Hybrid

By Marcia Young

Dros Cularia was no hero. Sentenced to attend the infamous verian juvenile corrections facility, Stadium High, he was the farthest thing from hero material there was. In a life filled with a psychopathic father, wealth, and a family name that could buy him anything he desired, there was little he held dear. After the death of his mother, Dros stopped trying to quell his dark urges for violence. That all changed, however, when he met her. A defenseless hybrid who desperately needed a hero, Lilata.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcia Young
• Release date: Dec 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301784936

Marcia Young

Marcia Young was born in the northwest and raised in the southeast. Having visited roughly a dozen countries, and lived in two, there is no place called "home". She currently resides in the southeast with her husband and their teen. Hardly a prolific writer she tends to write mostly when her husband is deployed, and when she should be paying attention to other things.

Book preview

Rage nearly swallowed him as he listened to his father dispassionately explain that his mother was dead. His father, Congressman Cularia, recited the bare facts as calmly as he would explain that it was another rainy Olympia day and that he should dress appropriately for such.

Dros' breathing came in labored pants as he stared into his father's eyes; ones identical to his own. The dark green of his irises speckled with yellow complementing the brown of his skin and dark maroon hair. He hated, at that moment that his own coloring matched his father's perfectly.

Physically Dros was a picture perfect Cularia. His coloring was exactly what one would expect from such an illustrious lineage. If verian's still had royalty the Cularia's would be at the top. Long ago his family ruled over the verian population of what was now Washington State; before humans were sentient, before they shared the land with another race vying for dominance.

His father had all but drilled such facts into him. Familial history and personal gain were important to his sire. In a family where those before you achieved greatness still taught in history books today it was easy to feel like you should do your best to stand out from those before you. His father seemed obsessed with doing just that. There was some driving force behind his father that demanded he too would make his mark among their family; a family that was now dwindled down to two.

Dros' mother came from a good family but nowhere near the status of the Cularia's. Her lily white skin and hair brought her attention from dozens of suitors when she was younger. She was the epitome of verian beauty with her delicate build and soft green eyes the color of healthy leaves. Her nature was as gentle as she was physically delicate. She was social to a fault, though. She seemed to thrive off of attention, constantly throwing parties and involved with a multitude of social events.

She was a woman looked up to and envied.

I'm sure it's hard to know she's gone, son, but it'll be fine. We both knew she was ill. It's not such a shock after all. Now, I expect you to be on your best behavior at the funeral; none of your… outbursts. The way his father said 'outbursts' made it seem as if Dros was prone to tantrums like some child instead of the more violent acts of a teenager. The pause before the word made it seem as if his father was substituting it for something darker and yet more trivial at the same time.

Of course, he heard himself reply calmly. He didn't feel calm. He felt like his world had suddenly ended. Where there was once an endless sea of land before him there was suddenly a cliff shearing off into an abyss; and he was teetering on the edge.

Good, the arrangements have already been made for the service. It'll be held in three days. His father started to turn away and was nearly out of Dros' bedroom when he paused at the door. And, son, I mean it; no outbursts.

Fine, Dros spat. I'll play nice.

With a low grunt Congressman Cularia left the room. Dros found he didn't care where his father was off to. Falling onto his bed face down in deadweight he could feel the tears burn his eyes. Clinching them shut he fought off the feeling.

A Cularia didn't cry.

Still the feeling persisted and he pretended that the wetness on the pillow his face was buried in wasn't there. Nor was his body racked with shuddering breaths as soundlessly as possible. Rage swelled in him again; dark and nearly tangible. With a gasp he surged up from the bed and grabbed the first thing his hand landed on; an old wind up alarm clock. Tossing it at the partially opened door it shattered in a burst of springs and slivers of glass. The force of the impact slamming the door closed with a bang as he had unconsciously intended.

Collapsing again onto the bed he pretended, until he fell asleep from emotional exhaustion, that the dampness on his cheeks was not there even as it tickled slightly as it dried.

***

She was a kind and gentle woman who loved her family above all else. Active in the community she was a beacon of hope for those less fortunate. She will be sorely missed.

Dros barely heard most of the eulogy that was given. It was all pointless. None of these people truly knew his mother. They were hangers on who associated with her due to her place in society; due to the Cularia name. People she needed to push through her own agendas or his father's. People she needed to tell her how wonderful she was so that she'd actually believe it.

They didn't know how much she truly loved her son; no matter how little she was able to give of herself due to her own emotional needs. They didn't know how she spent what time she could to help him achieve a balance in himself to quell his darker urges. While she didn't understand his need for violence she did her best to help him channel it. All she wanted, needed, was for people to love her.

