Prologue: The Broken Father

The prologue to yet another book i'll never finish. If helps in any way this is a standlone section that serves as a prequel to ''The Question'. Chronilogically the bulk of the book will take place between the 'The Question' and its 'constant-work-in-prog

 

Just a few years ago... (The Broken Father)

 

That was it; the worst moment of his life. It came so soon after one of the finest. He had hoped against hope that it would not end this way, but there he was stood in the middle of the road, half a brick for a weapon and impromptu brethren from the community at his side. They knew it madness, just the same as those who had come to perpetrate such deeds. On any other day, he might have called them ‘blood’, quick to shelter them from whatever whimsical injustice H’Dillion had chosen as his flavour of the week. But that was not this day.

‘You probably don’t even know who I am.’ The sense of futility hung from every sentence. Every syllable was struck through with despair. ‘Do you care? Do you let yourselves care, when you do such things? Can you go home to your wives and your mothers and your...’ his grip loosened and his weapon fell to the ground with a gentle thud, as harmless and ineffectual as he felt. His gaze fell and he stared intently at the shattered fragment of his former family home. Re-affirming hands reached out from the crowd and gripped him, donating their strength. ‘Can you even have families?’ he asked. While his voice faltered, his brothers and he stood strong. They store down the barrels of those guns and their defensive riot shields together, as one.

‘My family is long gone from here. If all has gone well then I will never again see them.’ This fact empowered him. He embraced it and the freedom it entailed. ‘Not in this life at the very least...’ He shrugged away the support of his brethren, and took a step towards the guns; separating himself from his new found kin. His brothers, ranging in all ages and from all walks of life, fought amongst themselves; so many of them did not understand. And so this father, so young and yet so en-wizened, took a moment to turn around, and explained himself:

‘Those of you who have children understand that there can be nothing more important. Not your morals, not your opinions, not anything...’ He took in the faces of those who had stepped forth without hesitation, to protect those who had mattered more to him than anything else. There were none there he could honesty (before this moment) call friends. Many of the faces he recognised; the type you exchanged pleasantries with at a doorstep or by the point of sale in a market, but nothing more, no bond stronger than that. And the rest; friends of associates of kind hearted passers-by... They were the last family he had left. ‘Those of you who don’t have children...’ He smiled. ‘Go and find out what all the fuss is about...’ He scanned the crowd again, connecting with each and every last set of eyes. He owed them that at least, and so much more. ‘Live to tell that story, if nothing else.’

Reluctantly his brothers lay down their weapons of pipe and stone, and dispersed unto a safe distance. Xanti Senior looked down at his fallen weapon and nodded resolute. Bending down he scooped up the brick, heaving it from hand to hand, judging its weight and the required angle...

‘If that demented villain, to whom you so gladly sold your conscience wished, so desperately to have my audience...’ He threw with all his might, the thud of clay against reinforced plastic polymers, echoing his words. ‘...The ignorant swine...’ Thud! ‘Should have...’

A thunderous boom rang out, stopping Xanti in his tracks. The soldier remained motionless, still as reluctant to gun down a single, unarmed civilian in the street as they were as a dozen. Nevertheless, the shot had been fired from behind them; a solitary line of smoke trailing off into the wind. The officer blew the smoke from the barrel of his pistol and holstered it, with an ostentatious flurry of backspins and twirls.

‘H’Dillion honestly couldn’t care less if you lived to a prosperous old age or...’ The Officer shrugged, struggling to make his point, ad nauseum. ‘... or rotted in the sewers like a living corpse.’ The officer fished around in his coat pockets, producing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and took a satisfied pull, exhaling through the nose. ‘But...’ he conceded, strolling over to Xanti, one hand in his pocket, the other tending to his cigarette. ‘If you commoners will keep prattling on about this “chosen one” and “His return” - and for the foreseeable future at least - it looks as if you fools probably will, well...’ They stood toe to toe. Not a trace of fear in either man’s eyes, in either man’s heart. Only inevitably remained; only destiny; only fate. Xanti opened his arms wide, inviting it. He pushed his forehand into the officer’s, and still, neither man would yield.

‘Xenon will return to re-claim this land from tyranny. He will walk the realm once more, dressed in the flesh man and when he does...’

‘Tell me...’ Rensoe interrupted, stepping back and taking another contemplative pull of his cigarette. ‘Tell me... Do you honestly believe that your messiah, your chosen one, your... for the want of a better word... god, would actually choose here?’ He made a gesture with his hand, encompassing the entire area. ‘...This ghastly slum, to make his grand reappearance?’ Xanti let out the bitterest of laughs. Rensoe was surprised. ‘You don’t actually think that one of your children may be the second coming of the almighty, do you?’ This was too much for Xanti who fell to his knees, breaking down into hysterics. Rensoe stood there waiting. He had finished and discarded his cigarette by the time Xanti was poised enough speak again.

‘I’ll tell you what I think!’ He said, wiping fresh tears from his eyes as he rose to his feet. ‘I think that paranoid dictator you strive so hard to impress day after day, thinks my children are the key to his downfall. In fact I think it’s clinically idiotic thoughts like that will in fact lead to his downfall...’ Rensoe reached into his packet and lit another two cigarettes, one for each of them. ‘But most importantly I do believe with the entirety of my heart that the lives of my wife and of my children, ever so slightly out weight my ‘ever so vigilant, non-elected official’s quality of sleep!’ Rensoe thought on this for a long while and then nodded. ‘What? What could even you do? His mind is made up.’ Rensoe looked Xanti in the eye and then smiled. ‘Wait here. You’ll see...’

Cigarette finished, Xanti stood proudly defiant as Rensoe returned to his men. When he was out of harm’s way, Rensoe - Officer of the first guard - gave the order the open fire. The father was executed on the spot.

Rensoe addressed his men. ‘That man failed to report his second born for validation,’ He spoke loudly in the hopes that his words would carry as far as the ears of the locals who had, not so long ago called that fallen man “Brother”. ‘As a result he lost his home, his wife and his children...’ The officer’s voice began to falter just has the defiant man’s had, only this time there was no one to steady it for him. ‘That man had but two choices left to him: He could have dedicated his life to H’dillion’s destruction, railing even more to his side before their eventual death and subsequent martyrdom. He could have gone on to fire countless bullets and plant untold explosives all in the name of his unseen family...’ Rensoe paused for a moment no longer able to look at his men. ‘...or...or... He could have accepted his punishment, have run away with his tail between his legs. He could have gone back to his shift at the restaurant, like a good little citizen and pretended that we did not just try, with our automatic weapons and our reinforced body armour, to take that man’s family away from him.’ The fallen brother’s comrades returned slowly and cautious; clear enough to make their presence known but quiet enough to present no immediate danger. ‘This... All of this, here today, could have been avoided, so easily, it sickens me to even this of it’ Even through their faceless black masks, Rensoe could read what his Soldiers were thinking. Not one of them could meet his gaze. ‘We will not let this happen again!’ He stared at the bullet ridden corpse, the father who wanted nothing more than for his children to be able to see their next birthdays. Rensoe muttered his next words under his breath, for no one’s ears but his own; ‘I, will not let this happen again.’ He signalled for the men to mount up and return to base and then he thanked the one true God for black tinted windows. It took every single ounce of strength, of sheer emotional fortitude or whatever you would call it, to make it back to his car (itself a symbol of prestige and willing complicity in every major travesty of his time) without breaking down completely.

Today the soldiers of H’Dillion’s personal guard had come to take away a man’s two little boys. And today, he had to all intents and purposes, let them.