Dead Awakened/Episode 1 (old)

This is the first episode of Dead Awakened, released in November 01, 2013.

Episode 1
The city of Bellforde can easily be distinguished from its skyscrapers. Tall towers of concrete stand side by side, all gathered in their respective “districts.” There were three overall, spread out in different places on the wide landscape that makes up the city. They were separated by other types of lots; suburban neighborhoods, power plants, and parks, among others.

It was a blue-sky, sunny kind of day. Two men look at the city’s field view from a distance, standing right in front of a dark, metal rail. One of them stood straight, while the other leaned against it.

“Commerce district over there, and the… metro district, right in the middle.” A man with curly brown hair pointed at the view, while he casually leaned against the railing. He wore a leather jacket, and a sports watch that was visible on his pointing arm. “One in the far right is just another commerce district as far as I know…”

The man’s name was Kenberg McCormick. His eyes were squinting, to shield it from the shining sun above him. He was talking a dark-skinned man with a short, buzz cut hair to his left. He had about the same build as Kenberg.

“Pretty nice city, as far as I can tell,” Kenberg continues. He smirks, and looks up to the man. His name was Ramillo Valez.

Ramillo was a fairly new resident to Bellforde; he moved all the way out here in the west coast, a month ago, coming from New York. Way before that, he lived in Brazil.

There was a clear reason why he needed to move all the way out here. He lived in a crummy, two-bedroom apartment with his uncle back in the Bronx, barely scraping by as an all-night bouncer for a nightclub. He made a fraction of what he’s made in the past month here. It was the right decision.

Or at least, he thinks so. Being a bodyguard wasn’t exactly an improvement.

Ramillo is a rookie bodyguard working to protect a millionaire magnate. He is accompanied by group of four other men, Kenberg included. He never had a solid mentor, but Kenberg’s been the only one taking his time to hang out with him.

He continues to look at the view, very close to leaning on the railing. Kenberg, noticing his distant gaze, decides to check on his watch.

“Yep, we should probably go,” he says, and he straightens up. Ramillo takes a few seconds to give his attention away.

Kenberg smirks, and pats his back. He then looks over his shoulder, and whistles loudly. Ramillo looks along with him.

A small, shadowy figure was trotting its way toward their direction. Ramillo needed to completely turn around to confirm that it wasn’t a moving ink blot.

“There he is.” Kenberg keeps his smirk, as he crouches down to meet it. It was a dog, with a pointy snout and long, deep black fur, overgrown to fluffiness. His name was Striker, and he was Kenberg’s loyal companion.

Striker, his tongue hanging out, slowly approaches Kenberg and sits.

“We’re heading out, buddy,” Kenberg says to him, and he accompanies it with a pat on the head. Striker closes his mouth, stops sitting, and starts trotting to their left direction. Kenberg and Ramillo soon follow. Kenberg was on the wheel, driving his very own car, which was a silver-colored sedan. To his left was Ramillo, and in the back, Striker was lying down on the passenger seat, close to dozing off. They’ve just passed the winding road of the view park, and were back on the leveled road.

It was silent as they finally left the view park and were entering into the city itself. Ramillo, who always had the questions, seemed to be holding them off right now; he was concentrated on his window, with the same distant gaze from earlier.

Kenberg glanced at him a few times. Perhaps it was his turn. “How you liking the gig so far?” he asks. Ramillo looks at him briefly.

Kenberg can’t blame Ramillo; he was just a rookie, and he was put into action almost right away. And it wasn’t just one instance. They had to “work” at least three instances that month. He lets Ramillo take his time.

“It… it’s different,” he replies, almost normal-sounding. From bouncer to gun-toting bodyguard. Understatement of the year. “Very different from what I had back in New York.”

Kenberg nods at his response. It was normal, something to be expected. Something he’d have said when he was new to this.

“How different?...” he continues. He was just about merging onto the inner highway.

Ramillo scratches his temple, and stops leaning against the side of his seat. He straightens up, and looks ahead.

Both gigs had him fighting people. People looking for trouble, much like he was. Both gigs had him protect someone. Someone from the people looking for trouble. It was the same, yet it was different…

He had to visit the shooting range a few times as a bodyguard. He had to note the tips Kenberg, and the others, gave him. Hide behind cover, waste no bullet, shoot the guy shooting at you…

That man. That man he shot, who quickly clutched his chest. It’s burned in his memory forever.

“Hm. I was just… throwing punches on the other. This one… this one I needed a gun.” He thought he had the foundation, the knack for fighting. He didn’t know that was just a small part of it.

