Dawn of legacy, p.1
Dawn of Legacy, page 1
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DAWN OF LEGACY published by:
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Copyright 2023 by Lawrence Davis
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Table of Contents
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
Epilogue
This Book is dedicated to my son, Cash Patrick Davis.
They do not make words impactful enough to describe my love for you, but I’ll spend a lifetime trying to write them. Thank you for bringing such joy to your mother and me.
“Fuck the Balance.”
It was hard to pretend that that didn’t tickle me, though I did try to keep up appearances. All of us still looked like we’d been put through a meat grinder, and I was happy to hear that I would walk mostly right again and was even eyeballing a full recovery. After getting a few pictures of Max and some more home-cooked food, I actually felt pretty good.
I was at peace with what had happened, what we as a group had taken on and defeated. I knew I could survive another few months of this, but even more than getting out, what I looked forward to most was getting back to work.
I was so preoccupied that I didn’t think anything of the chill that settled over the visitor block of the jail. Instead, I gave each person a goodbye hug and sat down again, quietly eating my cookies and falling out of touch with the present. I’m big on daydreaming, especially when I’m relaxed, and with a bellyful of cookies fresh off a shot of morphine from the med-bay, I was feeling pretty zen.
Suddenly, my spine stiffened, and my heart sped up, and I was instantly upright. There was a suffocating presence of pure awful, and something across the room caught my eye; my sixth sense was howling an inaudible warning, sending every hair on my body to attention.
It was Her.
CHAPTER 1
Imprison the Body—Free the Mind
... Her.
I tried to grab onto any semblance of reality that I could, but it slipped through my fingertips as I tumbled into a multi-dimensional freefall. The landscape shifted in an instant, and I had a vague recollection of making eye contact with a portly, nervous guy with thinning black hair and dodgy eyes. And then he was gone.
I had been transported.
I was staring at Her, the living darkness that had been at the center of the hellscape that had been my life for the last two years. The scene was a place that I did not recognize. It was surreal and served as the backdrop for what I could only assume was either a figment of my addled imagination or an unthinkable trip to another dimension. The terrain was alive with violence and motion, and in the blurring myriad were thousands of faces, emblems, weapons, and exchanges. Each of them setting off a spark of memory: a quick and abrupt eruption of recollection that fizzled out as quickly as it came. It was daunting to try to hold on to any of these images, and by the time the totality of it felt ready to blanket me, I found that I couldn’t settle on a single one.
But I did remember Her.
When I looked at this iteration of her, it was different. She was more human somehow. Maybe human wasn’t the right word exactly, but human-esque? I guess in order to understand the difference in seeing her now, I would have to describe what the experience was like during past encounters, which was impossible really. It was like trying to define an anti-frequency or the pull of a black hole. When this dark creature from the Abyss locked eyes on you, you felt a dread in the deepest parts of your mind. That dread dug deeper into an even deeper, primordial place like your soul.
This time I could still identify that powerful, alien evil but it didn’t actively take from me as it had before. The image she presented in this form had something familiar, and even relatable to it. I watched as her fist twisted in contempt with a palpable, taunting rage that hinted at the darkness I knew as her trademark. What shocked me this time was that I could see beneath the rage to the pain that drove it: a void of sadness and inconsolable loss.
Not only was it written all over her, but I abruptly realized … It was aimed at me.
A version of me.
I occupied a body I didn’t identify with, and I was surrounded by things that felt familiar, but I couldn’t place any of it. Like trying to grab smoke, true understanding danced just outside my reach. She and I were at odds, and it felt as if we were fighting over something powerful; powerful, and deeply personal. Whatever this was, it had the stink of the kind of conflict that inevitably turned into a vendetta. Something as personal as it was powerful.
The kind of thing that begets disaster and tragedy with equal regularity.
The still-frame stirred back into motion, and those fire-wrought, visceral eyes narrowed and turned on me. They hit me like a battering ram to the chest, and all at once the swell of a storming battle was a savage soundtrack fully immersing me in the scene I’d been transported to. Her scream was piercing, and it had a physical impact on me. I distantly felt myself recoil in terror and then lurch into a fighting stance.
I gulped down a mouthful of air as my awareness abruptly returned to the present.
My wide-eyed expression normally won a lot of people over, but it seemed that during my little excursion into that other dimension my body had remained here, and I must have created quite a spectacle of myself. I was still in the visitor’s lounge, and both the guards and my friends were looking at me with fear and worry dripping all over their faces. Whatever had happened here in this room during my “absence” obviously freaked everyone out—which was an easy read judging by their confused worried expressions. My friends were refusing to leave until they knew I was ok, but they were being ushered out by the guards and were torn with the awareness that any resistance might harm my standing here, but their concern was as visible as their hesitance.
