Capt. Brian W. Manchester, No. 002

7 September 2030

9:12 QCT

My brain juggles throughout my skull as I swing around to set the full plate on the sleek wood of the counter. The boy on the receiving end collects it with both hands. Through a blurred haze, I distinguish a stretch of his lips. He backs from the counter toward the vanishing table.

"Thank you," he says.

"Yep, no problem, kid." I catch my collapsing chin with my hand before it reaches the wooden surface. I blink with my remaining might and the kitchen table reappears. The blades of light above pierce through my eyes as I pull myself upright. I unbutton another latch on my shirt and start for the sink.

The window unveils a scene ablaze with a sharp-green field expanding for miles and an untainted, blue sky. The dying summer air sweeps into the kitchen and travels down the hole I've made for my chest. I peel my dog tags from the hair coating my skin, leaving the plate slick. My thumb retracts from the eagle and only a smudge print remains.

The crack of a newspaper rings against my ears. "Okay, Brian, you made the kid breakfast. Maybe you should sit down or something. You look like shit."

I twist toward the kitchen table as it speaks to me. "Don't tell me what to do. Do you want breakfast, too? I'm up, I might as well make you some."

"Brian, this will be the fifth time you have asked me if I wanted any damn breakfast."

One of the chairs chimes in. "Actually, sir, that would be the sixth."

"And for the sixth time, my answer is no. Now, sit down before you drop dead."

My hands clench the overhang of the counter as I use it for support. The bones of my hips collide with the smooth edge. Before me presents Isaiah James MacTavish, the audacious yet earnest Colonel of Queen's City, consuming today's headlines. Perhaps it is something more beguiling than any food could attract, considering how he does not wander from the text for a mere moment.

From where I stand, the other figure at the table has his clothed back facing me. It's one of Hayes' old shirts draped over his torso, which means it's Slater's shirt, too. But it is neither of them. A disheveled head of fair hair course over his ears and trickles over the tags that pop out from behind. He stabs his fork into the fried eggs I constructed for him. His face, distorted as it was in my haze, is one from my recent memory. I should know this kid, but in my state, his identity is concealed to me.

One day, my alcoholic amnesia will prove fatal in the worst way possible. One morning, I will wake up and someone will be dead, and I won't be there to save them. A common, grisly thought that wracks away at my conscience, with or without booze. Come to think of it, I'm sure the same issue has stolen some of Slater's sleep.

Over the years, I must have traded my tolerance with James for his piece of sanity in this hell of a career. I can hardly drink anymore without nearing sickness or losing control. This morning's problem is not as severe as last week, waking up in bed beside a businesswoman who I had only known for a few hours. It's only a matter of time before I lose everything.

I curl around the counter to approach the table with the boy. I slump into the seat across from him, and he peers up from his plate. "How is it? I hope I didn't mess it up."

"No, they're fine. Thank you, Captain."

James flips the newspaper at the other end of the table and watches. I hold my index finger in the air between us. "Hey, now listen," I assert with my finger trembling. "You don't need to call me Captain here. Brian will do just fine, especially if you're a friend of Slater."

"Craig, I'm sorry that you have to witness this mess. He had a rough night." James quips, ducking behind his newspaper again.

The boy grins again. Seems like a friendly kid. "Oh, it's okay. Our night had its patches, too." He folds a piece of bacon and stores it between his teeth. "Pretty eventful, I'd say."

"Yeah, the kids went out into town last night. Apparently, they snuck into a club with 29." The voice of the Colonel travels over the edge of the paper, muffled by the thin barrier. "Ambiance. Kids can't just walk right in."

Craig finishes chewing. "Well, we didn't really sneak in. We all went in through the front door. I think." His gaze catches on the hallway with the echo of feet tapping. "I'll be honest, there isn't a whole lot that I remember from last night. There are some things I," he stops with the rhythm of the steps. "I do remember."

In the wide opening to the foyer, Slater stands unsettled. His attention bounces between Craig and I, likely considering my judgment of his Sergeant before me. I know that Levi's influence over the boy forced him to be vicious toward Slater in the early stages of the ranking, though Slater insists that he isn't as unpleasant as once perceived. I am no longer partial to the boy as he sits at my kitchen table.

The Sergeant beams at his once-archenemy. "Hey, Slater," he invites with a fidgeting laugh. Slater retaliates with a weak smile of his own.

"Yo, Brian, I'm bummed I couldn't say hi to you last night." His shoulder collides with the wall, meshing his hands together. "Came home and you were totally knocked."

"Well, apparently, he wasn't the only one," James jests from near the sliding door. "Seems like you two ran yourselves into some trouble."

Craig's cheeks become aflush as he glances at his fellow Imperial Guard. "No, not any trouble. I mean, yeah, we weren't supposed to be there, but we didn't do anything illegal besides that."

