2020, Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains

The man woke in pure darkness. No light entered the cramped cave-in that was his prison. Not even the faintest glimmer. Opening his eyes meant nothing, so he didn't bother. Silent and still, he began the morning routine. His routines, devised early on in his imprisonment, were all that kept him sane any more.

He counted, first to a thousand - then twice more. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division… simple arithmetic wasn't very interesting, so he'd bumped the problems up a digit every year or so. To keep time, he tapped the stone with a finger. Once that was done, it was finally time to move around.

The man stood up and began his martial exercises. He'd chosen Tai Chi to start this morning. An old favorite that limbered the body well. Eventually, he ran through all he could remember or practice alone and switched to a new discipline. Then another. And another. After a hundred, he stopped counting. Once he caught himself repeating a discipline - karate this time - he sat down to think.

Now was the point of the day the man had grown to be wary of. Routine kept a mind sane. It also didn't require much save that you follow it. Thinking required energy, and an alert mind. It was also when despair could settle in. Where thoughts of loneliness or, worse, food… might settle in and consume him. He didn't need food, but he missed it greatly all the same. If he wasn't careful, he could lose himself in such thoughts as he had before. Instead, he hunkered down and reviewed his situation.

He had tried digging first of course, nothing save hard stone had awaited him. Which rather ruined the excitement of finding dirt on day three. He'd tried breaking the rock, but even his hands were still flesh, blood, and bone. Bone that would never wear down rock, no matter how many times it healed. And he'd tried biting, out of desperation, more than anything. His reward had been a few slivers of… something, coupled with a bloodied mouth and chipped teeth. Hardly effective as digging went.

Then the earth blasted apart somewhere far below him. Again. The man grinned. Someone had been setting off explosions all over the mountain recently. Someone with one hell of a lot of TNT. Especially if the rumbles that followed were any indication of blast strength. The sounds were the most exciting thing he'd heard in many years. The only thing he'd heard, save for himself, since he'd come here.

There were three different lines of thought to be had on the development, he decided. The first was practical, the second unlikely, and the third… well, the third was hope and desperation. Plain and simple.

The first was that the blasts could be construction of some sort. Maybe building a pass through the range or digging for minerals. Using bombs for construction wasn't exactly a new concept... Might even be efficient given the amount of stone involved. Though it did make the man wonder just how long he'd been in here if civilization had grown so much a road was needed through the Rockies.

The second idea was as obvious as it was unlikely, war. Frequent explosions on a battlefield were common. It would justify the amounts being used. Here in the mountains though, it was hard to imagine enough troops moving around to be worth the setup. Not to mention the risk of a landslide each time… in the end, he just couldn't see it.

The third idea was that the blasts were a rescue operation of some kind. For him, specifically. The man grimaced at the idea, and not for the first time. It was precisely that line of thinking that could drive a man insane. He dare not hope for rescue. Hope could move mountains in songs, but in reality hope alone did spectacularly little.

… Which made it all the more surprising when the floor gave out from beneath him and he fell for the first time in more than a century. Great heaps of earth and rocks fell with him, crushing into him from all sides. He was flung downward and out, propelled by boulders that struck him hard enough to pulverize a house. With idle detachment, the man realized he was part of an avalanche.

After several minutes that passed by with far more bludgeoning than he felt was entirely necessary… the man looked around. Then he blinked, then he laughed until he had to spit the falling dirt from his mouth. Light. There was light over there. Sweet sands of sunset, he could actually see something. It felt like there was light beaming down at him, even though it was only a trickle coming through several feet of rock… The man cherished it as if it were precious water.

Feeling excitement well up within him, the man began rapidly clawing, pushing, and scrambling toward the light. These were not the unyielding stones of his former cage - no, no. Not in the least! These merciful minerals actually moved when pushed. Not quickly, but several minutes later… he was free. Nearly blinded in the sun and naked as a jaybird in the heat but… free.

The man sat down where he was, elbows propped up against the rocks he had just pushed aside, and covered his long-unused eyes with bloody hands. Tears fell down his face and he sobbed quietly for a time. Felt the sun on his body. Felt its warmth dry his tears. With closed eyes, he revelled in the heat, the sun, and the smells of a life no longer encased in stone.

When he finally opened his eyes and looked up, the sky was just as beautiful as he remembered.

“Hey man, are you al-- Holy shit, Jake! JAKE! Get the boss, there’s somebody over here!” A voice echoed through the mountainside. Young. Male. The man, seated at the base of a landslide, could understand the barely bearded boy running over to him. The accent wasn’t one he recognized, though that was hardly surprising.

