CHAPTER 3 THE BREAKING OF REST

CHAPTER 3 
-THE BREAKING OF REST- 
Outside the lodge, a magical leaf sponge sits in Metro's hand, glowing with confidence. It isn't just green—It's, GREEN. 
Deep forest tones swirled beneath neon streaks, white minty microscopic bulbs highlight a beautiful shimmer across the surface.  
The odors shift subtly, as if the spongey piece was alive.
The tricones sparkle with tiny small scattered enchanted crystals, each one refracting the sun rays into rainbows.
Metro tilts his head gazing at the mystical fluff, adoring the glittery beams fired off in every direction with awe, and deep admiration. 
It's fluffy—cloud soft—pillow like, but also dense, like someone had compressed a small star into a marshmallow. 
Really majestic. 
And the oils— 
They glisten and drip in a slow, dramatic sequence as Metro squeezes the life force out of it.  
Then the smell hits him. 
Not gently— 
~~but~~ violently, all together invading his senses in different layers. 
First, gassy—like high octane dragon's breath, then sweet and earthy, like sap from a tree that whispers motivational speeches, and fruity citrus, like a basket of goodies that's ascended to a higher plane. 
He plucks off a tiny piece, and the moment it touches his lips, entering his mouth, the bud piece erupts into flavor, settling dramatically on the tongue. 
A citrusy starlight gas explosion detonates across his taste buds. His pupils dilate, eyes widening. R.E.M. state activates.  
 His hair lifts. 
A warmth shoots through his chest like someone poured sunrise directly into his blood stream. 
Sounds brighten, colors sharpen. 
Metro stands there glowing like he just ate a piece of the universe. 
(Perception increased) The moment the cure calibrates into Metro's system, the village snaps into ultra-clarity. 
 Colors crank themselves up like they're trying to impress him. The dirt shimmers gold tones, pebbles sparkle, freshly polished. Stalls are sharper, cleaner, scents hit him in rapid fire succession. Sizzling meats, fresh breads, incense, someone's cologne—all bleeding like a sensory punch that makes his eyes water. 
Metro moves through the bustling town with renewed purpose, energy still humming. 
The path leads him straight towards Blake's stall. 
Blake stands behind a market table, a wiry young man with tense posture and hands darkened from handling herbs and powders. He's lining up bundles of dried plants beside colorful vials, trinkets and polished stones. 
He notices Metro approaching. 
His eyes widen. 
Blake freezes with a bundle of herbs still in his hand, studying Metro with a look that mixes with surprise and caution. Something in Metro's stride—the weight behind it—it's different. 
The usual quick sales pitch never makes it out of Blake's mouth. 
Blake: (straightening, wiping palms on apron) "Metro, you look different." 
His gaze flickers around the market, then back to Metro, uncertainty settling in his expression. 
"What's going on?"  Before Blake can say another word, something in the crowd shifts. 
Not a person. 
A movement. 
A shadow. 
For the briefest instant, Metro sees a patch of darkness detach from the bodies around it—deeper than any normal shadow, impossibly dense. It flickers at the edge of his vision like a blackened doorway. 
Then it's gone. 
The juice really surges through Metro's veins now. Sharpening everything.  
Voices separate. 
 Footsteps ring. 
 The world feels dimensional and supremely clear. 
For a moment, his sight pushes past the surface. He sees it again—not a man, but a shape behind that man. 
Tall—Hallow. 
A blackened vertical tear in the air, folding inward. 
The moment collapses. 
The vision vanishes. 
Reality snaps back. A masked man burst from the crowd, frantic. He vaults over Blake's stall, scattering herbs and coins across the cobblestone. 
Blake: (— yells—) "No! What are you doing?!" 
The thief lands hard, clutching stolen trinkets, hands trembling behind a rusty dagger. 
He turns to see Metro standing in his lane. 
The thief freezes. 
The crowd reacts. Recoiling, keeping distance. 
A woman pulls her child behind her skirt. 
(Metro's instincts spike) 
For a heartbeat, time slows down, and Metro sees a faint flicker of the same impossible darkness behind the man—Like something urging the thief on. 
But when he blinks, it's only a man. 
The dagger lifts. 
The thief lunges, coins spilling from his grip as the blade thrust forward in a reckless, panicked all-out attack. 
The crowd gasps and scatters. 
A crackling surge of power leaps from Metro's hand, his energy snapping through the air like bolts from a storm cloud. It lights the area in white-blue flashes.
The bandit jerks violently, taken aback, coins flying across cobblestone. 
 Pain twists in the sight of the bandit's eyes. He staggers on one knee, clutching his chest, breath ragged—he lifts himself, slowly, cautiously, steadying in his trembling boots, the rusty dagger still clenched in hand.  
His eyes lift to Metro's, wide and suddenly afraid. 
The market has already erupted, scattered villagers, baskets overturning, shouts rising, and lanes being cleared. 
Metro moves instinctively. 
