His diabolical plan to keep the mammoth beast too angry to think straight worked beautifully. Unfortunately, it also proved to work too well. There was no possible way that he might escape into the darkness. The sweet spot in turn became something of a honey trap for Blackthorne. The worst part of it all, even more so than the sensation in his stomach that made him nauseated from all the spinning and bouncing around, was that at some point the beast would tire itself out enough that it would be able to actually think about the situation logically. While its typical weapons could not reach its irritating rider, something as simple as rolling around on the floor or making an attempt to scrape him off by way of one of the large stone pillars that supported the roof could easily dislodge him.

"Stupid crustacean!" shouted Blackthorne. "You're just an overgrown lobster that thinks it's a spider!"

The scorpion shrieked in annoyance and began to dance and buck around once more. It was unlikely that it understood the language used to mock it, but it was still irritated by the presence of its rider.

Blackthorne held on for dear life as the enraged beast rampaged around the ruins. When it finally slowed down again, its rider called out another string of mocking invectives to get it riled up again. After several minutes passed, even Blackthorne's immense strength was close to reaching its limit. The thing's movements were too violent. Soon, he would be thrown off and then he would die.

Strangely, he was more annoyed than afraid. In many ways he did not mind the idea of death. It was only in the last few weeks that he had begun to even have a reason to live beyond a stubborn refusal to simply let the world have its way. His grip began to loosen as his strength began to wane. Were he to release his grip, his strength would return quickly. However, the monster would be on him long before that happened.

As the beast ran around acting like a fool, Blackthorne held on for his now precious life. Yet, despite the dire nature of the situation he could not himself. Once his mind wandered down the path of reminiscence he could not stop the flood of memories that assaulted him.

So much had happened to him in recent days. His life had gone from a waking nightmare filled with unending sadness and the desperate mediocrity of a small town life lived without merit, to one of moderately high adventure filled with friends and fun.

Sweat poured down his face and chest as he did his best to hold onto the raging beast. His life force began to drop due to the strain that he put on his body, but he held on.

Memories of Ashton, Sonja, Shara, and even of some of his co-workers at Archers rose to the forefront of his consciousness. For the first time in his life, he wondered what anyone would think of him when he died. His death was a certainty now. He had fallen for the honey trap that was the man-lobster's sweet spot.

His breathing intensified even as his heart began to race. He could feel his fingers begin to give. The monster jerked left and right. One hand tore free for a moment, but he was just barely able to latch on again with a desperate surge of strength.

"I can't..." whispered Blackthorne. He closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth. His waning strength briefly surged once more as he tried to hold on. It remained a losing battle.

The moment that he truly admitted reality to himself, that strength began to wane once more. It was inevitable. His new life, everything he had finally managed to build for himself, would soon come to an end.

The beast was simply too fast, too strong. "Damn thing has enough life force to tank my spells, too," he mumbled.

Memories rose up again, something akin to his life flashing before his eyes. His muscles silently cried out in pain as they began to tear slightly. The stress from the constant movement had caused internal injuries to begin to form. Minor, to be certain, but enough to further weaken his death grip on the knobby protrusions of his chitinous foe.

It was too much. This thing was a legendary monster!

His memories grew more prominent. Soon, a warm masculine voice joined them. "Remember..."

"This again," whispered Blackthorne hoarsely. "Fuck off with that..."

The monster began to run around in circles that soon became a figure out. Now that Blackthorne did not have the will to talk smack anymore, the beast had begun to notice that jerking him around had caused him to shift about. It would throw him off, yet!

Faces, the people he had cherished before his life went to hell and the people whom he had come to care for, rose to the forefront of his mind. The voice spoke again, "Remember..."

Blackthorne shook his head as though he intended to shake free of the word that assaulted his mind with its gentle warmth. "Dammit... What am I supposed to remember at a time like this?"

A tiny bit of strength surged through his body, just enough for him to shout, "Who cares about memories! I'm about to fucking die, you imaginary soft-spoken asshole!"

Suddenly, his vision began to grow dark. Everything started to slow down and soon the world had nearly come to a halt. In truth, however, the world did not slow down. Instead it was his mind that raced ahead.

Thoughts, emotions, and memories all washed over him as though he had been plunged into a sea of ideas. Out of the depths of that chaotic ocean of concepts arose two simple images. One image was an inky black darkness that swirled around a blazing red light. Jet black chains rose up from its center and waved around in the air like tentacles. It was a disturbing image, but there was something strangely comforting about it.

Blackthorne found that his mentality began to shift into a less cohesive nature. He could not truly think, but could only feel and react. In many ways it was as though he were in the midst of an intensely surreal dream. Instead of questioning things like he normally might, he accepted everything for what it was just as one tended to do in a dream.

