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-GARGOYLE-

Waking up in the dark, with no idea who you are, where you are, or why you feel so disoriented is a penalty only someone could have signed themselves up for, right?

When a man wakes with no name, to a complex with locked doors and a cell-block filled with sleeping people, people who won’t wake no matter how loud he screams, he may find himself on an outer rung of the sanity belt, or is that just the way his mind works?

G is the only guard, the only one who woke up in the barracks, every other human being he could find are sleeping soundly behind locked cell doors. Cell doors he has a key to. A key card admits and denies his entry to what he finds is a complex filled with dread, mystery, and more questions than answers.

As the loneliness and potential trauma of the situation comes to affront, they start to wake up. They wake up with screams and silence alike. Some accept their situation and some try to force their will upon an impossible situation, one where no one knows anyone and they have no idea if they will ever see lives like they could dream they might have had again. What an empty prospect, to dream for what may have been but cannot remember; to yearn for the unknown just because it may have been better than being helpless.

G takes on the role he has seemingly been delegated, or is it gifted? Would it be a gift if such a burden were thrust upon someone else instead? Would he rather have woken up behind those bars with someone to tend to his needs instead of being the one responsible for their welfare? How far will be too far to take his responsibilities? Why is he plagued with abhorrent thoughts, and why do his actions seem so small?

What will become of his soul in the tasks and tribulations he both willingly and unwillingly must endure in the hopes of feeling peace, again, if he had ever felt it before. When sanity prevails, and he has had rest, he wakes with tattoos ascribed into his wrists and hands, is this the sanity he craved? Messages from an unknown, possibly hostile, messenger.

In a testament of will and perhaps a fair amount of morbid curiosity, he flows like sand towards a future he is ill prepared for.