"Who looks outside dreams; who looks inside, awakens."
---Carl Jung
Chapter One
Intelligence, strength, loyalty,
generosity, heroism. The name Travis Turner is synonymous with them all. But to
understand the man, we must venture back to when he was a boy who'd yet to
learn that heroes aren't born; they're forged in the crucible of adversity. And
that the greatest force in the multiverse is hope.
***
The year was 2017, and children in
khakis and red blazers embroidered with the crest of Azure Plains Preparatory
Academy (a shield with a large fleur-de-lis, inscribed with "children are our
future" in Latin underneath) laughed and hurled soggy snowballs at each while
upperclassmen had their faces buried in their phones, occasionally looking up
to shoot the younger students dirty looks when they got too close.
But our would-be hero wasn't a fan of
such plebeian sport. Instead, Travis was ensconced in his native habitat, Ms.
Martin's English class, eating lunch as they tried stumping each other.
"All right, smartass, define
perspicacity for me." She folded her arms, a smug smile splitting her wrinkled
face wide.
Travis licked the mayo off his lips.
"It means having shrewdness or insight into things. For example, used-car
salesmen are a cunning lot and demonstrate ample perspicacity. From the Latin perspicere, meaning--"
"Cut the crap.
We both know you could teach my twelfth grade Honors English class easily."
He paused eating and cocked his head
to the side, worry bubbling up in his stomach. "I'm sensing a `but' coming."
She steepled her fingers. "While I
enjoy your company, I think you should spend lunch in the cafeteria or playing
in the quad. Otherwise, how will you make friends?"
He rose, throwing his half-eaten
turkey sandwich in the trash on the way out.
"Hold up. I didn't--"
He shot her a cold look. "No. You've
made it clear you don't want me around."
I'll leave, and we'll return to our normal pedagogue-pupil relationship.
Before she had a chance to reply, he
was out the door, heading to the bleachers where he'd eaten his lunch before he
was stupid enough to befriend her.
"Beep, beep. Wide load coming
through," Keith Maxwell barked as Travis passed him. He ignored Maxwell until
the older boy yanked on his arm, twisting it behind Travis's back.
"When I talk to you, you reply. Comprende, shit head?" He yanked
Travis's arm again, almost dislocating it.
Travis pictured Maxwell lying at his
feet, begging for mercy, and smiled.
"What's got you so happy, freak boy?"
Maxwell said, loosening his grip.
"Nothing." He pulled his arm free and
walked on to the athletics wing.
"Kid, you need to stand up for yourself,"
his headmate said.
Right. News at seven: Travis Turner
gunned down by cops. No thanks. He scoffed at the voice
in his head and carried on until he spotted JJ Giovanni with his sycophants.
His stomach twisted in knots.
What will it be today?
"Hey, Turner," Giovanni said in the
grating tone Travis had come to hate. "Settle our argument. I say you got acid
poured on your face, while Mitchells here says you're like a mutant. So, which
is it?"
He shoved past them. "Neither!"
"Someone's on her period," Giovanni
called after him. Their laughter echoed off the walls, trailing him as he
strode down the hall, rage and shame warring inside
him as he willed his tears not to fall.
Stop it. Crying solves nothing.
He spent the rest of his lunch hour
under the bleachers. When he entered Ms. Martin's class, he didn't return her
greeting or answer any questions about last night's reading assignment unless
she called on him.
The rest of the day passed
uneventfully, and when he got home, he did his homework, ignoring the raucous
noise the twins (Bobby and Amber) and their friends made. By dinnertime, he'd
finished most of his homework.
After setting the table, he slumped
in his seat as his mother said grace.
"How was your day?" she said.
And it begins. "Fine, Mother," he
said, forcing himself not to scream.
She stuck her nose in the air, her
lips curling back into a grimace. "Don't get snippy with me, or I'll ground
your ass."
"Sorry, Mother. It was fine. And no.
I didn't make any friends."
"Course ya
didn't, jerkwad," Bobby said, sticking out his
tongue, "with a face like that, who'd want to hang with ya?"
He kicked Bobby under the table, and
Bobby whined to their mom.
