No Heroes left in Man

((This is the first few pages of my story. I am still editing it, but I thought it was about time people see a bit of where Varius Dark came from. If you want to read more just ask. And yes I know the grammar is not perfect and some of the lines are not as fluid as they should be yet, but I do hope you enjoy it!))

((This is the first few pages of my story. I am still editing it, but I thought it was about time people see a bit of where Varius Dark came from. If you want to read more just ask. And yes I know the grammar is not perfect and some of the lines are not as fluid as they should be yet, but I do hope you enjoy it!))

You finally arrive at an apartment high above the ground. Panting for breath you break down the door, putting all your weight into it. Dust swarms out as well as a dry musty smell, like you are just about to enter a husk of some long forgotten cocoon. You look around and frown. You hoped for great treasures, yet this apartment contains only the bare minimum required for survival. All that is in the room from what you can see in the poor lighting is thread bare arm chair in front of an old TV, a small table, a futon, an old tool kit, and a wall bookshelf. In the corner by the door is a stand up hat and coat rack, an old hat hanging from it, and a small mini fridge.

You walk to the fridge and pull out one of your favorite drinks: Pepsi infinity. It is guaranteed to stay fresh forever; it had to in this city where supplies were so hard to come by. With a grin you look around again in the room as you pop open the drink. The sound of the fizzing makes you a smile, and the refreshing bite of the first swig brings tears to your eyes.

Something catches your eyes. On an antique desk on lies an old pocket-size journal bound in a dusty red leather. There is a pen resting right next to it, giving you the impression that the writer would walk in at any moment to continue where they left off. There also are three dusty photographs in simple lacquered frames. You decide to look at the photos first, and you walk towards the photos and wipe off the dust. On one you see it is of a late teen boy grinning hugely with black straight hair and an elder gentleman in a white lab coat. You wipe off the other one and see it was of an attractive woman with black straight hair pale skin and a mole under her right eye. She was wearing a tasteful black strapless dress. The last one you wipe off had the same man, except about a decade older with what you think is a mannequin with light purple hair, with one blue eye and one yellow eye who seemed to be frowning a bit. You wondered why he would take a picture of a mannequin and shrug.

You turn your attention back to the journal your curiosity grows and gnaws at you as you stare at the journal on the cover are the words:



You cannot help but think this is an odd title for a journal and an odd name for a human. With a quick look behind you to make sure the owner would not come in, though it looks like he or she had not been here in a long time, you flip the book open and chuckle to see this person had actually hand written the journal instead of typing it out. Your eyes are quickly swept into the words of the first page.


Page One

I guess I should begin with my name, not that it really matters. I am Varius Dark. At least that is what I now go by. I have had a few names before, but this is the one the people remember me most by. If you are reading this than you are probably in my old apartment up about twenty stories, what I want to know now is what the hell you think you are doing in there? Get the hell out! I ain’t playing around with you! Leave! You can take the journal and read it if you want I will just find you and take it back later. I know the aftermath of the war has left everyone worse for wear but you have no idea who you just messed with.

Now that I think about it I should begin with the war or rather the aftermath of it since I was not alive during it. Obviously you have not stopped reading… hell you probably have not even left my apartment. Bah whatever.

I do not know what the war was about or who started it; it really doesn’t matter does it? One side won the other lost, then the side that lost did not like it and fought the winners again and the old winners used their missiles and blew the losing side up. Not a smart idea since the losing side also launched their missiles, only a few survived and left the world barren only a few cities survived.

It left the people disheartened that much I know since they are still like that, they are the dead, but they also banded together not caring how each other looked or what they believed in, at least god-wise, it was the only way they could live.

This city is, as you should know already, is Area 4 it has no name anymore, though some call it Avarice. You probably can feel the hopelessness everywhere you walk. For all you know it is the only city still inhabited and safe for humans, none of the grotesque beings called the Abominations that roam the world now, a byproduct of the war I mentioned earlier, hell maybe they were developed as weapons of some sort for the war, or humans that were mutated, I don’t know and I don’t think anyone else does either.

