8 September 2030

2:11 QCT

What a month that has transpired over the Empire.

My black, ballpoint pen halts in place. I make it sound like I'm writing a novel. Though, it seems, that the events that have unfolded are of a work of fiction. Never to be considered except from someone's twisted fantasy.

Slater Tross was given to me on the morning of July 31st, 2030 after an order of release on account of the One Last Chance. The young man survived the spring and the heat of summer avoiding the Imperial Guard and living with a peculiar secret, and thus, I could sense his distrust in me. But he found a companion in Celestine, which I am beyond thankful for. Those two have grown quite close, so much so that she teaches him how to defend himself and acts like she has known him her whole life. Perhaps he reminds her of Hayes.

The first instance in which Slater expressed his affiliation with the Medo occurred on the evening of August 2nd. Him and I inspected the remnants of a car accident on Stanville Pike only to find that the cause of the accident was a teenage boy who was also burdened with the mark. I witnessed the illumination of his mark before we came in contact with the boy along the edge of Tyson's Gorge. The boy emitted some kind of sonic wave that resulted in his death and Slater with multiple minor injuries.

On August 12th, I gave Slater away to the wolves at the Imperial Guard, and I knew for a fact that ever letting him go was a mistake. After what happened to Hayes, I found myself thinking about him more than I did before. I had no idea of the horrors he would be subject to during his time in the ranking; torture in the form of torment from his peers.

The night he was ranked, I was sitting on the terrace in the Castle when Colonel James MacTavish burst through the glass doors. I threw my whiskey glass into the ocean as I cried to the heavens, searching for the boy's father who I knew was looking down upon us. Only a few days later would he discover that the one person he trusted throughout his adolescence had given him a lie to hide a terrible fate. One that, I admit, could have been prevented if I was more alert at the moment.

The boy's mother has shunned him, and I will never forget the moment the air shook as she hit him across his bold cheekbone. From that day forward, I swore that I would raise him as my own son in an unforgiving and cruel world. I will never let anyone or anything harm him. My first call of duty came two days following when I allowed a blade to enter my shoulder instead of his.

Little did I know, this lethal suicide attempt resulted in a discovery more valuable than anything we have ever known. Slater was given a deal from the leader of the Medo, Rodney Roarke, and he took it with reluctance, only because it would mean I would recover from my condition. The Imperial Guard must take on seven demonic beings with attributes that Slater will provide us with as time progresses. Slater has received an abundance of power from the cult, including the ability to cloak himself with air and teleportation. Though, because of this, his bounty rises, and his death would carry a heavy magnitude. Should we succeed in this most harrowing quest, the Medo will abandon the continent and disperse, never to be seen again.

Every time I peer into Slater's eyes, riddled with trauma, I see a reflection of a teenager who once had his trust in the Imperial Guard. Five years later, he found himself emerging from a hole and seeing the true darkness in everything in the world. I see that boy, a young Brian Manchester, who now halts functionality when he sees the M on someone's arm after they are murdered. Or, if you're Slater Tross; the most powerful kid in Oltima.

Something beneath the palm of my hand twirls, and I drop my pen onto the desk beside a worn journal. Though some pages are more well-traveled than others as far as scripture is concerned, they have all lived through the same experiences. My stepfather gifted this notebook to me on my seventeenth birthday, three months before I stared hell straight in the face during my life's greatest test of resiliency. Thankfully, it was one of the items Calvin Tross held in his weakening grasp as he sprinted from our camp, ablaze from Medo invaders. I received it again the day after I got engaged to Abby.

A glass frame of her and I on our wedding day sits idle, perched against the wall. We were married on a beach outside of Ciella's capital, Etolunia. I refrained from the common attire of men in the Imperial Guard, donning our formal uniforms. My goal was to distance myself from their expectations of me. I was hardly twenty-three years old and I believed I owed them nothing after my five-year dilemma in the Medo's confinement. To me, a black tuxedo and bow-tie would suffice.

Then there was Abigail King. To this day, the memory of the initial encounter stands as one of the clearest. We were both sixteen, witnessing each other's presence from the opposite side of a room at a house party. I noticed the way her silken hair flowed over her shoulders. Though the strobe lights could only do so much illumination, I could tell how bright her eyes were. Somehow, hidden within me was the notion that I had just met the love of my life.

We dated up to the moment my life tumbled in a never-ending spiral of despair. A day did not go by in the Medo's custody that I didn't consider what she was doing without me. Assuming I was dead and finding another guy, I supposed. I would sit in my cell and weep over how much I missed her embrace before the prison guards would prod me to stop. But when a Sergeant by the name of Justin Hayes sacrificed his life to rescue me, it was revealed that Abigail King had waited for me all this time. She never gave up on me.