Steel slides into his palms from two sheaths. Both daggers settle into place, grounding him. 
 His vision focuses on the wounded thief. 
The robber hunches, breathing harshly, hesitation finally breaking through panic. 
His eyes dart to Metro... to the open street... to a knocked over bread loaf on Blake's table. 
A desperate choice is made suddenly—through his small aura—He snatches the bread, tucks it, and bolts. 
Choosing hunger, over another moment in the face of battle. 
Metro kneels among the scattered mess. Coins on the cobblestone road, small flashes of brass and copper catching the daylight and a few herbs buried beneath papers and boxes. 
Metro helps Blake gather his belongings piece by piece, brushing stray leaves aside, and placing objects. 
 Blake stands, slightly trembling. 
His eyes are wide, still shocked from the violence that just erupted in front of his stall. 
 Then Metro places the last coin into Blake's hand. 
Blake stares in gratitude, awe, disbelief. 
Metro straightens. 
Metro:(calm) "Blake, King Theron has asked me to go into business with him." 
The words hang between them. 
(voice lowers) "A cultivation project" 
The market finally settles. 
"It's in a discreet location, I'll need people who I can trust to prepare, and harvest." 
His gaze settles on Blake. 
"So, I thought of you, would you be willing to help me?" 
Blake blinks. 
Once. 
Twice. 
Theron's name alone hits him harder than the chaos that just unfolded. He glances down at the coins in his hand, then back up. 
Blake:  "King Theron?" 
He whispers, as if speaking louder would summon the man himself. 
The intensity of the question settles inside his expression. 
The man who just watched Metro blast a thief across the lane now sees something else entirely different standing before him. 
Respect. 
Opportunity. 
A little fear. 
"Yes, of course..." 
He tightens his grip on the returned coins. 
"Count me in!"  A faint determined look replaces the shock in his eyes. 
A genuine smile touches Metro's face as he tucks his cotton shirt more neatly. 
Blake: "Come through, whenever you need an extra hand." 
Metro gives a quick nod. 
Metro: "Nice." 
He leaves the recovering stall behind, listening to the market slowly return to its rhythm-- to its usual murmurs of gossip and chatter. 
Metro moves quickly through the familiar dirt roads, a swift urgency lightening his steps. The need to speak to Ana burns in his chest. Houses and winding paths blur past as his thoughts race ahead.
Soon Ana's cottage comes into view, the newly built fence standing firm from yesterday's labor. The scent of drying herbs and something warm baking drifts from within. 
-ANAS COTTAGE- 
-Metro pushes open the creaking door.-  
(Home base)
Inside, Ana stands by the hearth, stirring a simmering pot with slow steady motions. At the sound of the door, she turns. A gentle smile, though her perceptive eyes immediately catch the urgency in his posture. 
Ama:(voice soft) " You're here sooner than I expected." 
She studies him. 
"What news did you bring from Theron?" 
Metro pours out the entire story to Ana, the words tumbling out in a rushed flow—King Theron's intimidating offer, the requested demand for a vast amount of leaf every month, Veronica's confession and explanation, the chaotic encounter at the market with the robber and Blake's agreement to assist. 
Ana listens quietly, her hands still working the stew as it simmers over the fired pot~~ watching the small steaming hearth, her expression shifts between concern and quiet understanding.  
When Metro reaches the part about needing seeds, her eyes soften. 
Ana:(murmers) "So... it has come to this," 
 (She lets out a slow breath.)"Theron's ambitions know no bounds. You’ll have to carry a heavy weight, it'll cause attention also."
She reaches into a hidden compartment within the hearth and draws out a pouch larger than the one Metro carried before.  
Inside are countless tiny seeds, each shimmering faintly with an otherworldly glow. 
"These are from my deepest reserve,"  
(placing the pouch into his hands)"Each one is genetically capable, true strains, not hybrids. I've separated them accordingly. 
(beat) 
' There's a terrible expectation..." 
"Make sure you guard these well." 
She hesitates, then adds,  
"You should speak to Paul once again. He's a good man—loyal. His hands are skilled, and his mind is sharp. He will understand the gravity of this... maybe he can help." 
(beat) 
"It's just, I'm worried... about the consequences of failure."
Ama's gaze meets his, the unspoken worry hanging heavy in the room. 
Metro steps forward and pulls her into a gentle embrace. His head lays on her crowned silver braids.  
The faint scent of herbs and earth cling to her, grounding him. They offer each other a moment of quiet reassurance. 
Paul's name is only out of Ama's mouth for a few seconds. 
- a heavy knock rattles the cottage door. 
 Before Metro can rise, the latch lifts, and Paul fills the doorway with a broad, sheepish grin. He carries a small sack—rich with the scent of cooked meat—and a stoneware jug in his other hand. 
~~steps in the cottage~~ 
Paul: (sits down at table, others follow) 
"Heard through a birdie you were back, Metro." 
