"It can be plainly seen that the gods love strong men, because one always sees the weak dominated by the strong." – 'Red' Ragen, Infamous Victorian Mob Boss
(Seven Years Ago)
"The Primals are our caretakers, our protectors, and, when deserved, the unwilling instruments of our discipline. They desire nothing less than the best for us and strive always for our wellbeing, providing order and fighting for peace."
It was a chapel day. Most of the other boys groaned and cursed when Father Kyle made the announcement, but not Jack. He eagerly awaited the tours through the vaulted temple with its marvelous stained glass, soaring arches, and intricately carved stone statues. He even enjoyed the lessons on proper living as demanded by the gods, but the stories of great deeds performed by the various Primals were his favorite.
Father Kyle opened his mouth to speak further, but Jack raised his hand, confused. "Father, what of the rogue Primals like Chaos and Freedom? Aren't they gods too?"
"An excellent question, Jack, thank you," the priest said enthusiastically. His golden-scrolled robes flapped as he paced in front of the polished wooden pews. "Yes, Chaos, Freedom, Justice, and other rogues are all Primals. Some are aptly named, while others clearly carry aliases intended as mocking heresies. But do we worship them? No! Great beings will always have powerful enemies – an antithesis, if you will – but the true gods will ultimately prevail over their evil counterparts."
Father Kyle smiled when Jack's hand shot up again. A few pews over, Johnny Topper glared at him, and all the boys started muttering. Jack ignored them.
"Yes? Something else?"
"If the evil Primals are Primals, and all Primals are gods, then why don't the Illuminati worship them? Are there people who worship the rogue Primals?"
"Heretics worship various evil Primals," Father Kyle admitted. "Such practices are only prevalent in the West or in the Abyss, though there are a few insurrectionist cults here in Victorian. The largest and strongest is undoubtedly Freedom's powerful cabal, but the most radical and zealous are the followers of Chaos. One of our two chief deities, the wise and benevolent Order, has outlawed these cults for encouraging turmoil. While our other great leader, the indomitable Tyranny, has proclaimed that Myrmidons in any way associated with these grotesque factions are to be executed immediately for their disturbing crimes.
"As to your other question, we of the Illuminati do not worship the rogue Primals because, put simply, they are not worthy of worship. We are not devoted to our rulers just because they are gods. We revere them because they stand for what is right – order, peace, and obedience – and because they have chosen to watch over us, despite having no obligation to do so. In short, they deserve our affection. The rogue Primals deserve nothing but our hatred and steadfast opposition."
Jack's mind chewed over this steadily. He didn't ask any more questions, content to ponder what he'd heard.
"That's enough for today," Father Kyle proclaimed, smiling at the sea of stupefied faces before him. "Everyone is dismissed to the yard. Dinner is at six."
A furious scuffling erupted upon this announcement, and, despite Father Kyle's call for respect of the holy place, a mad rush to the temple doors ensued. Jack waited calmly at the back of the shoving crowd with Morgan. His bright-eyed brother had grown gangly over the years at the orphanage, drastically opposed to his own stocky frame. It worried Jack a bit that his younger brother might soon grow taller.
"Tommy, Lem, and I are going to play toss ball, Jack," Morgan said. "You want to come?"
Jack opened his mouth to say no. It was a response that came naturally, but the hopeful look in his brother's green eyes stopped him short.
Few friends were a part of his life at the orphanage, though he never lacked for companionship with his brother here. Morgan was outgoing and frequently drew others in, but Jack often watched from afar. He was quiet and serious and rarely laughed, while his brother burbled over with delight and enthusiasm. They could not have been more different. Morgan frequently sought to draw him into his circle of friends. Jack continually refused. He didn't go in much for games or mischief. He shared his thoughts with no one but Morgan and continued to observe others from a cautious distance.
But Morgan's eyes were pleading today, and Jack buckled under the guilt. "All right," he nodded reluctantly. "I'll play for a bit."
"Yes!" Morgan whooped. "I'll go tell the others. Meet you by the fence!" He scampered off.
