The Point of No Return

He growled, jaw tightly clenched as his muscled body struggled against the luminescent emerald ecto-chains binding his hands together.  His neck, forced out in front by the occasional beatings received by his escorts, strained, purple veins bulging on either side.  His beady eyes, gone wild over the years, frantically darted about his surroundings, taking in the location and making a mental map—a technique he’d required after almost a decade of war…..

….war….

Although he’d never show weakness in front of the enemy, inwardly the man sighed, a pang of pain striking his heart. It had been approximately seven years since….since the war began.  Seven years since he’d been placed as the leading officer of the rebel troops scattered in pockets around the world.  Seven years since he’d lost everything.  And everyone.  His wife….his daughter…. Both had met a terrifying death some five or so years ago:  His spouse, whom he had loved dearly with all his heart, and still did, became the unfortunate victim of a necromancy raid far up north while rallying new recruits to join their forces, whereas his daughter, his precious ‘heir’ in the ways of apparition elimination, died shortly after, having been caught in the center of a brutal massacre led by the fiery medieval poltergeist, Fright Night.   
Both deaths had caused him a great deal of suffering—they tore at his heart, burned his conscious, and he felt a piece of himself die each time he lay a member of his family to rest.  He could recall for a year or two after they’d passed, he’d awaken during the night, salty tears streaming down his face, haunted by his inability to do something more, to prevent their early demise.  Even today, their memory still plagued him, the only difference being his experience in battle had hardened his surface, preventing any emotional weakness from breaking free.  Perhaps that was why his regiment had  lasted so long: a fearless, unshakable leader to give them hope—one who would look the continuous threat of danger straight in the eye, filling those on his side with a sense of invincibility—and the undying desire to rid their home—their world—of its paranormal invaders.  But no matter his victories, no matter his triumphs, not even he had the power to save his son.

Suddenly aware of a pressure on his shoulder, he was pulled out of his thoughts as his escorts made a sharp turn and forcefully steered down an eerily lit corridor, looming shadows flickering off the green-tinted wall. Scowling, his eyes rolled up to meet the cargo-colored sky, accustomed, as he had been for years, with its unnatural smoldering yet florescent appearance.  Of course, in a place like this, the unnatural seemed just as likely as the natural….

….and he hated it.

“Well, well, well” A sinister voice hissed, causing all heads, including his own, to turn sharply in its direction.  Anger flashing in his eyes, his gaze fell upon two large, ominous gates, bathed in violet-ecto energy, of which in front stood a sleek, burly figure dressed entirely in white, laughter in his narrow green eyes.  He looked at the three before him, particularly the one in captivity, a cold, victorious smirk crawling across his pale ghostly face.  “Look who it is.”  This time, he laughed audibly, a cold shiver shooting down the spine of the man bound before him.  “Jack Fenton.  After all this time, we finally caught you.”  He cocked his head, gloved hand reaching up to scratch his chin in mock ponder.

“Go to hell, Walker.”  Jack shot, his hands clenching behind his back.  He could feel rage bubbling in his chest, and once again the man began to struggle against his bonds.  But his captors were ready this time; sticking their energized spears into his sides, causing him to break his resistance as a painful shock jolted through his body.  Dropping to his knees, Jack’s teeth gritted, and amidst the agony coursing through him, the man slowly raised his head, hate blazing in each of his azure pupils.  “Y-you….”  He started, spitting his words, “….you realize t-that….no matter w-what you do to me….as long as this war is going on, I’m g-going to keep fighting.  This world d-doesn’t deserve to go down like this….a-and as long as I-I’m there to lead, i-it won’t have to.”   He paused, glaring daggers at his foe, ignoring the excruciating energy as he waited for a response.  Finally, Walker’s brow furrowed, and he scoffed.

“Damn you’re annoying.”  He stated coldly, signaling to the guards with his hand.  Obeying without a word, both sentinels jabbed their spears further into Jack’s side, one on the right piercing his flesh.  But this time, the Fenton man refused to give his enemy the satisfaction of seeing him crumble in weakness, and continued to glare viciously at the ghost dressed in white.  After another minute or so, Walker’s patience rapidly declined, and he again made a hand gesture—the guards repositioning their spears by their sides, and thus removing them from the abdomen of the older man.  Falling forward, Jack’s arms jut out, preventing himself from crashing to the ground as he tried to recover from the severe shock he just received.  

Breathing steadily, Jack tried to calm his shaking body, all the while cursing under his breath.  It couldn’t end like this.  Seven years—seven years spent fighting—seven years spent protecting….seven years spent suffering. His wife, daughter….lost to him….back then their circumstances too far over his head to do anything about.  And his son….his son had suffered a fate even worse then death….at the near start of the war….

….abruptly, his thoughts were shattered for a second time, as the sound of nearing footsteps began echoing in his ears.  He looked up, graying hair falling into his eyes, and suddenly found himself face to face with Walker, jaw forcibly held in pace by the firm grasp of the ghost’s hand.

