Illegal King

by Mason Dakota

  Chamberlain finished my thought by saying, “and maybe Gabriel wouldn’t have died.” He was only half right about what he thought I failed to say. But his words didn’t keep me from cringing.

  Six months ago Ziavir informed me how Gabriel was behind everything. Gabriel was Nebula’s director. He proved it with his own handwriting in a letter addressed to me. His poor excuse for everything stretched back to my dead father. It was another lie Gabriel told in his efforts to manipulate me.

  I had never told Chamberlain or anyone else about the letter or the truth about Gabriel. Everyone theorized that he died in the chaos, and I never bothered to correct them. I never explained that the man they loved betrayed them and abandoned them.

  They can be comforted by that lie.

  “Do you believe that pushing everyone away and killing yourself will bring him back?”

  It will protect you.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Or do you believe this will make up for the things you did wrong?”

  I punched the bag harder until my hands ached. Chamberlain wheeled his chair closer. “Maybe you believe that. But here’s what I think is really going on. You’re not trying to redeem or make up for what’s happened. You’re not interested in moving on.” He drew close enough to whisper, “You don’t want the guilt and the hurt to go away. You don’t want healing, because you relish in the pain. You want to die, and you think the perfect way to do that is to separate yourself from everyone so you’ll be alone with your responsibility.”

  I shouted in frustration as I threw one last punch against the bag, throwing my whole weight behind it. The bag swayed. I didn’t look at Chamberlain as I stood there, panting. I glanced outside and could see the sun setting. It was time for my second job to begin. I lowered my fists and with a deep sigh took off my gloves. “I need to go.”

  “No you don’t. You can’t keep doing this, Griffon. You can’t keep pushing us away, thinking it will make your death easier for us.”

  I ignored him as I tried to move past him. Chamberlain whipped his wheelchair in my way and glared at me, demanding me to address him, to look down and for once actually see him in that chair.

  “Get out of my way, Chamberlain,” I grumbled.

  “Not until you look me in the eye and listen to what I am saying.”

  Even in a wheelchair, Chamberlain could make me feel small. His determination overwhelmed me. But it was his character that worried me and demanded too much of me. It made me obedient. I lowered my gaze to look him in the eye.

  “Many years ago I chose to stand by you regardless of any consequences or risks that came my way. Michael made that commitment. Alison made that commitment. And so did Gabriel. We made that decision, not you, because we believed that together we could make a real difference in Chicago. Pushing us away to punish yourself as you risk your own life takes that right to choose away from us. And what has happened to me now, because of that decision I made, believing it to be right, is not your failure to carry and feel guilty about.”

  “We believed that even when we saw you become consumed by your need for revenge. We were there for you when you took it upon yourself to stop Nebula from destroying this city. We stood by your side when you became the Outcast Emissary and revealed Kraine’s corruption. And we stood with you when you made that mob queen, Alexandra Carline, the new Mayor for the sake of saving this city. You weren’t alone in carrying the burden of what has happened to me, or Chicago. We chose to stand by you in all of that because we are a family and we believed in you. We love you, Griffon.”

  I chuckled, squirted some water in my mouth, waved my water bottle at him and said, “That’s it. That’s your failure. Perfect people know when to give up on lost causes.”

  I quickly brushed past Chamberlain without saying another word. This time he didn’t try to stop me. He knew he couldn’t.

  Three

  Everything changed when the blast went off.

  Systems and devices all across the city were permanently fried the moment that Electro-Magnetic Pulse, EMP for short, detonated. So far nothing had returned to how it once was. Homes were without power. Stripped for parts or resources, cars sat abandoned on the streets. Many citizens defected the city, packing up their things and attempting to walk to the nearest safe location, risking exposure to radioactive wastelands and dangerous roads.

  I’m not sure how many ever found their promised land. For those who chose not to make an exodus out of the city, life only grew worse. Food supplies ran scarce from lack of production. The city survived only off what few resources were brought in from other locations.

