Angelos Odyssey Read online

  ANGELOS ODYSSEY

  VOLUME ONE

  BY

  J. B. M. PATRICK

  SHINGEN BLUE PUBLISHING

  INDIANA

  Copyright © 2017 by Joshua Brian McCabe Patrick

  Cover Art © 2017 by Shingen Blue Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Edited in part by Michelle Marie Robles Wallace

  Published in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Shingen Blue Publishing

  Indiana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-692-93943-7

  ISBN 978-0-692-94334-2 (ebook)

  To

  K. & D.

  PAUL

  JASON

  REGINALD

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  Pharaoh's Dance

  First Light

  Body and Soul

  What Happened To The Sunshine

  Goodbye Isaac

  Never Catch Me

  Distant Land

  Inside Out

  The Chains of Hell

  All Night Long

  River Niger

  Mercy Mercy Me

  Inner City Blues

  Cause I Love You

  You're Lying

  PART TWO

  Safe + Sound

  Mystery

  You're Gonna Need Me

  Put Our Heads Together

  Everyday Struggle

  Footsteps in the Dark

  Surviving The Times

  Move On Up

  A Lonely Man

  Simply Falling

  Pain

  The Sky is Crying

  Street Struck

  Shook Ones

  Running Away

  Hope, Skip, and Jump

  6 Feet Deep

  Blue in Green

  Midnight And You

  My Philosophy

  Gimme The Loot

  Mysteries of the World

  Change This Game Around

  Tell Me What You Want Me To Do

  Please Stay

  You Won't Fail

  Pac Blood

  It's Your World

  Purple

  Flowers

  Lovely Day

  Mystic Bounce

  Two Can Win

  Montara

  Home Is Where The Hatred Is

  Water No Get Enemy

  Untitled

  Outro

  “There is scarcely any passion without struggle.”

  -Albert Camus

  -

  PART ONE

  The Assassin

  -

  My name is Janelle.

  I am Death, and I will tell of one who rebelled against it.

  1

  Pharaoh's Dance

  -

  Tavon

  -

  MY HUMANITY’S GONE, BUT SOON I’LL BE UP FOR PROMOTION.

  Whatever compassion I had left faded some time ago into a hollow place, but the exact moment’s unclear when I finally conceded to the change. I’ve become indifferent to a turbulent world; a world which, in my eyes, favors the strongest.

  I’m known as Tavon, and I’m completely unable to remember anything about the first twelve years of my life. There's no evidence of my existence. No past, no relatives. It's the reality that I'll never know who I belonged to or where I belonged that has set me free. I’m an assassin conscripted by the Angelos Association in my home country, the Citadel, and I’m prepared to eliminate Target Number Nine. My identity belongs solely to my ambition, my profession.

  I’ll become the best.

  -

  I stride purposefully through only a small portion of a much greater city, a district blanketed with waste and discarded vehicles. The sky unleashes an aggravatingly long assault of rain on the withered, grey suit I’d saved for a more discrete occasion. As drops fall across my wandering figure in rapid succession, it appears as though they're burning away in a thick steam—at least I'd like to think so. These missions suit me. The adrenaline, the power to which I'm host. I'm unbeatable, after all.

  I have to believe that.

  A gang member was enjoying his last day on Earth; I was waiting to make that known to him.

  I cross abandoned streets drenched to such an extent that they glimmered on an unusually bright night caught in an increasingly raging storm. Moving stealthily and avoiding the open, I veer into an alleyway where I'm engulfed by two imposing, narrow walls belonging to a series of condemned apartments. This path isn't one meant to be taken. It’s a trail belonging to what’s hiding in the darkness. The weather appears to dissipate overhead but only due a plethora of old makeshift roofs and tarps as I journey deeper into my surroundings.

  Encircling is the image of homes—corroded shelters abandoned long ago to decay; ruin is all that stands out from this threatening, private world. On the corner of a turn, I nearly fall when coming close to stepping on a figure who appears to be sleeping and ignores my presence. I continue down another alley replete with numerous scratched or broken windows—the majority of which are positioned at the height of my shoulders.

  I remain alert as silhouettes quietly stalk me from a number of these dwellings, some commonly-used drug dens whereas others are merely convenient safehouses. They exist as temporary lodgings for those on the run or those whose own poverty dictated that they wander from place to place. The alleyway ends in an opening that eventually forms a steep decline that levels out before ending in the entrance of an old hotel.

  I let myself get followed here. The guilty always know when they’re being watched.

  Reaching the end of the alley and turning sharply to the right, I angle my way to the adjacent wall and reach inside my blazer for a handgun; it saves me a lot of the effort. I quickly load a full, extended magazine and proceed to attach a suppressor while keeping my eyes fixed on the passage behind me. It remains clear for the time being—silent, but they're coming, and I've got more in store for them just in case.