"Travis, you know better. Apologize."
"But he--"
"I said apologize, or you'll go
without dinner."
He gave Amber a look that said, `Can you
believe this ish?' but she was too busy on her phone,
her fingers a blur.
"I'm sorry." That you're such a
weakling, you can't fight your own battles.
After suffering through his mother's
interrogation (she ought to have gone into law enforcement), Travis excused
himself to his room and finished his homework.
When he was done, he locked the door and put a chair under the handle so
he wouldn't be disturbed.
He removed the loose floorboard under
his bed and retrieved his grandfather's pocketknife. As the worn handle settled
in his hand, his breath hitched. Travis lifted his right sleeve and looked from
his arm to the bloodstained blade.
He hesitated a moment, the blade
catching the overhead light, twinkling like a star.
No, I promised Jenny I would do this
anymore.
He put the pocketknife in his dresser
and then opened the Harry Potter wand coding kit he'd been meaning to try out.
After two hours off troubleshooting, he got it working and then grew bored.
Opening his junk drawer, he removed his tool kit and a few spare parts, setting
to work.
Ninety minutes later, he swished his
wand, and a laser beam emitted from the tip.
"Whoot!"
He swished the wand again, and it
exploded, singeing his eyebrows.
Well, I know not to try that again.
He smiled until his mother banged on his door. After he explained what
happened, she banned him from "tinkering" for two weeks.
So, he played video games a while
before turning to his copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, which Ms. Martin had
assigned two weeks prior. After reading a few chapters, he tossed the book
aside and went over the incident with her.
I was a fool to let her in.
He looked toward his dresser but
shook his head. To occupy himself, Travis went to his lab in the garage and
worked on Cha, the robot he'd built and had been trying to program to do the
Cha-Cha slide. Cha had fully functioning hydraulic
arms, a camera, and mecanum wheels that allowed it to
move in any direction. The parts had cost him five months' allowance, but it
was so worth it.
He typed in the last line of code, hit
execute, and it jerked to life, getting halfway through its routine when it
stopped.
"Ugh," he growled. "Not again. What
am I doing wrong?"
By the time he'd found the bug, it
was too late to try again, so he called it a night, vowing to get it right tomorrow.
***
The weekend passed without much incident, and soon it was
Sunday night. Travis tossed and turned, but every time he drifted off to sleep,
he dreamt about The Fire. The pain like being stung with a million hornets at
once, the heat like bathing in a volcano, but the worst was the smell of burnt
hair and flesh. He'd never forget that. He'd been having the dream for the last
month, and each time it felt more intense, more real, like his skin were on
fire again.
Around midnight he abandoned all hopes of getting any
sleep, dressed, and went for a walk, taking his pocketknife with him. For
safety, he rationalized.
His thoughts turned to school the next day.
Everyone walks around so jubilant, taunting me with their
stupid smiles. Nice to your face, then stab you in the heart the first chance
they get. They don't know what it's like to just want to be normal. God, I just
want to bash their stupid happy faces in. And Giovanni's the worst ever,
walking around with all his friends, laughing and smiling.
But what do I have to be happy about?
"Nothing!" Travis's voice rang out through the deserted
cul-de-sac. A wind picked up, and he wrapped his arms around himself, shivering
until it passed.
As he walked the rain-soaked street, his thoughts drifted
back to the last time he was happy: the night he died. Clutching his chest, he
remembered the paddles slamming into him over and over again.
"Do you know how annoying listening to you wangst
is?" said his headmate.
Travis groaned. What do you want?
"For you to shut up and nut up."
What?
"Don't what me, asshole. You
don't know how sucky it is being stuck inside such a weakling. You're a freak?
Oh, boo-hoo. Grow a pair already," it
said and then was gone.
Memories of life before the accident rushed back to
Travis, when the least of his worries were getting to go out and play or
avoiding the crazy nuns during Mass at St. Peter's. Try as he might, the tears
wouldn't be denied their due this time.
As if in response to him, the wind picked up again, and
the April drizzle became a deluge. Travis knew it would probably land him in
the hospital, but then what didn't? Head tilted forward,
he removed the hood of his favorite gray hoodie.