  For few this brought out the good of humanity, as people were sometimes willing to help one another through the difficult time. Some served through means of religion and others helped through means of social obligation and compassion.

  Most people helped no one but themselves. For many, the situation brought out only the worst in humanity. It began small with pick-pocketing and looting of food supplies. Before long things escalated into serious crimes. Maybe having an organized mob now leading the city inspired some people, but before long several violent gangs rose up. People no longer stole or looted to survive, they did it to feel powerful.

  For the first time in a long time, Outcasts and Nobles found themselves on equal playing ground: survival. The result turned bloody. Many Outcasts, after years of oppression, saw what they believed to be their divine chance and they took it with force. The city was breaking in a war between species, and the innocents suffered the most.

  The new Noble Police Force of Chicago (NPFC)—staffed by Lady Alexandra Carline’s mob and corrupt former police officers—did what they could to ease things. But darkness only breeds more darkness and by nightfall, the innocents battened down their houses as fighting broke out in the streets. No one blamed Alexandra for the state of the city or the failure of her mob force to ensure peace. Things would be far worse without her. There wasn’t much that even Lady Alexandra Carline could do to stop the ruthlessness of raw humanity.

  Tonight showed to be the perfect example of that.

  The woman, a Noble with the markings of once being very attractive before going from three square meals a day to one or none, flew through the already smashed general store window. Thrown by the strong arms of another Noble man and his two cohorts, the woman hit the sidewalk in front of the store with a yelp, rolling onto her back and crab-walking away from her pursuers. Her clothes were torn and dirty. Her cheeks were sunken in from hunger and her skin showed fresh bruisings. A fresh gash on her forehead bled profusely and she cut her hands on shards of glass as she scrambled away from her attackers.

  “Please, please, I was only looking for food!” begged the woman.

  “If that was the case you should have gone to one of the Mayor’s shelters,” said one of the Nobles as he stepped through the same shattered window through which he had just thrown the woman. His two companions followed him. All three carried pistols and knives and one of them, the largest of the three, carried a wooden baseball bat. They carried serious weapons and wicked smiles.

  “Lucky for us she didn’t…eh?” said the larger one with the bat. He tapped it against his palm as he looked lustfully down upon the woman.

  “Please I really didn’t mean any harm. I was just so hungry. I didn’t think anyone would mind.”

  “Oh but that’s where you made your mistake,” said the Noble in the center of the pack, the leader. He squatted down before the woman, getting on eye level with her, and slowly drew his knife. She trembled. She choked back a scream as tears welled in her eyes. This only made the men smile with evil glee.

  “Please,” I heard the woman whisper.

  “Shhhh,” whispered the pack leader as he laid a hand on the woman’s leg. “I like my women silent.”

  I moved, preparing to leap out of hiding and bash in this man’s skull.

  At that moment the air roared with a concussive force. It was a shattering sound, cra
cking apart the woman’s plea for mercy and the laughter of her oppressors. It barked with lethality and suddenness, violently ripping into the silent darkness with a roar and flash of light. I slipped, caught off guard by the invasion of light and sound. Quick hands saved me from a plummet to the street below.

  My clumsiness went unnoticed as every eye turned down the street to where an man smoking a cigar and carrying a shotgun, lifted skyward with a trail of smoke coming out of the barrel, stood with a gang of other armed men. The leader of this new gang was a large man, probably the ugliest looking Noble I ever laid eyes on. He wore jeans and a cargo jacket over a dirty, tobacco-smeared shirt. His greasy gray hair hung down to his shoulders in a wild mane, and he wore a chain around his neck.

  “This be Sabol territory, boys. You best be leaving that little lady all alone. She’s our property. ”

  Great…these guys.

  The pre-EMP Sabols were a small group of individuals known for their bizarre conspiracy theories, peaceful protests, and annual awareness campaigns involving carwashes and city races. Their theories about the Empire seeking harm on its people found a good number of supporters from the Outcast population and even a few Nobles. Most found them a good source of running jokes.