“If it were up to me, Jack Fenton,” he whispered in a voice like ice, “those two,” and here he threw a glance at the guards, “would have done away with you. However, it isn’t my call to make.”  He turned from the man for a moment, gazing at the two gates, with both fear and aggravation.  “But,” he added just as suddenly “you’re standing here.  At the entry.  Meaning he wants to see you.”  Reaching into his coat pocket, Walker pulled out what looked like a small, electronic device, though Jack had learned by over the years looks can be deceiving.  

Glaring at his human adversary with a look of repulsion, the ghost guard punched a combination of some sort—to which Jack could make out only by the odd number of foreign noises that followed each time Walker pushed what Jack assumed was a button—into the mechanism,  before returning it to his pocket and standing aside.  The moment he did so, the massive gates he had been previously guarding swung aside, their energy temporarily dissipating.  “Enjoy your visit.”  He stated dryly, nodding to Jack’s captors, who in turn thrust the other—none electrified side—of their spears into his back; a silent message that it was time to move forward.  Jack most likely would have responded with a “drop dead,” save for the fact that Walker already was, and by the fact that as soon as he passed through those gates, things were going to get much, much worse.  Choosing the alternative, both ghost and man exchanged vicious glances, an unspoken promise of unfinished business.  


He’d heard about this place—what was it they called it—the point of no return?  Yes.  That seemed correct.  The endless twisting indigo path, the infinite depths of the bottomless ravines on either side….even the sky seemed a bit more venomous once inside the violet ecto-gates.  But, just as the unnatural became natural, so did this area of the Ghost Zone have a reason for its strangely unsettling malicious appearance.  For in this section lived the Ghost Zone’s king: a fearsome, shifty character with more power than all poltergeists combined.  He ruled with an iron fist, his word law among the various spirits inhabiting this otherworldly domain.  All who opposed merely skipped banishment and went straight to their execution—a seeming impossible feat that only a few others were capable of doing; and by a few, Jack meant himself, and his regiment.  However, their methods involved the re-modified inventions he’d created at the war’s start; the ghost king could do it by sheer power alone.  Even “commander Jack Fenton” cringed in fear slightly at hearing his name.  

But this time….he had significant reason to….after all, the last time he laid eyes upon the king was right at the war’s beginning….
They were close to their destination now, perhaps another forty feet or so, as their surroundings grew increasingly dark, and an unsettling chill went through the man’s body.  As such, for the first time in seven years, Jack felt the unfamiliar wave of panic wash over him.  He hadn’t been prepared for this.  Even after all his years of training, he knew even he had very little chance against the king of the Ghost Zone.  He, the leader of the largest rebel unit in the country—perhaps the world.  He had led his troops through so many battles, so many triumphs, that he’d begun to feel a sense of invincibility—that no ghost, even in all its otherworldly glory, could defeat him.  And for a long time, they hadn’t been able to.   And when he finally had been captured, the feeling if indestructibility had lingered; he’d find a way out, he always did. Until he realized where it was he’d be taken. As the strongest commanding human leader, it was only natural he’d be taken to see the head of the opposing, supernatural army.  But no matter what happened, these fears, these anxieties would never make themselves known to the enemy….he was too proud, too important….too….
  
“Hey, you—get ready.”  The guard on the left snapped, poking his spear yet again into Jack’s back, forcing the man to straighten.  

“Watch it.”  Jack growled, wrenching himself away.  It didn’t matter how desperate he was under the surface; pain, in any circumstance, did not sit well with him, and at that moment a spark of rage filled his heart, giving him the necessary strength to….

….and then, he saw him.  For the first time in seven years, Jack Fenton’s fanatical blue eyes fell upon the king of the Ghost Zone.

He looked older then he remembered, though still very young—in his early twenties as a human equivalent,  but the regal heir about him gave the king a more mature look.  His hair, stark white, was folded to one side over the right side of his face, which, like the rest of his skin, was unusually pale, almost grey, in color.  He was dressed in all black—a sleeveless top, tight pants that were slightly baggy at the bottom, and fingerless gloves, decorated in spikes at the wrists.   His boots, the only real variation in color, were white, belts and a chain draped at the top and over his ankles.  A black band had been placed on his right arm, and belts matching those on his boots were buckled around his waist.  The only lively feature—if one could call it that—was his left eye, the one not covered by his hair, as it stood out against his dark, ashen appearance.  A bright, ominous glowing green, it matched the fiery glowing crown hovering over his head, and the skulled ring he wore on his left hand.  His smile, a sickening grin, widened when he noticed the three figures now approaching him, and his eyes narrowed as his gaze fell on the man in the center.  Jack’s own eyes widened, a feeling of dread striking him hard as he stared, in horror, at the young king.

No matter how apprehensive he was, no matter how uncertain Jack Fenton had become, nothing, in his world or this one, could have prepared him for the words that floated out of the ghost king’s mouth; words he hadn’t heard since the near start of the war.

“Hello….father.”