For the longest time, he stood there, the storm bearing
witness to his pain.
Enough!
He tossed the hair out of his eyes and then clenched his
fists so tight his stubby nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.
The tears stopped.
He put his soaked hood back on, shivering, and then
berated himself for giving into such weakness. He knew better. Emotions,
especially love, were pointless. They diverted time and energy that could be
better spent elsewhere.
He ripped the pocketknife from his pants, rolled up his
sleeve, and savaged the tan flesh of his arm. He replayed the scene between him
and Ms. Martin again, berating himself for being so stupid.
The pale moonlight reflected off the edge of the blade as
he slashed the back of his forearm from wrist to elbow. The metallic scent of
blood filled the night air, and the warmth of inflammation overtook him once
more. Although a pale comparison, it reminded him of the abyss he found himself
in the night he died.
And at last, he was at peace.
He knew he should have felt pain, and on some level, he
supposed he did. Yet only a dead emptiness filled him as he calculated how much
gauze and disinfectant would be needed. The cold sensation of congealed blood
intertwining with his searing skin intrigued him.
God, I'm such a freak. And no matter how hard I try,
that's all I'll ever be.
Then
he wondered . . . Should I end it all?
No!
He couldn't do that, wouldn't do that. He'd come too far,
been through too much to allow them to win. He was better
than that, better than them, stronger than that.
"Earth to Travis, done with your period yet?"
Self-mutilation? Menses? Ha, good one.
"Thank you, thank you very much. Now, if you're done
being all extra, can we go home?"
Fine.
Before Travis could take a step, like a crack of thunder,
another voice boomed in his ears, chilling him to the core:
"Blood will rain from the heavens."
In the next instant, Travis was transported to a
nightmare world. The sky was pitch-black, the only light from a sea of flames
that stretched out as far as he could see. All around him, islands of bones and
corpses were piled high into the sky. The stench of rotting flesh and death
choked him, and he swallowed back vomit, disgusted but curious more than
anything else.
In the distance stood a massive throne that he felt
pulled to. Travis shook his head. He must be dreaming. But if this was a dream,
then he might as well make the most of it and explore.
As he ventured closer, he spotted a figure upon the
throne that rooted him to the spot. The figure was him, only pure white, as
though drained of all his color.
"Blood will rain from the heavens," it said again. "Ash will fill the air. The
dark prince will reign on a throne of despair, and all will know his pain.
Corpses will cover the land, and none will he spare. As water turns to fire,
the sleeper will awaken and herald the end of everything. From my desire--"
"Hey, I'm
happy for you, and Imma let ya
finish. But everybody knows Macbeth had one of the best prophecies of all time,
man. All-time," he quipped.
The ground shuddered and cracked wide open under him. White
tentacles burst forth toward him.
Travis ran, his legs pumping as he struggled to put
distance between them. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to flee, his
heart doing flip flops, terror unlike anything he'd experienced flooding
through him. Goosebumps covered his arms as he swung them in time with his pistoning feet. His chest tightened, his breaths coming in
shallows fits as he fought to fill his lungs.
Running proved futile as the tentacles overcame him and
wrapped him in their vice-like grip. Travis struggled to free himself yet only
succeeded in worsening his imprisonment.
Strolling toward him, the demonic doppelganger exuded
smugness and triumph as he spoke. "Insolent whelp. You speak of
matters far beyond your station. The war between good and evil has raged
throughout countless eons but always ends in a stalemate." It paused,
coming face-to-face with Travis. "You could change that. Join me, and
you will have untold power."
Travis looked up at the creature looming above him. "What
kind . . . of power?"
"The kind to make your bullies wish they were never
born."
Travis pondered this a moment. "What would I have
to do?"
It smiled. "Allow me into your heart, and it is
done."
"Oh no, kid. You don't want none of what this guy's
offering. He's major bad news. Stick with me."
"No one asked you," the
creature said, and Travis paused.
They can hear each other? Yup,
I've finally gone crazy.
"Crazier, you mean. And as for you," his headmate said, addressing
the creature. "Keep playing and see if I don't kick yo punk ass back to whatever rock you crawled out from
under."