I felt like I was coming down off of a tornado, and the fact that I’d been thrown into movements that I could only vaguely recall brought me to an easy surrender as the guards got within arm’s reach. I was surprised at how kind and gentle they behaved; in fact, the one who looked like he’d shared some kind of lineage with a golden retriever even had the decency to shoot me a reassuring smile as he ushered me away from my friends.
To say I was shaken would have been an understatement. When you danced between two worlds like I did, you not only had to immediately assume a worst case scenario, but you had the proverbial two sides of the coin to pick from.
Meaning that since I was such a stellar custodian of my own well-being, both my professional and personal life were currently in shambles. Either I was starting to show even more severe consequences from the regular concussions I managed to acquire (outside of the near constant ringing in my ears) or I just had a genuine vision. It felt like my already questionable grasp on this rollercoaster of madness which had been my life of late was starting to slip. An idea that I found particularly perplexing given that my current understanding of all that was happening already felt bizarre and disjointed on its best day.
I gritted my teeth, assured the guards that I was just having a minor episode of epilepsy that hadn’t been diagnosed, and shuffled back into the line that housed the rest of the inmates being herded out of the visitor’s lounge. I tried to convey some sense of confidence to my group of uneasy friends in the form of a fast smile, even mockingly shaking my head and firing off a slightly embarrassed expression at what had happened. Most of them bought it without much of a second thought, though Kaycee hit me with a withering stare while gnawing thoughtfully on the edge of one of the cookies I’d left sitting on the table. I knew that look well enough to know that it was going to be the subject of a talk the next time we met, and I was happy to avoid it for now.
I had a lot to think about, and luckily …
I had nothing but time.
***
There’s something quietly comforting about the repetitive existence that comes with incarceration. Routine as rigorous as this tapers the decision-making matrix down to almost nothing, so you basically get to spend the day just thinking—syrup-slow molasses type thinking.
And I did have a lot to think about.
With good behavior, my nine month sentence had the potential to be kicked down to six, and with prison overpopulation being such a big thing, which was a real possibility. These long spells of thoughtfulness he lped me keep my mouth shut, which in turn kept me out of trouble, which could also help get me literally out.
Seemed like the possibility of an early release was looking pretty good, even if the threat of death by boredom was an equally distinct possibility.
My mind wandered to the problems with the prison-industrial complex as I eyed the steely bars that kept me caged. I wasn’t the guy to take on the monumental task of fixing the prison-for-profit industry, I had my own evil organization hellbent on the enslavement of mankind to contend with. Plus, even with a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you the difference between Congress and the Senate, so I probably wasn’t the guy to tackle this kind of thing. There was also the fact that a guy like me had to keep it a special kind of simple. Where I came from, being concise and the farthest thing from cryptic was the only way you could communicate effectively. Even a notorious blabbermouth like me was full of straightforwardness and candor when compared to the political landscape.
Cleveland was a tough city; its people had a code and even the worst of them were principled in their own way. I suspected that this code was born from the grit of the town itself. Anyone in this city worth their salt worked for a living; it was an ethic that people were proud of—even if it lacked glitz and glam.
I took to prison life better than I’d care to admit and by month five I had the lay of the land down cold. Counting down the days until I could get out of here became a daily obsession and reminded me why I needed to keep my shit together and not mess up in the final stretch. I doubled down on my studies so that I could actually understand the stuff I kept scribbling on every tool, weapon, and accessory I could get my hands on. I’d been enhancing the equipment outside of my time with Zachariah with what could be called Shotgun Artificer. It was effective work but still left a lot to be desired and lacked the finesse and nuisance of the higher tiered stuff I’d seen my mentor fashion so seamlessly. Volunteering for details got me out of my cell often enough, but the best work went to the old timers or people better connected.
Prison isn’t how you think it is either: my cell door was usually open and fed into a large space connecting all of our individual units that served as a common area. Our red jumpsuits were a constant reminder of where we were (not that we needed it) ... of course everything in the place was designed to do that. There was a litany of alliances here that kept the whole thing running smoothly.
Like all chaos, it can’t help but fall into some order on a long enough timeline; prisoners, guards, gangs and the like connected with each other, creating a streamlined hierarchy that even included a type of currency that ultimately dictates what happens. The masters of those systems are the real players in this place. The behavioral patterns are easy enough to catch on to if you realize it’s no different from a school yard or an office.