Jack shook his head, but walked after him, passing through the temple doors and wandering into the orphanage yard behind the temple proper. The wrought iron fence surrounding the entire complex was stark black and severe. Jack remembered how he had thought it intimidating and confining when he arrived five years previous, but now he found it protective and comforting. Strange how perceptions could alter. It wasn't the only change since the day Father Kyle and Father Anthony had been waiting for them at the flat.
Jack knew nothing of privacy since the moment he and Morgan first stepped into the grey stone orphanage behind the temple. The dormitory style rooms were filled to bursting with bunks, overflowing with boys from ages three to sixteen. Despite the excess of children, the years here had been good to them. Their bellies were never distended with hunger, though the food was bland and they were rarely able to eat their fill. Jack learned what he could, mostly in the way of trade skills, but with overcrowding and few caretakers, the majority of days were spent in the factory. The factory was hot and unpleasant and the days were long, but he knew nothing different or better.
It was days like today, spent in the temple or out in the yard, that Jack enjoyed most. He would question Father Kyle or the other Illuminati priests about Primals, or wander the massive temple steps, halls, and balconies, enamored by the magnificence around him. Sometimes he didn't do any of these things. He would find a secluded spot in the yard and think about the grueling days at the factory, the things he had learned during the week, or about Father, or Mum, or Harv. Other days he didn't think at all, just watched Morgan race across the yard with his friends. He wondered what would have happened if the priests had never found them. They'd have surely starved long ago.
Jack looked down at his worn shoes as he scuffed his way toward the back fence, but raised his head suspiciously when he heard derisive laughter ahead. His brows drew down into a scowl beneath his curly hair, and the hands in his trouser pockets tightened into fists. He stepped from behind the back wing of the orphanage.
Jack knew what he would see. Morgan and two of his friends stood in the center of a jeering circle of older boys, who shoved them this way and that, until they stumbled and fell into the dirt. Johnny Topper stood in the middle of the group, holding young Tommy with his eyes. Morgan glared up at him from the ground, the knees of his trousers torn and bloody, sniffling furiously to hold back tears. Lem gingerly held his arm as he crouched next to the others.
Boys, young and old, watched from around the yard. Some sniggered appreciatively; some pretended they didn't see what was happening. Many watched with worry.
"Look at 'im crying!" Topper sneered. "At least Tommy's looking me in the eye, Morgan. I thought you Booker boys were supposed to be tough? Get up, pussy." He kicked at the dirt, sending up a cloud of dust. Morgan recoiled, frantically pawing at his eyes. Topper was growing bored. He turned back to Tommy, who still clenched the toss-ball in one hand.
"Gimme that ball," the older boy demanded. Tommy complied immediately, and Topper chucked it far over the fence.
Raucous laughter erupted from Johnny's buddies at this, but the mirth on the faces of those across the circle died away when they noticed Jack's approach. Topper noted their lack of amusement and turned to glower over his shoulder.
The surprise, fear, and hesitation that flashed across his face made anything that might follow worth the price, but it was replaced as quickly with belligerence and disdain. Jack stopped a few paces away.
"They wasn't doing nothing, Jack, honest," spindly Kricket stuttered, approaching from outside Topper's circle. Jack said nothing. He just stared at Johnny.
Johnny Topper was a big kid: one of the oldest at the orphanage and soon to be sent on his way in the world. He was taller than most of the others and muscular in a way that proved he'd already grown into an adult physique. Jack hated everything about him. His short, bristly, red hair, the overbearing brow protruding above his eyes, the way he spoke like he knew everything – and wanted everyone to know that he did – the ease with which he gathered fearful cronies to run with him. Jack hated it all from the beginning.
He and Morgan hadn't been at the orphanage a month before first running afoul of Topper and his gang. They'd done nothing to draw his attention besides having been in the same room when he fell into a black mood. Topper came roaring at Jack first – because he was new and looked vulnerable or lost, perhaps – and punched him in the stomach. When Jack had doubled over and offered no resistance, it only increased the older boy's aggression, and he'd beaten him mercilessly for several minutes before growing bored. Jack had been a ball of bruises and pain on the floor. He didn't know what he'd done to cause such a reaction, but he knew he didn't want it to happen again.