Dros doubted that there was a single person there who knew anything of substance about her. He found that he was both numb and raging at the same time while outwardly having a mien of stoic grief. He felt like he was drowning in freezing waters during a tempest. It was exhausting just trying to navigate such turbulent emotions and he wasn't sure if he'd ever surface.

Numbly he watched as the casket was closed and the pallbearers prepared to do their duty to her. Taking his place in the procession he shuddered as his father put a 'consoling' hand on his shoulder in a show of silent support. Dros knew without looking that there were several key players in the political realm there, news casters and other such people dotted the crowd as well. His mother's funeral had been nothing but a mockery of her. He had expected nothing different and she would have loved to see so many people in attendance. Her need for worship would have been fed if she had been alive to enjoy it.

The ride to the cemetery was silent; his father punching keys on his organizer while Dros stared blankly out the limo's window. The Olympia weather was actually nice for a change. Gone was the dreary rain and constant drizzle. The chill that always permeated the air was lessened. Several times Dros had to choke back his powers from escaping. It would not do to have his abilities run rampant today of all days.

When the limo rolled to a smooth stop his father snapped the organizer shut and rolled his shoulders slightly before stepping out of the car looking as if he was about to cry. Again Dros had to prevent his powers from bursting forth to match the rise of his anger. He didn't need a hysterical mob of 'mourners' running around the cemetery; especially the humans. The other verians would understand to a degree if he lost control; though they would silently be shaking their heads at his lack of discipline. Few if any humans would understand if he slipped up.

It was harder than he thought to maintain that fragile thread of control as he listened to person after person offer vapid condolences. It finally snapped when he noticed past the throng of well-wishers his father standing at the edge of the crowd flirting with some woman. The fact that he would do so in plain view while his wife was having clod after clod of moist earth tossed onto her coffin with dull thuds was revolting. As he leaned in to kiss her lightly on the cheek while smiling and brushing his knuckles across her exposed clavicle Dros lost it.

His powers were stronger than normal for verians and they exploded from him in a wave of hallucinogenic fury. Confused panic washed though the humans as they collapsed into a grieving mass, unable to stop the flood of grief induced by the airborne pathogens Dros unwittingly saturated the immediate area with. The verians faired only slightly better knowing it was some sort of attack but even they fell as a blend of fury, pain and despair swept over them.

Vaguely though the red haze of his fury he saw his father's shocked face before he too fell and the huddled confused masses quivering before him before everything went black.

***

The hard impact of the ground slamming into his cheek was what finally brought him back to himself. Blinking away the last of the blackness confusion swamped him as he focused his eyesight on the slender green blades of grass bent under his weight. He could make out yelling and the thudding of feet surrounding him but not anything distinct. Stark reality slapped him as he realized that someone must have tackled him to make him stop his unconscious attack.

Past his maroon hair, which fell haphazardly across his face, he saw a rather distinctive shade of blue. Forcing himself to focus past the sudden despondency he slowly realized that he recognized that dark blue. Something was pressing heavily on his back and he just knew that it was the knee of the leg blocking his sight from anything beyond it.

Someone must have called the police during his loss of control. His feet slipped slightly as he stumbled to remain upright as he was jerked up, his arms securely bound behind him hampering his balance.

Glancing around the cemetery he noticed that the other ‘mourners’ were pulling themselves up off the ground. Tears were streaked down several faces slowly drying in the cold February air. Tilting his head forward he looked at the ground before glancing up through his hair at the other people around him.

Dros ignored his father asking the police to take into consideration his son’s grieving status. The humans in the crowd looked terrified and the verians shocked that they were taken down so easily. He could hear them as they broke off into small clusters muttering about what happened; hallucinations, uncontrolled sporadic feelings.

Dros felt a twinge of guilt as several men held their women close to comfort them. He hadn’t meant to cause them so much emotional and mental anguish. A twinge of guilt though was all he could manage to feel for them, however, while he was dealing with his own turbulent emotions.

It hardly fazed him as his head was pushed down so he wouldn’t smack it into the top of the patrol car door as he was shoved into the backseat. The entire ride to the precinct he sat visibly appearing stoic; emotionally he was finally numb.

***

The judge had been lenient as far as Dros was concerned. It seemed that he had indeed taken into account that he was grieving the death of his mother; that or his father had paid him off. Dros wasn’t sure, nor did he care. He was released on his own recognizance with just a verbal warning that if there was a repeat offence he wouldn’t get off so easily. Several humans that had been present at the funeral had threatened to sue for emotional trauma but any such whisperings were quickly hushed up.

His father’s work he was sure.