We were expecting our first born, a son, due only months following the wedding. I requested to Abby that I would name him, and she happily obliged as long as she had the honor of the next. In the summer of 2006, Hayes was born; the name taken from the man who saved my life so I would never forget it.

Our son could not have been blessed with a more affectionate mother. Abby loved Hayes more than anything else in the world. I was pressed with missions in the special operations department of the Imperial Guard, customized jobs for the best and brightest in the organization. A majority of my time was spent away from our southern Stanville home, but I cherished the privilege of seeing them when my schedule allowed it. In my absence, Abby raised our son well, teaching him how to be humble and kind at a young age.

I don't know how I ever got so lucky.

On a starry, clear July night in 2020, I was sending little Celestine to bed when I received a phone call. My memory fails to fade at the moment I stumble into Hayes' room, restraining the tears to the base of my eyelids. I remember the words that trickled from my trembling lips, and I am positive that my son never forgot them, either.

"What's wrong, Dad?" Hayes rises from his bedside, his silhouette inching toward me.

A sting snakes down my biceps and something within the confines of my ribs aches heavily on my soul. "Listen, your mother has been in an accident and she's in the hospital. I have to go visit her and make sure she's okay. Please take care of your sister while I'm gone and I'll pick you guys up to visit her later."

I feel Hayes' radiating warmth near me. "Is Mom okay?"

I cannot lie to him. He is fourteen now, he should be able to retain this news as it is. "I don't think so." My quaking hands find the sides of his head through the darkness of his room, with only the shattering moonlight drooling through the window. "I love you, son. No matter what happens, I will always love you."

The sun breaking over the horizon that morning marked the end. Abby passed before Hayes and Celestine could see her in the hospital. That remains one of my greatest regrets; asking myself how could I ever be so selfish.

In the first couple of months following her death, I locked myself in a shell. I saw my world unfurling in front of me again, just as it did fifteen years before. I knew I had to be a father to my two children but the excess of space in my bed was disheartening. I would leave for the headquarters at dawn and return in the late hours, leaving no time for the kids. Before long, Hayes acted as a better dad to Celestine than I did.

But that all changed when Calvin took his life in October.

An exasperated shout erupts from somewhere inside the house. The ajar door behind me allows only a sliver of noise to slip into my study, but I heard enough to know who that was. The scream repeats, jolting me from my leather chair.

"Slater?" I call, springing up the staircase and skipping every other step. He hasn't yelled in his sleep in weeks.

I burst into Hayes' old room to discover the boy tossing and turning under the ashen-color sheets. His shadowed body convulses at an uncontrollable pace as he grumbles obscure statements aloud. Another scratchy scream throttles from his throat, charred by the nightmares.

"Slater, hey," I exclaim, shifting to the bedside. I press my palms against the accentuated bones of his shoulders, pushing him into the mattress. In a desperate swing of his arms, his fingernails claw into my exposed triceps. His legs are kicking beneath the sheets but are too sporadic to interfere with me. I hold his shoulders to disable any violent movement.

"No, please! Leave me alone!" He shouts with wide eyes that meet mine. "No!"

"No, Slater, it's me," I mutter, taking a seat beside him. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He slows his breathing and lets his limbs go limp at his sides. "Who are you?" My right hand, over his left shoulder, senses a rapid beating under his bare chest. His skin is stifling and clammy. "What is going on? Where am I?"

I haul him upright. "It's Brian. You were having a bad dream, but you're okay now."

"What's wrong with Slater?" The voice of Celestine beckons from the hallway. She enters the room, switching on the light located on the bureau. "Was he screaming just now?"

"Yeah, he was," I reply, bouncing my attention between both kids. Slater digs a knuckle into his eye, drawing away excess tears that stray. The black slashes on his arm revolt against the dimness of Hayes' bedroom. I blink away from the light. "So, was it a dream?"

His head juggles up and down. He lets out a hum of approval.

Before I can ask him to elaborate, he hides his face beneath his shuddering fingertips. "Look, I don't want to talk about it, okay? I'm sorry I was screaming, but please just leave me alone."

Celeste leans her shoulder on the opposite wall of the bed. "Bottling it up isn't going to help you at all." She sneaks a pierced look at me, then turns back to him. "Trust me, I know. It can be hard to talk about some things but telling someone can help to get it off your chest."

"We don't care what it is, we'll listen," I add, cupping my knees with my hands. "Listen, we've seen some crazy shit, okay?"

