The Prodigal Son (Book 2)

1. The Messiah Wears Jeans

I woke up burnt, bleeding and broken to the news that my life had been saved. What a fickle little lie that was.

In hospital, most of my parent's physicians treated me in stony silence, only telling me piece by piece that my brother swooped at the last second while I was dying. The magnificent Otysses Creed cradled my rotting body and infused his own immortality to stave off my impending annihilation. My heart never stopped, the necrosis was only superficial.

I never died.

So why does the whole world feel so off-kilter ever since my eyes reopened?

I take my two weeks of quiet hospitalization obediently, fed bread crumbs of news through the tiny television feed in the corner of my room. Even then, somebody has altered the receiver- it only loads the channels owned by my uncle's Network 66. Rubbish soap operas and news stations that make their money in inflammatory headlines rather than decent journalism.

Otysses is all I see in the first week. After his first explosive interview breaking the news of his newfound mortality, Network 66 has well and truly ripped him to shreds until there's nothing left to publish. Talk-show psychologists diagnose him with psychosis, bipolar disorder, any illness that will condemn his love for humanity. He's a sexual deviant one minute and a child-minded recluse the next. Low IQ or driven insane with omnipotence- they can't decide.

There's no mention of me, however.

It seems the Creed Family is at great lengths to disguise my part in my brother's undoing.

Every time the door to my tiny padded-cell of a room opens I expect to see police entering in squadrons, my mother coming to scold sense into me- even the Potentate themself. They probably wouldn't even need the legally sanctioned writ of dissolution to kill me.

The latter features most often in my nightmares.

The Potentate's job exists to wipe out threats to the Edifice's governing democracy. If someone becomes a little too political, a little too powerful then the Potentate can 'dissolve' them even before a parliamentary vote. Brother of the mighty Otysses Creed, heir to the largest corporate entity in Edifician history and now two assaults deep on humans, I can feel their eyes on me even now.

I'm lucky this Potentate is too busy leaning left and sychophantising for the human populace to do their job properly. Their predecessors were not so kind to rival powers.

On the twelfth day of isolation, however the door opens and I finally see a familiar face.

Aries, my parent's driver enters the room, inspecting the cramped space with a bored expression and popping gum between her lips. The diminutive pixie woman is probably the one of my family's workers I'm closest to- usually I pay her yearly bonuses myself on account of how often she ferries my friends and I around each week. Today however, she fixes me with the piercing, neutral expression she reserves for my parent's presence.

"Zagan?"

"Aries." I respond as cooly as I can, restraining my excitement to see her. The scent of fresh air and promise of relief fills the room at her very presence.

She tosses something at me and a bundle of clothes hits the end of my bed with a thump. Stiffly, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and find my feet, pulling the package closer. The last few days I've been permitted to stand on my own, doing endless laps of the tiny bedroom but the muscles of my thighs are still weaker than I remember, slower to respond.

"Get dressed. You're coming home," Aries says. She has a small suitcase with her and turns her back on me to search my room for belongings to pack.She won't find any.