The second image was far less compelling. It was a shifting series of familiar moments in time that he had experienced. The same images continually repeated on a loop, much like an Internet GIF. He saw Girtablilu attack and how he barely managed to dodge the blow. He saw the wisp come to his aid, and how the creature could not harm it. He also saw himself try to stab the creature, and the pathetic result.

It was nothing important. Had he the faculties to reason properly, he would have wondered why such images appeared before him.

Down in the depths of that dream-like sea he was drawn to the darkness and chains that surrounded that glowing red light. His will submerged in ink-black night, soon the other images faded from his vision altogether.

The darkness was soothing. The chains slowly wrapped around his imaged body and drew him closer to the center. Though, he felt nothing save for peace and warmth he could see the heart of that hellish red light. Rather he saw a layer above it, and in that layer he saw the time that he discovered his sister's body.

Red hot anger blossomed inside of his heart in that moment. The chains drew him tighter, and he did not resist.

"Remember..." whispered the voice.

Blackthorne did as he was bid, and in so doing lost his sense of self. Soon, he was merely Scott once more.

Scott remembered the truth in that moment. The acrid stench of cigarette smoke, and the smell of alcohol that hung in the room like aromatic piss. The way his sister had been brutalized and then left discarded like a used condom.

The anger grew even more intense in that moment, it went beyond the simple hatred of a normal man. It became an all-encompassing existence.

Everyone had blamed him. They were right to do so. He had failed his sister. He let it happen.

"Remember..." whispered the voice gently.

Harry's face, the reddened and leathery face of a man who had never spent a sober moment in his life, leered at him from the shadows of a nearby doorway. For the briefest of moments, the man's eyes were yellow like a wolf but it was only a trick of the light. The gleam in his eyes was not the mark of a predator but that of a wicked and vile abomination who had taken joy in his sick and twisted game.

The rage grew hotter inside his mind. Steam began to rise up from his body as his temperature spiked.

Nearly everyone sided with the man after he was beaten to a bloody pulp. Scott was a deranged and psychotic child. In dark corners it was even whispered that he had been the one to brutalize his own sister. Though nothing ever came of such gossip many chose to believe it.

The mental image of Scott inside that dreamscape burst into flames as the anger swelled inside of him. There was something missing from this world; that people would act in such a way. The anger swelled. The darkness churned the sea of his unconscious mind and the abyssal chains that bound him gripped him tight.

He was made to look down into that fell red light. There was something at the center that he could not quite make out. It was indistinct, but gave off an incredible sense of power.

His anger swiftly rose ever higher as he stared into that hellish abyss. Soon, it became a venomous rage, one which was so all-consuming that it could devour everything.

It all stemmed from one source, a meaning to its existence. Whatever was at the center of that hatred for the world and the people living in it was so powerful that it could destroy everything.

He grew closer to the center but it remained indistinct. It was a thing of flickering shadows, for all that it gave off an immense light.

"Remember..." whispered the voice once more.

The voice need not have bothered to speak, though upon hearing the word he was propelled downward at greater speed. The closer he drew to the center of this dark, but comfortable, hell of chains and dreariness the more he began to understand. It was as though things that he had always known, but had been hidden from him, finally began to reveal themselves before his eyes.

What he would find at the center of it all would be the thing he hated most of all. Before the flickering image came into view, he already knew what it would be. If it were a television show or a book, it would have been seen as both formulaic and quite the cliché. Yet, it remained the truth. Wavering and flickering at the core of his burning hatred was an ordinary man. He was hugely fat, pock-marked, riddled with acne, and he gave off an aroma that only a man who had not bathed in months might give. Dorito crumbs and the residue of various sauces stained his filthy shirt.

"Big surprise. The thing I hate the most is myself," said Scott in annoyance. He did not need to go on a mystical journey into himself to know that sort of thing. He'd always known that he hated himself. No one gave a damn about him, not even him.

Yet, despite the completely unsurprising revelation he could not turn away. Something about the image of the hideous fat bastard that he believed himself to be did not sit right with him. Why did it flicker and waver? Shouldn't such an obvious insight be rock solid and true?

"Remember..." whispered the voice.

"I don't..." he said slowly, but his eyes widened in sudden understanding. He did know what the flickering of that image meant. It was a false image! The fat bastard that he hated so much was the image of what he thought himself to be; the version of himself that he believed the world wanted him to be.

"You're not me..." whispered Scott.

The image stopped flickering. Its head snapped upward and looked him square in the eyes. "Then who am I?"