"Like that dead body a few weeks ago," she includes. I return the bolted stare and she shrugs.

"Anyway, we've seen it all, Slater. More than you think, more than we would like. Whatever it is that's bothering you won't surprise us. We can work through your issues together because the worst thing that can happen when you have a problem is to be alone."

Slater collapses onto his pillow, stagnant. He sniffs once with a stifling breath. The mark below his elbow fades softly into his skin.

Damn the Medo. Damn them! There are moments in which I resent Slater for his affiliation but in times like these, I wonder what the hell they want from the boy. They make him suffer; suffer as I did all those years ago. Torture him with awful dreams of unspeakable horrors. Whatever nightmare they rattled him with tonight better have given him information or some benefit or else they will have to answer to me. I will not let them taunt and prod at this boy any longer, as long as he is under my roof and I am his guardian.

The silence grows longer, but the reel in my brain twirls.

I awake from my writhing trance beneath the plain, white sheets of my bed. My breath skips to compensate for the blaze raging in my throat. The single, powerful garage light gleams into the bedroom, casting a glare onto the wall that acts as my only escape from the darkness all around me.

I am perched upright with my back parallel to the headboard. A benevolent hand grabs my left wrist. I glance down at the contact and acknowledge the faded silhouette of Abigail lying beside me. She pulls herself to match my stance and inches closer.

"You're okay, Brian. I'm here." Her voice simmers the aura I drown in. She strokes the back of my hand with her thumb. "You're here with me. You're safe."

Celeste rests on the rug at the foot of the bed. She matches her gaze with Slater. "You don't have to be afraid to talk to us, Slater. I promise we won't tell anyone, right Dad?"

"Right," I reassure. "Whatever you say stays in this room."

He captures a breath and rises level with me. His face glows brown against the drain of the lamp on the dresser. A lonely tear bleeds from his voided eye, lost in the shadow of the room. Something beneath his skin forces a burning flame to kindle the mark into its glorious color, only to reveal that his other cheek is drenched.

"Holy shit," Celeste murmurs. It just occurred to me that she might still hold the scar from the road incident a few Fridays ago.

Slater grips his arm, masking the erupting luminescence. Hair-thin beams drool through the cracks of his fingers and his hand turns an orange-red color. He glances at me, the solitary tear crawling around his lips as they begin to shudder.

"I'm in love with someone I can't love."

My daughter jumps between him and I with scrunched eyebrows. "Who?"

He starts saying a name, but a barrier fractures inside him. A cascade overcomes him, a rainstorm falling over his cheeks. "Craig Larsson."

I should have guessed that name was the one to be mentioned. After James and I witnessed him kissing the Sergeant out on the front porch, we returned to the kitchen table and I never gave it another thought. Whatever he does outside of his life in the Imperial Guard is none of my business, though, of course, I have a role to fill as his guardian. Craig is a good kid from my standpoint. Misunderstood.

For one thing, Celestine does not like the kid. Maybe the jackass from school puts on a fake face to try to be buddies with Slater. More than buddies, after the apparent scene outside my door this morning. His actions away from his duties do not worry me.

But there is one problem. The Imperial Guard brings love to a screeching halt.

It's the one thing that is keeping Lieutenant Keira Hill and I away from each other. The main thing, amongst others. It's why Levi cannot hunt for a new woman with dog tags. It's why two of James' classmates, now the van Lesters, were kicked out of the Imperial Guard. And it's why, now, Slater may be challenged once again; putting his life and freedom under the guillotine.

All for a boy.

Despite her apparent prejudices toward the Sergeant, Celeste keeps her face straight. "Craig Larsson? Doesn't he hate you?"

"I thought he did," Slater huffs, clearing his skin from the excess of moisture. "He used to. He realized that I wasn't as bad as he thought and the next thing I knew he said he had a crush on me. It was such a quick change, I didn't know how to react at first. But after he stayed over last night I realized that I liked him, too. I thought we were just going to be friends but for some reason, I think of him as more than that."

"Is that what you woke us up for?" She tosses the edged inquiry into the air, leaving Slater hopeless.

I glare at her, and she catches my disapproval. "I was awake, Celestine. For all we know, he could have been attacked by someone." I turn to the boy who dodges the weight of my sight. "Now, let me ask you something. Did you start "liking" him after he stayed the night here? You know, spending time with someone like that can artificially connect people."

Slater revels in a moment to himself before his face contorts. "What? No! We didn't... do anything."

"Well, regardless of what you did or didn't do, I think you might just be emotionally linked because you spent time with each other."

