Skin

III: The Legend

Before Draco's soul was corrupted and transformed into The Dragon, he was merely a plain boy. His frame was petite and frail, unlike his adult body, he was little, pale and looked like a cute, quiet boy. His mother died in childbirth and his father lived to only see Draco as far as 5 before he suddenly died. He had no idea how or why it occurred and that would have to wait. Draco was then cared for by his uncle, who was not the loveliest of gentleman as he enjoyed children far too much. He would often force Draco to be stark naked (while the boy was in his own father's house), to allow Uncle to watch and pleasure himself. Uncle however made a grave mistake. 5 years later, he decided he preferred to be more up close and personal with the boy because he looked more 'ripe' at the innocent age of 10 - he did not take kindly to this at all. As Uncle approached him one day, with his meaty palms, the boy lashed out with his baby teeth and gnawed brutally at Uncle's fingers. Uncle swore profusely and his lust bubbled within. A life threatening chase ensued, but the boy was supernaturally nimble compared to Uncle who was a powerhouse that could not manoeuvre so efficiently. The boy darted as Uncle's meaty palms swatted at him, in and out, left to right, he simply could not catch him even though Uncle stood 6 times the size of him. His bubbling lust brought hubris, for little did he know that the boy was wearing him down to the point where Uncle's lungs would collapse in agony. As predicted, he tumbled down and the boy, with extreme lethality, boarded his back and proceeded to yank his head back methodically to deal surprising damage to Uncle's eyes - he repeatedly bashed his still growing elbows into his eyes until they either burst or concaved. The agony and shock from his underestimation of the boy was ultimately his defeat which the boy confirmed with a finishing blow to the windpipe. An eerie air filled the room as blood dried on the boy and blood still gushed from Uncle's dead eyes. The boy simply glared at his hands because even though he did what had to be done, the cost was still there and it was that mind numbing memory of his first kill. It was forever printed in his mind.
The mental trauma had finally settled and after it crawled into his mind, he knew what he had to do next. Luckily the floor was wooden therefore the blood was easily mopped up (he learned to do this through the internet after some research). Next was the corpse itself. He chopped it into 6 different parts, for an easier burial (also learned though the internet), it tired him however, as it was time consuming and he was just 10 years old - he did not yet have the strength that he does now. After the burial, he abandoned his father's house in the rural East end of London with some resources that were well packed and was on his way*. Although he did know where he was, the boy's luck did not fare well for him. He had stumbled into a drug operation accidentally, and had he any idea, would have turned the other way and ran but he went towards it instead. It was situated in a charcoal grey warehouse that looked as if it were as old as Queen Victoria herself. It wasn't huge but it was fairly sized, definitely enough to fit a 200 man operation. Inside, rows and rows of scientist-looking people all worked mechanically on tiny blue pills. There were boys with weapons dotted around the outside building and one man who controlled it all. He was situated in a private office above the workers as if he were the Captain of the legendary Queen Anne's Revenge and they were his men. The boy unknowingly walked in like some sort of wanderlust and immediately the armed boys sprinted for him and clubbed him senseless.
The wake up was a bullet to the head. He jumped in panic but was immediately smacked down like a dog into the chair from whence he came. Loud words were echoing in the room but he could not hear a single one as his dazed eyes rocked in an oscillating motion. The next thing he knew was a gun butt to the head before a dawning black struck him.
Now the boy was stranded, strapped to a cold chair and alone. His resources were stripped off him as well as his fighting spirit. He took a long time to concoct an escape from nothing but his tiny bare hands. After some time he fidgeted to see how well he was strapped. It was damn tight. This was good news to him. The boy tensed his entire body, to loosen the ropes, and unshackled his little hands nimbly and within seconds he was free. The boy knew he could not just fight his way out, a basic instinct said so. He crept to the grey door and stealthily unlocked it. The room was directly next to the Captain's quarters, this however did not bother the boy as he moved with great elegance across the floor until he found a flight of stairs. Success. He picked up his pace as he descended the worn stairs, easy enough. Sticking to the shadows, he followed where no light shone, this was made harder by the masses of cold daylight that flooded through the paneless windows. He nonetheless reached a door charred by bulletholes, not that he cared. The boy once again, stealthily opened the door to meet his freedom... only to see the smirks of the Captain and his motley crew of soldier boys. Some tongue-and-cheek comments from the Captain and his boys made him secretly uneasy as he did not know what they were saying, it was like they were talking in their own unique speech:
"Ye see that thee fall fo' big boots whisper only to feet that nerrer fit!". His soldier boys laughed hysterically as they knew that this boy's demise was soon. They raised their barrels to his head and were ready to spray until the Captain commanded in a boom " Water down, this nay be all he writes". This is when Draco the boy met Captain and after they exchanged names hurriedly, the boy was ushered back into the charcoal coloured warehouse which unexpectedly became his new home.