“Hey-- you alright? What happened to your clo-- Look, okay, don’t move. The boss has a kit and we’ve got a medic on site. I’m sure we’ll --” The boy stopped short and froze as the man slowly looked over at him, finally taking his eyes off the sky. Unsurprising. The man’s gaze often had that effect on people. It didn’t hurt that, even weak as he was, he was still 6’11 and - unless he missed his guess - still about 240 lbs.

“What happened?” The boy asked, finally. The man did not respond, choosing to jerk a thumb towards the rocks behind him in answer. As realization dawned on the boy’s face, the man looked over his would-be rescuer. He was wearing some sort of brown uniform, complete with yellow vest and a yellow hat. Short stubble poked out at various spots on his face, his eyes were wide and naive. A kind boy, he guessed from the face, with little real world experience to sour him yet.

“Shit… you’re lucky to be alive, man. We told people to clear out-- didn’t you hear the alarm? See the signs, maybe? How did you even get up there? How are you alive?” Again the man felt no need to respond, so he didn’t. Instead, he chose to stand as others rushed up. “Wh-woah, I think you should probably sit man, if you got hit in the he--” The boy stopped as an angry voice blustered up the hillside.

“WATSON! WATSON!! Where the hell did that boy get to now. WATSON! If I climbed this damned hill for nothing we’re using your bones to dig tomorrow, boy!”

“Boss-- Boss! We’re over here!” said Watson, turning to wave at the portly man with a stitched red cross on the bag slung over his shoulder. ‘Boss’ as he was called came jogging over at a decent pace for a man his size, followed far behind by what was presumably Jake.

“He’s not talking, Boss, I think he hit his he--”

“Of course he hit his head, look at all these rocks! Now…” Boss dropped the bag from his shoulders, reached inside, and placed a clear container on a nearby rock. It was a standard department store-issue medkit on the outside, but had considerably more on the inside. As if someone had decided to stop buying more kits and just start shoving new supplies into the old kit. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

The examination, by both Boss and the medic who’d come running up shortly after, was over almost before it began. The man had no injuries. None. Despite being covered in bloody dirt at the base of an avalanche. Boss and the medic shared a look, then went back to report the incident to the police and a search party was formed to find whatever poor soul or souls might have been caught as well. Watson took the man known as Enlil to what appeared to be a round train car made out of tin and left in the dirt. The boy called it the ‘site operations trailer’.

Watson brought over a spare work outfit, complete with boots, from the storage. "These are kinda dirty and haven't been washed in a while, but it's better than nothing. Here. I'll grab you some coffee, how do you like it?" "Black." Enlil responded, as he put on his first clothes in over a century. The gear was scratchy, dirt covered, and wet in the legs for some reason… but clothes they were.

“Where…” he said, when Watson brought over the coffee, “Am I?” He took an appreciative inhale of the aroma - in this moment, it smelled better than a woman ever had. Black, no sugar or milk, and made fresh from the best bulk coffee bags the company could buy at $1.24/dozen… in other words, liquid heaven.

"You're smack in the middle of the new highway the governor commissioned through the Rockies. Supposed to have a number assigned, but it keeps changing. I've been callin' it Rocky Road." Watson said it with a grin, clearly hoping for a response. Enlil didn't catch the reference, but he twitched his mouth up into a semblance of a smile anyway. Couldn’t hurt to encourage the lad bringing him coffee after all.

“So what brought you out he--” Bullets sprayed through the thin metal lining of the trailer, interrupting Watson. One struck him in the leg and he fell, screaming. Enlil upended the desk in front of him, covering the boy from the incoming fire. Looking around, there were a few metal cabinets. He added those to the pile in front of Watson, moving each as quickly as he could. Watson was crumpled over, holding his leg and moaning as Enlil moved. The gunfire stopped just as he was pushing over the final cabinet. He leaned down and pushed a finger to the boy’s mouth to silence him. Then he stopped, closed his eyes, and listened.

The voice of the medic could be heard faintly, as boots approached the trailer. “Are you sure about this, sir? Watson was in there, he mi--”

“Quiet.” Said another man in a low, cold response. “Watson’s replaceable. Even if you’re wrong, we’ll say he died in the avalanche. There are many things that can survive rockfall without injury, few of them care for bullets. Now finish reloading and prepare to keep firing on my signal. I’ll tell you when to stop.” Then, the man raised his voice. “Whatever you are, I’d prefer not to destroy my own property any more than I have to. You can either come out and be civil, or we’ll riddle the trailer with bullets until my men return with the bombs. You have five seconds to come out slowly. Five--” the man began counting down.