“Yeah. Yeah…” Kenberg responds in a mutter, slowly nodding. “Listen… if anything’s bothering ya, we can maybe talk it over a beer, or coffee or something.” He looks over to Ramillo, who only glanced at him a few times. He soon turns back to look at the road, getting ready to take the nearest exit right.

“Sure…” Ramillo answers back. He wants to believe that it just gets easier. That he didn’t exactly have a good entrance to this job. That he’ll probably get used to it.

He sinks back in his chair, and tries to think of something else. The future, or something. They stayed silent even when they soon found themselves surrounded by stores, pedestrians, and parked cars. The place Kenberg had in mind wasn’t too far since he was starting to slow down and look at different directions.

“So you never actually owned a suit before?” he asks, as he steers the wheel to the left.

It was simple, for Ramillo; he never found the occasion to wear it. Not even when he was a bouncer. He’d wear some sort of black sweatshirt or other shirts that visibly show his muscles, make him a little bit more intimidating to the entrants. That’s what he was required to wear.

“Nope,” he simply replies. The closest he’s got to formal clothing were collared shirts.

“Hm…” Kenberg nods, wearing an inquisitive expression. “It usually comes with a job. Those bodyguards in TV are true.” He reverts to a smirk, thinking about it; suits are indeed part of their wardrobe. Today wasn’t a particular day, since they had no one to escort.

Ramillo didn’t think much of it. He knows how he’ll look like with a suit. The ladies never resisted him before, but now…

Kenberg slows down at a nearby curb, eyeing a small space between two cars. The parking spot was close to a black-marbled building called “Strugiss Formal”.

As Kenberg parallel parked, they noticed somebody looking at them, near the building’s entrance. A familiar man, with his distinct gray hair and smile. He paced the entrance a few times, his eyes on the car, hands on his waist.

“What’s he doing here?” Kenberg asks, looking at the man while he effortlessly parked the car.

The man was none other than Sullivan. He had silver, neck-length hair and the beard to go with it. His smile is distinct; his grin nearly covered his eyes, and showed the wrinkles on his cheeks. It was easily his signature. He wore a casual suit, with jeans and boots on the bottom. He waved at the people in the car, his smile unchanging.

Ramillo, Kenberg, and Striker look back, with the two others waving. Striker just tilted his head slightly.

Sullivan was an important man to these two; he was Kenberg’s uncle, and he was Ramillo’s employee. They can easily say he’s the mentor of all mentors, acting as the security chief, always the one in charge of details. He accompanies his occupation with his easy-going approach, something that Kenberg himself has picked up. Sullivan’s the closest he’s had to a father, after all.

“Hey amigos!” he greets, in his warm, familiar voice. He looked way too joyous for this occasion; Kenberg, Ramillo, and Striker were only getting out of the car. Still, they couldn’t help but smile back.

He gives each of them a firm shake on the hand, and follows it with a pat on the shoulder. He even points and winks at Striker.

“What’re you doing here?” Kenberg asks. He shared a similar smile with Sullivan, something that has had him mistaken for his son.

“Oh, just…” Sullivan casually shrugs and points behind him. “… wanted to see ol’ Millo here get his suit. And Marcy told me to visit, check on Parker, take care o’ the payment. You know…”

“Right, right…” Kenberg replies, nodding.

Sullivan shifts over to Ramillo, who was still a bit overtaken by his presence. “Millo boy! Y’getting your suit!” He pats him again on his shoulder. “Gonna look spiffy like me an’ Ken.”

Ramillo just nods, and smiles. All he knows was that he needs a suit by this Friday, which is three days away. It’s been mentioned to him a few times, and it had something to do about him being measured. This was going to be his first, and very own suit after all. His cross over to the richer side of the world.

“Alright. Let’s not waste any time.” Sullivan looks in between Kenberg and Ramillo, and they both walk toward the entrance.

“C’mon Striker,” he calls to the dog, who was listening the whole time. Sullivan motions him to follow. The inside of the store was a little dark, creating a lounge-like vibe. Displays of suits line the walls, accompanied by logos of old brand name companies and frames of black and white pictures. The feel was vintage over all, and it easily reflected its one and only owner.

Ramillo stood on top of a wooden platform, having taken off his jacket and shoes. Behind him were three tall mirrors, placed in its respective angles. Ramillo stood as still as he could, as a small, old man measured his limbs with a yellow measuring type. It was clear in the attire that the old man owned this place; he wore a suit vest with a white collar suit below it, and brown dress pants and shoes. He was hard at work, measuring Ramillo’s arms, legs, waist, and chest over and over again. He was doing this all by memory.

