M.A.G.E- The dictator. Chapter 1

M.A.G.E. - The Dictator.1

The ship was forced forwards, the force of the waves and wind propelling it faster. A swirling fog wrapped the ship, a huge ghost trying to suck out the life of any animate object. Bright lights lit up, cutting a clear path to the ship direction. Silence wrapped around them, the night, sound-less. And then a raven crowed.
Then it happened, a huge crack, slowly creeping up the ship’s middle, intent on tearing it apart, like a child ripping up sugar-paper. The ship, with a large bang, and flames, tore apart into two, the passengers separated by the cold deathly waves. Screams echoed, as women, men and children alike realized what had happened. Sobs, and shouts, desperate attempts to reach safety, as several people dived into the water, the choppy water, which hungrily growled for its victims. Both parts of the ship were forced forwards and backwards, which shook loose the remaining survivors, more screams, as small babies, parents and crew members had no choice but to be flung like rag dolls, into the dark, curdling depths of the Pacific.
Splashes and gasps, tears and gurgles, everyone was dying, the oxygen slowly, painfully, compressed out of their bodies. Silence resumed. The young and old, together, floating, singularly, lifeless mannequins, as the tide led them to shore…
Except one. One, lucky teenager, unconscious, his pale face gaunt, being dragged along by the ship’s hull, near death, yet still, very much, alive…
  BBC 1
“Breaking news from the depths of the Pacific, tonight, exclusive on BBC 1, we go live to the scene of the disaster,” said a tired looking woman, who was grimacing, but yet wearing an unconvincing expression of regret. “Over to you, Bernie.”
“Thank you, and tonight, as you can see behind me a ship was found broken into pieces, by coast-guard officials. The RMS Foreigner, as it was called, was destroyed by a flimsy ship design and the hazardous weather conditions, according to lead scientists in the UK. It’s a mystery to our country, and indeed others, why this ship was traveling where it was, why, and, most importantly, why can no-one can find out where the ship docked from, who it belongs to,” Bernie informed the studio.
“Thanks, Bernie,” the woman smiled. Her expression growing more serious, she turned to face the cameras. “It certainly is a mystery, and to help us solve it, we have Detective Inspector Cane here, in the studio, to help us.” She motioned to a man on her right, and asked, “So, Detective Inspector, what do you make of this?”
“Well obviously, the greatest question is where the survivors are. Are there any survivors? Another question that ought to be asked by our Government, and indeed other Governments, is the ship legal? After all, no license has yet being found for this ship and no cargo was found. In fact the only “cargo” found are dead bodies. This is worse than a mystery, it’s the Titanic all over again,” said a man, who was obviously in his 30-40’s, and his face was pale, but a bit blotched, as if he’d never slept.
“Moving swiftly on…”
20 years later-2008
The town was a mixture of gangs, alcoholics and idiots. No-one survived for long in the depths of London without being at least prepared to lash out on your enemies. Especially not here. Not in the long, canal over looking, dustbin called “Torrington.” Litter and squalor, home to many police tagged hot-heads, who in their youth had tortured neighbours, stabbed rivals, and vandalised any clean spot there was. As a result, half the houses were inhabited by students, and criminals, poor families and gambling men. The other half of Torrington, however, was burnt and un-owned, after many years of bombs, casual looting, and stabbings had taken their tolls.
The main age group of Torrington was teenagers, who were just like sharks in the vast deeps of the ocean. They smelt blood, victims who they could bully. Unfortunately for Michael, he was on the teenager’s menu. He had been for many weeks now, after he had punched a gang member out of fury, after the gang member had made a brutal remark about his dead mum. So as soon as he stepped out of the door, it was shouts of “There he is!” and “Lets stick him in the canal!” Needless to say, Michael legged it, into the other direction, running for his life as his nemeses gave chase. This was dangerous turf in which Michael lived in. A couple of years back; someone had offended the head of the strongest gang around Torrington, the ‘blood spiller crips.’ Needless to say, he’d been stabbed, pumped so much full of lead he resembled a church roof, and then dumped in a canal. About six months later, he’d been found on a beach near Dover. The police were confused about the location of it, but with Torrington’s local police force, you’d be lucky if they understood two plus two.
