Visionless

How do I know if I'm being controlled? Can I know? Just how subtle could it be?

The questions claw at my mind, spiraling endlessly, and every answer I think of feels like it could be a trap. Has everything I've thought up to this point really been mine? Or have I been guided—nudged, pushed—to think this way?

It terrifies me.

The idea that I might not even own my thoughts, that every choice I've made, every belief I hold, might not be my own... It's a horror too vast to comprehend. And the worst part? I have no way to fight it. No way to defend myself against something so insidious.

At least, not yet.

Maybe magic will give me an answer, a way to break free, to ensure my mind is my own. But... what if even that isn't my thought? What if the idea of learning magic, of seeking control, was planted there? A diversion, a distraction, a carefully laid path designed to keep me chasing shadows while the real manipulations continue unchallenged.

How do I even know that I'm me?

What if I'm just... an illusion? A construct? A puppet whose strings are hidden so deeply that even questioning them is part of the design?

The thought makes my chest tighten, my breath hitch.

What if I don't exist? What if I'm just a story being told by someone else, and everything I feel—this fear, this doubt, this despair—is just part of the script?

I dig my nails into my palm, searching for pain, for something real, something tangible. But even that isn't enough. Because how can I trust it? How can I trust anything?

I stare into the void of my thoughts, hoping for clarity but finding only more questions. It's suffocating, a darkness that threatens to swallow me whole. And yet, I can't stop chasing the answer, even if the pursuit tears me apart.

Because if I don't... how will I ever know?

No. That's enough of that line of thought. It's too paranoid, even for me.

I exhale sharply, trying to force the spiral to stop. There's no point in chasing answers I can't reach, not now. For now, I'll have to focus on what I can control. I need to keep my mind active, clear from stray thoughts that gnaw at my sanity. It's the only way to keep the chaos at bay—the only way to lessen the impact of trying to fit my consciousness into a brain that isn't equipped to handle it.

Maybe, just maybe, by staying disciplined, I can slow the erosion of my memories. Perhaps I can even reverse some of the damage... though I won't fool myself into thinking that's likely.

For now, it's simple: eat, sleep, and exercise. Keep the body moving and the mind sharp. Engage in things that keep me tethered, grounded, stable. A routine might not heal me, but it'll keep the cracks from spreading.

No wild theories, no chasing ghosts in my thoughts—just survival. Until I find a real solution, I'll take it one step at a time. Small victories, small steps forward. That's all I can afford right now.

______________

"...What are you doing?" Ren asked, leaning against the doorway with an eyebrow raised as he watched Adam struggle on the floor.

"Training!" Adam wheezed, his arms trembling violently as he managed to crank out what could generously be called half a push-up.

Ren crossed his arms, his expression deadpan. "Uh-huh. That's... impressive."

Adam powered through two more shaky push-ups before collapsing onto the floor with an audible thud. Undeterred, he immediately rolled onto his feet, wobbling as he attempted squats next. His knees buckled like a newborn deer, but he soldiered on.

"Kid," Ren sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "you look like you're about to keel over. Just stop. We've got a whole day of searching ahead of us, and I'd rather not drag you around unconscious."

"No!" Adam exclaimed, his face scrunched with what he probably thought was determination but looked more like he was fighting a sneeze. "I must continue!"

This bizarre scene dragged on for another thirty minutes, during which Adam's "training" devolved into what could only be described as a poorly-choreographed interpretive dance. Arms flailed wildly, legs kicked in random directions, and his rhythm was—at best—nonexistent.

Ren blinked, utterly baffled. "What in the hell are you doing now?"

"Dancing!" Adam declared proudly, spinning awkwardly in a tight circle before nearly tripping over his own feet. "I read somewhere that dancing can make you smarter. This is the key to my victory!"

Ren stared at him, slack-jawed, before pinching the bridge of his nose again and muttering under his breath. "Right. Smarter. Sure. That tracks..."

Adam finished his latest "routine" with a triumphant pose, completely oblivious to Ren's bewildered expression. For a moment, the room was silent, save for Adam's labored breathing.

"Well, at least you've got... enthusiasm," Ren finally managed, though the corners of his mouth twitched as if holding back laughter. "I'll give you that."

________________

"Okay, that's enough, kid. What are you even trying to do?" Ren asked, lowering his voice as they walked through the bustling streets. "And stop giving people that look—it's weird."

Adam's intense, almost unnerving focus faltered for a moment, and he replied flatly, "Sorry, but I'll have to decline. This is important."