In the backdrop, Kenberg was looking over a few suits, while Sullivan was crouched down, examining Striker, who was lying down, looking up at him weirdly.

“Parker,” Sullivan calls. The short, old man stops what he’s doing and looks at him from the short distance.

“Y’ever… made suits for dogs?” Sullivan looks back and forth at Striker, and the suits around him. “I mean, y’can probably measure him… wouldn’t it be the same?...” Sullivan tries to look at Striker’s paw, but it looked like he didn’t want to be touched.

“No, no no… it’s not that simple,” the old man named Parker replies; he had a well-mannered British accent, and a smile to go with it. Kenberg smirks at his uncle and goes back to examining the suits.

“I mean,” Sullivan notices Kenberg’s brief attention. “We should all look good somehow. Including lil’ ol’ Striker here…”

Parker just shakes his head, and continues measuring Ramillo. He does one more measure with his overall height.

Sullivan stands up. It looked like Striker didn’t even agree with him. “Eh… relax, buddy. I was just kiddin’.” Striker nonchalantly looks up at him, stands up, and walks away.

“Alright, that about does it…” Parker pleasantly smiles at Ramillo, while he relaxes his stance. Parker disappears behind a few racks for a second and comes out with his jacket.

“Shouldn’t be too hard. You’re a lot like Mr. McCormick.” Parker gestures his head toward Kenberg briefly. “I’ll have it for you in due time.”

Sullivan walks over to them, clapping his hands twice. “Alrighty, we’re done ‘ere.” Sullivan turns to Parker as Ramillo slipped his jacket on. Kenberg walked toward him and was getting ready to bump fists.

“How much it’ll be?” Sullivan reaches for his pocket and takes out a black, leather-bound checkbook, with a pen hooked inside of it. Parker pauses, looking at him, and shakes his head.

“N-no no. No pay. Don’t worry.” Parker tries to smirk it off.

“Really? Marcy gave me this checkbook…—”

“No no,” Parker continues, shaking his head and putting a hand up. “It’s alright, really.”

Sullivan shrugs, and pockets the check. “Alrighty, then…”

Ramillo finishes up wearing his clothing and approaches Parker, laying his hand out. Parker smiles, and gives him a firm shake.

“Thanks again Mr. Parker,” Kenberg adds, patting his shoulder. Parker modestly nods.

The two walk over to the door, calling Striker along the way. Sullivan watches them walk past him.

“Nice seein’ ya again, Parker,” he says, and he follows the three shortly. Parker continues his wordless response, and chooses to nod.

The door opens, and the bell above it rings. Kenberg, Ramillo, and Striker step out. Sullivan follows them, but he soon hesitates, and turns around.

“Oh, Parker… before I forget.” Sullivan leans against the side, holding the door with his arm. “Marcy wants to… I dunno, ‘hang out’ later. Wanted to let you know.”

Parker was fixing up, putting away the platform and placing a few racks back in their place. “Oh, is that so?” he replies. “Uh, sure. I-I have time. Call my tele later.”

“Tele?” Sullivan replies. He turns to look at the old-fashioned telephone set sitting on the counter. It looks older than him and Parker combined. “You mean that thing?” He smiles, and takes out his very own cell phone. “You should get one o’ these!” As if he knew his own device in and out.

Parker turns to glance at it briefly. He has one of those so-called cellphones, but it’s not with him right now. And, he can’t seem to figure out how to turn it back on…

“I’ll take my chances!” he replies. Place: Pruit Avenue Park Time: 10:22 AM

The two have somehow found themselves in yet another park. Kenberg and Ramillo sit on a bench, watching Striker as he ran around exuberantly, stopping to sniff bushes, joggers, and other dogs. It was probably him that convinced them to stop at this place.

“Hmm… Jaime’s nearby,” Kenberg says, reading the text on his phone. He pockets it and resumes watching Striker, who seemed to be out of their sight. “Just came from the gym. Says he’s gonna meet us.” Pruit Park was one of the two parks found inside the city, so the buzzing noises of the street were just behind them.

“You used to work at a nightclub, right?” Kenberg starts, and this prompts Ramillo to look at him.

Ramillo cracks a smirk, and looks back at the park landscape. “Yep.”

Kenberg leans back on the bench. “Man, I bet you’ve got like… the best game out of all of us.” Ramillo smiles, and shakes his head.

“I’m serious, though. We’re gonna take you to one of the clubs later tonight. See how you work.”