Watson’s eyes went wide, fear and tears filling his eyes in equal measure. Enlil brought his finger to his own lips this time and made a calming gesture with his other hand. Then he strode over to the front door and opened it. Bullets ripped into him immediately, tearing dozens of holes into the overalls Watson just gave him.

Enlil closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Pain was no stranger to him, though it had been a while since he’d felt it. His body felt like it was on fire, nerve endings screaming. Enlil almost smiled as the firing stopped and his wounds closed rapidly. As he started walking down the steps towards the gunmen the two in the rear took an uncertain step back. Fear. He’d missed being outside.

The medic from before and the one Watson had called ‘boss’ watched in growing horror as bullets fell from Enlil’s body down to the ground. In front of them was a slender man of middle age. Dressed in a dark suit and holding a black rifle of some sort he looked irritated, but not afraid. Arrogant, even. Red eyes flashed over the blue that had been there before. Only for a second, but Enlil caught it. Combine that with the faintest odor of sulfur… Demon. Must be low-ranking or young to still be using a gun. Enlil walked towards him and stopped about ten paces away.

“Has the meaning of civility changed?” Enlil asked, without a hint of anger as he watched his right hand push a bullet out of the bone and seal itself. “I could have sworn shooting your fellow man was considered rude.”

“You’re no man.” Spat the slender gentleman as he dropped the rifle and reached around to the rear of his suit to grasp the handle of something.“What are you? Undead? One of the walkers? We have a treaty in place with the Bone Council. Leave at once or die here.” The two behind him looked at their companion as if he’d grown horns. “U-undead?” sputtered the ironically nicknamed ‘Boss’. “What the hell IS he?” asked the medic at the same time. Humans, then. And apparently unaware of who or what they were working for.

Enlil dismissed them. Normals who had no awareness of their supernatural superiors weren’t uncommon. Draeg had called it a short-sighted way to run things. Underlings who were properly prepared for the world lasted longer, he’d said. ‘Invest in power, gold, and people’ was his draconic friend’s favorite motto to parrot at him. Demons on the other hand tended to view humans in their employ as little more than fodder. It was… distasteful.

The demon took Enlil’s musing silence as disrespect. With a whipping motion, he yanked a silver dagger from a sheath in the small of his back. The two behind him backed up further. “Fine. Death it is then.” The demon launched himself forward in a slicing motion, no doubt counting on the prodigal strength of his race to cut his foe wide open.

Instead, Enlil’s hand erupted through the back of the man’s throat. Black blood flew everywhere, sizzling the ground where it touched. The dagger dropped to the ground. ‘Boss’ and the medic - who had never given his name, now that Enlil thought about it - turned and ran. “H-how…?” The demon was struggling, hands grasping vainly at Enlil’s forearm. Not that it’d do it any good, a hole through the neck meant he’d be back in the Pit soon.

Enlil lifted the head off its body as the demon shrieked. Then he stared into the flickering red eyes as they slowly faded. Once the light had gone out, he placed the head on the ground and grabbed the silver dagger. With a deft stroke, he impaled the skull up to the weapon’s hilt and left it there. Enlil bit his thumb and, with some practical strokes, his work was done. Not his cleanest banishment, but it’d serve. He headed back to the trailer. Behind him, boiling blood the color and consistency of pitch oozed from the decapitated body as it sunk into itself.

Enlil entered the trailer and called out “Watson, are you alright? How’s your le--”. He stopped speaking when he looked behind the desk. Watson was gone. There was an open window on the trailer’s rear wall. Well, shot open, but open. Blood marked the windowsill. Enlil sighed.

There was a loud horn sound from the side of the trailer. Enlil left the trailer and saw a metal contraption of some sort with wheels. Watson was inside it. “Get in!” Shouted the boy. “I’m getting the fuck out of here. $10/hour ain’t worth this shit!” Enlil walked to the other side of the contraption, clasped the handle, and got in. ‘Like a carriage, then?’ The contraption jumped backwards, wheels flinging rock into the air. Surprised, Enlil’s face slammed into the dashboard. “Sorry! I-- get your seatbelt on. I’m getting us the fuck out of here.”

Enlil straightened up and braced himself properly as the contraption switched directions, turned, and shot forward onto hardened black earth. He looked at the strap holding Watson in, then located one near him. He pulled it, but saw nowhere to ti-- ah, it’s an insert. He shoved the clip into the metal clasp and then looked behind as the construction site faded behind them. The world had changed quite a bit, it seemed. And yet, he glanced at his pitch-covered hand, at least some parts remained the same.