The Titan_The Luke Titan Chronicles

by David Beers

  Edward wasn’t naive. He understood that taking on Windsor was a massive risk, but with that came the possibility for reward as well. He didn’t need Windsor forever. A year. Maybe two? He could produce enough papers in that time to ensure his name was known throughout the world, and then presiding over this hospital—over Titan—would be a thing relegated to his past.

  He had to keep it quiet for two years, and he decided that’s what he’d do.

  He started Windsor working with Titan the next week—insisting that his mother head back to wherever she came from. Edward didn’t want any part of her. Windsor put up no fight, and from what Edward could tell, neither did the woman. She left and Windsor got started.

  Edward watched. He watched when the two were together and he watched when they weren’t—studying Titan’s movements, his mannerisms. He found himself fascinated with the man, something that a killer named Martin Cianado would have identified well with.

  Of course Titan knew what was happening. Windsor told him that the first day. It seemed he wanted to be around Windsor as well; in fact, he appeared happy to participate.

  Edward would have been better served in the long run if he’d been a bit more curious about that. Or maybe he was, but he shoved it aside, refusing to look at it with any real scrutiny—just like the entirety of his bargain. Perhaps both Windsor and Edward had let their greed consume them, each wanting something very different, but both forgetting that consequences awaited all actions.

  When Edward went home, he didn’t concentrate on why Titan was so enthusiastic about working with Windsor, or really even why Windsor would want to be around such a man. Someone who had perpetrated so much evil. Instead, Edward read when he was at home, devouring any article or published paper that commented on the delusions of grandeur in psychopaths. He wanted to know everything that had ever been written on the subject, because his needed to be different. It didn’t have to be earth shattering, but he had to ensure it made waves. That people would sit up and take notice.

  “Does he give you those questions every morning?” Luke asked from his usual place at the table.

  “Yes,” Christian said.

  “Are the other patients receiving any treatment at all, Christian? Or have they been discarded like last year’s Christmas toys?”

  “I don’t know about other patients, Luke. I was hired to work with you,” Christian said.

  “Hired. That’s an interesting word. I suppose we all must make a living, though.”

  “Everyone but you.”

  “Yes,” Luke said. “The taxpayers are very kind to me. So, what are today’s questions from my benevolent overlord?”

  Christian looked down at them, though he didn’t need to. He had memorized them the moment they were handed to him in Canonine’s office. Every morning, the routine was the same. Christian showed up at 8:00, was given his questions based on yesterday’s session, and then he came down and worked with Luke for an hour or two. After that, Christian went to a little office and …

  Don’t think about that. You’ll be there soon enough.

  The apparitions were at bay, though Christian didn’t know if they still lived inside his mansion. He hadn’t gone to it, wouldn’t, for fear that the bit of sanity he felt right now might disappear like rain fallen on a desert.

  “Yesterday we were talking about—”

  “I know what we were talking about, Christian,” Luke said. “Does our overlord know how tedious his questions are? Why doesn’t he let you and I riff for a bit? He has Jimmy Hendrix and Eric Clapton playing for him every single day, and he wants to give us sheet music to follow.”

  “Does it make you angry?” Christian asked, leaning back in his chair.

  Luke smiled. “Have you ever seen me angry?”

  Christian smiled back. “Yesterday we were discussing your thoughts on escape. You didn’t want to speak too much about it, preferring to focus again on God. Dr. Canonine wants us to talk further about whether you think it’s possible to escape your confinement.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Luke didn’t look to the camera; he never did during their conversations. “He’s not wanting details, just whether or not I think it will happen. This paper he’s writing, I’m curious, Christian, what are your thoughts on it?”

  “I haven’t read his conclusions.”

  “I’m sure you have your own so far. The paper is clearly centered upon my preoccupation with myself and my purpose. With my ability to bend the world, to ensure what I want to happen will happen. Do you know what I find humorous? Before I mentioned my purpose, no one ever doubted me, but now I have a psychosis that needs studying.”

  Christian flipped the paper gently in the air, the sound filling the silence between the two. “So, you think that you’ll be able to escape?”

  “You know I must really care for you, Christian, to put up with this. Yes, I believe escape isn’t simply possible, but unavoidable.”

  “Why?”

  “Should I give the doctor something the journals will like, or should I tell the truth?”

  Christian smiled again. “Let’s stick with the truth.”

  Luke leaned back as far as he could in his chair, the chains pulling against the table’s restraints. “I am not meant for this place. It is simply a building that exists so you and I may palaver under certain, necessary conditions.”

  “What conditions?”

  “A place where you don’t have to worry about your cancerous psychosis. A place where you can feel safe that those you care for won’t die. All of this gives you the opportunity to actually talk with me, instead of constantly worrying about what I might do,” Luke said. “Though, I don’t know how the doctor can use that in his paper, especially if people aren’t supposed to know you’re here with me.”

  “We will let Dr. Canonine worry about those details. Let’s go to the next bullet point on our script, shall we? How would you do it? Have you considered it?”

  “You know I have,” Luke said.

  “Then tell me.”