He was reprimanded by the judge that as a verian of upstanding citizenship he was supposed to set an example for the others. As a verian of strong abilities he was expected to maintain strict control of his powers. Others were not his playthings and such loss of control was unacceptable for ‘one such as him’. Dros took that statement to mean ‘for a Cularia’. Other verians still looked up to his family for guidance despite their now ‘common’ standing; while they were rulers no longer they were still revered by many verians. Dros doubted humans would ever understand the way life worked for the average verian much less how such things were viewed. After all how did one treat royalty that walked among them yet ruled no longer?

The next few months were a blur of grief. He made the motions of adapting to the life of a motherless teen. He went to the exclusive verian only private school his father chose. He associated with the teens his father chose. He was dutiful as was expected of the Cularia Heir. He was dead inside and yet somehow he managed to silently rage in his grief. A part of him whispered that it was only time before he slipped up again. While his arrest at his mother’s funeral had been his first arrest, it wasn’t his first offence for fighting or causing a public disturbance. It was merely the first time he was held accountable.

Since his arrest it had been assumed by his classmates that he had mellowed. That good behavior had been scared into him; that or that his mother’s death had changed him possibly irrevocably. Dros however knew it was only a matter of time before the dark feelings living inside of him burst free once more. The funeral was merely the beginning if he didn’t find a way to control himself.

Part of him craved the sweet surge of adrenaline that heightened his senses and cleared the mind while at the same time clouding it. He itched to feel his fist crash into someone’s soft yielding flesh. He wanted to hear the shouts of pain as he broke bones and to feel the splatter of hot chlorophyll landing on him.

He craved it as much as a junky desired the next hit. And with his craving he knew his life would only get worse if he couldn’t control his urges. But it was so hard to control them when everything that he was demanded he give in and sate the darkness sliding through him. It felt like an uphill battle and he was positive that he was slipping further down it with every passing day.

His school was what anyone would expect from such a prestigious institute. Immaculately clean halls, the best of the best for teachers, understanding, caring faculty; even small manageable class sizes so that every student got as much hands on teaching as they needed. On the surface it was the perfect school with healthy lunches and state-of-the-art equipment and sports programs.

After school hours and between classes, however, there was always a fight going on. It was just too easy to meet up during a study period when none of the faculty patrolled the school as long as on the surface everything was fine. Fights were rarely caught. It was only when someone slipped up and fought in the halls that it happened.

Dros had been part of the fight scene for years. Money changed hands at times, though that wasn’t the reason why he fought, at other times it was to assert dominance or to settle a grudge. Dros didn’t care why it happened; only that it did. He only cared that he had an outlet. He only cared for the rush of adrenaline and the downer afterwards that left him sated and pleasantly spent. It was only after a fight that he felt calm and relaxed. It was only then that his guard was down and he wasn’t high-strung looking for the next hit of adrenaline.

Since his mother had died he was like a walking bomb. He hadn’t participated in the fights since the funeral; and there were several people talking about how he couldn’t hack it anymore. There were whisperings about how he lost his nerve after his brief bout in jail. It didn’t bother him as much as others assumed. He knew well that several people had staged conversations within his hearing range hoping to prompt him into a fight. The fighters weren’t the only ones who enjoyed the ‘sport’. There were plenty who skipped classes just to watch their favorite fighters behind the school or under the bleachers.

Hey, Cularia! At first Dros chose to ignore the shout. He wasn’t interested in anything anyone had to say.

His behavior of avoidance of any and all contact wasn’t uncommon. He often went weeks or months barely interacting with his fellow students. So having him ignore someone hardly raised an eyebrow.

It was when the weed grabbed him that the hall fell silent. The clatter of lockers and shuffling of papers and feet just stopped. Just like his avoidant behavior was common knowledge it was also common knowledge that Dros hated being touched.

What the fuck is so important that you need to touch me? he snarled yanking his arm out of the other guy's grasp. His green eyes burned with fury and he could feel his control slipping as fast as his heartbeat picked up.

Got your attention didn’t it, weed, the lily white skinned teen replied haughtily.

You better be careful who you insult, Dau, Dros bit out. Being called a weed was akin to being called worthless and unwanted; a common but uncouth insult among verians. Weeds were worthless things to be exterminated when found. They held no value among other verians.

At first glance Dau looked thin and nearly wispy. Someone to discount easily as far as threat level went. His build was almost nonexistent. He looked like a strong breeze could blow him over but he was a hard fighter, able to slip past his opponents defenses easily. His lily white skin was almost unhealthy looking next to his green hair. His hair was short and well styled but it had a yellow tinge to it, reminiscent of old grass, that wasn’t flattering next to such brilliantly white skin.

You know, Dau, maybe you should trying dying your hair. I bet you could finally get a date. The malice dripped off Dros’ words. The gasp from the crowd didn’t even register with Dros as he watched his words hit home.