  The post-EMP Sabols proved a far different crowd. After the blast, many doubted the Empire, knowing that the military presence stationed outside Chicago had no interest in keeping the peace within the city limits, and that they had actually kept people from escaping the crisis. Over time, the Sabols and their conspiracy theories didn’t seem so crazy.

  With the rise of supporters, from both Nobles and Outcasts, the Sabol ranks changed their actions from peaceful protests to aggressive violence. In the few months since the blast, the Sabols began seeing themselves as wild anarchists ready to push over those formerly in power. They began hunting down and killing lawyers and politicians and other high-powered individuals. Twice they came for Lady Alexandra. Twice, they failed. Both attempts ended miserably and bloody.

  I feared it wouldn’t be long before they came for me.

  “We’re Nobles! We’ll do what we please! And that starts with the girl unless you want to get a bullet in that fat gut!” shouted the leader of the small pack of Noble thugs as he drew his pistol.

  The large burly man snickered. “Then I guess it’s time we had some fun!”

  In a flash, guns were drawn. The large burly man lowered his shotgun, primed and ready to fire. The Noble with the bat charged forward. The three Sabols with the large burly men in the street, all three Outcasts, ran toward the Noble with the bat, with crowbars and knives in their hands. The Noble, with the knife and pistol squatting in front of the panicking woman, grabbed the woman by the hair and hoisted her up as he moved toward cover.

  The street erupted in gunfire and melee. The woman screamed as she was dragged away. The burly Sabol man laughed as he marched down the street repeatedly firing his shotgun, disregarding what innocent bystander might take a stray hit.

  I launched myself into the fray from my hiding spot, not caring to land quietly or unseen. I could have landed with a brass orchestra announcing my presence and I still would have gone by unnoticed in the chaos of the firefight.

  I lashed out with whip in one hand and rod in the other. My whip wrapped around the leg of one of the Outcasts marching down the street. One hard yank and the Outcast smacked onto the asphalt. He rolled, firing his pistol in an attempt to hit me as he screamed. I lunged forward, feeling a bullet graze my duster’s sleeve, and struck him across the face with my rod. He tried to push himself back up and I whipped the rod around and struck him across the back of the neck. He collapsed, unconscious.

  A shout drew my attention, and I saw the Noble with the bat rush toward me. He raised his bat to swing just as I lashed my whip. My whip wrapped tightly around the tip of his bat. I leapt and spun in the air, twisting the whip around me as I brought the rod around to strike at the Noble.

  My movement yanked his bat away and threw him off balance just as I crashed down with the rod against his collar bone. The whip flung around me to lash at his thigh. He cried out in pain and lunged. He drove his shoulders into my stomach and we fell backward into a brick wall.

  I gasped for air.. He pulled back only enough to begin driving his fists into my side, keeping in close to prevent me from using my rod and whip. I twisted my body, dropped the whip, and tried my best to deflect as many blows as I could with my elbows. It helped, but his punches kept coming with every ounce of his Noble strength. I tried to push him away before he broke my ribs. His hand grabbed my shirt collar, using it to keep him pressed in close as he drove his fist into my gut. I wheezed, keeled over from the pain, twisted my rod up between us and beneath his chin, and clicked the trigger on the rod.

  Suddenly the arm-length sized rod shot up to its full bo-staff length and drove upward into the man’s chin. His head shot toward the sky and his hand grasping my shirt collar weakened. I threw my weight against him, kicking off the wall, using his size to bend myself around him and push him face first into the wall. He turned, and I drove my elbow down into his already injured collarbone. He gasped in pain as I pressed the attack, kicking him behind the knee so that he dropped down before me. I grabbed the back of his head and drove his face into the brick wall. There was a sick cracking sound as his nose broke and he collapsed.

  I spun around to see one of the Sabols and a Noble shot and lying on the ground. The Noble with the woman was still up, using her as a hostage, and he had moved toward an alley. He stood beneath a fire escape staircase. The large Sabol with the shotgun, still smoking that cigar and chuckling, turned his shotgun toward the man and I saw in his eyes his willingness to shoot the hostage to kill the monster behind her.