  “I’m growing tired of this.”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Luke leaning against the chair. This was the first time he’d seen Luke truly frustrated. He had watched Luke’s behavior in nearly every situation imaginable, and yet his calm demeanor had always risen above whatever calamities bombarded him.

  Over the years, he’d seen coldness in Luke’s eyes, reptilian uncaring. Now, though, Christian saw something he hadn’t before. He was witnessing heat. Fire. Molten lava. And Luke wasn’t trying to hide it, wasn’t smiling or displaying his normal charm.

  “Tell Canonine that if he wants to ask me these silly questions, then he can come himself. Tell him not to send you anymore, because I won’t speak with you regarding such mundane topics.”

  “Luke, that’s not the deal, and you know it,” Christian said. His own disinterested demeanor was gone too, whatever was inside of Luke was striking alight something inside him as well. He hadn’t felt it in many months—perhaps as long as a year.

  A flare was going up inside Christian. Sure, he saw fire in Luke’s eyes, but some part of Christian was saying it was much, much worse than that—a part of something larger. Something considerably more dangerous.

  “You can tell Dr. Canonine that I am done with his deal. He can come speak to me personally about these little matters. Please tell the orderlies that we’re finished. They can unchain me.”

  Christian looked on for a moment longer, considering his options. He knew Luke would speak no more, not about the questions on this sheet. Christian didn’t care about them or about what Canonine wanted him to do, either. He wanted to get out of here; he needed to consider the flare, and what the volcano he saw in front of him meant.

  Christian stood and went to the door, motioning at the orderlies to let him out.

  Edward met Windsor in the hallway, before he could shut himself away in his office.

  “That is not part of our agreement.”

&nb
sp; Windsor didn’t slow, but instead walked right by him. Edward turned, his mouth slightly open, having not expected him to just keep going.

  “Windsor!” The man didn’t stop and Edward jogged to catch up so that they were walking side by side. “Hey, quit. Talk to me.”

  “Not right now,” Windsor said.

  “He can’t just stop talking. I’m not going in there with him to ask these questions.” Edward was breathing harder now, the pace Windsor set faster than he was used to walking while speaking. “You’re right. Anyone that goes down there will lose their mind. You have to ask him.”

  Windsor stopped then, not ten feet from his office. He turned and looked at the psychiatrist. “Dr. Canonine, I need some time to myself, and I need it right now. I promise, I will talk to you when I’m finished.”

  Edward stared at him, not exactly sure of what to say.

  Windsor didn’t wait, though, turning around and continuing to his office. Edward stared as the door shut.

  He’d witnessed the whole conversation take place between this genius and the psychopath. He hadn’t been in the room, of course, but he’d seen how quickly Windsor simply walked out. It wasn’t so much what Titan said, but what had happened after he said it.

  And now Windsor was locking himself in his office, refusing to talk about it.

  Edward leaned against the wall, putting his head against the concrete. “What have I done?”

  If Dr. Canonine was stressed, then Christian was nearing a meltdown. He closed the door to his office, took in a big breath of air, then stumbled to the chair that sat behind his small desk. He collapsed into it and forced himself to take in another deep breath, letting it out slowly.

  “You’re okay,” he said. “You’re okay.”

  His mouth felt like he’d shoved sand inside it. He looked around his desk for something to drink, but saw nothing. He couldn’t go back outside; he wouldn’t risk speaking to Canonine right now. He couldn’t talk at all, to even turn around in the hallway had been nearly impossible.

  Why? he wondered. What just happened?

  The flare. Even now, his mind a shabby, broken organ, still understood things that his consciousness couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

  And what’s happened when you refused to recognize it previously, Christian? What always happens when it tries to tell you something, but you just go on as if it hadn’t?

  He didn’t close his eyes, didn’t need to; the image of Tommy sprawled on that couch with a red gash opening him from ear to ear came forward all by itself.

  That’s what happens.

  “Breathe,” he said. “Just breathe.”

  He leaned back in his chair and tried to slowly inhale, desperately wanting to calm down.

  The flare. That’s what had him this frightened, because every single time his mind told him something was amiss, absolutely horrific things followed.

  You’ve got to go to your mansion. You don’t have a choice. Not if you want to stop whatever is about to happen.

  Christian’s hands shook on his lap. He looked at the office door, hoping that Canonine would barge in. Hoping that anything might stop him from going inside. He hadn’t been there in months, and had hoped he would never have to again.

  “You can’t always get what ya want ….”

  Christian looked up and saw the mouth floating directly over him, its huge teeth staring down like nightmarish prison bars.

  Christian closed his eyes and entered his mansion.

  Chapter 17

  Luke lay on his back staring up at the ceiling.

  Did Christian understand the message? Luke didn’t care if Canonine understood anything said between the two of them. All that mattered was Christian’s understanding.

  Luke had tolerated Canonine’s little game of questions and answers for as long as he possibly could. Never before had he been subjected to such idiocy, to such mindlessness. He had watched ants scurry around his whole life, to and fro from jobs they hated, always holding a civilized disdain of it. Not of them, those ants, but of the things that they did each day. He understood why they did it. Most of them didn’t have either the desire or talent to achieve much more. They went through their days like ants, because outside of a few genetic differences, they were very similar to insects.

