Mark awoke to a pounding head and the loud roar of a hangover that refused to let him sleep any longer. Arms, once strong as steel and just as hard, but now weak and neglected, slowly pushed the man into a sitting position. Rough, calloused hands fumbled around in the filthy dark, instinctively searching for any bottles around him that might still contain even a little alcohol; he needed just enough to quiet the monster screaming in his head.

He rubbed his crusty, burning eyes, refusing to open them until he could muster the strength to face another day of existence. A strength that mostly came from cheap booze and even cheaper pills.

His hand not finding anything but cold, wet stone, Mark furrowed his brow, the perpetual frown that had over the years carved itself into his face, deepening. The man pried open his tired eyes with a deep sigh and grumbled at the empty floor around him.

He'd chosen this particular sewer tunnel because it was far out of the typical roaming territory of the cities common vagrants and junkies; he thought he'd not have to worry about having any uninvited guests. He figured it was his own fault for underestimating their nose. At least he was still wearing his clothes; it wasn't uncommon in this town to wake up to some poor sap trying to literally steal the boots off your feet.

Grumbling all the way, Mark slowly dragged his aching legs to his chest and leaned against the rough, cool wall, letting the cold and air and stone massage out the pain from his burning and aching body. He'd had some rough trips before, but good lord, why did it feel like someone had tossed him in a washing machine while he slept?

Catching a whiff of his weeks soiled jacket as he curled up, though, kinda made him wish they had...

After several moments of silence, the constant roaring in his head began to die down. To his confusion, however, though the pain subsided, the sound never seemed to entirely disappear. Dry, bloodshot eyes squinting in the dim light, Mark lifted his head, and for the first time since awakening, he truly looked at his surroundings.

"Huh? What the Hell?"

Instead of the dull gray-colored filth encrusted cement wall of the sewer tunnel, across from him was a dark, rough natural stone wall covered in bright, grey-blue lichen. The stone walls were slightly damp from the spray of the small stream that ran under it, and the soft rumbling sound he heard was the sound of the water as it flowed rapidly out of the cave mouth.

Mark took only a moment to recognize that he was not where he was when he passed out. Despite his back and legs protesting the exertion, the man stood, his furrowed brow going from frustration to confusion.

Years of muscle memory and training kicked in, almost by instinct, as Mark began to quickly pat his body down in the dim light. He lifted his shirt to look for blood or signs of injury, but not seeing any apparent wounds or stitches, he let out a sigh of relief.

It wasn't like any of the City's organ rings would get much for his ruined ones anyway. Not like that would stop some of the more desperate (or greedy) ones from targeting people like him, though.

Mark calmed his racing heart, taking in as much detail as possible between the adrenalin and still pounding headache. The cave was small, no bigger than a large living room, though the small stream touching one wall took up nearly 1/4 of the space. It flowed from a crack in the stone near the back wall, pooling into a small basion before flowing out the nearby exit, making the air in the cave Humid and heavy.

While it wasn't very large or deep, markings on the floor and walls, as well as old ashes scattered around, told stories of how he was far from the cave's first overnighter. He poked around the area to see if there was anything helpful left behind, but other than burnt-out ashes and what he could only assume were Hoboglyphs he'd never seen before, the cave was empty.

Mark felt a small shifting weight in his pocket and reached into the old, tattered jacket. He pulled out a small outdated flip phone, his wallet, and the old silver pocket watch that never left his side. Why would someone take his pills and booze, dragged him, God knows how far away to some cave, and yet forget to take his valuables as well? Not that he was complaining.

Stuffing his wallet back into his pocket, Mark stared down at the old silver pocket watch, the last momento he'd gotten from his parents before he left for boot camp. Flipping it around, he gently fingered the worn engraving on its back.

"For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity."

A slight, mocking smirk formed on his mouth; guess that made him just slag...not that it mattered, not anymore. Mark shook his head and silently slid the watch into his pocket again with his wallet.

