WARNING: Chapter contains allusions to war related violence and domestic/alcohol abuse
(Flashback POV Dalton)
Every kid needs a hero…and like many, mine was Bondman.
What else could I say? He was everything I wasn't: audacious, debonair, quick-of-wit and so on. His life of danger and intrigue spoke volumes for those of us incapable of surviving in the jungle with no supplies or facing down death over and over by disarming bombs and stuff. Whether taking on the League of Evil or retrieving a sentimentally priceless tummy warmer, turning the radio on to hear his exploits provided the perfect half-hour for I and how many other young boys to vicariously transcend our frailties or the unfairness that comes with living.
"…In a statement made on the 18th, Prime Minister cited the false flag attack on Luwen as rationale for his decision to send tanks into Ostania; thus enflaming long-simmering tensions into full-scale war…"
And as I cowered beneath the table, hearing that brewing storm clouds of conflict would officially release the thunder of weapons and rain of bloodshed; unfairness and frailty were my daily bread.
Yet at present, the real carnage took place under my roof.
"HEY! HEAD TRAUMA! WHAT PART OF ME CALLING YOUR NAME MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE FROM ME?"
The bottle whizzed past me before coming to rest at the foot of the sofa. An inch or two closer, and it would have struck me on the cheek. The news report finally returned back to this week's installation of Spy Wars just in time for the announcer to thank those sponsoring the broadcast.
"Ah!" She replied with a cold chuckle. Tha' damned spy show of yours again. Can'say I'm surprised though…*hic*…All it is with you: Bondman. Bondman. Bondman. [the] Whole worl' just seemsta meltaway…*hic*…can't hear Mommy telling him to fetch her more wine, or stoke the fire or…meh…"
Taking advantage of mom flopping onto the couch, I quickly heeded her earlier request to stoke the fire. Bereft of context, the command was simple; we needed heating in our house. For mom and I, this was shorthand for disposing of gigs the former of us felt too good to take on.
My mother was an actress in the same vein as…well, to be honest, as I am a super-duper international super-spy. The darling of Eden Academy's Drama Department, she graduated in the upper rung of her class and immediately got scooped into the Royal Thespian Society of Berlint, the most esteemed theatre school in all of Ostania. In a different timeline, she would have had it all…instead she fell head over heels for a stagehand whose roguish pulchritude was matched by his inability to be tied down. Yet despite having a lifetime role as an unwed mother and conservatory dropout, she still believed in her heart of hearts this was merely a speedbump and it was only a matter of time before she would transcend this hiccup and have her name deservedly beaming from every marquis. Until then, she just had to deal with an agent sending her work she considered beneath her.
Giving the reems of paper containing the roles she rejected one last sift before tossing them into the furnace, my eyes light up as I see one calling for someone to voice Agent M in an upcoming episode of the Spy Wars radio serial. Naturally of course, it got spared. But as I crept towards mom and secretly tucked the paper into the crook of her arm as she slept off her stupor, something visceral in me wanted to cuddle close and make some attempt at erasing a lifetime of being denied the loving embrace of a mother. A quick reflexive belch that potently reeked of wine put an end to that.
"I TOLD YOU TO PUT THAT IN THE FURNACE YOU LITTLE SIMPLETON!"
One minute I am standing upright as mom snatches the paper from my hands and furiously ripping it to pieces, the next thing I see is the back of her hand forcefully make contact with my cheek followed by the floor of the hovel we dare call home. I know better than to cry or soothingly rub my cheek as she berates me and reminds me of everything, she lost in keeping me alive. Instead, I close my eyes and consider this my endurance test. After what felt like forever, she finally relents on the grounds of needing more wine. Yet as she paws through her stash, I hear the clatter of empty bottle after empty bottle followed by a muttered torrent of profanity that would make a sailor's stomach turn. As she comes back into the cramped living room, I can see her arrogant resolve wither as she snatched the want ad off the table.
"Mommy's joy juice costs money after all."