  He raised his shotgun to fire just as I lifted my bo-staff and threw it like a javelin. The bo-staff struck him across the jaw and he lurched to the side as his shotgun fired off target. I sprinted across the street right at him. The large man turned his shotgun on me as I baseball-slid into his feet before he could shoot. The large man toppled forward onto his face and dropped his weapon. I leapt back up and snatched up his shotgun just as another Sabol, another Outcast, rushed at me to help his leader.

  I whipped the barrel of the shotgun around, clubbing the Outcast across the temple and he dropped. I spun, flipping the shotgun around in my hands, and discharged a shot at the fire escape above the Noble with the hostage. The shot rattled the whole staircase and suddenly the ladder above the Noble dropped and smacked right into his head. The man’s eyes rolled back and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

  The woman, still screaming, didn’t waste time. She took off running into the darkness. So much for a thank you. I turned around and aimed my shotgun down at the last Sabol, the large burly Noble, just as he flipped onto his back and drew a pistol.

  “Don’t,” I growled.

  His eyes sparkled and he spat out the cigar as he chuckled. I will never know how he lost a shotgun when he fell but still managed to keep his cigar in his mouth. “Well if it isn’t Shaman. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You’re on my list.”

  “It’s always nice to meet a fan. But I’m not above shooting a fan when they pull a gun on me.”

  He smiled and tossed his pistol away. “Can I stand?” He didn’t wait for my refusal as he rose to his feet. I immediately became aware of how much bigger he was than I. He looked more like a bear than a man. His size wasn’t like Chamberlain’s pure cut muscle. This man was shaped almost like an old wine barrel with impressive strength—not the attractive cut kind, but instead the pure mass kind. His smile grew as he watched me take in his size.

  I gasped.

  This man wasn’t an Imperial like the rest of us. He was a Giant—one of the people of the Northern Territories!

  “The name’s Rigs. The Sabols have judged you guilty of failing Chicago. You’re on our list,” said Rigs.

  “Is this a list of those for whom you intend to throw birthday part
ies? If so, I like chocolate cake,” I said.

  He laughed and slipped his hands into his pockets. They came out wearing brass knuckles. He flexed his fingers and said, “Not that sort of list. It’s going to be my pleasure to be your executioner.”

  “I don’t recall ever having a fair trial. Can I file a mistrial? Or is that too late?”

  He laughed and stepped forward.

  “Make a move and I’ll shoot you where you stand!” I shouted. It sounded more fearful than I intended.

  “You’re not going to shoot. And you know why? Because if you were going to do that you would have already. Besides, the gun’s empty now.”

  I fell for the oldest trick in the book as I looked down at the weapon in my hands. Rigs took that moment to step forward and swing one of his massive, brass knuckled fists at my face. I barely dodged the blow, and slid to his side to ram the barrel of the shotgun into his ribcage like a spear. He showed no pain as he spun and threw another fist and then another. I skipped back, bobbing and weaving from his blows. He raised his fist and brought it down swinging like a hammer. I raised the shotgun with both hands and caught his blow on the barrel.

  To my horror, the barrel bent under the force of his fists.

  Oh this isn’t good.

  I slid forward and rammed the side of the shotgun into his face. The blow stunned him but it wasn’t enough to stop him from swinging his left fist into my ribs. Every ounce of breath left me in burning pain as I staggered. My ribs screamed and my lungs deflated. Rigs moved toward me and swung again. My saving grace came from the lack of speed he possessed, and I managed to stumble backwards out of the way. But I tripped and fell onto my back.

  He dove upon me and jabbed forward at my face. I rolled and his fists crushed into the asphalt of the street. I swear it made a small crater in the street. Still choking from lack of air in my lungs, I drew my knife in one hand and clumsily swung both the knife and the shotgun. The shotgun’s stock struck Rigs behind his left ear as I drove the knife into his right bicep.