With a flick of his wrist, he flipped open the phone, only to grumble in frustration; no signal. Stupid cheap "pay-as-you-go" plans. He placed the phone back into his pocket alongside his wallet and watch, then stretched himself out, grimacing as his body creaked and groaned in protest. He was not the spring chicken he once was. Not that the excess booze and pills did any favors, of course.

Moving towards the small stream, Mark approached a relatively calm portion and stared into the water. The water was clear enough that he could see the man staring back up at him, skin pale and loose, deep purple bags under bloodshot, listless eyes topped by a head of shaggy, unkempt coal-black hair and a ragged beard a finger's length long. If one looked closely, they might be able to see the remnants of a relatively handsome man, but all Mark saw with a worn-out bum.

Mark never thought he'd been handsome enough to be popular, even if he'd gotten the odd shy smile from the ladies in his youth. But years of neglect and drug abuse had wiped most of that away. Mark harrumphed to his own thoughts and spoke to the reflection.

"What are you looking at?"

Without waiting for a reply, he reached down and cupped a hand of the cold water and splashed his face. After washing his face, Mark took the opportunity to remove his outer shirt and wipe down his body in the clean water. The filth washed away as he shivered in the cold water, but at least it wasn't biting cold like shelter showers.

As he reached over the water to scoop out more, something caught his eye beneath the dark smudges on his chest. Mark gently touched the area above his left pec – right above where his heart would be.

There, barely the size of a palm was a black tattoo, reminiscent of the tribal tattoos that were popular a few years back. He scooped out more water and cleaned more, wondering if maybe it was just a smudge. The rest of his chest cleaned quickly enough, but the tattoo remained. He squinted at the unfamiliar image and traced along its surprisingly complex pattern. Mark rubbed his eyes with more water to clear his vision and then looked again.

At first glance, it appeared to be a fireball or some kind of meteor, but looking at it in detail, he could tell that it was a small glowing egg wrapped in thin threads of fire. As he breathed, the tattoo expanded and contracted, giving it the illusion of flickering embers and dancing flames. Each line that made up the egg and the flames themselves were infinitely complex, formed from dozens and dozens of tiny lines and symbols to the point that Mark questioned how long it had taken to make.

Mark scooted back from the stream, shaking his head as he tried to clear the last remnants of his hangover and reconstruct what the hell had happened last night. What had he done? Why did he wake up in a cave? Had he come here himself? Or had someone brought him? If so, why? And what was up with the new tattoo? He'd never been one for ink.

But no matter how long he tried to piece his scattered memories together, he couldn't find the answer to his questions. As the shadows in the cave began to grow slightly darker, Mark looked through the cave entrance towards the red sky of a setting Sun.

Whatever had happened last night, however he'd gotten here, it looked like he would be spending the night here once more.

~~~ Several hours later ~~~

Mark sat down near the small fire in the back of the cave, the smoke escaping from a small man-made hole in the ceiling. In the fire sat a few ping-pong-sized stones, slowly starting to turn hot. He reached into the fire with a pair of green sticks, snatching up one of the hot stones like it was a dumpling, and quickly tossed it into a small, crudely carved bowl.

Thank God for pocket knives.

As the stones hit the water, the water began to hiss and boil. After repeating this a few times, Mark waited a short while for the water to cool before bending down and greedily drinking the remaining water.

It was a slow and inefficient method, but it was better than going thirsty or contracting God knows what from the water. His years in the military had left him with a wide range of survival and combat skills, so he didn't fear death like some city boy without his modern comforts for just one night. Not that it stopped him from cursing whoever had taken all his beer bottles.

Mark sat back up and leaned up against the damp stone wall, enjoying the contrast of the cool stone and the blazing flame. As he watched the flickering flames dwindle, their gentle dance and the soft sounds of the night seeming to cast a spell on his eyelids. They slowly grew heavier as he began to drift off to sleep, familiar nightmares scratching at the door, waiting to be let in.

A shrill scream pierced the night snapped Mark's eyes open, dragging him from his half slumber.

What was happening?