[machinekng]

OOC: Just to be clear, the events in the prolouge happen later in the story, hence the heading "en media res."

Chapter 1-A Day in the Life

Spoiler Alert!

The alarm clock’s bell began its demonic ringing, leveling its assault from the nightstand. The sleeper groaned, giving the alarm clock a careless slap that knocked to the floor, yet its relentless barrage persisted. After of a few seconds of the rattling, the sleeper groaned again, and Drake Alexander opened his eyes. Wiping away the sleep in his eyes, Drake sat up on his bed. He could not tell the time with his villianous alarm clock on the floor and barred from view, but it was still dark. Well, there was still a full day left before him. His mother was probably in the kitchen, cooking up breakfast for him and his dad. Bacon and eggs, hopefully. He’d have chores to do. The combine still needed fixing, and there were probably other jobs for the father and son to work on. Times were tough, and they needed everything they could muster. Drake sighed, but as he arose, he noticed that something wasn’t right. His grandmother made him his quilt, before she died, and he had always used it, but it wasn’t here. Sentimental, perhaps, but still…

The alarm clock’s rattle wound to a close, its hands forming a fiendish smile. Its foul work was complete.

“Oh.”

He remembered.

He went to war, died, and went to war again.

The realization brought up pangs of sorrow, of failure. Glimpses of his men dying before his eyes, cut down in swathes of bullets and burned in fire. Shadows of shrieking, screaming hordes, howling in madness and lust and hunger, swarming around him, biting him, clawing him, slicing him open in a passionate frenzy of hatred and death.

“No,” he panted. Beads of sweat had welled up on his brow. He wiped them away, breathing slowly and deeply. The past was done. Its phantoms could not touch him. He was at peace. Drake sighed, having regained his composure. Today was a new day.

Drake arose, setting the clock back on the nightstand so it could wreak its horrors another day. Heading over to the closet and dresser, he quickly got himself dressed. His outfit conformed to the current city fashion: a navy blue longcoat, khaki slacks, and, he thought with a smile, a tricorn hat. Many of the men he had served with in the old days astutely recognized the ridiculousness of the headwear, and thus abstained from it religiously. Most people, however, thought they were trendy.

Well, despite the men’s opinions, it was good to look like the everyman. It showed people that you were in touch with society, and if you were in a position of power, it helped them trust you. There were few things more reassuring than seeing someone you looked up to walking the streets like the average citizen. Clothes make the man, or so Twain said.

Drake smiled again, and grabbing his epaulets and badge, he sauntered out his bedroom , down the stairs and weaved through the halls to the front door. He opened it, stepping into the fresh Valgrind air. It was still dark, but a light peaked out from the horizon: the sun was beginning to rise.