As I consider something profound to teach the young man, a rigid memory shreds the confines of my mind. A day, four years ago, that stands as a constant reminder of how I will be stuck in limbo forever. Following weeks of lunches, dinners, and purposeless visits to her office, Lieutenant Hill informed me that she was not seeking a greater relationship. After all the time I devoted to her growing attached to me, she refused. They weren't the words I wanted to hear, but the ones I had to.

I can't believe that I'm comparing my life to that of a seventeen-year-old. Our situations have become frighteningly similar, even beyond the subject at hand. But at least someone can see what he sees from a parallel point of view. I try my hardest to understand him, but I know it's not enough.

"Slater, listen. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but you need to tell him that nothing can go on between you two. Trust me, it's hard. You probably think that you can make it work." I capture some air only to expel it a second later. "But with the lifestyle you live, the Medo constantly, mercilessly tearing you apart, you cannot afford to let someone you love fall into the crossfire. Do you understand?"

He frowns, avoiding my face. "Yeah."

"Good. How about this: the next time you see him, Monday, probably, you talk to him about the situation. In private. Make sure he understands and that you and him are on the same page. Got it?"

A tear rolls over the bend of his cheek, but he nods. "Okay."

Celeste digs under her fingernails yet keeps her attention on Slater. "So, I was just thinking. The Medo was behind your dream, right? What exactly happened?"

"Oh, God," he breathes with gaping holes. The space for him to share is secure and closed, but I sense something in the atmosphere that he finds unsatisfactory. The M flickers though it does not remain. "I was laying here with Craig and the next thing I know, Rodney Roarke appeared and stabbed him to death. Right beside me. I just remember screaming as he tried to kill me, too, right before you woke me up. He didn't even say anything, he just did it."

That is the clearest evidence of a premonition if I have ever heard one. No one has a random dream so violent to only have it be a fantasy. Roarke is devising something and holding out from Slater. The leader of the Medo is calculated, yes, but would he actually be the one to execute the killing? Is he that brutal to murder a child, or would he back down and order one of his lessers to do it for him?

Either way, he is a coward. I promise you, it takes one to know one. But we are not the same.

This nightmare could, in the same instance, be a plot to torment Slater even further. Maybe Roarke's plan isn't to kill Craig at all, which would be apt of him. The death of the Sergeant would sever the Medo's ties with Slater out of rage and vilification. Roarke may decide to leave Craig alive yet distract Slater with the threat of losing him. The one who he just confessed to loving.

What if Roarke is jealous? Envious of the freedom Slater has?

I face the boy, forcing myself to tear away from the captivation of the mark. From the method by which his head is turned, I can discern a young Calvin Tross, a lowly private at the time of our first mission. Those two have the same curved nose and dark, narrow eyes. If only Calvin could see him now, he would be so proud of him. I only wish Slater could know how much his father cared for him.

Before I can say a word to the boy, I place my hand on my leg and recognize a divet in my left pocket. The material of my pants shields a beady ornament beneath it.

Maybe there is a way.

I dig into my pocket to withdraw Calvin Tross' weathered dog tags. I have held onto these for nearly ten full years, ever since they were removed from my best friend's abraded neck. Since then, I never let them be damaged or stolen from me.

I loosen my grasp on the tags. The outline of the eagle is softened against the silver plate, but I know it's there.

"Look at me," I say, extending my hand toward him. He turns to regard me with his dead glare, only to be resurrected as he notices the dog tags.

He bounces between me and the plates in my hand. "Are those your tags? Why did you take them off?"

"These are your father's tags." I take his hand and transfer them into his palm. I close his fingers over the worn-down plates and he shows no resistance. "I've had them for a long time now, but I think you should have them." With my hand, I ensnare his clutch on the tags and do not release him. "Your father always knew exactly what to do; the right thing. He was a great man. When there was an impossible obstacle in front of him, he would always find a way to maneuver it. Sometimes that meant that he would tackle it head-on.

"I held onto these tags and they gave me hope. Power. Through my hardest times, I considered what your father would do in my situation. Now, I realize that you are going to need these dog tags more than I ever will. With these, I hope you discover your true strength. The Medo may be strong and influential but you cannot let them control you." My hand tightens the trap on his grasp.

Celestine nods in my direction. A scarce smile creeps across her face in the dim light. "And we've got your back, Slater. We always have and always will."

His own dog tags, plastered to his chest, spark the room to life. The blue glow paints the room the color of the deep ocean, far away from any civilization. He grins, too. "Thank you, guys. I appreciate this."

I let go of him, liberating him from my hold. "You are stronger than they are, son. Do not let them control you. Ever."