"… lucky this kid was there."
Whose… whose voice was that?
"… civilians shouldn't have been anywhere near that place."
He recognised the second voice. The voice of a girl…
"… that soul stone we found is… evidence to convince them."
His couldn't hear completely clearly, but those were the voices of a man and a girl talking.
Where the hell was he?
"… the fact that he's alive is no coincidence."
He groggily opened his eyes. A bright blinding light came flooding into them, forcing him to wince, straining his eyes and turning his head.
His other senses returned way too quickly.
There was a soft cushy feeling under his head and body, like he was lying in a bed, covered by a bed sheet. Strangely, this place had no smell at all.
His ability to track the supernatural by smell ended up improving his normal scent as well. He could separate everyone in his class by scent alone even if they were all in a separate classroom.
Yet, aside from the scent of expensive perfume and a less expensive perfume—probably from that man and girl—he couldn't smell anything at all.
His mouth didn't taste like anything either, but he could swear it tasted like burning flesh not too… what time was it? How much time had passed since he killed that giant frog from the inside?
He sat up slowly, still adjusting to his returning senses. Taking a look around, things started making less and less sense.
Lifting the bedsheet slightly, he found himself dressed in unfamiliar clothing—a black tee and white sweats. The walls and ceiling were white, the floors were plain concrete.
The room was nearly empty, other than the bed he lay on, a table not too far from him, and the two people he'd heard talking.
He turned to them both, sceptical and cautious.
Marcus recognised one of the people in front of him: a redhead—a girl—the same one who battled the giant frog.
This time she wasn't on fire, and she wasn't wearing the battered suit she wore before. She was dressed in a branded white tee and some dark pants—like an average teenager.
But most confusing of all, she was uninjured.
That was impossible.
Both of them were injured far more than any living person should be. Why wasn't she in a cast? Why wasn't she dead?
Wait… why wasn't he dead?
He examined himself hurriedly, confused. Had he gone crazy or were all his injuries gone—POOF—just like that?
His skin, his ribs… nothing ached. He felt better than even before he chased the first Loveland frog.
How long had he been out?
"You're awake," said the man with a curious gaze.
Marcus's attention fell on him. He was a blonde man, dressed in a clean suit, with a clipboard in hand. His slicked-back hair, coupled with the barely noticeable scar on his lip, and fit body his suit couldn't completely mask, gave him a certain air.
He wore glasses, but Marcus could feel his prying eyes on him. Like he was being stared at naked. The man's entire presence felt precisely dangerous, like every move was intentional.
He felt like a CEO.
He walked towards Marcus with an air of authority, his voice blunt and straightforward.
"Do you know who you are?" He asked.
"Marcus…" he paused for a moment as the two of them exchanged looks, "Marcus Moon." He needed answers as to where he was and how much time had passed since the frog incident. His mother would be worried half to death if he went missing.
She'd lost her husband already, she didn't need to lose a son too. Right now, cooperating was the best way to get information.
"Who are you? Where am I? How long has it been?—"
"You died," the girl said bluntly. "At least you were supposed to," she added, examining his body.
He was supposed to die?…
Hearing that made Marcus uncomfortable. Given his last memory before appearing in this place—wherever "this" was—it made sense he was supposed to die.
But waking up in a room with strangers testing his memory, examining him, and being surprised he wasn't dead didn't sit right with him in the slightest. Cooperation didn't feel like the best course of action anymore.
The man looked at Marcus like he could read his mind. Was his expression that obvious?
"Don't misunderstand. Your death would've been no fault of ours. The report says you let yourself get swallowed by a greater beast-grade OC and set it on fire from the inside." The man sat on the bed. "The fact that you've got air in your lungs is thanks to us."
Marcus wasn't appreciating the oh-so comforting speech, or the stranger's proximity. He moved his leg to get off the bed, but it wouldn't budge. There was something wrapped tightly around his ankle—something metal restrained him.
He tossed the bedsheets to the side and panicked. His foot was handcuffed to the metal frame of the bed.
"What the hell!?" he muttered. "Who's 'us'? Who are you people? Where am I? How much time has passed since—"
"Answers will come in due time, but first I'd like to know how much you recall before you lost consciousness."
Marcus stared at him, pissed. A guy wakes up handcuffed in God knows where with some dude and a teenage girl and he can't get any decent answers? He deserved that much at least.
Still, cooperation was the best option for now, no matter how much he hated the idea. He looked at both of them one after the other; he conceded.
"I chased down a Loveland frog into an alleyway and killed it with a bat covered in barbed wire. A bigger frog exploded from one of the surrounding buildings, and I found her fighting it alone," Marcus said.
There was a long silent pause as he contemplated whether or not to tell them about the gemstone—not like he knew where it was.
He conceded again.
"I helped move the bodies of her comrades and got gas so I could burn it from the inside. She was too injured to stand, and I got…" he couldn't say the next word as easily as he thought he could, "burned."
As he spoke, the girl circled him, examining him closely, making him even more uncomfortable. Just what kinda creeps managed to capture him?
"The way you talk… you've been aware of the supernatural for a long time, and you've garnered experience fighting them too." The man got up from the bed. "What do you think?" he asked the girl, still examining Marcus.