Time was not wasted. The very next day, the boy begun his training which consisted of: hand to hand, swords, knives, blunt weaponry, miscellaneous blades (like spears) and eventually to guns, artillery and such. This elite training was paired with fitnesses, combat tactics and whatever other essentials the Captain dreamed of including advanced education in normal subjects like maths, English etc. To you folk, it was like a private military school. Day by day, the boy always showed significant improvement at a worrying rate compared to his fellow soldiers as he always listened and spoke very little. It guaranteed him success in every field. No matter what the Captain threw in his way, the boy could not care and even in defeat, he was not defeated. He was truly remarkable. By the age of 18, he was feared and earned himself many names - from Spiritjacker to The Bogeyman; he was a force to be reckoned with. His 'family' were quick to act on their watered fear and by 19 he was cast out, outlawed for his lethality and his silence which was a combination they did not want to risk taking in in their own home. The boy, now casted away into exile felt like he was re-enacting Exodus. He shrugged the feelings aside to pick up a path of his own, following this decision, he rolled up to central London by begging for change to pay for a bus fare. The first thing he looked for was a library. After some fruitless wondering around he asked a few locals who directed him correctly to a library. Once there, he drafted a CV with some fake details of GCSE and college grades as well as some work experience to make him a viable candidate for those picky employers. An hour later, he walks out with CVs, cover letters, and sheets of fake references for work experience. All the change was well spent printing off many copies that were to be distributed to restaurants, retail stores, warehouses and anything else he came across. Each portfolio that was handed out explicitly told that to contact him, they needed to send a letter to the library at King's Cross because he did not have the money for a phone. 3 days later after dishing out his portfolios, he waited 2 days in the library for results. Luckily he received some. He accepted 3 of them: an offer from a supermarket for warehouse work which required him to work nightshift, a waiter for a little café in Picadilly Circus called Ponteferry's Coffees and a car salesman for McLaren which was sat in the famous Park Lane - they must have been desperate. Hurriedly, he walked to all  three, starting at the warehouse and finishing in McClaren. The warehouse required him to work 12am to 5am Monday to Saturday, the café asked him to to work weekends only from 9am to 8pm and McClaren wanted him for 9am to 5pm shifts Monday to Friday. Although the juggling of jobs was demoralizingly difficult, the boy was more than capable and for the next 6 years he became ridiculously proficient in all 3 jobs, earning himself quite a deal of money. It was enough to buy his magnum opus and that was all he cared for. He built it from the ground up through taking unwanted furniture from the warehouse, as well as basics such as food and clothes, and eventually, it became a very accomadating apartment. His car was a company one which he earned through his loyalty, it was a custom made McClaren P1 - all black, dressed in accessories more expensive than the price of any Jaguar and it boomed like an aggravated lion. I forget to mention he's the executive manager for McClaren, the director of the warehouse and the owner of the coffee shop. Titles all earned after 6 years of working for each one. Remarkable don't you think? Anyway, his passion for coffee was his second love after his home. Obviously it came from the years in the café and it became his life's work after an epiphany one day....
He was checking up on the usual commodities in the warehouse and overheard some workers discussing a hate for one of their spouse's brothers. Curiosity led him to them where he questioned them. The most important part of their short exchange was "if I could I would pay money for his corpse to be forever still". He led the hateful worker into his office where they discussed the problem more thoroughly and seriously. It concluded with the boy agreeing to solve his problem for a quarter of his wage to which the worker excitedly shook his hand on. They met the following day for a brief. Afterwards, the worker bade him merciful days and graceful nights for his services, and he replied with a sly nod. Immediately he chipped away at his new task, firstly, he sorted his shifts to allow more time off for long weekends, secondly, on the big day (3 days later after some recon and supply gathering) he suited and booted up - dressed to the nine's, loaded with nine's (and a fifty). Finally, at the top of an inconspicuous building, he lay in wait for a head to pop into view over 800m away. As soon as it popped into view, the light trigger was instantly tugged to unleash a heavy custom made copper beast which exploded the targeted head into smithereens like a supernova blasting it's heavy elements into space. No time to stay. The smoking barrel was capped and stowed away in the trunk of his car, and soon after, he coasted away unsuspectfully. News spread like an the Black Death epidemic of 1348 and he received his payment with great gratitude from the customer for his swift delivery.
The epiphany then came.
He set up an anonymous profile on the dark web, using the pseudonym Draco, like the Greek legislator*, to start his newfound business which to the ignorant outside world, would soon become the Dracoffees franchise, but for those whose wished for "personal, freshly made coffees to take away", Draco was the man to call. Draco was once again instilling fear into the world and he soon became infamous in the networks of crime, world-controlling corporations and even governments. The legend of The Dragon was born.
The Dragon however had never always been this way....