This is America after all.
My grin was cut short when my eyes caught activity in the main hallway. I’m not overly magical myself which is why I’m an Artificer and not something sexy and much more useful like a Warlock, but I can feel when something bad is nearby. You swim in these waters long enough you get a feel for the current. Magic of any kind has an atmosphere about it. Put that together with my background and you’ve got someone with dead-on intuition and a sixth sense refined by hard-won trial-and-error. I sensed something I didn’t like in the air, and that stopped my inner contemplation cold.
Three new people rolled in, and I immediately knew there was going to be a problem. To the average human eye, they wouldn’t have seemed out of place; wouldn’t even have warranted a second thought.
But I knew better.
Ghouls had a kind of ashen quality to their skin, and while it isn’t so alien as to be alarming to a casual observer, there’s definitely a sickly tone to it. That’s not the tell though. It’s their eyes: beady and alive with a kind of static, rabid energy. See, they profiled like addicts but lacked that glossed over, dead-eyed look. Sure, you could argue that somebody needing a fix had a fidgety, higher-octane quality to them but the fixation, the compulsion driving it was much different than the predatorial-edge in the eyes of an undead.
They’re gangly, which helps sell their unassuming stature and none of them are particularly tall—nothing remarkable or even noteworthy about any of them individually.
It’s the slightly stilted gait and the pack mentality that’s the tip-off. That wretched feeling that took hold in the pit of my stomach was all the confirmation I needed. Most would think that it’s just three junkies with some kind of hepatitis that’s turned into a kind of off-brand jaundice, but I knew better. They cackled like the hyenas they are, and moved with the confidence you’d expect out of an apex predator. An assuredness not normally seen from people who profiled like them, and especially not here. Most of all, they seemed happy to be here. None of that boded well for any of us…and I had the sinking suspicion it was especially not good for me.
Now I don’t want to sound blasé about awful things that go bump in the night, but like anything else in life, there is an order to just how frightening these things could be. A ghoul was problematic because they tended to be stronger and much more durable than a big-bodied fighter, but they were sluggish too, and couldn’t be credited with an overabundance of intelligence. Sharks were scarier until you drug one on land, then they were just another fish out of water.
But jump in the ocean, watch the way they swim, and suddenly you’ll see why they predated humankind by a few million millennia.
Usually in an alleyway with all my gear on I could handle all three of them: space to move would buy me time for a little improvising and then I could hit them with some firepower before shooting off a catch phrase and striking a pose. I’m not saying I would get cocky, but it could be done, and I certainly would feel good about my odds. Here in this cell? With very little room to maneuver, none of my gear, and even just one of these vicious single-minded killers coming at me—I was toast. Three of them were just the kind of overkill that belonged in one of those gore-porn horror flicks that were so wildly popular a few years back.
Another excellent glimpse into our psyche as a people…but I digress.
The “maybe they aren’t here for me” idea didn’t even bother trying to make a purchase in my mind, I was too seasoned for that kind of shit. Optimism isn’t really my cup of tea anyway and given how idyllic my whole prison sentence had been up to this point I should have seen something like this coming. In my head I try to do the math on how this could go down, and while I was no mathematician, I could tell you that my rough estimate told me that it didn’t look good.
How long could I avoid them…and just how stupid were they? I mean, as much as I liked to believe I could stay ahead of this trifecta of award-winning scholars who were currently huddled together trying to make sense of the numbers above each cell, I knew that even they couldn’t mess up if they asked for me by name.
Until now I had mostly stayed off the map, which was a feat for me given that I would talk to a duck if it stood still and quacked. It was safe to say that even with a toned-down version of my personality I was still a fairly well-known quantity. As I said, I spent a lot of time thinking ... And that thoughtfulness turned to mindfulness which turned into can’t-mind-my-own-business…ness.
On the other hand, some of my time here has indeed been well spent.
Kaycee secretly slipped some textbooks to me on one of our visits, and I had caught up on some of the finer points of the Artificery study that I had willfully neglected. Between that and being able to do nothing other than workout with no access to midnight McDonalds runs, I had thinned down quite a bit and was in pretty good shape if I do say so myself. Still, I could see no scenario in which this scene came out in my favor.
I had to think.
“… walked over your grave.”
It’s funny how consuming an internal dialog can be, and how it can hold your attention so strongly that you don’t even notice what’s going on around you. Suddenly I heard the tail end of something someone aimed my way, followed by a rush of noise from the common room. It’s actually loud as hell in prison, almost like a high school cafeteria, just with less cursing and more metal toilets.