Back to the topic about Area 4, I can assure you it is the only place safe for humans, sure there is other people living in the other Areas, but the life expectancy there is five years if you are a healthy athletic young to mid thirty human, a year if you are older, a week for an old fogey and about three days for a young child, teens have the longest life span there at a whopping six years, which shocked the shit out of me figuratively of course.

I have traveled and lived in those Areas to describe it in my usual blunt manner it is like the people took a huge dump on hope. But you do not care about that do you? You are curious about my life, ha yeah right you are probably bored out of your mind and have nothing else to do. I guess I should begin with who I am really, or rather what I am. If you want to put the book down it ain’t to late, if not continue on at your own peril.


You chuckle at this writer’s bluntness and decide to read the journal, looking for a comfortable place to sit, your eyes wonder on the worn thread bare arm chair. You shrug since you are already in this persons house and there were no sirens or footsteps coming closer you plop down wiggling a bit to get comfortable, you pull the lever and the foot rest pops up you grin and lean back practically laying down in the chair. Propping the book up on your chest you turn the page.

Page Two

I am not human, there I said you are probably gasping or coughing on one of my drinks, you grubby thief, it had better not have been my last can of Pepsi! Hell you are probably in my chair too; best move soon who knows when I will come back could be right now in fact.

You cannot help but choke a bit at the writers’ first sentence of page two and start to cough. “What the hell is this person then?” you ask yourself. You also cannot help but snicker because you did take this persons’ last can of Pepsi and you are sitting in the chair and there is nothing the writer can do about it. Unless they came bursting through the door this moment. You throw a cautious glance to the busted doorway, almost believing the writer will pop in the doorway any minute. Seeing no one you sigh and shake your head before you continue to read the book.

Anyway back on topic. As I said I am not human. You are probably wondering what I am then. I guess technically I am a machine made to look like a human male of around eighteen. I do have human flesh over a metal interior; trust me you do not want to know where my creator got the skin. He made the skin self-regenerating as well so people won’t be too freaked out by me. I was created as replacement for the son he lost, pretty selfish of him if you ask me… sure he would think of me as his son, but at the same time as a machine as well, least that is what I thought at times.

I do not look like his son from the pictures I have seen of him. He had straight black hair, my hair is light purple that curls up in soft waves every which way, I guess you would call it wind tussled or something I don’t know, My hair is not real but is synthetic hair that grows back, my dad, I guess is what you would call him at least I thought of him as one, least when I was not mad at him, got it from a practice hair cutting dummy.

His eyes are brown mine are two different colors one pale yellow the other a pastel blue… err yeah my eyes are human… just do not ask where he got them, let’s just say the owners won’t be missing them anytime soon… Dad put some camera thing in it and replaced some of the nerves with wires. Son number one was tan while I am pasty, again do not ask…

He named me Artor, Artor Dark to be precise. First memory I have is waking up and seeing him, wondering who he was. He introduced himself as Professor Dark, and was my creator, and my father. I just nodded and walked up to him giving what I was programmed to do in response to that and hugged him saying in a slightly robotic yet also human voice, “I am awake now father.” Tears ran down his face and he hugged me back saying, “Welcome home my son.” I did not understand why he was crying, for me there was nothing to be sad about.

I lived with him never really allowed out of the apartment we lived in, he did not want to lose me like he lost his son. Needless to say I got bored, it was his fault really he programmed me with the emotions of a human teenage male and a personality developing program, some of the emotions though were bugged and did not work properly. Some worked to well for my liking like boredom and irritability. Dad just chuckled when I told him and replied, “That is common among teenagers.” I did not believe him.

He brought me things to ease my boredom like books, movies, music and other toys. It did not help my longing to be outside and meet other people. I tried sneaking out a few times, it did not work… he would know before I left and block my path, I could have easily just shoved him out of the way but he programmed me to obey him if he gave me the command… that would be his undoing. You see my father was a well-known inventor, he helped create the robots, none as advanced as me or human looking, or at least that I know of, that probably are still around and where there is a great inventor there will be a few people that hate them and are jealous. In my father’s case that was his old partner Thomas Albert Dane.

