There is this hole inside of me. I can't cover it nor fill it up. Everything I shove inside comes short. It's a scary kind of a hole that grows with time. Becomes darker still. More depressing. And some inexpressible, execrable misery comes spitting out. Shards of memory whipping me with a flurry of painful reminders, with a fury of a twister, all of them screaming at me at the same time, screaming and asking, how could I have failed. All sorts of regret follow.

It stinks. The pitiless hole that reeks of decay, of a wound and flash that has gone rotting and stinking bad for a way too long. I can heal it not.

No matter where I go, this fucken' hole keeps staring at me. No matter where my mind goes. I try to ignore it, but it stabs me with unexpected and frightening ferocity, reminding me it is there, growing darker still.

It has no end, nor limit. Sometimes it becomes so omnipotent that it dominates over all my senses. Hypnotizing me. Paining me. Preventing me to take a single breath. And with its fix on me, it sucks me in. It swallows all till I do not know where it starts and where I end, or is it the other way around?

And when it sucks me down to its dreadful despair, the damned regrets turn to anger. The frenzy of anger that makes me go mad, stay mad, swinging with my hands and fighting my demons, enemies, cracking my knuckles and head against the wall, re-fighting the battles I lost till there is no energy left in me, till I do not drop dead in exhaustion for restless sleep… when regrets return again. And the circles of emotions continue its endless spin.

I am having a hard time looking in the mirror, disliking everything I see there.

Good Lord, I do not remember the last time I was happy. Can't remember the last time I laughed. Don’t believe it will happen ever again. Can’t see how it can. Certainly don’t think I deserve to.

I failed. I failed those that depended on me. Those that were too frail to protect themselves. I failed them all.

Once, I remember, I walked the streets. Before they locked me up, right after the Battle of Rapor. I walked the streets, not daring to look at anyone, just wandering around. Did not dare to look at the faces of the children passing me by. What if one of them reminds me of…?

I remember mingling in crowds of strangers, scared to look at women. What if one of them had charcoal hair, or smiling eyes full of life and joy, the joy reserved only to those marked with goodness and innocence. No. I do not want to see any of it again. It just hurts too damn much. Give me broken knuckles, bruised head, shank-sliced, or pierced limbs. I’ll give myself some of the real pain that can cover those memories.

I close my eyes not to see. But images still come, become even more vibrant, and closed eyes do nothing. They do not stop my cheeks from getting wet.

It’s all gone. All the joy of life and living. I experienced it once. Now, there is just this fuckin’ screaming hole in its place.

I do not know why I got lucky. I remember shit. I remember it all. Well, now that I look at it, that’s no luck at all. Certainly more of a curse than luck. Why did they leave me untouched? Why the fuck did they let my memories be? It can’t be accidental. I wish they had wiped my head clean, just like they did with everyone else.

I look at them. There is Rickon. A short fella with a mean face who used to run Cartaphena Cartell. He is sitting down on the ground, looking confused, looking around, begging people to help him, to tell him who he is and what is going on. If he could have seen that picture of himself a day ago, he would have puked.

Not that others are doing any better. Big Garden is there, staring at the ground, rubbing his face, hitting his head with his gorilla-like hands. Got his name from raping and killing women, then burying them in his rose garden. He looks so pathetic. It almost makes me laugh.

I see it all.

I see a screen too. A blue fucken’ screen in front of my eyes. It tells me stuff. Makes me think. Am I being someone’s fucken’ toy now? Some nerd someplace, galaxies away, paying good money to play me? Is this the ultimate way for the super-rich to entertain themselves? Nothing would surprise me. If there is money to be made, if there is chaos to create, fear and lust to be evoked, people would do it. Certainly.

There are over twenty of us here. It looks obvious to me that none of them know who they are and why they have woken up here, in the small clearance of the forest, tall pine trees stretching as far as I can see.

I know. At least part of it. I remember. But, then. I already said. It’s a fucken’ curse.

They gave us a speech yesterday. If I had a desire to live, it would have scared me. Not because they promised to bestow us with so many great gifts. That alone, promises of unearned generosity, could be scary enough, especially for a two-hundred-plus years term convict who has been around long enough to see the worst the human nature can come up with. Has been around long enough to expect nothing from anyone, especially not from the government that incarcerated him.

They gathered the hardest crew they could find in the Blue Everest Moon Orbital Penitentiary and brought us all to a conference room I did not even know existed. A nice place. Must be where prison guards have their parties. Green plants, fresh circulating air, and enough warm light to fool you into thinking that you may be somewhere on some civilized plane, having a picnic in a park.

But this ain't no picnic.

Hard-core criminals. All around me. Nobody here deserved anything less than being locked up. If the death penalty was not outlawed centuries ago, most of these guys would certainly be a long time dead. Yeah. And nobody would shed a tear. A really pleasant crew. Psychopaths, serial killers and rapists, mob bosses and their enforcers, and a few brain-washed terrorists to sweeten the pod. I know them all. Have to. Have to know what is around you, the threat that might come from them. Know them good enough I know I do not want to be close to any of them. The worst that the universe has spit out. Nothing good to come out of it.

“Do you see that blue stuff?” I ask the guy next to me, checking again to see if they are still screen-blind. Maybe the shit I’m seeing has popped inside their heads too.

