," the Council commanded.

They weren't forcing him. No supernatural pressure pulled him toward the dark rift. They were giving an elite operator a cold, calculated choice.

Seven looked away from the abyss. He imagined Megan waking up in that hospital bed, asking the nurses where her daddy was, only to find out he was never coming back.

He imagined her spending her final, painful days surrounded by strangers, suffocating under white sheets.

His hands curled into tight fists until his knuckles turned white.

He turned his back on the void and stepped toward the center of the platform. The Council watched him from their high thrones. Seven stopped, his voice barely a whisper. "Will I see her again?"

"If you succeed."

Seven closed his eyes, inhaling the sterile air one last time. "Yes."

The floor beneath him vanished.