MAJOR/Minor : The Mac Ferlan's Incident
Chapter 1 : Nightmare of a distant past
Alejandro Ferrand woke from his recurring nightmare, his body covered by cold sweat. He took one long minute to calm himself, and got out of the bed. He could still feel the atrocious pain course through his body, the fear, the odor of his own piss on his legs... The teenager shook his head to get rid of those feelings. The eighteen year old minor was feeling energetic, as often when he awoke from this recurring bad dream, his adrenaline in overdrive, in a flight of fight reflex he knew had been pointless back then. Getting out of his wet t-shirt, he walked to his modified bench press, with its strange bar, higher on the right than on the left. His left arm was itching like crazy, but he ignored it. He knew why his nightmare had come back after almost a month of peaceful nights. He had dared to believe that, perhaps, this part of his past was behind him. That he had grown, somehow, and finally managed to find peace. His itchy left arm was proof enough it wasn’t the case yet.
“Heh. As if I could outgrow anything, right ?” he said to no one in particular, a half-grin on his face.
His often cynical personality was getting the best of him once again, but, as usual, he didn't care. Partly because he was alone, but mainly because he did not care one bit that MAJOR found that kind of spirit strange for a minor. If his life had taught him anything, that was that he was the Jackpot in some insane game and he had learnt to make the best of it. he could be whoever he wanted, MAJORS would still try to get him, punching and kicking each others while doing so. The trick was to be tantalizing but out of reach. Always, out of reach. He had paid a high price for not knowing it when he was eight.
Sitting on his bench press, he passed his right hand on his face to get some moisture out of it and looked at his bedroom’s mirror. Alejandro knew that, for a minor, he was relatively good looking. He wasn’t incredibly tall, not a halfsies by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a respectable 183 cm (6 feet) round. He had wide shoulders, short black hair, generally unkempt, a short black and ginger beard, well shaved this one, and green eyes, vert-de-gris as his father usually said. Jules Ferrand liked to make use of his French native tongues often. Thanks to him, and his mother, Ofelia, he had basically learnt three languages before he even walked.
The itchy feeling in his left arm intensified, and he groaned. It hadn’t been bothered by his arm this much in years. Yet, he did not dare look at it, or even touch it. It was only when the need to scratch became overbearing, that he finally relented and looked at it. Or, more accurately, looked at the left arm he hadn’t. Indeed, where his arm should have been, there was nothing, only a ridiculous stump, sprouting from his left shoulder, barely 20cm (8 inches) in length. Yet, he could feel the itch on the back of his left hand; he could almost feel the feint pulse in his left wrist when his blood was pumping up, like after he dared his little brother, Alaric, to chase after him when he was younger. Or after he woke from a terrible nightmare from a distant past.
With a sigh, he went to retrieve his mp3. No weight-lifting for him tonight. His parents were sleeping, and he did not want to wake them. He liked them, even loved but they were… well they were MAJORS. In fact, among the vast population of MAJORS, the only one he trusted was Alaric, his gemelo dicigótico, as his mother said lovingly. He and his twin weren't, technically, truly twins, after all.They hadn't shared the same ovum nor the same spermatozoid, after all. Him being a minor and his -slightly- younger brother made it relatively obvious.
Geneticists found the strangest things cute, and Alejandro was used to it. Plus, getting called strange words in a loving -but a little overbearring- way was something he could endure with relative ease, as long as he had the right to have some privacy and autonomy. In any case, Alaric and him looked almost like true twins, save for the fact that his younger brother had a darker skin, looking slightly more latino than himself. And he had a scar marring his face, from the right side of his forehead to the left.
Earlier this day, Alejandro had gone with his brother to Old Creek Cemetery. In ten years, neither of them had ever set foot here. Too many bad memories; almost too much to count. But this day, Alejandro wanted to go. He had felt the need to finally get himself free from this part of his past, to finally become something else than a weeping and screaming victim, an impotent plaything in the hands of cruel giants. So, he and his twin had gone to see Joseph Mac Ferlan. Seeing the grave had given Alejandro a sense of closure, something he had been longing ever since he was eight years old. But tonight, Mec Ferlan had come back with a vengeance.
“Here goes nothing, I suppose", said the minor, finally putting his headphones on his ear, to listen to appeasing muscis and sounds. He needed it, but hopefully, it would be the last time. His past would be behind him from today onward, and he would get to be an independent minor, with his dreams, his successes and his failures. And he wouldn't be anyone's minor. he wouldn't belong to anyone, ever again.