  My Target's associates all dress as if they were genuine businessmen; infiltration could go a little smoother with the right touch. Then again, I'm wearing the suit for a reas—!

  I crouch and evade a long, iron bar flying overhead before it loudly collides against the wall above my skull…

  I’m someone who forsakes all values in order to cater to the highest bidder. A mercenary. I grew up a nameless boy with nothing and, in the end, became something of a myth to the people of the Citadel—a legend passed down through time like a folk tale depicting something foul.

  I'm the last face they often see when they get caught up in a dangerous game. I maintain only a fragment of something like a normal existence. What memories I do have coming up in the city are all reminders of why I keep going: I'll become stronger.

  I'll become that way for myself…

  As I expected, the attacker is a man dressed in a suit similar to mine except he's got a badge and rank that I clearly don't possess. He's trained, and his reflexes are sharp enough that he quickly recovers and swings at me using the back of his fist. At the same time, I notice his other hand subtly raising his weapon again to strike. I almost fall for his feint, and I narro
wly manage to escape to the side as he lunges forward with an overhead swing in an attempt to finish me off.

  I take advantage of this window.

  I anchor my body on the earth and pivot to deliver a kick to my opponent's side. He screeches as he recoils backward while clutching his ribs.

  “F-fucking punk,” he manages to wheeze. He abruptly strengthens his resolve and charges at me again.

  The attacker prepares to swing as he sprints; he scowls, tensing his body for the attack as he moves.

  I keep myself composed and shoot him in the chest. Simple. Efficient.

  He attempts to utter some other obscenity as he tumbles weakly to the earth, and a loud clang resounds as the pipe clatters to the ground. That gunshot reveals my presence to everyone, but—like an idiot—I decide to waste time checking to see if the ammo really dissolved the way I was told it would.

  The front of the attacker's body has been blown open with no trace left of the round I’d fired, but his rank and badge remained untouched and affixed to his sleeve. I reach down to take them for myself but reel back as a newcomer with a darker suit and greased hair thrusts a wide, serrated blade toward my throat.

  The weapon slices a shallow, bloody cut near to my jugular before ripping through the shoulder of the suit. Feeling restricted, I quickly back away and throw off the blazer while rolling up the sleeves to a white shirt stained with crimson and relax into stance.

  I tuck my gun into my belt behind me and ready my fists with a smirk.

  “Okay,” I announce. “If this is what you want, let’s go.”

  He rushes me instantly, spitting, “Too easy, fuckhead!”

  My new opponent shields his neck with one hand and, in a very controlled manner, he steps in and thrusts the blade at my abdomen. I move to grab his arm, but he redirects his knife upward to slash open the side of my bicep. He then re-positions the blade before thrusting it downward toward my thigh.

  Simultaneously, and before the strike can land, I launch a jab into his exposed head.

  —I 'm almost shocked as he dramatically recoils and speaks incoherently for a moment. Within a few seconds, his consciousness returns, and he exclaims with rage: “Just a lucky hit!” He shudders before collecting himself. “T-there's no way anyone can be that strong… I must be gettin’ rusty.”

  They're all members of an organization that considers itself above a gang. They're not just low-level thugs; these guys in suits are trained to withstand blows. In a way, they're just a different breed of mercenary.

  The attacker decides to drop his knife and removes his own blazer, truly believing that he can handle me on his own.

  I admire his sense of honor.

  He cautiously guards in his own defensive stance, circling me and searching for the best opening. An arrogant smile creeps across his face; he throws a few weak jabs in my direction just for good measure. He then uppercuts from the right side while following by repeatedly jabbing toward my head. I deflect or block most of his strikes, which causes him to become even more enraged as he speeds up his attacks.

  Finally, he stops showing off and distracts me with a blow to the side before closing in with a decisive haymaker. In response, I move my arm inside of his and push my opponent backward before crashing my fist into his skull hard enough to drop the fighter on the spot.

  From behind, another enemy swings a bat toward the back of my head.

  I quickly rotate to catch the wooden bat with my hand, pull the opponent forward, and smash his cheekbone with a punch possessing enough impact to slam his body into the ground subsequent to the hit.

  I feel something suddenly grasp for and attempt to remove the weapon tucked into my waist!

  I lean forward and grab the bat before pirouetting and strike the final enemy across his head before he can pull the trigger. Blood sprays from multiple orifices accompanied by the crunching noise of facial bones collapsing inward.

  The truth is that I’m not like other humans. What I can do shouldn't be possible, but the world we live in has never made sense… It's the year 3200. To some it's 880 P.R. (Post Rift), meaning after a terrible catastrophe that resulted in a distortion of whatever reality used to be.

  Most humans don't have the strength to do what I can do—not to mention a few other features that have gotten me through some tight spots in the past.