Slater shoots a glare at the Sergeant. "You told them about last night?"

"Well, not everything!" He fidgets in his seat, dropping his fork against the ceramic of the plate. "Not like I remember most of it, anyway."

"Boys, it's fine," I soothe, edging myself between their words. "It's not like we're going to tell anyone. It's certainly not the worst thing a group of Imperial Guards has done. I mean, hell, James and I have done worse." I swerve my head toward the Colonel, shielded by the newspaper.

He drops today's issue on the kitchen table and gestures at the boy he saved. "Yeah, come sit down, kid. Let me lecture you about how stupid I am, apparently." His glare circles when it meets my face.

The chair between him and Craig fills in a flash of black dust and wisps without any warning of Slater's footsteps. A soft puff of air caresses me as the boy appears in the seat. All four figures around the table expel from their chairs, including the one who transmitted his being across the room.

James aims his hands for his side belt loops but does not engage further. The greatest swordsman the Empire has ever seen is inches away from displaying his title in the middle of my kitchen. I know he is nowhere short of seasoned in terms of skill, though the requirement for his concealed blade in his back pocket has not arisen in recent memory.

Craig stumbles over his chair as he steps away from Slater and his glowing mark. His jaw trembles, facing a familiar foe from over the summer. He holds a wide stance bearing weight in his legs and his hands balled. "What the hell just happened? How did you do that?"

I observe Slater standing, shuddering as three pairs of eyes bore into him. The mark below his elbow ignites into its signature golden shine. He refuses to have his eyes make contact with any one of us as they stay plastered to the curse on his arm. How is his body able to collapse into a ball of dust and appear elsewhere?

My tender shoulder rebounds from the sharp corner of the wall as I repel from Slater. The last time I saw someone with that mark transport their being was during my time in the hole, all those years ago. In the depths of a scorching, dirt prison built on fear and aversion, the guards who frequented the halls of the cell of Sergeant Justin Hayes and I would vanish into the air and materialize in front of Corporal Vincent Turner's cell. They would scream at Vince, scolding him for his incompetence and blindness when they were the ones who incinerated his eyes.

I determined long ago that the Medo faithful who tortured my fellow Imperial Guards and I would never set foot in my proximity again. I wished I would no longer see the spark of a Medo mark or someone teleport through space. Now, there is one such creature in my home. I squeeze Calvin Tross' dog tags in my pocket, hoping his heavenly glare would snap his son out of the trance. My first instinct is to run, but I keep my attention glued to the boy in his confused panic.

Slater drops into the chair he initially vied for. "I guess it's better to tell you now than next week," he sighs, grasping his wrist to calm the aggressive luminescence of the mark. He hesitates to continue with his face writhing in discontent.

"Tell us what?" I urge, pressing away from the wall. I have been close to the mark in its dark state, but I tend to avoid it when the Medo energy is surging through his veins. "Did something happen last night?"

Craig inhales heavily, glancing at Slater. "No, nothing happened. We just went to the club and came back, nothing else."

"Stop yelling at me! I have to tell them what happened!" Slater tugs at the hair surrounding his ears. "Leave me the fuck alone!" The light underneath his skin cuts to black without the passage of another second.

"Hey, kid, calm down," The Colonel urges as he invades the boy's space, removing his hands from his pocket. This must be the only time I have seen him give mercy to a member of the Medo. Then again, this hardly constitutes as one of the Medo blood; the boy was intimidated into being one of them. At the expense of my healthy shoulder muscle, of course.

The boy leans back against the rest of the kitchen chair. His eyes are darkened by the discoloration of his cheeks as he scans his audience throughout the room. He exposes the steel plates beneath one of Hayes' old shirts, though it does not glow like that piercing letter on his arm does at the will of someone far away. The power to light up the dog tags is his own, no one else controls it for him.

As much as I despise the Medo, my altruism toward Slater is more significant than any hatred. A part of me wants to cast the boy away for his affiliation with the cult and separate him from my care. The moment I saw the mark in the interrogation room, it all should have flooded back to me, By then, I could have transferred him to the mentorship of another officer, sparing Celestine and I from this emerging nightmare. The memories delayed for two days until Anthony Young plummeted to his death at Tyson's Gorge and I saw the M illuminate the world.

Or, in a sense, throw the world into the shadows once again.

But I remember how his mother treated him as if he was only his father's son. From that moment onward, I swore to protect this boy from anyone who tried to harm or exploit him. Colonel Arthur Jameson of the Meadowlands will never be given the opportunity to speak to Slater again, as long as he desires to use him for the parasitic gain of the Imperial Guard. My promise to be Slater's guardian reigns supreme to any alliance I have with the Imperial Guard.

"I spoke to Roarke again last night while we were at the club. One of his field scouts picked me up and took me to their main base or something. He started talking to me about how he hates the Medo and was forced to join. And, I don't know, he could be lying about that, too."