Scott found himself assaulted by an intense pressure that pressed down on him from all sides. The words 'Who am I?' echoed repeatedly inside his head. The words demanded an answer, and would have one!

"Remember..." whispered that soft masculine voice once more.

Dozens of images appeared before him. Like snapshots taken of moments in time they each represented an aspect of his life. Scott understood this to mean that he had to choose an image that he believed would truly represent who he was, if he wished to discover the truth.

Yet, despite all of the images that he saw he did not see himself. While he certainly saw images of himself doing various things, none felt like they were his true nature. He saw himself killing onions. In one scene he chased after Ashton's ex-fiancé while people looked on excitedly. A few looked quite dramatic, wherein he struck a cool looking pose while the light reflected off of his fantasy armor.

The pressure intensified. He demanded answers from himself. "Who am I?"

In the end, only one thing came to mind. There was only one time in his life, especially in recent days, when he had felt perfectly at peace with himself and a decision that he had made. The images before him faded away and a single image appeared to take their place. It was the image of a little dark elf girl bound in chains and left to tremble fearfully in the darkness. A sudden light had pierced that nightmare and there in the door way stood a man larger than life. The light of the sun blazed around him and in so doing almost made it appear that he himself was the source of that light.

"You really think that's me?" asked the hideous fat thing that wore Scott's face.

Scott tore his eyes from the image and looked to his disgusting counterpart. "It's who I was meant to be all along."

The horridly fat thing blinked once then bowed its head. It faded from sight and was then replaced by the image that Scott had claimed for himself. A soft white light pulsed outward from the image. It illuminated the darkness, but strangely enough that darkness did not dissipate. It was not a metaphor for wickedness, or a disgusting nature. It was darkness akin to the night sky, a thing that had caused fear and wonder in humanity since time immemorial. That darkness had always been a part of him, a primordial thing.

By coming to the depths of his own mind, he realized many startling truths about himself. Not the least of which was the fact that one of his chains did not belong to him. It lead off away from the core of his identity to some unknown place.

"I know what this is... don't I?" Scott did not know why he knew, but he understood it for what it was upon seeing it. The tiny little chain was connected to him by someone else.

Scott reached out and touched that dark chain. In so doing he felt his senses fall away. Suddenly a new image appeared before him. It was a dark throne room. Weird little flying demon men flapped around at the edges of his vision, but the thing he saw clearest was a figure who sat upon a throne at the center of the room.

Baleful yellow eyes were the thing's only facial feature as all else was shrouded in darkness. Briefly, he recalled the yellow of Harry's eyes, but it was a fleeting moment.

The yellow-eyed man leaned forward as though curious. Then laughter boomed across room. Though muted by the distance, Scott heard it clearly.

"Fetch me another dog..." said the yellow eyed man, "It's a pity I broke the last one earlier."

Scott recalled something that he did not realize that he had known before. He was cursed! How could he have forgotten such a thing? This was the guy who had hacked his soul. It had to be.

A brief moment of silence passed, but Scott had already had enough. He was tired of people playing games with his life. This guy had been able to see so much of his life, and plagued him with those damned voices all of this time.

There was a part of him that wanted to scream, to cry out for answers. Why would someone he had never met do such a thing? What had he done to deserve any of it? However, there was something about the creature that just pissed him off to no end. It seemed so damned smug about the situation.

Scott realized that he had allowed too much of his life to pass while under the curse of this thing. If he were to try and question the thing in order to gain answers, or a bit of closure, it would mean acceptance of the fact that it had power over him. He did not want to give the thing the satisfaction of either his anger, or his tears. He wanted nothing more than to be done with it now that he understood the cause of his pain. His memories and the way he had lived were his own fault, but this yellow-eyed bastard could keep his damned voices to himself.

Trembling hands soon steadied. Scott gripped the chain tightly then began to pull it in different directions. It showed no intention of breaking, but Scott continued to pull anyway.

In the depths of Boss King's throne room, the yellow-eyed beast laughed once more. What did this fool think that he was doing? "You think you can destroy something that I made, you idiot? A pathetic little mortal like you could never break an immortal obj—" began the man only for Scott to look him directly in the eyes then say, "Show's over."

The last thing the crystal ball showed of Scott was his hands pulling apart the chain of fate that Boss King had painstakingly crafted and used to bind his soul. The crystal ball showed nothing but static now, like an old analog television set that received no signal.

Those hateful yellow eyes opened wide in disbelief. It wasn't possible. There was no way that a mortal soul could have done such a thing. He soon came to terms with the truth, of course. The image was obviously false. Some god or other had no doubt discovered the hack and moved to sever it. Clearly, that image was meant to both unsettle him and to make him hesitate in attacking that pathetic little he-bitch again.