Balance (In Hiatus)

Antony's Diary (I)

21 September, 1000 P.Y

Dear Diary, I am writing for the first time in your crappy pages today, because my shrink ordered me too. Ok, he is not exactly a shrink, just your happy campus psychologist. And he didn't exactly ordered me to write in you, he just said it would improve my anger management. So from now on I shall call you Mr. Crappy. As you may already have guessed, I am angry. About lots of things, injustice, stupidity, even with myself sometimes.

My biggest anger issues though, come from two prude, close-minded individuals called Mom and Dad respectively. The shrink says it's a phase, but trust me Mr. Crappy, if he had a chance to meet my old people, he would have teared up his diplomas in five seconds. Maybe even less.

Anyways, I feel like we haven't introduced properly. I already know you are Mr. Crappy. My name is Antony Mailand. I am nineteen years old and been living in the Brand Metropolis for the past year. Official reason: Studying WME (White Magic & Enchantment) under the pretext of studying Law. Unofficial reason: Getting away from the family madhouse. You are thinking I'm salty as fuck, don't you Crap? But you can take my word for it, they are insane.

You see we're Heroes. And no, not the Heroes you'd hear in the tales or legends. The ones doing all the glorious, selfless acts for the public. In fact I've never seen good ol' mammy and daddy performing ONE act that wasn't selfish.

You see, there is this thing in Trudeau called the Tournament, and believe it or not, it's a fight between the forces of Good and forces of Evil. Whoever wins the fight, gets to lead the land for fifty years, with the according consequences. My parents are now both 42 years old. Too early to have joined the old game, and too late to participate in the new one which, just so you know, will be taking place in two years. You can't really blame them for wanting their first born son to join the Tournament so much, can you?

The problem is, I never got to be asked if I wanted to participate in a death match. Which I don't. A fact I've stated loud and clear countless times, leading to endless fights with my parents and my sweet release when I finally moved here and started doing my own thing. The only people I'll miss is my younger sibling Leo, and Theodore, my adopted Angel brother.

Life is nice here, exciting. The Brandies are 99% rich stuck-ups of course, but I don't mind one bit. I have been living under the weight of modesty for the entirety of my life. It's nice going on clubs and bars, even in the uni-classes, without having to feel guilty about how my lifestyle and appearance causes a few eyebrows to be raised towards my direction.

I can brag about what I want, whenever I want. Yes I am an ace student, yes I have created a huge social circle in a year, yes I am good-looking (or so the ladies say.) No reason to hide it anymore. And yet, in this whole year there hasn't been an event so special for me or even worthy to write about. Except last's night event.

Let me start by clearing this... I have a Helper. A special shapeshifting friend called Axon. Axon is a talking sword. Don't laugh Crappy Diary, I know how ridiculous it sounds. But it's true.

Brand has a lot of bad guys roaming its streets, as any Metropolis who respects itself ought to have. So I've been, let's say, vigilanting a bit at nights. I take Axon and we beat the crap out of drug dealers, traffickers, wannabe rapists and murders... Those sorts of joyful individuals, normal or paranormal. Hell I am not even trying to keep it a secret. The Brand police takes whatever help it can get against those scums. And I... I have something to brag about to my closest friends.

I was in the middle of a fight last night, feeling that beautiful thrill as I slashed away at a few Wolvies... Those teenage werewolves thought they were so rad with their angel-dust selling business... Axon thought otherwise.