But Marco, one of the members of the Far Night Brotherhood, just keeps staring at his hands, all covered in tattoos.

"No blue screen?" I ask again.

He looks at me and frowns, shakes his head. I do not want to explain myself, just keep looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“No, man… what blue stuff? I can check the rest of my body. But why would I tattoo a blue screen there? Don't know I even tattooed this shit on me. Why?"

I sigh and look away.

But Marco smells something. "What? You see something blue? Where? You mean the snow?"

I just shake my head and continue to stare at the clouds that had just covered up the meek sun, with snow already coming down. "Must be."

"No screen there. Your eyes are fucked, man. Do you know how we got here? Do you know… my name?”

Yeah, I know all about Marco. Marco Lapticuas. He and his brother hijacked a pleasure cruiser a few quadrants away. Thought that space was big enough, dark enough, not to witness their raping and killing carnage. Well, they were wrong. Both have been sentenced to a hundred plus. He was supposed to die in jail. His brother has already marched. I helped him in that endeavor.

Two months ago they came at me, unexpectedly since I had no beef with them. Must be one of my ‘fans’ contracted them to do me in. I cut his brother’s guts out with the same shank that was supposed to end me. Marco got thrown to the floor after which I slammed his head against the post so hard I was sure it would have cranked like a melon.

But it didn’t.

Now I look at the man and do not know if his memory will pop back up, and he will just throw himself at me.

But he looks like a puppy lost in the woods. So, I just pat him on the back.

It must have been an hour since the last of them woke up. Confused, disoriented. Some even puked their guts out. They sit around, chatting quietly, trying to make some sense of it all. I ain’t going to help any. I figure the night is about an hour away from turning the darkness on. Figure will want to be someplace else when that happens.

“Hey, Pick,” I call a bald guy that has a built of an industrial refrigerator and a grace of a dump truck. “How is your strength?” I ask, still not sure, still testing.

“Who are you pick?” he says as he frowns at me. “And my strength is just fine, mister.”

Yeah, he has his marbles all fucked up too. No way he would ever call me a mister. Not if his life depended on it.

I look at the screen inside the corner of my left eye and check my strength and all my other stats again:

Identification:

Name: Raan Mallorcan

Race: Human

Origin: Seventh Groan Quadrant 4A324R-V6

Rank: 0

Position: 0

Reputation: 0

Present Status:

Health Overall: 100

Stamina: 100

Hydration: 100

Energy: 100

Fat Deposit: 50

Bank: 5 Rounds

Unused Earnings: 1 Round - 10 Notches

Stats:

Physical

Strength Overall: Level 3

(arms, back, legs, chest, abdominal) Unavailable

Speed: Level Undetermined

Endurance (calculated in stamina): Level Undetermined

Agility: Level Undetermined

Dexterity: Level Undetermined

Explosiveness: Level Undermined

Mental:

Intelligence: Level Undetermined

Wisdom: Level Undetermined

Willpower: Level Undetermined

Confidence: Level Undetermined

Fear Factor: Level Undetermined

Motivation: Level Undetermined

Skills:

Primary Skill: None

Secondary Skill: None

List of Skills Available for Acquisition: Unavailable

Other:

Karma : Negative 1,056,320

Self Healing and Regeneration Power: N/A (Need Positive Carma for the option to be activated)

Mana: N/A (No sufficient Intelligence and Wisdom level reached for Mana accumulation)

Updates:

(Latest) Earned 1 Round and 5 Notches for exemplary behavior during a sendoff

So much blank space. So much stuff to fill up. Most of it is very clear. I guess 'Explosiveness' would imply the maximum burst of energy that I could produce starting from the state of rest.

I went through the system orientation swiftly. Just to make sure I got the right sense of the things, I ask the question again, 'And how do I raise up, like my Strength?'

Your Strength Level is the Maximum amount detected during the last activities.

'Give me an example, please.'

If you lifted a log of 200 lbs., your Level will be 5. If you improve your strength and get to lift 300 lbs. log, it will improve to Level 10. Also, understand that it works the other way. If a 100 lbs. log falls on your leg and you can't lift up, your Level will decrease to 3.

'Yeah, it makes sense. So, the only way to Level up is to get stronger and do challenging tasks. To train and become strong and to test myself to the limit. And it seems to work both ways. But, if I get sick or injured, become weak and can't lift for shit, my Strength level would then decrease, correct?'

That is correct. It is done to inform you of your own capabilities. Levels are estimates of your objective present state, not your historical maximum or minimum. Please, be warned, they are only trailing statistics, meaning your current state may widely differ from the reported one.

Interesting. I bet it's not only done for my own benefit. I bet this way they can track me, chose to give me jobs, better paid ones. It would make sense that they would want to know who I am.

I'm thinking I want to test this.

I strike with my hands as a boxer. Punch the air in the most powerful five-six strikes I can. the way I would do in the cell while training. I breathe in and out and repeat the process again.

'So, what is my Explosiveness now?' I ask.

System Update:

Explosiveness: Level 1

Why one? With those strikes I could knock down pretty much any human in the jail.

Your Levels will need multi-sample activities to be properly estimated. Please allow for more input.

I guess the system they put in me has not much to go on yet. As I look all around me, I'm not worried. One thing is certain. I bet that will change soon. Real soon.