Prologue: Part II

Scotch here in IHQ. The second half of the prologue follows this communique. It's also worth noting that one of our contacts will be introducing I-Crew to Boise, ID. Follow @hyattch on twitter to track the recruiting process.

Before I sign off, I would also like to say thank you for reading, and thank you for keeping an open mind. If the Cryions had their way, we'd all be listening to Miley Cyrus and acting like The Situation. Also, Chapter One begins at IHQ's next update, until then, enjoy the last half of the prologue! Scotch, out.

END TRANSMISSION
Encrypted transmission follows

Dawes Residence
Akron, Ohio
June 6, 2003
19:45 EST


“Owen, hurry up! You’re going to be late!” Martine Dawes yelled up the stairs. “Your father and I want to get a picture of you before you go!”

“Martine, ease up on the boy. He’s going as fast as he needs to. Plaza’s only ten minutes away, it’s not as if he’s going to Timbuktu. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Owen didn’t go at all” Roger Dawes told his wife.

Owen’s parents were good people, though they frequently annoyed the crap out of him. Roger was the founder of an extremely popular alternative weekly newspaper in the African-American community. Many people regarded him with respect, owing to his charming personality, his square cut jaw and the slight cleft in his chin, and the fact that in his forty-five years of life he never compromised his beliefs, even against stiff opposition. He looked intimidating with his broad shoulders and standing six foot and an inch, but not overly so.

Martine was satisfied with freelance photography when not teaching kindergarten, while her husband stayed at home and looked after the paper. She was a buxom woman, a real June Cleaver in all senses of the term. During the summer while Roger worked, she more or less ran the house, having decided that once she left the Akron police department that all she wanted to do was put her feet up, and every so often enjoy a mint julep or two. Sometimes, because they were so externally personable and genuine, people thought that they were two working schmoes who had moved to North Hill in Akron straight from Normalville Kansas, 1955. In reality, he had moved from the heart of the ghettos of Atlanta, she had moved from Greenwich, Connecticut with the spoon still in her mouth, and both of them were loaded in their own right. Both loved their only son deeply, though they were relatively overprotective, and when he came home yesterday they were both concerned about his emotional state. Though the hurt was an emotional one, one best suited for a mother’s touch, it was Roger’s words that had put Owen’s mind at ease.

As Owen put on his jacket, and made his way to his bedroom door, striding towards the inevitable encounter with his apparent ex-girlfriend, he remembered what his father had told him two years earlier while going through the sophomore year transition.

Son, you’re sixteen now, I think it‘s now time for us to speak like men. This whole deal is just that high school bullshit. When you guys get to college and see that the high school games don’t work, people’ll see just how bad they got owned in high school. And if that doesn’t help, at least there’s the cheap and petty feeling that you know that when they finally figure this out, you’ll be able say “’Bout time y‘all came up.”

That was the first time that his dad had ever revealed that side of his personality, the hidden rogue in him, and it had encouraged Owen to stand up tall and be his own man, regardless of the societal pressure placed upon young men his age. He just had to be damned careful not to show that side to his mother.

“Very nice! That’s very nice!” Mrs. Dawes told her son.

“Mom, it’s just a shirt and khakis.”

“But still, you look good in them!”

“Lord, give me strength.” Owen said under his breath.

“Martie, you keep smothering him like that and he’ll really be late.”

“Okay Owen, be careful and be back by midnight.”

“Midnight? Are you kidding me?”

“I'm inclined to agree, Martie.”

She cocked a brow and looked at her husband like he'd lost his mind.

“And what would you consider reasonable?” she asked the two gentlemen standing around her.

“Two-thirty.” Owen said.

“Try again.” Roger said.

“Two?”

“One.” Martine said.

“One-thirty?”

Roger and Martine looked at each other for a moment.

“Done.” Martine said. “Just be careful.”

“I will, Mom.” Owen said, opening the front door. “Love you guys.” And with a nod of Mr. Dawes’ head, Owen shut the door.

Owen opened his door, turned the car over and turned on his radio. With a frown, he tuned away from 92.3 FM. Ever since they went oldies, then death metal, they hadn’t been the same. He tuned to 96.5, the new home for what used to be Hot 101 and quickly changed away from Jessie Griffin’s newest pop hit. 98.1 was playing Tina Aquila’s song about some sort of bottle he didn’t give a damn about, and listening to Raven 100 would still be sacrilege after the unceremonious firing of their most popular and competent on-air talent.

God...hell with this.

He turned on his CD player. He thought he’d never be glad to be listening to 4 Unabridged’s three year old version of eurotechno. Swinging the car onto North Main Street, he looked back toward his house, head bopping along to the beat, wind flowing smoothly around his head.

I hope to Christ that this party’s gonna be worth it. Owen thought. He cruised along the High Level Bridge, unaware that six miles above him, hurtling rapidly down at twice the speed of sound, ahead of him would be the last object he would see.

He heard and felt the concussion of the sonic boom pass over him.

What the fu-

He was suddenly shoved violently to the side by the force of the heat and pressure caused by the slipstream of the passing object. He looked up to see a smooth, gun metal gray behemoth passing over and just ahead of him. He mercifully blacked out after it had cleared him, so he didn't see the object dropping through the sky only to plow into the bridge a scant fifty feet ahead of him, nor was he aware of the car beginning its descent into the Cuyahoga Valley.