Ren raised an eyebrow behind his mask, crossing his arms. "Important? Is this part of that 'training' of yours? Seriously, what are you training for?"

Adam glanced at Ren but didn't answer. Instead, he kept his lips tightly sealed, thinking to himself, (This isn't something I can explain right now. It's not about physical training—it's about keeping my mind sharp.)

Since waking up in this strange world, Adam had relied heavily on the "gift" Ms. Eldez had given him—the magical ability to instantly understand and communicate in the local language. But recently, he'd grown suspicious of it. If his thoughts could be manipulated, what about his understanding of this language? Could the gift itself be a tool to make him vulnerable?

(No more shortcuts,) he decided firmly. (If I rely on that magic, I'll never really know this language. And if I don't know it, I can't trust what I'm hearing—or even what I'm saying.)

To combat this, Adam had begun teaching himself the language from scratch, carefully listening to conversations around him and trying to piece things together naturally. His current "training" involved mimicking phrases, practicing pronunciations, and even attempting to guess words based on context. To an outsider, it probably looked bizarre, like he was just muttering or staring too intently at strangers.

Ren's confusion only grew as Adam scribbled invisible notes in the air with his finger and whispered to himself under his breath. "...You're seriously not gonna tell me what this is about?"

Adam shook his head, still focused. (No distractions. Keep going. Learn as much as you can.)

To Ren's surprise, Adam occasionally muttered a word or phrase that actually sounded correct, though his accent was horrendous. Ren tilted his head, puzzled, but decided not to press further.

"Whatever you're doing," Ren muttered, shaking his head, "I hope it's worth it. Just don't embarrass me in public."

Adam didn't answer, his focus still locked on his silent mission. Slowly but surely, he was piecing together the language in his mind, reinforcing his memory and sharpening his concentration. It wasn't much progress, but it was a start—a way to reclaim control, one word at a time.

As the night stretched on, Adam and Ren decided to take a break from their fruitless search and head back to the inn for rest. While Ren focused on dinner, Adam, who had already eaten, felt restless. The capital at night was surprisingly alive, its streets bustling with activity. Food stalls, restaurants, and pubs spilled light and sound onto the cobblestones, while workers and revelers moved through the streets as if the city never truly slept.

"How the hell do people sleep in a place like this?" Adam muttered, weaving through the throngs.

As he wandered, he occasionally removed the gemstone that allowed him to understand the local language magically. He strained to piece together conversations from the scattered words he could recognize. To his surprise, he managed to understand fragments—enough to guess at the flow of dialogue.

"Have I always been this good at picking up languages?" he wondered aloud. "Doesn't seem like it. Maybe it's this body—or this brain. Shame the original owner isn't around to enjoy it. Don't worry, though. I'll keep it warm for you." His voice carried a thread of self-deprecation, a bitter laugh punctuating his words.

Distracted by his thoughts, Adam didn't notice where he was walking until he collided with something—or rather, someone. The impact sent him sprawling onto the ground.

"Ow!" he groaned, looking up to see who he had run into.

Standing before him was a figure dressed in muted blue, their attire loose and flowing, reminiscent of traditional circus garb yet unnervingly restrained in color and detail. The outfit's fabric shimmered faintly under the dim glow of nearby lanterns, like moonlight on still water. The stranger wore gloves and boots of a pristine white that looked unnaturally clean against the gritty backdrop of the street.

But it was the mask that caught Adam's attention—a featureless white porcelain mask, save for two empty eyeholes and minimalist symbols painted beneath them: a three-leaf clover under the left eye and a small, hollow heart beneath the right. The mouth of the mask was a straight, unchanging line, lending an unsettling neutrality to the expression.

"A… clown?" Adam blurted, his voice tinged with confusion as he scrambled to his feet.

The clown tilted their head, their movements unnaturally fluid, as though their joints bent at odd angles. For a moment, they simply stared at Adam, silent and unmoving. Then, with a faint nod, they acknowledged his words.

"Uh… sorry, I didn't see you there. Are you okay?" Adam asked, brushing himself off.

The clown didn't speak. Instead, they tilted their head the other way before nodding again, the motion precise and deliberate.

"Right. Uh, sorry again," Adam said, awkwardly stepping away. But before he could fully turn, the clown's gloved hand shot out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back with surprising strength.

"Hey, what the—" Adam started to protest but was abruptly silenced as a carriage barreled past him, its wheels brushing so close that he could feel the rush of air on his face. His heart pounded as he realized the clown had stopped him just in time.

