Chapter Text
Jim remembered fire.
A violent blaze that overtook his home, snuffing out the life he knew. Glowing, golden eyes with slit pupils watching in the darkness; the stone-skinned monsters that stole everything from him.
Jim could still smell the smoke, the melting plastic and chipping paint. He could still feel the heat of the inferno against his skin. The life he lived and the bright, flaming ball of agony stripping it away. It resonated in his mind, like a burning lullaby. His world ended in a sea of ash and carnage.
Barbara Lake died that night, and James Lake Jr. died with her.
The boy who had been Jim walked into the darkness of the forest and he never came back out.
There was speculation amongst the citizens of Arcadia, but no one was so bold as to speak their thoughts beyond hushed voices at dinner tables.
Some say James Lake came back from wherever he roamed to murder his ex-wife and son. There were talks of life insurance policies, back child support orders, and all the other reasons a deadbeat could have for arson. No one believed the fire was an accident, but there wasn't enough proof otherwise. The police searched for James Lake, but they never found him, nor any trace that he ever even existed at all.
That fact poured gasoline on the rumor mill. The more extreme theorists in town speculated that James had ties to the mafia or something of the sorts. Caught up in hush money that sent the wrong people to Barbara Lake's doorstep that night. There were people who pointed to a cult, reporting mysterious black figures circling the home before the fire. Figures with horned masks and fake bulbed eyes.
No one knew for sure, but the tales continued to be spun.
It didn't help that the Phantom of Arcadia Oaks started to appear around the same time.
It became an urban legend of sorts, as more and more people saw the creature over the years. Some said it was the ghost of James Lake Jr. and others believed it to be a monster. Accounts differed, but some details remained the same across the board.
A metal mask with coke-bottle goggles. Rusted armor constructed from junk; a breastplate some said was made from a grill cover, but others claimed was constructed from a child’s baking set, with pans shaped like stars and horses. It had beaten up license plates down it’s outer thighs, old knee pads tied over black pants. Those who got close enough said that there was a collection of dented bottle caps studding it’s arms, clawed fingers poking out from beneath spiraled bracers. People said that it had a scarf made from torn animal skin, that it smelled of death and sewage and dirt.
There was no proof that the creature existed, as it was only ever seen by drunk teenagers at the lookout or mystery-hunting kids searching through the forest at midnight for a scare. No one brought a camera and cell phones didn’t cut it in the dead of night.
So people looked the other way, content with their little lives away from monsters, ghosts, and metal-clad kids. After all, it could never be true.
Jim had no concept of time after The Burning.
He knew of seasons and hours and days, but he did not keep track of time the way humans did. California was temperate most of the year, so he need not base his habits on seasonal weather.
Jim moved when he wanted to move. He recognized the summers, only from the children coming into the forest; setting off fireworks and starting bonfires. He hated the scent of smoke, the loudness of raucous music, and the disruption of his peace from human activities.
During these times, he moved into the inner city. From the stinking alleyways to the sewers beneath the streets, Jim knew it all. His favorite spot was behind the hospital, not because it was a good source of food, but because the scent stirred something long lost to him. While the harsh smell of antiseptic and sickness would be haunting for many, it comforted Jim in an indescribable way. It reminded Jim of his mom, a time before The Burning.
Whenever Jim could, he returned to the forest. There was a rich source of wildlife and plants; from the fruit orchid that sat on the edge of Arcadia to the rabbit burrows on the fields. He spent his time under trees and in caves, harboring whatever goods he could get his hands on.
For the most part, Jim avoided the drainage system under the bridge.
It was rancid with sewage and it burned his nose, but other than that, there was a monster that lurked in the pipes. Jim saw the stone-skinned beast many times, from the higher drainage basins and nooks beneath the sullied greywater. It had burning red coals for eyes, and the sickly stink of rot hung over it in a cloud. It smelled like corpses and blood.
He called it the Black One.
It reminded Jim of The Burning. Of scorched hair and searing meat. The monster made Jim want to rip out his hair and rock himself until the terror went away.
Another thing that told him it was time to move, was the Light-Clad One. Jim often saw it wandering the forest around the canals, a monster, not unlike the Black One. It wore a suit of shining metal, lighting up the darkness of night. While it seemed bright and noble, like a knight from some long forgotten fairy-tale, Jim did not trust it.
Jim also wasn’t willing to test if the stone-skinned monsters’ sense of smell was as good as his, so he moved whenever he spotted one.
Jim would go anywhere and everywhere, as long as he didn’t stray too far from Arcadia. Something tethered him to the city and he felt that if he left, he’d lose whatever little remained of his scattered self.
He had been to the abandoned car factory at the edge of the gully, and the garbage dump bordered by a landfill. Jim had followed the rivers to the sunset on the peak, explored every cave on the outcropping of forest cliff, ventured underneath the town through a maze of waterways and sewage, and he’d ran through the wheat fields near the agricultural lands.
Jim had done it all, he had seen it all. From fishing, hunting, dumpster diving, spelunking, tree climbing, berry picking, and everything in between.
Jim wasn’t human anymore, not in his eyes. He was a creature of the night, with scary claws and sharp teeth and horns and armor. Jim was far away from their simple world of bright lights and colors and sterile buildings. Sometimes he observed the humans from the treeline or atop roofs, never getting close to the fragile lives they lived.
Even though he banished himself from humanity, Jim couldn’t help but feel a bubble of jealousy when he people watched. When he caught sight of children holding their parents' hands or friends laughing after some inside joke, the longing boiled hot within his stomach.
Those were the moments he was reminded of before The Burning.
Of his mom’s bright red hair and deep blue eyes, working late nights in her scrubs and falling asleep on the couch. The days Jim spent in the waiting room of the hospital when he couldn’t be left home alone. He recalled birthdays and warm beds and clean clothes. Memories of hugs and happiness, buried deep beneath the trauma of The Burning.
Jim stamped those thoughts out violently. When he found himself remembering too much, he threw himself onto his work. Anything to forget the before times. Jim hunted or added to his armor, he dunked himself in the freezing cold river or searched for a new territory he hadn’t explored yet.
Jim never knew where he was going, only that it had to be far away from his blackened home and the humans that lived in the city. He didn’t stop and he never slowed. There were no conversations beyond the arguments in his head, and if he got lonely, he just ran until he was too tired to think anymore.
And Jim was content with his life. No one could possibly understand it but Jim, or at least that is what he told himself.
So he continued with his erratic routines. Avoiding humanity and venturing around like a kid playing pretend. Jim was the hero of his own story, a boy on an adventure in the wilds of California. He was a wild beast, a myth, living the life any other kid could only dream of.
Until one day, when he spotted a stone-skinned monster carrying a satchel of books.