"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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