Vengeful Redemption

Chapter 1

“Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness,”

Vladimir Nabokov

LUKE

I’m out. Wish I could say I’m relieved. Ecstatic. Even just happy. I’m not. I’m numb.

I look up, thankful it’s dark so I can see. I know my eyes glow like an animal in the night. If the glove fits, I think to myself with an amused chuckle.

The air is humid and chilled. I can smell the fragrant trees whose leaves begin to die a slow death in the ever changing weather. It’s so deceiving, the beauty surrounding the sess pool that lurks behind me.

As my stride quickens, my mind shifts to a place of business. It's a train of thought I didn’t think I'd visit again. Two objectives are on my mind,

One: find the motherfucker who framed me.

Two: find the magic son of a bitch who got me out and more importantly why.

I absent-mindedly reach for my cell in my dress coat pocket, when I remember They’ve destroyed it. Fuck them and their weak attempt at torture. The only thing that will be lasting is the darkness. No one gets out of mortalcine. Very few in the world know of its existence. Either the very high up with dirty ties or very deep down. Can you guess which side I reside in.

Yeah, I’ve done some dirty shit and my money’s dirty, but before here. I never took a life personally, anyway. Came close, but I was carefulnever tor cross that line. Not anymore, I’m not the same man. My principles are non-existent. My needs are singular, survival. At least until I met retribution. No one crosses Lucas Val Trien and lives to hear about it. “Fool me once”

It’s been three years, but my contingencies are in place. They’re paid handsomely and blood debts were called upon. I’ll have that name and I’ll have my retribution. I smile for the first time in three goddamn years. I know my time in mortalcine has made me unhinged. My expression turns deranged as I walk toward the city. The numbness cracks, fury, and determination fill the small spaces until it consumes me, becomes me. I am vengeance.

Every day without light, food. every beating I’ve taken, every scar I’ve earned, every life they forced me to end will be felt. Whom ever did this to me will regret it to the morrow of his bones? I’ll make sure of it.

When I reach the towers, it's three a.m., the bellhop nearly has a heart attack when he recognizes me. His eyes study the scar that runs from just below my right eye to the cleft of my lip.

I flashback two years ago, remembering the feel of the saw chewing into my flesh and grin at the memory. It's a sick twist of my lips that makes him grimace before he quickly gathers his composure.

“Good to have you back, sir. Please let me.”

He slides the employee key card through the slot with a shaky hand. Amusement is what I should feel that’s the old Luke. Numb is what I am. Passing through, I ignore the stares and shocked gasps.
When I reach the forty-third floor, the doors open, and my penthouse comes into view. Funny this is what I used to call home. So lavish. Unnecessary.  I take no comfort, exhaustion overcomes me. Once settled, I order up a multitude of protein rich meals desperate to get back the muscle I lost.

There're no gyms In mortalcine. Food is scarce, and sleep is a risk, for some impossible. Being here is surreal. I push back into the recesses of my mind as I compose my thoughts and turn the taps to the shower.Stepping in the water hurts my skin, it’s such an oddity. Renewed anger flows through my veins at what my life had become, I crave instant vengeance but I know it is best served cold.

Keeping my anger down to a simmer will be a task on its own. I’m stepping out when I hear the knock. I don’t have to guess; I know who it is. My closest associate and right-hand man. I wrap the towel around me and allow a small grin to twist my lip. Information will pour from him. His reach goes far beyond the average informant. It’s deep and universal. It’s not old money that fuels his reach, its ancient ties.

What most in power fail to distinguish is changes in power and who keeps it. Like a pyramid, the leads change. You can take the top off, second layer, the third. hell last from the bottom, but you can never take the base. Without the base, the pyramid ceases to exist. Oliver is on the base, and he’s loyal to me only. I know where to look and who to lean on. He’s it.

I got lazy, someone got to me, but that someone didn’t do his homework and they’re going to pay. With blood. When I open the door, Oliver hands me a replacement phone. He doesn’t waste time and gets to the point. I pour a bourbon for me; he doesn’t drink. Ever. My focus is light when I notice his crisp, clean suit. As he debriefs me, he pauses, inclining his head. I’m token back as he gestures for me to pour him one. We both pause, I pour the amber liquid in a shallow tumbler; he shoots it back in one shot.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

This is by far the most personal we’ve ever been. I try to feel an emotion of any kind, I can’t. so I incline my head in understanding.

He resumes the conversation seamlessly. Oliver glazes over the layers upon layers of cover-ups and dead ends. Revealing the root was a complex and heady job. My mystery foe has been buried deep by old money and fear until Oliver whispers a name. My revenge is palpable. I waiver surprised for the first time in my life, a woman.

This, I didn’t expect. She single-handedly identified me the day of my arrest. I hear him assure me he will find out who got me out and that regretfully he’s sorry he had nothing to do with my release. I’m too busy going over the profile in front of me. I notice there’s no photo and inquire about it. Oliver seems stumped

“not a single one has surfaced. Bitcon Emoji for her column. This information has just come into my hands hours ago.”

I go over the paper again.

Avery Cecile Conway

Twenty six

One hundred and eighty-five pounds

Five foot five

Brown hair,

Blue eyes

Arrested July 2014 for disturbing the peace and assault during a protest against animal cruelty. Charges dismissed

Arrested December twenty-second of 2016 for break and enter on a Carlos pendent (hmmm... I know that name. He’s a buyer of import guns, big ones, the illegal kind. He’d be getting them elsewhere naturally if they were legal.

Apparently, she was investigating a murder cover-up as a journalist for the New York Regal.

Charges dismissed

Employed by New York, regal as an advice columnist.

Lives at 5486 Lionel Way in a small apartment complex. (Mediocre neighborhood for someone with money)

Lastly, three strong prescriptions, two for anxiety, one for insomnia, prescribed two years and 11 months ago.

Bingo!

that’s my girl.