"Did you… save me?" Adam asked, his voice shaky.

The clown remained silent, their head tilting once more as they nodded slowly. Then, with a peculiar grace, they released his arm, stepped back, and bowed deeply.

"Uh… thanks," Adam said, still shaken.

The clown straightened, their mask catching the faint lantern light in a way that made it seem almost alive. Without another word, they turned and walked away, their muted blue outfit blending eerily into the shifting shadows of the street. Adam stood frozen, staring after them as a strange chill crawled up his spine.

What the hell was that?

_________________

"Shit! Shit! Henry! What the hell was that?! You said you knew the way!" Edward barked, his voice raw with frustration as the carriage jostled violently over uneven cobblestones.

"I thought I did!" Henry snapped back from the driver's perch, gripping the reins with white-knuckled determination. "The path was supposed to be clear! Someone must've tipped them off. Are they still on us?"

Damian, leaning out of the carriage's back with a crossbow in hand, ducked back in and shook his head. "No sign of them anymore. Looks like we managed to shake them. But what now? Do we head back to the hideout? Or is that too risky?"

Edward ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "We can't risk the hideout. Too dangerous. For now, head to an inn. Damian and I will lay low there. Henry, once we're off, you need to take the carriage somewhere safe. Find a good spot to stash it and meet us back at the inn after you've regrouped with Dan."

Henry gave a sharp nod. "Understood. Any particular inn?"

"Pick one that doesn't ask questions. And make sure it's far enough from where the guards might still be looking," Edward replied, his tone steadier now.

The group fell silent as the urgency of the situation hung heavy in the air. Edward glanced out of the carriage window, the city streets blurring past under the faint glow of scattered lanterns. The shipment they were supposed to protect was scheduled to arrive tomorrow. Their job had seemed straightforward: secure the delivery, keep it safe, and oversee the exchange. But the ambush by the Queen's Guard had thrown everything into chaos.

Edward sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. "We'll have to figure something out. If they were waiting for us at the exchange site, then someone's been talking. And if we don't get the shipment handled quietly, we're screwed."

Damian frowned but said nothing, his expression dark as he cleaned and reloaded his crossbow. Henry, meanwhile, kept his focus on navigating the carriage through the labyrinthine streets, the tension palpable.

The plan was unraveling fast, but Edward knew one thing for sure: they couldn't afford to fail. Not with the stakes this high.

After a few hours of lying low, Edward, Henry, Damian, and Dan had finally started to relax a little. 

"I think we're safe for now," Edward said, breaking the silence. He turned to Dan, who sat slouched in a chair, his wizard's hat tilted down over his face as he combed his beard absentmindedly. "Do you have a way to contact the shipment team and let them know we're compromised?" 

Dan adjusted his hat and gave a slow nod. "Yeah, I do, but it'll take about six hours before the message reaches them. So make sure to write everything you want them to know." 

Edward stood, found a scrap of paper and a quill, and scribbled down the situation as clearly as he could. Once done, he handed the folded note to Dan. Without a word, Dan reached into his hat and pulled out a small, ruffled owl. The bird blinked sleepily but perked up as Dan tied the message to its leg. 

"Alright, little guy," Dan said, holding the owl gently. "Take this to them as fast as you can, and there'll be a reward for you when you're back." 

The owl hooted softly, flapped its wings with surprising enthusiasm, and darted out the open window, disappearing into the night. 

"So, what's next?" Damian asked, breaking the brief silence. "We can't just stay here forever. Sooner or later, we'll have to head back to the hideout. Most of our supplies are there, and if the Queen's Guard was waiting for us, there's a good chance they already know about the shipment. They'll be planning another ambush." His voice was low and grim as he leaned back in his chair. 

Henry, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his flask in hand, snorted and took a swig. "Relax, Damian. The team with the shipment are pros. Silver rank or higher, guaranteed. They know how to handle themselves. We just need to warn them to be careful, that's all. I've done plenty of jobs like this, and I've never been caught before. Everything'll be fine." 

Edward leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes but keeping his ears open. "Fine or not, we need to be ready for the worst. No chances, no screw-ups." 

Unbeknownst to any of them, a figure watched silently from the rooftop across the street. The clown stood motionless, their muted blue outfit blending with the shadows of the night. A white mask covered their face, its expression blank and eerie—a straight-lined smile with two dark eye holes, accented by painted clover and heart symbols beneath the eyes. 