"You were right, he's got awakened soul essence running through his body." She turned to the man and stopped pacing. "He didn't have any when we met on the battlefield. I would've sensed it."
"Then there's only one logical explanation for his survival and current state…" The man turned to Marcus. "Describe how your body feels right now."
Marcus looked at both of them, confused and unsure, but did as he was told.
His body felt fine, more than fine actually. He hadn't felt this good in… ever. In fact, he was bursting with energy—too much energy—energy he'd never felt before. But other than that, deep in his stomach, he could feel a coldness beyond his ability to describe.
"Other than my stomach being a little cold, I feel fine." The man and girl exchanged looks after hearing that.
Dipping his hands into his pockets the man pulled out a gemstone, one that looked exactly like the one Marcus found in the mouth of that frog, right down to the smoky glow and everything.
"Do you know what—"
"The gemstone!" he blurted out. "It was in the guts of the Loveland frog—the first one—I was holding it right before I threw the lighter…"
The man set the gemstone on the table beside him. "This is a soul stone, not a gemstone. It's a mass of pure soul essence."
"Soul stone? Soul essence?" None of this was making any sense. "Just who the heck are you guys? The men in black?" The girl smirked and shook her head—there it was again, for a split second he saw pain in her eyes.
"In this world," the man began, "there are people known as Witchcasters. Humans born with a supernatural amount of what we term soul essence, which is exactly what it sounds like—the essence of a soul.
"Witches, wizards, warlocks, and every other form of 'magic user' throughout history and folklore were all Witchcasters whether they knew it or not. And every supernatural feat, whether that be fighting demons, healing wounds, commanding the elements—"
"Setting yourself on fire…" Marcus looked at the girl.
"… Or summoning creatures, were all done using soul essence," the man completed.
Marcus took a second to process everything. "So then… she's a Witchcaster?… And that's why you were fighting the frog?"
"Not exactly," the girl pitched in. "We're part of a covert government agency of good Witchcasters known as Caster's Community, or CC for short."
"'Good' Witchcasters?"
"Not all Witchcasters are good people…" She looked like she just remembered something unpleasant—maybe it was her comrades. "We protect civilians from OCs in the shadows. We're humanity's protectors."
Humanity's protectors… these people were trying to do what he was doing—protect human life from… original characters?
"OC?"
"It means otherworldly creature," the man said. "The frog you fought, goblins, dragons—otherworldly creatures are masses of pure soul essence that have posed a threat to humans since their existence. The CC protects humans from them without causing mass panic."
"So what? You guys fight fairies, dragons, goblins…"
"And frogs apparently," said the girl.
"Anything and everything classified as an OC gets hunted by the CC. OCs have been around since humanity started recording history and the CC's been in operation and actively hunting them for over three hundred years now.
"And though dragons and larger OCs have appeared less and less in recent times, nearly all 50 million deaths worldwide that are unaccounted for, are linked to an OC in some way," said the man.
Marcus digested everything slowly, and soon his confusion turned into frustration. OCs, the CC, Witchcasters… where the hell were the CC ten years ago when he needed them!?
He calmed himself down and took a breath. Boiling over now won't get his other questions answered; he needed to get home to his mom.
"So that's where we are now? Your base of operation?" He asked.
"One of them," said the girl.
"We're still within the confines of New York City, and rest assured your mother won't be worried about you," said the man.
Marcus's anger flared up. "How the hell would you know!? You don't know anything about—"
"Marcus Moon, Latin American, age sixteen. Lost your father, Marcel Moon, at the age of six and you now currently reside with your mother, Willow Moon," said the man.
Marcus paused, stumped. "How did you?—"
"It's been less than two hours since your encounter with the frog, your school just let out a few minutes ago—believe me when I say she won't be worried."
Marcus was even more stumped. It's been less than two hours? How? Why is he fully healed? What the hell was going on?
"If this is all true… then what does that have to do with me? Why am I here?" Marcus was starting to panic a little.
The man turned to the girl and then back at Marcus. "I said Witchcasters are born with a supernatural amount of soul essence, which lets them perform feats beyond human capabilities." Marcus watched him with a cautious eye, unsure of his next move. "That's not true for all Witchcasters, especially not in modern times.
"With the reduction in the frequency of OC appearances came the discovery of what the alchemists once called the philosopher's stone. However, modern research tells us what they really were.
"Those 'philosopher's stones' are actually masses of pure soul essence—unlike OCs—that if absorbed by a compatible person, causes them to awaken to a greater amount of soul essence within them, similar to natural-born Witchcasters. With this knowledge, the term describing these stones changed from philosopher's stone to soul stone.
"Marcus Moon," the man said, pointing at the table, "the soul stone on that table isn't the one you found in the guts of a Loveland frog; that one was gotten from within the organisation. When we found you, you had no soul stone with you, but you survived something that would kill a man twice your size."
Marcus's eyes opened in disbelief.
"Only a strengthened body could survive what you survived, and a strengthened body is a trait only Witchcasters share. Another trait of Witchcasters is a cold sensation in the stomach."
Marcus looked down at his hands unsure of what to think of this; the cold feeling in his stomach grew colder.
"That means…"
"As long as you feel that coldness in your gut," the girl said, with a hint of displeasure, "you're a Witchcaster."