The door swings shut behind him. His eyes twinkle, but the smile fades when he takes in Ana's concern and Metro's tense posture.  "And I figured a man dealing with... Lord Thin Skin... might need a good meal and maybe some blunt advice." 
He sets the sack and jug on the table, then nods respectfully to Ana. 
"Ana, always a pleasure, what trouble has this young rogue gotten himself into this time?" 
His gaze drifts to the pouch of seeds on the table. 
A knowing look passes between him and Ana. 
Paul settles in a chair, everyone follows. His earlier light-heartedness fading as Metro recounts everything. His brow sinks deep, into a frown, and he lets out a sigh as the story ends.  
The Blake incident earns a small nod but the weight of it all settles inside of him in a bad way. 
Paul: "He's playing a dangerous game, dragging everyone into its shadow." 
(pours out apple ale in mug) "You're right to worry about the crop. It takes more than skill, you'll need the land's favor. 
' Falling short with Theron is bad news." 
Metro asks Paul to join the cause, going through the ~~new~~ information about compensation, and even possible renovations to their property in the future. —Paul takes a long drink, staring into his mug before answering. 
Paul: " Listen, you know I'd stand by you, what you did for Blake proves the kind of man you are.”
 But this..." He exhales. 
"This is a different kind of fight." 
He sets his mug down. 
"My own operation depends on me being there, walking away from it for something this demanding, seems risky... I can't decide that in a moment." 
He shakes his head. 
"I can give you advice, tools, maybe transport, but committing fully—I need time to really think about where I stand in all this." 
Metro accepts Paul's honest statement, and tells him he's leaving at first light, to meet Veronica at the carriages. 
Paul nods slowly, still troubled. 
Paul: "I understand" 
Metro thanks Paul, a quiet understanding passing between them as they eat, the weight of King Theron's demands lingering in the air. 
 Ana offers a few soft words of wisdom, but mostly lets the two sit in comfortable silence, sharing a meal, feeling calm in familiar company. 
Outside, dusk deepens on Sally as she grazes by the small barn, she lifts her head, watching cottage windows painted softly -orange and purple. 
Inside, Metro tends the hearth, coaxing a warm fire to life. The bouncing flames light across the old wooden beams. Conversation fades, and weariness settles over them. 
Metro bids Ana and Paul a good night, his thoughts tangled in ambition, worry and loyalty.  
He settles on to a lumpy couch next to the fireplace, pulling a blanket over himself, as the fire draws him into sleep. 
The scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs fill the cottage. 
 Before long, Metro drifts into a deep trance. —his mind briefly free of the plans—shaping his path. 
Metro slips into the strange limbo between sleep and consciousness—mind alert, body paralyzed.  
He can feel an evil presence in the room, he hears soft crackles from the fireplace, but he cannot move.  
His breath is shallow, trapped in his chest. 
Then—Glass shatters violently 
CRASHHH! (echoes) 
The sound detonates through the cottage like a hammer blow. Metro's heart races, pounding so hard it hurts, but his body remains locked in place. 
A soft sound follows. 
Not a voice. 
A melody. 
Something is wrong. 
A warped, mystical, other worldly trance plays softly, gradually increasing its volume, creeping in on Metro's soul uninvited. 
As the hellish track continues to elevate in volume, it trap’s Metro's spirit in a torturous chamber of flashing sounds that translate into supersonic horrors.—Beginning faintly after ringing glass, then surges into a full / overwhelming blast, as if someone was pressing massive horns against both sides of his skull. 
METRO: (His thoughts, terrified, pleading desperately) 
("Oh God! ..... God!")
The thought screams through him, but his lips don't move. 
His spirit body stays fused inside his flesh—trembling, eyes squeezed shut in terror—refusing to open, refusing to see whatever presence has entered the room. 
The fire crackles still. 
The haunting trance now overtakes his bones, dialing in. 
Something is here. Wanting to invade the body, the house, the temple. 
Watching him. 
Haunting him. 
Tormenting. 
Metro tries to budge, eyes pinched, but fails, lying still. Caught between two worlds, as the under worldish tune pulses through his every fiber.
The sound is crushing in on him spiritually- Evaporating all happiness. 
Taking energy forcefully and rapidly. 
Stealing his chakra till he has no life left. 
Metro's mind fights for control, his body still locked in place. 
Then— (A spark of movement in his right pinky, a small twitch) 
His eyes open. His pinky finger curls inwards. 
Enough to shake the paralysis. Quickly gaining control, warmth rushes back to his limbs, music fades in the clearing, breaking the evil spell holding him. 
Metro inhales sharply. 
He wakes, with a smooth jolt upwards, breath unsteady as the cottage settles back into its queit shape around him. 
The fire glows low in the hearth. 
He turns his head. 
Paul is slumbered in the big leather chair by the table, snoring softly. 
 Ana is curled up, in her bed, by the window, peaceful, beneath her stitched blanket. 
The room is still. 
The night is quiet. 
Fire crackles beneath the hearth. 
—Scene Fades—