Your eyes widen at the name, “Thomas Albert Dane? Isn’t that the leader here? I-it cannot be the same man could it?” you mutter to yourself for some reason your heart is beating very fast.

It was about four years after I was created and I still looked eighteen, Father did not want me to age and die old he wanted me to live even after he would pass, which made me sad. I could tell age was taking its’ toll on him, he seemed tired all the time. Around that time we actually sat down to eat it was peaceful and we had pleasant chats or ate in silence, I only ate out of courtesy not because I needed to do it; I liked how some things tasted like Pepsi and pizza as well as some fruits and a few vegetables. I did not like fish at all.

I heard a knock at our door and got up to get it. When I opened it I saw an old man with snow white hair emotionless milky blue eyes.

“Is William here?” he asked me. I blinked and told him, “There is no one here by that name. You must have the wrong apartment.” He just chuckled and tried to push me aside, needless to say he failed, and he sighed. “Is professor Dark here?” he asked me. I turned to father and looked at him I would not move aside until he told me too. “It is all right Artor let him in, he is my partner Thomas Dane.” He explained. I nodded and moved aside, “welcome Mr. Dane. I am Artor Dark his son.” I told him. He just brushed passed me like I was an object.

“That thing is what you wasted your time on William? Bah I know you are grieving, but it has been about twelve years for god sake!” he growled motioning to me with his hand. I tilted my head I only had four years of memories not twelve. Father turned and looked at him, “He is my son not a thing.” He stated firmly. Dane just sneered and pulled out some blue prints which I zoomed in on and blinked those were my blue prints. I had no clue how he got them.

“You fool! Do you not see the potential he could be as a war machine? He could get those people in line and we could finally straighten this place out!” Dane told him shoving the blue prints in his face.

Father stood up at that and shook his head, “I will not allow you to use him in part of your ploy Dane!” father told him.

Dane just chuckled, “I was not going to ask you.” He said and took out something that seemed to be a control device and pressed a string of numbers, he held it to his mouth and pressed another button something inside me buzzed overriding my circuits. “Artor go and kill Dark for me. Drop him out his window into the city he has forsaken.” He said in my fathers’ voice.

I had no choice; he somehow knew my code… I walked over and grabbed my father dragging him to the window and holding him out the window. A tear ran down my face as I tried to resist the command, he did not say when to drop him, I could hold him out of the window for years, anything to keep the man I thought of as a father alive. Dane growled at me, “DROP HIM NOW ARTOR!”

I winced and let him go, but then caught him. He walked over to me and yelled at me, “DROP HIM AND WATCH HIM DIE! YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO CATCH HIM ONLY TO WATCH HIM PLUMMET TO THE GROUND AND DIE!” he pressed a button shocking me making me scream in pain. I let him go slowly for the second time, my father looked at me his eyes full of sorrow and of forgiveness he knew that there was nothing I could have done. Under Dane’s command I could do nothing but watch him fall to his death, tears running down my cheeks and rage filled me when I knew he was dead. I lunged at Dane, and broke his device before he could use it again trying to get to him. When I grabbed him I literally ripped him apart only to find that he was a robot like me, he had sent a replica to do his dirty work.

That is my past in a nutshell I am now known as Varius Dark, it is a play on sounds “Various Dark” it means to me the varying darkness in all of the humans souls. I am now a mercenary and do many odd jobs for various clients hoping and biding my time to get back at Dane.

“Wow… this is like some sort of historical fiction… this guy had it rough…I wonder how this journal ends…” you mutter to yourself. You feel a muzzle of a gun press against the side of your head. “I can tell you how it ends for you. You die by my hands. Unless you start explaining who you are and what the hell you are doing here.” A slightly robotic voice tells you. You glance and see a tall figure shrouded by a black duster and black wide brimmed hat, you think it is called a fedora, masking his face; he wields an ancient SMG-05 which is what is pressing against your skull.