• The thunder boomed overheard like the sound of a bomb being dropped on a minefield.

    'Gosh, how I hate thunderstorms… the thunder sounds like a car crash… all that metal crunching into little balls…
    …
    I walk alone tonight.’

    Manjot walked quietly though the empty streets, listening to the depressing sound of his feet sloshing through the puddles of the fallen rain.
    Manjot, or Dante (though it was assumed that it was not, in fact a nickname, because he was the only one who ever called himself that) was always alone. He didn't know if it was because he was different, or maybe it was for the reason that he was almost always listening to his music. Either way he looked at it, he had no one to count on. He barely even had what you'd call 'family', for they would never speak, not even at the dinner table. At one time they had fully embraced the idea of spending quality together with open arms, but something had changed that.
    Maybe it was his father's problem with fire water.
    Maybe it was his mother's strange depression.
    Maybe it was Manjot's problem with seldom spoken words.
    But Manjot knew they all were created from one thing;
    The coma.
    But why am I saying this? For it's not the truth. There was no coma. His mother knew this, his father knew this… and soon, very soon, Manjot was going to find this out for himself.

    "Boy...it's sure a dark night tonight."

    Though Manjot never really talked to other people, he wasn't afraid of talking to himself when he felt he was alone. Though...come to think of it, he never was really alone. He was constantly monitored.
    Manjot quickly turned the corner, not even looking, and found himself colliding into a young man.

    "Oh, sorry, I wasn't looking where I was...Oh!"

    He slid his headphones off his ears for a minute, staring at the tall, shadowy figure of the boy in front of him.

    "You should watch where you're going, kid. This isn't the time of night to be going off alone in." The boy said, no expression on his face.

    From Manjot's views, he must have been a young 16.

    "And why not?" Manjot shot back at him, not even considering the consequences.

    The boy gave a sly, sideways smile, and then pointed into the lit part of the street. He then replied,
    "Because of that!"

    Over at the other side of street, a large group of heartless were approaching. Manjot gasped and fell backwards, to have the teenager catch him quickly. Manjot looked up at the boy with wonder, and the boy just shook his head, propping Manjot up against the wall.

    "The name's Jerion. And that's all you need to know, kid."

    "I'm Ma...Manjot! You can call me Dante, but shouldn't we be running?"

    "Yeah. So let’s go."

    Jerion ran towards the group of heartless, laughing like a sadistic crazy man.

    "No, not… not that way." Manjot sighed, finally deciding he should help, even if he didn’t know this guy.

    So Manjot started looking for a weapon, only to see the streets were empty. He looked back towards this Jerion character.
    -He's such a maniac, trying to take them all alone! - Manjot thought, watching him taunting and jumping about, weaponless.
    Jerion took one of the heartless by the feeler, and then swung him around, causing him to take out four other ones as well. Then he threw the heartless against the wall, almost hitting Manjot. Manjot ducked, even though it didn’t hit him. Jerion lazily looked over to him.

    "Opps. Sorry kid!"
    "Look out!"
    "Huh...ahhh..."

    He fell to the ground, with out showing inch of surprise or pain.

    "Shouldn't have let my guard down..." He coughed then collapsed.

    "Jerion! Oh...shoot."

    The heartless looked hungrily at Manjot. Manjot surprisingly didn't look even a little bit scared. His face was extremely red and flushed, and he felt it burning as his anger grew. Jerion carefully looked up at Manjot, without giving away he wasn't really dead.
    "Well I'll be darned." He whispered quietly in awe, as he witnessed Manjot slowly walking towards the heartless.

    Manjot was changing. He face became more rounded and defined, and his skin was darkening in some parts. His clothes faded, and the white of his eye and pupil disappeared into a bright, glowing yellow. Two feelers spawned from the top of his head, and a white scar-like feature appeared over his right eye. Then it changed colour to a bright, angry type of red. He let out a growl from deep in his throat, and an imitation of a keyblade appeared in his ready hands as he pounced! Jerion’s eyes widened.
    “A keyblade master? But… I thought they were all wiped out!” Jerion thought out loud, confused at this spectacle.
    Manjot sent heartless flying ever which direction, biting them, and scratching them with his hands that seemed to be made for the purpose. After the first two hundred heartless were sent back into the shadows, he started to get bored of it.

    "Well then..." He said, a echo clouding his old voice.

    He put down his weapon, and stood looking at the heartless. They automatically jumped him, seeing that he was un-armed. He was underneath a pile of shadowy enemies, closing his eyes and sighing.

    "Kid!" Jerion shouted, springing up from the ground.

    He drew his berserker sword from its sheath, and then went sprinting towards the heartless, screaming like an insane person.
    He didn’t get too far.
    Jerion was flung back as four heartless were thrown into him, smashing him into the wall. He looked back and gave a slight chuckle.
    “Well I’ll be darned AGAIN.”

    Where Manjot was last, someone else took his place. His hair was somewhat like Zexion’s hair, except it was longer. It was hot pink, somewhat contradicting his violent appearance. Over his nose and mouth he wore a very detailed mask, indicating that he had no need for oxygen. He wore a black and red vest over top of clean, white band-ages, the purpose of those were unknown. His jeans were very plain, the only thing different from any teenage boy was his belt was worn sideways. The keyblade had shifted its shape too;
    It was now a Shearak: A staff-like stick with four spikes on one side, a spearhead on the other side.
    He looked over at Jerion and underneath his mask he gave a sly smile.

    “Oooppps…sorry…kid.” He said with plenty of sarcasm.

    Jerion threw his head back and laughed a booming laugh, then threw the heartless off him.

    “Suppose I deserved that, kid.” He chuckled, casually walking over to him to help fight.

    Manjot rolled his eyes, and then continued to pick off the last of the heartless, with Jerion’s help. It was a very one-sided battle; the heartless was no match for the two of them. Minutes later, Jerion was over by the wall. He took out a handkerchief, and wiped his sword clean.

    “So…do you do that often, kid?” He said in a monotone voice, not even looking up.

    Manjot held his head, just finished changing back to humanoid form. Jerion’s voice brought him to reality, almost a minute after Jerion actually spoke.

    “WHAT DO YOU THINK??? I SPONTANEOUSLY CHANGE INTO DIFFERENT FORMS WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT??? AND STOP CALLING ME THAT, YOU’RE PROBABLY LIKE, TWO YEARS OLDER THEN ME!!” He yelled at Jerion, his face burning with anger again.

    Jerion looked up slowly, and then chuckled. – What an attitude…- He thought. He put his sword in his sheath, took a long and hard sigh, and then looked back at Manjot, who was starting to calm down.

    “Unless you are 124 years old kid, I think I’m much older then you then you think.” He smiled slyly.

    Manjot stared at him in disbelief for awhile, and then closed his eyes.
    ‘None of this makes sense…but it wouldn’t. Maybe something happened when I was in my coma… maybe I was attacked or maybe…’
    He opened his eyes.

    “I’M AN EXPERIMENT??”