I cross my arms over my chest and stand firm in the middle of the kitchen. "Do you think most of what he says are lies?"

"I hope he's kidding about the end of the world, but that's doubtful. I think he lies about little things. He spoke about his past and why he hates the Imperial Guard, but I don't know how much of that is truth and how much is made up. He threatened to kill you if I didn't follow with his deal, but last night, he said you were never in any danger."

"So, if anything, Roarke is manipulative," James ponders. "I think he has a definite plan laid out and he will do anything to coerce you to follow. You said he started talking about the past, right?"

"Yeah, it was kind of fucked up. He said he was controlled by the Medo and accidentally killed his parents or something like that. Some guy took him in and he had to change his name and everything." Slater looks around the kitchen, stopping at his new friend of a couple days. "Then he claimed that the Imperial Guard wiped out much of the Medo, so that's why he hates us."

James and I share a glance. His nose shrivels at the same thought coursing through my brain. I turn once more to Slater and our sights connect. "That last part is true. Levi Talbot was a part of a siege to take down a hideout of them in a Frayton warehouse a while ago. They were up to something similar to what's going on now, though I think it's much more severe this time around."

"Yes, he got that part right," the Colonel asserts, nodding my way. He looks down at the boy in the chair. "It sounds like he could be trying to make himself out to not be so evil. He's attempting to connect to you."

"Unless it's all true," Craig adds as he eases his defensive stance.

I clutch the arch of the back of the seat I occupied. "No, James is right. I say that you don't believe him unless you know for sure that he's telling the truth." My hand grips the slants of the chair and I peer at Slater. He stares back at me with his eyes nearly bulging. The mark spits color now and then but I dispel it from my view. "Slater, you cannot let him control you. I don't care how powerful he is. You can fight this, just as you have fought everything else."

"But you've never met Roarke. I have never seen exactly what he has the power to do and I don't want to know. For all I know he has some crazy magic spell that can snap both my legs. He would do that, you know," Slater explains, rising to precarious feet.

Craig Larsson breathes with volume. "So, speaking of crazy magic spell," he stops mid-sentence. He stares directly at Slater, awaiting an immediate response. The young vagabond evades the attention of his Sergeant and his superior notices. "Have you had powers this whole time?"

"Yes and no," Slater states, adjusting to the position of being upright. "Roarke said I've had them for a while but I haven't discovered them yet. He said I can teleport and vanish, which I seem to do a lot even though I don't intend to. This is the first time I have teleported, and believe me when I say that it's not as great as it seems."

"Did you mean to teleport yourself across the room just now?" I inquire.

His hands crush the table beneath him, rattling the ceramic plate and the food scattered on top. "No! That's the problem!"

Craig slithers past me toward the foyer. His sneakers screech with each quick step as he twirls his car keys between his fingers. Where the hell is he going? Not even going to say goodbye?

"Wait, Craig!" Slater wedges around two chairs and dashes down the hall for his Sergeant. "Where are you going? That's my shirt!" He follows him out the front door and onto the porch.

I return my regard to the Colonel, who releases whatever remains in his lungs. His hands cup the pinnacle of his head, tangled in his haphazard hair above that unbelievable mind of his. The foldable sword attached to him has yet to see the light of day, and for a good reason. Would he truly have struck Slater in the middle of my kitchen after all the trouble he was put through for saving that boy's life?

"Holy fuck," he pants. "So, now what? The kid's got superpowers or something. Great. Fucking fantastic."

I exhale, leaning against the corner of the wall to the hallway. "I don't know what we're going to do now. And he still knows nothing about the beasts even though the Medo said they would tell him. If they are suppressing information because of that stupid fucking raid, I'll kill Rodney Roarke myself. First, for that, but then for putting Slater through all this shit."

"Damn, if you are trying to kill someone, then I know that person must have done something." He wanders around the table and settles beside me. "I don't think I could do it again, Brian. If we have to go to war, I'm not sure if I could. And with people with abilities like that, how can we even win? It'll be a hopeless cause."

I spectate the scene on the porch with Slater and Craig standing inches from each other. The lips of the Sergeant move, resulting in a brief laugh from Slater. I turn back to James, whose stare at the boys outlasts mine. "Well, we do have one person who can help us. As long as Slater has an ear in the Medo, we know more about them than if he doesn't. I hate to expose him like this, but this is a threat to the Empire. We don't have a choice."

James shakes his head, raising his chin. "You know, it's funny; I always thought I was going to be the one who saved Slater's life. Never did I consider that I would have to rely on him to save me, much less all of Oltima." Something steals his engrossment when he gazes toward the driveway as his eyelids part slightly farther.

I emulate his glance and find myself looking out to the unfolding setting on the front porch. Before I turn myself away to regulate the mess in the kitchen, the image of Slater kissing Craig Larsson brands itself into the confines of my brain.