In hindsight, this would be the last exchange between her and I. Two days later, as she seated herself in the lobby of the radio station, an Ostanian fighter plane took some enemy heat and crashed into the broadcast building.
Every kid needs a hero…and like many, mine was Bondman. But all kids grow up, and the day comes where we take what our heroes taught us and apply it to our now adult lives. Some of us succeed, but an equal amount of us fail. Nobody needs to tell me I failed, deep down, I know it.
I wanted to be the hero I needed to someone, which is why (despite my cravenness and lack of experience) I donned the name Daybreak. Such a name was fitting; since with the end of the war stories had begun to come out surrounding some International Man of Mystery of the West calling himself Twilight. Ergo, my destiny was calling me: Twilight of the West would meet Daybreak of the East.
It would take a while, and I knew I wouldn't get the big cases overnight. Nonetheless, I took whatever cases I could: all two of them. The first was some Eden brat looking to fudge the grades of a fellow student because blah, blah, blah, rich people problems. For my efforts was rewarded with termination. The next gig involved an underground tennis match, which also ended in ignominy despite my debonair efforts to fulfill what was asked of me.
After that, I decided enough was enough, and era of Daybreak was over before it begun...yet I couldn't really part with it, could I? The alternative and all that came with it was far too ignominious: to shoulder the name that inspired a lifetime of weakness and self-loathing.
The name engraved on a pair of dog tags rusting somewhere in the Ostanian woods when I deserted.
The name not given by a loving mother, but a faceless hospital clerk pushing his daily paper.
The name of the no-account turkey baster who toyed with the heart of my mother all those years ago at RTSB.
Dalton Koyner Jr.
(Present)
"I'll think about it." Dalton said flatly as he folded the paper and returned it to his companion with an unceremonious toss.
Rather than be offended, Rubin gave an indifferent shrug and left some money in the tip jar for his drink. He knew deep down he was under no obligation to lead Dalton to water. This was only a shot in the dark that came from his personal sense of fate, nothing more, nothing less. The head bartender on the other hand was different; as the bells above the door gave its final chime, the rag he'd been using to clean the counter was hurled to the ground as he barreled from his station and banged his palms on the tabletop.
"Let's. Try that. Again." He whispered venomously. "You sir are in no position to 'think' about anything, especially considering how many holes you've put in my patience. So here's the deal; until you find something, ANYTHING that puts a dalc in your pocket. You have no business here."
Before Dalton could open his mouth, the bartender yanked him by the hairs of his chin and hurled him out onto the curb. To cement the point further, a picture of Dalton was hung on the Pub Walyoy door with a "no" symbol over his face and a brief explanation as to what made him persona non grata.
Seating himself on a bus stop bench, Dalton people watches in some faint hope that for one moment their mundane lives may be for him an escape from his burdens. The only Berlinter that seems to put a small smile on his face is a hyperactive but seemingly good-natured girl with pink hair running down the street with a toy gun.
"Catch me if you can King Scruffyhead!"
As her toy pistol emits three successive 'pew' noises, a geeky man with bushy hair and glasses follows behind. Even while juggling the leash of a large white dog that was more polar bear than anything else, he still managed to play along with the little girl.
"My tenacity knows no bounds Bondman!" He exclaims with a hammily evil laugh.
As much as Dalton wanted to savor this trio as they continued their jaunt about the city, the bus pulls up to the marker and emits a final hiss after coasting to a stop thus bringing him back to reality. With the new batch of riders boarded, the vehicle continues along its route just in time for the doors of a nearby phone booth to open and reveal a familiar face.
"HEY! HEY WAIT UP!"
Though Rubin bolted, his efforts proved themselves in vain as the bus became yet another dot along the roadway.
"Fifteen minutes until the next one."
Turning to the bench, Rubin stares in shock as Dalton gestures to an empty space next to him. After giving the man a silent but grateful nod, the ex waiter pulls out the ad which now has a date and time of two days from the present jotted along the margins.
"So." Dalton began after a minute or two of silence. "That café you were talking about back at the pub..."