  Luke, though, throughout his decades on this planet, had never been subjected to one of those ants. He’d always possessed the freedom to avoid them, or change careers as necessary. He’d possessed the freedom to kill if he really needed to.

  Luke had been dealing with this ant for months now, but the truth that escaped everyone around him was that he was only here because of his choice. He was still choosing to remain, and that was for Christian’s sake. Luke’s patience had snapped today. He could no longer subject his life to the whims of the ant in charge. His life was too valuable. His time too valuable.

  Luke had hoped to work with Christian for a while longer from here. He’d hoped that other necessities wouldn’t come into play. He realized that no work, none of any value, would occur in this place though. An ant’s work is all that could be hoped for in this building, the toiling in the soil, the carrying of loads back and forth across a hill. Luke was not made for such things, and he couldn’t subject himself to it any longer.

  Christian either would, or would not, understand this.

  Either way, Luke was leaving.

  Tremors rolled through the mansion at regular intervals. Christian stood in the midst of one, his legs in a wide stance, and his arms out in front of him, trying to ensure his balance.

  The room above shook and he looked up, hoping not to see a huge boulder falling from the ceiling, intent on smashing him in his own mind. He saw only blackness, which while frightening, was better than the alternative.

  The tremor slowed and then stopped after 30 seconds or so. Christian didn’t move from his stance, wanting to make sure there were no aftershocks. Finally, he straightened and looked around the mansion’s foyer. To categorize the destruction was simply an exercise in depression, like an alcoholic sobering up each morning and thinking about the choices that led him to sitting under a bridge. It was easier just to keep going, so that’s what Christian did.

  He climbed the stairs in front of him, the left side that wound upwards, as the right had already collapsed. He walked slowly and remaining close against the wall. He hoped a tremor wouldn’t start again, unsure if the stone steps could take his added weight. He kept climbing, and eventually arrived at Luke’s floor.

  The place was still barren, nothing but stone and dead screens lining the walls.

  The television that once sat at the other end was no more—neither were the chairs that had been in front of it.

  “Movers already came,” Christian said. A loud laugh escaped him, echoing off the walls, sounding like a shrill ghost lived in the room.

  It does, he thought. It’s you.

  “Focus,” he whispered and no laughter came after. He was here because his mind had been trying to tell him something; it held information and wanted him to see it. He just needed to know how to find it.

  Christian walked past the fallen statues of his former friends. Their stone structures had been ground even closer to dust, much of them completely unrecognizable. He went to the middle of the room and stood, the stillness encircling him like a silent hurricane. He felt that it might rip him apart, that the entire mansion could be conspiring to kill him—yet, he stood, staring out at the empty floor.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  No apparitions appeared. He was alone.

  He turned, looking to the front, to the staircase. The balustrades that had once wrapped around the balcony were gone, having collapsed with some past tremor, falling hundreds of feet to the floor beneath.

  Christian heard footsteps. They were coming up the stairs. He didn’t need to turn to see who it was; he knew that easily enough. This was Luke’s floor, after all.

  He watched as his ex-partner took the last step, coming i
nto full view.

  The room around Christian began to morph. The walls turned from their stone gray to the hospital’s painted white. The empty, open area where he stood began to close off, rooms forming.

  Luke stood in one of them—in his room.

  Christian walked down the newly created hallway, the floor he’d been on no longer existing. He was inside the hospital again, and heading to Luke’s cell.

  Christian looked to his right as two orderlies passed by him. They were in a hurry; Christian knew them, but didn’t know why they were moving so fast. The hospital orderlies always moved as if nothing would ever change, regardless of what time they made it to their destination.

  Yet, these two were hustling.

  Christian ran behind them, keeping up, but unable to see around them, to see what they were running to.

  Finally, they made it to Luke’s room, one of them flashing their badge at the card reader. They entered and Christian followed.

  And then he saw.

  Luke had walked up the mansion’s steps, but now he lay in his bed. His arms and legs were as straight as iron bars, his knuckles and toes curled so tightly Christian thought they might completely snap off.

  Foam oozed from the sides of his mouth though his teeth were clamped shut. His eyes were open and rolling back in his head.

  No, Christian thought. He’s faking.

  Christian took a step back, breaking the trance the scene held over him.

  Luke still jerked around on the bed, appearing to be in the throes of a seizure, but now Christian saw the orderlies. They were moving to either side, of Luke, hoping to restrain him so that he wouldn’t fall from the bed.

  They both reached down at the same time.

  Luke’s right leg flipped up, losing its rigidness and becoming as fluid as water. He kicked the first orderly in the temple, hard, causing him to fall to the floor as if made of sand. Christian watched the second orderly look over, momentarily confused, but he was out of time. Luke had already sat up, his fingers reaching forward and mangling the man’s eyes. Blood popped from his sockets and drained down his face. The orderly fell to the ground, his own hands gripping his head, trying to stop the unimaginable pain.