"I will not be spoken to in such a familiar way."
The creature and his headmate
continued arguing, each trying to convince him not to accept the other until
Travis shouted, "Shut up!"
A cataclysmic explosion rocked the landscape as an
ever-expanding blue inferno obliterated everything in Travis's wake. The
tentacles retreated to their master, and the discombobulated look on its face
made Travis smile.
Travis looked at the devastation he wrought and let loose
a maniacal laugh. Face set in a determined grimace, nostrils flaring, jaw
clenched tight, veins bulging on his forehead, Travis charged forward,
determined to defeat it.
A yard separated them, but then it flung Travis backward,
and he lost his balance. Catching himself, Travis rolled forward and had the
sudden urge to flung out his hand. A wall of fire erupted from his hand and
blasted the creature.
"Cool," he said, even as he winced, his hand burning and
the air filling with the scent of charred flesh.
It dropped to one knee. Then erected a white shield
around itself.
"I take it back. You are strong. But then you are
my vessel. No matter. You will comply."
Spurred on by the creature's challenge, Travis unleashed
every ounce of power he had in a torrent of fire and fists. But the shield
remained. The creature laughed and tossed him aside like a ragdoll.
Every part of him aching, Travis struggled to regain his
footing. Just drawing breath was an exercise. Then Travis collapsed onto the
scorched earth, convulsing.
The creature lowered its shield and impaled Travis
with its tentacles.
Unbelievable pain flooded Travis's body, and he knew this
was the end. With every second, he felt the life flowing out of him and the
monster taking over his body. The bitter taste of blood filled his mouth, and
the coldness in his chest spread ever wider. He groaned in agony.
"Yield and your suffering will end. Resist, and
it will be legendary," it said.
No, I can't let it end like this.
I don't care whether this is a dream or a hallucination.
I didn't care how long it takes or how painful it is. I will reign
victorious.
All my life, I've been a victim. Never once have I stood
up for myself. If I die here, it will not be on my knees.
He stood, head held high.
"Aw, is baby about to cry?"
"Shut up. You don't know the first thing about me. You
think I will bow down because you say so? Hell no!"
Searing tears streamed down Travis's cheeks as he ripped
himself free. The creature's tentacles evaporated into plumes of smoke, and
Travis lumbered forward, fueled by an ever-rising fury born of a lifetime of
repressed emotions.
He no longer saw the creature but all those who ever made
him feel weak. Everyone who ever picked on him or made him feel left out, like
he was a freak. He saw their mocking faces, and something inside him broke.
The cry of a great bird issued forth.
Then he saw an infinite horde crying out for justice, for
retribution. And at last, Travis would answer them.
As a scream bellowed from him, the creature's domain was
ripped asunder, its throne crumbling as Travis's blue inferno consumed it. It
attacked him again. But this time, Travis would not fall. The creature's
tentacles weren't enough to satisfy his flames; he hungered for all of
it.
Eyes narrowed to slits, face set in a grim expression,
the creature raised its shield, but one blast from Travis shattered it into a
thousand shards, sending the creature to its knees.
Travis laughed, his body turning into a sea of black flames,
the conflagration pouring from him as he hurled it toward the creature.
It pushed back the wall of flames with a beam of white
energy. "Fool! You haven't won anything. I am that which is ageless,
the darkness which dwells in the hearts of all; that
great dragon, the progenitor of the eternal sea of evil. I am Oblivion."
"My name is Travis Turner, and I am done being anyone's
victim." He poured everything he had into the wall of flames, and it enveloped
Oblivion.
"You are mine through and through. Even now, I feel your
hatred growing, hear your soul calling out to maim and murder. We will meet
again, and you will yield," Oblivion
said and then faded away.
"I'll be ready."
"Correction: we'll be ready. What now, genius?"
Before Travis could reply, his legs went weak, and
his vision darkened.
The last thing he was conscious of was the sensation of
weightlessness as though he were being carried along a wave of liquid energy.
Then it stopped. Why or how, he didn't know, and he
slipped into a deep sleep.
But how can you dream in a dream?
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