Conflict is inevitable.
Chapter 13: 5P3CT3R
Dead.
Cold and dead at my feet.
Marked only by two flat markers on the ground, all that's left of my parents. Their entire lives reduced to a pair of cheap memorial signs. I read once that people used to bury their dead, leave them to rot in the ground instead of the far more efficient and sanitary burning of the bodies as the law requires. Memorial grounds are on the property of the cremation center. Sprawling gardens where the bereaved can come to mourn or revisit. The beauty of the place sharply contrasts with the feeling of grief that hangs overhead like rain clouds.
Hel flickers into existence beside me, dressed in somber black, a veil across her eyes. "Why are you here, Dean? Why torture yourself like this?"
Questioned by a phantom conjured from my own malfunctioning brain. I close my eyes, concentrating on the moment. Hel isn't real. The two memorial plaques in front of me are. This is what matters. This is real.
When I open my eyes, Hel is gone. I don't even know how to answer her, anyway. Why am I here? To wallow in the shame, maybe? To let the sharp edges of long-buried memories slice my feelings wide open?
I remember the day when I walked out of the Crematorium with my mother's ashes in hand. I hadn't made it more than ten steps before my tired legs gave out. I fell hard to the concrete, staring in horror as my mother's urn shattered in front of me. I scrambled forward, trying to scoop up the ashes, but it was useless. I could only watch as the wind scattered her remains across the memorial grounds.
I guess it was a karmic reminder, a final humiliation to remind me of how low I'd fallen.
She died while I was locked away in a Deep Sleep vault, blissfully enjoying a long stint in Elysia, making love to Hel, enjoying the riches of my alternate existence. I had seen Mom four months earlier, when she hid her chronic illness from me. We exchanged heated words once again and I walked out, unaware that it was the last time I'd ever see her.
Had my mind been sharp, if I weren't in a mental fog from Immersion withdrawal, I would have noticed. I would have seen that she was sick. But I let those signs fly over my head. In the end, I hated seeing her. I hated the guilt that stabbed me every time I looked into her eyes. I hated her pestering, her nagging, her questioning when I would grow up, when I would take responsibility, when I would finally act like an adult. She had finally kicked me out the house after the third or fourth theft, but that didn't stop her from trying to be my anchor, a conscience that pricked me whenever I resurfaced from trips to Elysia.
And because of my inherent selfishness, I missed the fact that she was dying.
I remember her face the last time I saw her. Haggard and lined from what I thought was fatigue. Proud eyes glistening, mouth thin and hard from holding in what had to be unbearable pain. I don't know what she saw when she looked at me. Hopelessness, I'm sure. I was her only child, the embodiment of her future, and I was lost to her. Claimed by something more potent than blood, something that even her love couldn’t compete with. She couldn't even tell me she had only weeks left.
To the very end, she tried to protect me.
I learned the truth when my Immersion was interrupted ahead of schedule. Furious, I raced to the Reentry office, demanding to know why they awakened me from hibernation. Flo was on duty, and she had to tell me the horrible truth. And despite her overall disdain of me, she was the one that held me when I broke down sobbing uncontrollably.
It should have been a wakeup call. The moment of clarity that freed me from my addictive lifestyle. Had it been a scene in a motivational movie, I would have sworn a solemn vow on my mother's memorial to change my ways and from that day forward live a meaningful and rewarding life. But life isn't a motivational movie. Instead, I stood at her memorial service with a massive Immersion hangover, fuming at the few people who showed up to observe her passing. Not one of her friends from the Haven bothered to attend. It was just a handful of people who befriended her in her exile, a sprinkle of caring souls who offered murmured condolences. Some spoke of things my mom did and said that I didn't know anything about. It cut me to realize that in the end, those strangers know her better than I did.
At least she had someone. Friends that were there for her in her times of distress. I had no one. No friends, no remaining family. No one that cared whether I stayed or went, whether I lived or died. And so instead of taking a vow to change my life, I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I took the remaining funds from mom's account, cashed in the rest of her insurance policy, and went back to the Deep Sleep facility. Back to Elysia, where Hel waited with comforting arms to assuage my grief. Where I could forget my self-hatred and pretend that nothing could touch me. I knew it was all fake. Something as shallow and empty as my soul. But it filled a void that I couldn't face on my own. And I was so dependent on the feeling that I couldn't live without it.
I knew that if I left Elysia for good, I would kill myself.
"Your parents."
I turn slightly. Dabria stands a step away, wrapped in a long black overcoat, strands of hair blowing across her face.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"I just got here. Didn't want to disturb you. How does it feel to come back home?"
I take a look around at the botanical surroundings. "This isn't my home."
"No. It's your future. How soon will it be until a third marker is placed here, Dean Grey?"
"You're the one with a gun to my head. You tell me."
"You'll kill yourself before I will."
My head jerks up, startled by the echo of my earlier thoughts. "Is there something you need?"
"I need you to come with me. There's someone I want you to meet."
"Who?"
She gives me a considering look. "The most dangerous man alive."
"This is your secret weapon?"
Kilgore stares at me and breaks into raspy laughter. "Dabria, I thought better of you."
He's a dark-skinned, white-haired, six-foot six-inch man-god. Tactical aviator shades shield his eyes, and a vest of combat armor is all that covers his upper body. I can't help staring at his arms. It seems impossible to have that much muscle and still maintain a sleek physique.
He thrusts a finger at me, a miniscule gesture that somehow seems loaded with potential violence. "Look at him. He's a junkie. Hooked on Immersion so badly that he can barely function. This is a waste of my time. He'll betray us the first chance he gets. He'd gladly sell his own mother for five more minutes in Elysia."
I wince, seeing my mom's memorial plaque in my mind once more.
Kilgore's lips pull back in a mirthless grin. "See?" He knows what he is. Save yourself the trouble and put a bullet in his head. I'll gladly do it for you. And make the body disappear so no one will ever find it."
A nervous laugh bursts from my mouth before I can stop it. It isn't until Kilgore fixes his cold stare upon me that I realize he's not joking. A wave of heat crashes down, and it's all I can do to keep my legs from giving out.
We're in the command center of General Hamilton, a decorated war hero who is out on other business at the moment. The Red Legion has commandeered an entire warehouse district. They are a militia composed of veterans from the Red War along with an assortment of mercenary squadrons. I don't know anything about military factions, but even in my ignorance, I can tell the makeshift headquarters is thick with tension. The veterans don't like the mercenaries. The mercenaries don't like the veterans or even other bands of mercenaries. Scowls and suspicious looks are everywhere.