He looked at his alarm clock. 5 a.m. In roughly one hour and a half, his parents would get out of bed and prepare for their day of work. They would come to see him and they would instantly know he had made the nightmare again, and they would try to cuddle him, to bring back their long lost cherry and happy baby boy from so long ago.To please them, he would smile more than usual, look happier, but they wouldn't be fooled.
Alejandro never managed to understand how his parents always knew when he had made The nightmare and that he faked happiness. They would tell him that they loved him as he was now, that he didn't need to pretend to be happier than he was, that he could cry, scream, rage... And he would almost believe them, like always. But he wouldn't give in. he wouldn't let Mac Ferlen control him.
Perhaps it was some magical power, granted with parenthood that made them able to say when he had needed his headphones and his soothing music. Alejandro was certain that it couldbe because they had made a bond with him. He hadn’t been bonded to anyone since he was eight. In fact, he had spent the last ten years actively rejecting all mental probes from his father; his sister, his twin or his little sister, Lindsey. Doctors had said that it was an uncommon possibility after the Incident, but not unheard off. Apparently, had been common just after the never talked about Dark Age.
Alejandro could still hear the family's doctor, Anton Smith telling to his weeping mother that her minor baby needed calm, serenity, and time to heal more than anything after the Incident. He had advised his parents to let their oldest son pursue whatever fancies he had for a time, if they were not self-destructive. They had hesitated to call his growing demand for autonomy harmful and degerous for his mental health, but they had relented. The look of their broken boy had at least earned this much privileges to Alejandro. He had learnt to write, read and make basic calculus even before the Incident, but he had learnt practical skills after it, and had combined them with his fertile imagination. That's how he had designed his bench-press, how he had learnt to create furnitures for minors, or, more prosaically, how to deal with taxes, how to cook, how to take care of oneself...
Smith had also said that, sometimes, when a minor was “bond-rapped” as Alejandro had been, he subconsciously repelled all bonds. It was a natural and healthy healing process; he had assured his terrified parents. Such a minor needed time to himself, to get his full sense of self back, to put his mind together and find a way forward. And after the traumatic Mac Ferlan’s Incident, the good doctor was certain that Alejandro would need years, perhaps decades to fully heal and seek a bond.
“Many peoples will call him damaged”, Smith had said. “Rest assured he is certainly not. I have seen some fire inside your boy. What he did to this… this degenerate, this shame to all MAJORKIND, is proof enough that Alejandro his made of steel and won't break. He will heal, he will be peculiar – how could he not be after what he went through? – but he’ll still be your boy. And one day, some guy or gal will attract his interest, some people with an open mind and a big heart, and he’ll find lasting joy. But first, he needs to heal”.
A decade had come and gone and he wasn’t sure that Smith had been right. He was attracted to some girls, those well-endowed, powerful MAJORS, on a physical level, like most minor boys probably were. Heck, even more impressive specimens, like this Jessica from Winton Hight or whatever, who was taking part in some sort of female-wrestling competitions, could arouse him. But it was all physical. He felt no kinship, no desire to go and talk to them. He wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t sure he would ever be, if he did not leave his home. That’s why he had went to Old Creek. To get out. To prepare himself for the real world.
Ten years ago, he had been an outgoing minor, the kind of little thing who didn’t even know what fear meant. He had a loving family, a strong twin brother he liked to tease for being younger than him and a cute little sister, barely three years old and already stronger than he. Truly, he was an average minor, in a wealthy family. He even had all the parents in the neighborhood to give him candies and small gifts in the hope that the “pretty little mice” would get in touch with their progeny. Among this crow of kids and young teenagers was Joseph Mac Ferlan.
At fourteen, Joseph was tall for his age, almost 3m17 (10,4 feet). A blond, with impressive muscles and an arrogant personality, he had declared that Alejandro would be his. Everyone knew this, especially the young minor. He never had cared much about it. Most MAJORS proclaimed the same thing on a daily basis and then proceeded to punch each other cold for such incredibly silly reasons than who had the bigger TV, who’se dad was stronger, that kind of stupid shit that the minor never really understood.
Still, among his kind, Joseph had been the best. Or, well, the worst. All other boys and girls had finally admitted that, yes, Alejandro was his. All but the minor himself. He never quite liked Joseph and usually stayed out of his way. Expect this fateful Halloween, ten years ago. He had been disguised as a mogwai, getting tons of candies, while his brother was disguised as a huge zombie. At one point, he did not remember why, Alejandro had ceased to follow Alaric around and chose to eat some of his candies.
He hadn’t even had the time to eat one that some big hand had engulfed his head and he had felt himself leave the ground. With horror, he had felt his captor run somewhere, while his muffled screams were unable to reach beyond the greasy and sweaty palm covering his face.