Eudaemon III: Rebirth / Prologue
#1 of Eudaemon III: Rebirth
Eudaemon III: Rebirth
Zerrex R. Narrius
Prologue: Pax Romana
The city is still his city; despite everything that has happened, despite his slow recede from the background of the power structure of Baskin's Grove and into the shadowy pits and mists of the deepest, strangest nights, no one would question who the city still belongs to. It has been many years now since he's moved here, quite a few since he broke the apple-loving self-serving rich-people gods of the 'better half' of the city, and several since he defeated the male who had helped him bury his mother but silently served his father with a bowed head. Years since the lord of the city had laid to rest one of the only truly honorable people he'd ever met, and put him to sleep on the sun-parched cliffs by his own hands, shedding silent tears for a member of a clan he'd never thought he'd cry for: the Narrius bloodline.
Finally, the old ties of hate are beginning to be forgot, the old division of Comfort Town and Apple Villa, and Baskin's Grove is rolling towards an era that promises the peace of a smaller town with a bit of class. And the crime rate is the lowest in all the state, perhaps all the country: no one has forgotten that they are all under the watchful eyes of the master and his mistress.
Life and death go on, and people taste the promise of glory on every wind that comes from even the stalest and most stagnant of buildings, they see birth in the eyes of a corpse and the arrangement of gravestones looks to them only like the cradles of life in a maternity ward. Although there is fallout and inflation, taxes and illness, the town is for once on an upslope: no gangs, no crime, no violence, but so much virtue and gratitude. The legend of the dark king who guides the flock and kills those who trespass against his laws keeps them safe from outsiders - and insiders - who would otherwise do them harm, and the police in the district are more than happy to give the male who runs the town free reign to continue his acts of retribution. He has brought the laws of an honorable world back into a place that had otherwise relied on the laws of 'civilized society;' and although so many will cry and whine that it is unjust to the wicked and unfair to those who can't control themselves, no one whispers a complaint when the criminal is punished not by a fine and a stern lecture, but a dark figure picking him up and throwing him into the nearest brick wall. Looking for people to do the right thing, trying to teach is something better left to those who understand the workings of the mind... the master of the town only understands the workings of the body and that fear and dominance are better motivators than polite words or removal of privileges any day.
He is a figure that is all four horseman combined and carries the scythe of Death in one hand, the hourglass of Father Time in the other, which continues to slowly and inexorably count the passage of moments in grains of sand minute after minute. And he has always watched carefully the passage of time in his town, watched developments and made sure to put a halt to any regressions that would threaten to stop up the glass... just as he also slows down any breakthroughs that could cause the sand to flow too freely and shatter out the fragile bottom. He knows that this town, which has been through so much, cannot be allowed to once more twist itself into a war zone, into a place where the poor are treated like slaves and the rich ride their high horses on the backs of the impoverished. But he is no longer the boogeyman only to serve his own purpose, his own righteous ideals, his own laws and dreams... he is a monster who is under the bed and in the closet of every child, but he doesn't seek to gobble them up. Rather, he waits for the kidnapper, the pedophile, the cowardly maggot who slips in through the window at night to take that child away from their happy existence forever and then he reaches out with one hand, seizes them, and leaves no mess for the parents to clean up in the morning... tucking the child in as he leaves with the corpse of those who would dare hurt them.
He is a monster. He is a demon from Hell, and his compassion and cruelty never mix. The polite words he uses should never be mistaken for weakness, and his love and care for the young of the world is not out of mercy but because he is a father, among everything else. And he knows that although some people are born monsters, it is also the abused that become the abusers... the slaves slave-masters... the hated, hateful. He is a perfect study of that himself, with the complex double-nature shown by his words and compassion, and his dark actions and violence.
The Boss is not a force to be underestimated, and he is not a monster that can be tamed: his smile can hide a thousand visions of death, and his eyes are mirrors that will eat up and reflect the terror in one's own as he savagely rapes them, dominates them, and often eventually kills. There is a darkness in him that is always hungry, chained up but with the keys in the lock, ready to be released... just as there is a species of light that is always ready to defend the innocent.
But no one questions this one simple rule, this one simple fact: the town, is his town. And nothing will ever change that.