The clown tilted their head, observing the building for another moment, before vanishing as if they'd never been there at all.

_________________

A figure materialized out of the shadows and knelt before a hooded person seated on an ornate chair. The hooded individual exuded an air of authority, their voice noble and commanding as they spoke. 

"Do you have anything important to report?" 

The kneeling figure raised their head, revealing the unsettling visage of a clown. Their face was hidden behind a stark white mask adorned with a simple, eerie painted smile and two symbols beneath the eyes—one a clover, the other a heart. The clown nodded silently. 

"Good," the hooded figure continued, their voice calm but laced with an undercurrent of power. "Prepare a full report and contact the others. But do not alert the Queen's Guard just yet. We need to reach the shipment first. Do you understand?" 

The clown nodded again, then vanished without a sound, leaving no trace of their presence. 

As the room fell silent, other figures emerged from the surrounding shadows, their movements deliberate and otherworldly. One by one, they knelt before the hooded figure, each donning a mask that bore a unique expression—some were contorted in rage, others frozen in manic glee, sorrowful despair, or calm serenity. Their appearances were as varied and unsettling as their masks. 

One figure was grotesquely large, their shoulders nearly brushing the room's ceiling. Another was impossibly thin and elongated, with gangly limbs that seemed to move unnaturally, as though their joints bent in ways they shouldn't. Others bore features that defied logic—bulging torsos, serpentine necks, or limbs that ended in claw-like fingers. Despite their physical disparities, they knelt in perfect unison, like pieces of a puzzle forming an image only their leader could understand. 

The hooded figure leaned forward slightly, their face still obscured by the dark folds of their cloak. "The shipment is crucial to our plans. You all know what's at stake. Move with precision. We cannot afford even the smallest mistake." 

The masked figures remained silent, their eerie stillness radiating obedience. With a simple wave of the hooded figure's hand, the congregation dispersed into the darkness, melting away like shadows retreating from the dawn. 

Left alone, the leader sat back, their fingers interlocking as they contemplated the unfolding plan. The room was quiet again, but the tension lingered—a storm brewing in the unseen corners of the world.

___________

Adam trudged through the bustling streets, exhaustion tugging at his every step. He was making his way back to the inn when something caught his eye—a flicker of movement in a nearby alleyway. Curious, he turned his head, and there they were: the clown.

The same clown who had saved his life earlier, standing there as if they'd materialized out of thin air. Their white mask, with its eerie painted smile and symbols beneath the eyes, practically glowed in the dim light. Adam froze mid-step, his jaw dropping comically wide.

One thought erupted in his mind like a siren: Magic.

"MAGIC!" he shouted, his exhaustion forgotten as adrenaline shot through his veins. Without hesitation, he bolted toward the clown like a child chasing an ice cream truck. The clown tilted their head, clearly confused, but before they could react, Adam leapt at them like an overenthusiastic wrestler.

"TEACH ME MAGIC!" he screamed, mid-air.

The clown caught him—somehow—with one arm, as if Adam weighed no more than a particularly aggressive cat. Their mask betrayed no emotion, but their body language screamed What is happening right now?

Adam clung to their arm like a koala and shouted again, his tone a bizarre mix of desperation and unhinged determination. "TEACH ME MAGIC, PLEASE, PLEASE, OR I'LL KILL YOU! TEACH ME MAGIC OR I SWEAR I'LL KILL YOU! PLEASE!"

The clown's head tilted further, the mask's painted smile now feeling disturbingly appropriate. Slowly, they raised a single hand and gave Adam an exaggerated thumbs-up.

Adam blinked, confused. "Wait… does that mean yes?"

The clown shrugged with theatrical flair and spun him around like a sack of potatoes, setting him down gently on the cobblestone street. Then, without a word, they pulled out a balloon from seemingly nowhere and began inflating it with alarming speed.

"Uh… what?" Adam muttered, watching in baffled fascination as the clown twisted the balloon into the shape of a wand. They handed it to him with a flourish, mimed an overly dramatic spell-casting motion, and then pointed at the sky.

"...You're kidding, right?" Adam asked, holding the balloon wand like it was a cursed artifact.

The clown nodded solemnly, gave him a pat on the head, and vanished into thin air, leaving Adam standing in the alley, clutching his balloon wand.

Adam stared at the spot where the clown had been, then at the wand in his hand. Finally, he looked up at the stars and screamed into the night: "THAT DOESN'T COUNT AS TEACHING!"