Ramillo almost chuckles. He can’t say it’s false, but he’s a modest guy. “Really? You really gonna take me to a club just to see?”

Kenberg pauses, letting the tension rise for a second, then he eventually responds with a playful “Nah.” He stops leaning back, and rests his arms against his lap. “Figured you deserve a night out. All of us. But mostly you… you never been to the clubs here so, why not?”

Ramillo nods. He was feeling kind of excited, actually. He’s never had a night out since he moved here.

“Gonna be fun,” Kenberg adds. “Jaime’s coming, and you know how he is. Darrius too. Hell, maybe even my uncle.”

Ramillo was a bit surprised; he knows each and every one of them full well. Jaime’s the quiet, mature type. He’d never pick up any ladies. Darrius has a family, so his schedule’s always a bit tied up. Sullivan’s an old man, so he’ll probably just be there for the drinks.

“Sounds good to me,” he replies.

“Sweet.” Kenberg playfully nudges Ramillo’s shoulder, then scans around. To their left, Jaime was walking towards them. “Jaime’s here.” Kenberg nudges Ramillo’s shoulder once more to get his attention, and together, they stand up and approach him.

Jaime was a Hispanic man with buzzcut hair, much like Ramillo, but his build was much bigger than both of them. He wore a gray hoodie, with a small bag strapped across his chest. He meets Kenberg and Ramillo with handshakes and a smile.

“Sup, man?” Kenberg greets. “How’d the workout go?” Jaime seems to be the only one out of all of them that avidly goes to the gym.

“Good,” Jaime replies; it was always one word with him.

“So… the plan’s still set for later, right? You’re not gonna bail?”

Jaime looks in between them, and nods. “Yeah, yeah.” He shifts his look down below him and sees Striker sitting, looking up to him.

“Alright… that sounds about right.” Kenberg looks between the three, and decides that there’s nothing left to do but go home. Save Jaime from a taxi fare. “Alright, we should go.” Place: ''Freeze! Cup Shop'' Time: 10:45 AM

Sullivan sat on a table, his head resting on his hand, looking in between two… old people, and their bowls of yogurt. His expression was that of confusion; he was staring at one of the most confusing sights of all time.

His boss, sitting on the other side of him, was gulping down a medium-sized bowl of yogurt. A sheet of tissue was fitted into a bib on his collar, his eyes exchanging between the yogurt and Sullivan’s face.

He was Marciano Bauville, or Marcy, for short. His wrinkles and white hair reflected his hard work; Marciano was a millionaire magnate, and a well-known funder of charities and lending companies. He has been the target of numerous hit men, but that didn’t seem apparent today. He was too busy enjoying this frozen treat.

“Okay, okay, seriously—” Sullivan stops looking at him and throws his hands up. “What is it with you and this place, Marcy?” This certainly wasn’t the only instance; Sullivan has had to ignore protocol and risk his life taking him to this place.

“I mean—y-you can always just buy your own, or have me buy it—”

“Sully…” Marciano spoke in his all but familiar British accent. “Yogurt’s always better when a store specializes in making it. And I could really use the sunshine, ya know.” They sat outside, in front of the shop. “It’s got all these flavors, and, and additions…”

Marciano resumes eating it in a well-mannered, yet blissful fashion. He’s always baffled Sullivan to the point of troubling him.

“W-why this place though?” Sullivan asks. “Isn’t there a yogurt place for… old people like us?” He looks around the place, and notices how much it caters to young people; the weird curved seats, the umbrellas, the bright colors inside the shop…

“One thing I know is that when it’s yogurt, the newer generation makes it best.” He smiles at the thought, and looks at the man beside him; Parker, enjoying the same thing he was. He was wearing a gray flat cap and a thick wool jacket.

Sullivan looks in between them, and almost scoffs. These two elderly people are out of their minds.

“Seriously though—it’s just us out here!” He looks around to confirm it. “Those teenagers aren’t even awake yet, I bet…”

“And it’s good for us,” Marciano replies. Together, he and Parker chuckle. Sullivan can only shake his head.

“Finish that up soon. Before a hit man drives up to us with a motorcycle and shoots us down…” Sullivan didn’t exactly mean it as a joke, but more of his paranoia. At least nothing’s happened to them during Marciano’s spontaneous outings. That’s probably what encourages him to keep on doing it.

Sullivan tries to think of something else by taking out a cigar from inside his suit jacket. He examines it for a moment, and looks around again. “Don’t even know if I can smoke this here…” He puts it aside and instead watches, as the two continue to eat their frozen treats in the slowest manner possible.