Topper wasn't finished, though, and he'd moved on to the other newcomer. Jack didn't struggle when he was assaulted, but when Morgan took a blow, Jack was on his feet, swinging like a madman. It hadn't gone well for him. No one ever fought back; everyone was afraid of Johnny Topper.
Now, everyone was afraid of Jack Booker.
He took a lot of beatings, spent time spitting blood in the dirt. Anyone Johnny Topper hated got it bad at the orphanage, but Jack never took it lying down again. He fought back. Every time. He expected the pain that came with a fight and learned to deal with it. Soon, Johnny was hiding bruises too, and eventually he wasn't walking away at all.
Nobody fought Jack Booker anymore.
Jack finally broke his silence, speaking over Kricket's anxious babbling. He drawled his words quietly. "You all right, Morgan? Lem?"
Morgan nodded and stood, walking out of the circle. Lem followed, still clutching his arm. Tommy edged away from Topper.
"I see Tommy's ball was accidently knocked out of the yard." Jack continued softly. "Why don't you go get it for him, Topper?
Something was different today. Maybe it was because he would be leaving soon, or maybe he was simply tired of no longer doing whatever he wanted, but Johnny spat and called his bluff. "Piss off, Booker."
Jack took a threatening step forward.
Kricket leapt in, chattering uneasily. "Jack, they was just funnin' with–"
"Shut up, Kricket," Johnny snarled. Something had snapped this time, and Jack could tell he wasn't going to back down. "We weren't funnin' nobody. We were going to find out what a Booker looked like without any teeth." He grinned. "I didn't want little bitch blood anyway; I'm going to have some of the real Booker's ivory to wear as a necklace."
Jack grunted, removing his balled fists from his pockets. "You're going to regret this." He stepped up, shifting into a crouching boxer's stance. He knew as soon as Johnny didn't move to meet him that something was wrong.
Johnny signaled, and his whole gang rushed forward, fists swinging, feet kicking, voices screaming. Jack was buried by a mob intent on beating, scratching, tearing him into a bloody mess.
A high-pitched, panicked voice was shrieking at Topper from outside the flurry of fists. "Coward! Coward!" But it was soon silenced, and all Jack could hear was the smack of blows connecting with his flesh, the grunts of both his attackers and himself, and Johnny furiously bellowing.
"Take that shit, Booker! Take it! You never did have any friends to back you up, freak! What you going to do to me now?"
The heel of a shoe caught Jack on the side of the head, and the world fuzzed into a blurry haze. The blows rained down on his back, ribs, and legs as he attempted to cover his face and stomach. Red was beginning to color the foggy shapes in his vision. Another foot slipped through his fetal defenses and struck his face. He felt his nose crack, and hot, metallic blood washed over his lips.
Jack shook his head. Everything moved strangely, like he was floating. Something swam into sight, coming into focus between the churning feet. Jack reached out, heedless of the blows. He couldn't feel them anymore anyway. His hand grasped the rock.
The pain returned as soon as his fingers touched the stone, as if it were a lifeline linking him to consciousness, and the sharp sting filled him with blistering rage. He rose to a knee through the hands trying to keep him down and roared, flailing at every kneecap and shin to enter his narrowed vision.
He was alone, thrashing madly as the boys scattered away from his primitive weapon. He stumbled to his feet, intent only on reaching Johnny Topper, who stood staring at him with wide eyes. Jack could feel the blood trailing down his face from cuts along his scalp and from his nose, dripping off his chin to speckle the dirt between his feet. He faltered forward on uncooperative legs.
Topper stood transfixed at the sight of him, then let out a frightened screech and threw a punch to keep him away. Jack ignored the fist and let it thump into his shoulder. He swung the rock at Johnny's face as hard as he could. Topper fell. Jack climbed on top of him and brought the rock down over and over. Everything was very dim, but he didn't stop. Shouting voices echoed around him. Hands grasped at his arms. He battered the unrecognizable face once more. Jack was lifted away.
Father Kyle. It was Father Kyle. The priest was shouting frantically and holding him back, but Jack could barely move anymore. All of his energy was gone, expended. He looked down at Topper.
Johnny's face was a mangled mess of red and pale white. A low moaning escaped from the brutalized flesh. Topper rolled onto his side and coughed, hacking up a great mixture of blood and chips of white.
Teeth.