You fucking, weed! Dau yelled before taking a swing at Dros.

Verians prided themselves on their coloring. No matter how horribly it sometimes clashed it was theirs and unique to their species. To suggest that someone should dye their hair or preform other cosmetic alterations was a severe insult. Humans did such things, not verians. The humans who dyed their hair unnatural colors, for their species, or used contacts toward that effect were ridiculed by verians. The more a human altered themselves to stand out the less verians respected that person. No self-respecting verian would be caught dead altering themselves artificially.

Dros dodged the fury fueled punch easily enough slipping to the side. Sliding his backpack off his shoulder and into his hands he swung it hard against Dau’s back causing him to stumble and nearly fall. Dau was up in an instant however and running toward Dros, any thoughts of finesse and style evaporated in his anger.

A part of Dros urged him to stop. He was fighting in the middle of a hall. He was letting his need for violence get the best of him. This was foolishness at the most extreme. He was a Cularia, he was better than this! And yet no matter how loud the voice got it always faded away as he landed yet another punch. When he felt his foot connect to Dau’s side and saw him give a gasp as his body curled in on itself the voice died out completely. Dros lost himself in his needs.

The sounds of shouting and the chanting of ‘fight’ were dull background noise. There was only the sound of his blood rushing through his ears. The image of the crowd blurred. His was focus solely on Dau; who was a mass of bruises as he scrambled to his feet yet again.

Pain blossomed through Dros’ cheek as Dau managed to land another punch. Tasting chlorophyll filling his mouth he realized must have bit the inside of his cheek when he was hit. Dros had no choice but to spit it out. Aiming for Dau’s eyes he chuckled as Dau skid to a stop whipping his face off frantically with his hand so he could see. Dros bent one knee and pivoted on his foot bringing the free leg up and slamming it into Dau’s side in a roundhouse kick sending Dau crashing to the floor.

Straightening he went to slam his heel into Dau’s gut as the other male rolled onto his back. Firm hands grabbed Dros’ arms and yanked him backwards causing him to stumble and knock into his captor. Blind by grief and rage Dros tried to pull his arms free only to be slammed into the nearby lockers, his breath leaving him briefly from the impact. The thud of flesh hitting metal reverberated around the hall. The other students had fallen silent as soon as someone showed up to interfere. Twisting his head painfully to the side he rested his cheek on the cool metal under him and idly wondered if he had broken his nose, the pain made it hard to think. Dros had his arms wrenched back further behind him and renewed his struggles to be free. No matter how much he fought he still found his wrists pinned and handcuffed.

As the thin metal clacked into place Dros let out a stuttering chuckle. He hadn’t stopped to think who had interfered in his fight. It seemed that the Principle had finally had enough of him and called the police. Dros had a sinking feeling that this time things were going to be different. Something in him yelled and screamed that life had just taken a turn for the unexpected. He wasn’t sure if this turn was a good thing or not but he had the feeling that he had finally fallen over the precipice that he had been standing on since his mother died.

And he couldn’t seem to find the energy to care.

***

Dros was led back to his cell after his hearing. He’d seen only the holding cell for the last two weeks. He had used his one call to contact his father; as a good son should. He’d listened to his father quietly tell him that he was disappointed in him since he couldn’t control his ‘outbursts’. He was told that this time his father wasn’t going to make it all go away. Dros had to ride things out as they happened.

Yet he still couldn’t seem to gather the energy to care. It was as if all of his emotions, dark or otherwise, had bleed out of him. He idly contemplated if this apathetic state was his new normal and vaguely he wondered if he cared if it was.

As the police unlocked the handcuffs and placed him back into his holding cell he couldn't gather the energy to care about his coming trial either. He had experienced a flash of shock when he learned that while his father had prevented his fighting from getting him kicked out of school the school officials themselves had kept records of it. The list was longer than he had thought. During his hearing a representative from the school had produced it as evidence of repeated violent and disruptive behavior. The judge had agreed to admit it as evidence in the actual trial.

His father, who had not shown up at the hearing, had been reported to say that as part of his punishment and as a 'life building lesson' he would not put up bail for him. Dros Cularia, the only Cularia heir, would stay in prison until his trial and subsequent sentencing.

Chapter Two

Dros Cularia you are hereby sentenced to one year imprisonment for assault. You will serve out your sentencing at Stadium High Juvenile Correction Institute. You will reside on the premises since you are a repeat offender and deemed likely to repeat your offense if left to your own cognizance.

The judge’s voice seemed to echo and thunder through the crowded courtroom before the gavel banged sharply and the courtroom was filled with the sounds of shuffling and excited murmurs. In the back of the crowded room,