  To my irritation, there's yet another suited gangster who arrives on the scene. This one has a crowd with him in the previous passageway, and he hasn't even noticed my presence. He’s carrying an assault rifle and gesturing demandingly at a large group belonging to shackled individuals of all ages who appear oddly stiff, as if they can't move naturally on their own. The armed gangster glares at one of the more elderly members of the imprisoned group while retrieving what appears to be a cell phone. Most of them still haven't ventured far enough to notice the mess I've made and remain frozen in terror at the associate guiding them.

  “Ya’ll might as well forget whatever you were told about Genod & Portis! We don't keep interpreters here, so you can speak that foreigner shit somewhere el—”

  "Az’ al-vadan. Kaduez!" Whatever is being said resounds across the group in unison. One of the captives steps out and acts as the spokesperson for the group: "Please don't hurt us! Whatever we’ve done wrong… w-we're sorry. We were told—”

  The gangster chuckles. “I see you still don't understand.” His sides shake with laughter before he exclaims to his colleague: “You shove a barrel in their faces, put them in chains, and they still think they’re entitled to rights!”

  “What morons…” His partner replies.

  The armed gang member focuses intensely on a small, cellular phone before looking back up at the foreign speaker in anticipation:

  And before all of them, the one who'd tried to reason with their kidnappers is forced to watch as his own body betrays him.

  He balls both fists tightly; his arms remained flexed and trembling as blood coalesces and drips from the pressure built up inside his palms. The shackled man brings the irons around his wrists together before striking himself in the forehead with as much force as he can muster!

  “Ansi!” One of the victims exclaims in despair.

  The gangster laughs once more before inputting something else on the mobile device. Ansi reacts to his next command by attempting to break the chain linking his cuffs as he brutally forces his wrists apart from each other. The suffering is becoming too much for him to bare as he falls to his knees and begins screaming in a language I don't understand.

  The other slaver, donning a tan vest overlaying a white button up, approaches from behind the group. The only real difference between him and his partner is a pair of spectacles which make him appear slightly more intelligent than the other goons. He grins wickedly before beginning, “It's the wave of the future, eh? Human implants controlled by new tech…” He sighs, “It's no good to have merchandise that won't obey, don't you think—wait… what the—?”

  They notice as I approach…

  The man with the assault rifle transitions from a demeanor of shock to pure aggression while he prepares to take a calm, focused shot—but I quickly respond by firing a round that burrows its way through the center of his forehead.

  Painless, but he deserved much worse.

  Ansi freezes in position. Convulsing, he succumbs to an agony I can't imagine. Ignoring anyone else, I grab the device controlling Ansi and inspect it for a moment. The deceased slaver’s colleague is terrified and remains in place.

  Every time one of the victims murmurs quietly to each other, a sound resonates that seems close despite manifesting itself initially as an echo. The member I’ve just gunned down has an earpiece sounding as if it's synchronized with only the voices of the ones being trafficked by the syndicate.

  The other gangster is still quivering in fear. A newbie, maybe?

  All of them are looking at me with dreadful expectations. They watched me kill, and so I've become a new, more dangerous type of th
reat.

  Also, this idiot is unarmed.

  Regardless, he decides to speak up in a shaken tone of voice:

  “The fuck's up, man?!” He shouts, “You got something against the big bosses or something? You sure this isn't something we can negotiate, b-because there'd be a lotta money involved, I can guarantee that.” He’s nervous and twitches slightly as he speaks.

  I glance at him before gesturing to the device controlling the victims, “Tell me what this is.”

  Sometimes guns are better at gathering confessions, so I keep the barrel aimed at his face for good measure.

  He turns pale and manages to utter: “T-there's more to this than what it seems, man. If you knew the truth—”

  “How about this.” I’m losing patience. “I'm going to kill you if you don't tell me what I want to know. Do you understand?”

  Oddly enough, saying this seems to work; he calms down and comes close to appearing sincere. He stares at the ground as he speaks: “They weren't… Nevermind—that's a cell phone the ones upstairs had made specially for the cattle. You know, most people these days go with hands-free kinda gear, but this shit feels just as advanced, man!”

  “And?” I've become solemn, existing only as a foreboding hollowness waiting to consume him.

  “That phone…” He starts, “shows all of their info—b-because it's connected to something that got installed in them, I think! I swear, it's like an implant that reacts to that fuckin' phone!”

  A bright screen flickers and emanates from the device before displaying what, at first glance, appears to be a complex menu pertaining to Ansi specifically. I notice a digital outline of the man's form and a highlighted interface labeled: Actions. After moving on to that section, I'm taken to a notification screen asking if I desire to “exit singular manual control.” I respond “Yes” and watch with some relief as Ansi regains control of his body and nearly falls to the ground only to be helped to his feet by collective members of his group.