Michael skidded out of street, randomly turning corners, sliding and grinding his heels against the black, bumpy tarmac. He almost growled. He could see them, as he continued sprinting, all of them wearing Nike hooded tops, and track-suits. All of them could be seen from a mile off, distinctly dressed in black, so their alliances could not be mistaken. Turning and twisting around many looted and burnt houses, he heard it. The low, rumbling sound, that was almost purring like a cat at the thought of his death. A car, shiny, black glided into full view of Michael.
‘Oh, fuc…’ Michael thought, his though trailing away as he realised what the car meant, all the horrible possibilities that the owner of the car could do, and Michael knew he had. That car meant trouble. Some people might say a river of trouble. Michael was more inclined to say a canal’s worth of trouble, at the very least. The guy who owned this car was called “The Boss” and although most of his gang, the blood spiller crips, were teenagers, he was in his thirties. He was a tall, muscled guy, the sort who would send flowers to your family before he killed you. In some cases he had. Rumour had it he was in league with the world’s most prestigious terrorists; with Al-Qaeda and Osama bin Laden regularly creeping up when anecdotes about him were told. Both Michael and his pursuers stopped when they saw the car door open. His pusuers stopped out of loyalty; they belonged to his gang. Michael however stopped out of fear. So this was the end. He watched as “The Boss” and his crew came up to him, and flinched as he laughed.
“So, this is the one who punched Jason. Hmm. What do you reckon I should do to him?” The Boss laughed, asking his followers.
“Dump him in the canal, boss. He’ll soon kick up to us.” A voice came, emanating from the ugliest, spottiest, the so obviously thickest face Michael had ever seen.
“Oh no, this idiot deserves something special.” He grinned, showing Michael his yellowed, crooked teeth. It was The Boss’s custom to never swear, and if he had his gang in the area they weren’t allowed to swear neither. Bringing up a meaty slab of a hand, he struck Michael in the face. Michael fell to the gravelled floor, tasting blood in his mouth.
“Apparently, you, you gutless twit, hit Jacob because he said the truth about your mummy, yes? Well here’s news for you, you little dog. Jacob told the truth. Your poor old mummy was just a garbage eating tramp. I should know. She used to eat out of my bins. Just like you do, you sad little orphan.” The boss sneered, laughing. Hatred flared inside Michael, a rage that threatened to consume his soul, override his mind, and bring him to be a mindless beast. He gritted his teeth, as The Boss carried on. His words were lost to Michael. Energy shook inside him, in the form of unbearable heat in his soul, like millions upon billions of stars were crammed inside him, growing hotter and hotter. The Boss and his cronies were slightly shaking their hands, as though they were extremely itchy.
“What’s the matter?” Michael heard some–one ask.
“Nothing, runt. Just some sort of static electricity, or something.” The boss replied angrily. Refocusing his attention on Michael, he kicked him and said, “Go join mummy, tramp. Oh wait, you can’t! She’s dead!”
And that was it, the stars inside Michael’s body burst into a titan like supernova, washing away all thoughts, becoming just a ball of white-hot fury, intent on tearing apart creation. The gangsters hadn’t noticed, and were now casually walking back to their car. Michael shook. His vision burst into colours, showing him everything. The skies over Tokyo filled with lightening. Dogs started barking. With a gut churning roar, the gangster’s car blew up, catapulting into the air, flying over long rows of abandoned shacks. One or two of the gangsters tried to swear with amazement, only Michael was on them too soon. Throwing a clumsy punch, he hit some-one on the side of the cheek and immediately that person began to scream, crackling with electricity. Becoming a whirlwind of ferocity, he only had to touch the gangsters, and one by one they’d collapse to the floor. Scanning around, Michael realized what he’d done. Fear overtook him and he ran off to safety.