Damien Oakland

[Damien]

Damien Oakland

D.O.B: 20th October 2015, Augusta, Maine, USA.

Location and Occupation: San Quentin State Prison, California, USA. Inmate on Death Row

Appearance: 6'2 with a medium muscular build. Long dark brown hair with dark facial hair framing a youthful face weathered and hardened.

Psychological Profile: Egotistical, dominating and ambitious are the three words that come to mind when people describe Damien. He has always burned with a desire to make something of himself which has not dampened by his time in prison. Damien is a man of principle and philosophy. Of HIS principle and HIS philosophy and he accepts nothing that strays from his belief.

Abilities: Channeler.

Biography:

Damien was born in small the northern state of Maine, USA into a close-knit family. At the age of 2, his parents were forced out of work by the turbulence of the times and would have languished in poverty. However, his father received a lucrative business opportunity from a friend in the Custody.

As a result, Damien spent the greater part of his life in comfort and peace on a private estate of modest means outside of London. Owing to his ambition which bloomed at an early age coupled with an unrelenting confidence, Damien attracted the notice of many of the prominent citizens of the Custody, but found himself at the same time shunned by the upper echelons because of his modest wealth and obscure heritage.

Damien finished his secondary education and spent two years at Oxford studying Political Science before tragedy struck his family back in Maine where his grandfather was murdered leaving his grandmother heavily in debt and unable to pay for treatment for Behçet's disease which rendered her incapacitated.

Damien and his parents rushed back to Maine just before his twentieth birthday, unable to both support his education and his grandmother. It was not without trepidation that Damien left Oxford, but found that he was unable to support himself.

Back in the USA, he took various menial jobs to support his family. His determination (and no doubt other reasons) attracted the eyes of the daughter of a Senator, Elissa Davis.

At 23 Damien was struck by an inexplicable sickness which no doctor could determine the cause. Frequent fevers and sudden euphoric fits of near insanity came to a head on the fourteenth of Feburary 2038. He planned a surprise Valentine for his girlfriend and awaited her return from work.

As she returned, unsuspecting, Damien was struck with a violent fit of euphoria which increased his daring nature to dangerous levels. Instead of the surprise of chocolate and flowers, he proposed to Elissa. Her father objected and an argument began between the two men, when Damien was filled with indignant rage.

Damien has no firm memory of what exactly happened, but both Elissa and her father were immolated and the house destroyed. Although the evidence was circumstantial and his rage-induced state not warranting first degree murder, the man's status as a Senator coupled with a string of suspected bribes Damien was sentenced to death at the age 23.

He was transferred to the maximum security prison of San Quentin where the long and arduous process of appeals began. Thoroughly disillusioned, Damien grew disgusted at the corruption and brutality that he witnessed.

His spirit was never dampened by impending death. He continued to study, taking an interest in Justice and Philosophy and quickly became notorious amongst his fellow inmates as a dangerous and implacable adversary.

For the past 7 years Damien has nurtured his new-found gift and shaped it to his will with an impressive determination, however, his ambitious nature grows impatient and burns for freedom.

[Damien]

7 Years Ago

The sun watched impassively overhead as its blistering rays scorched the bay of San Fransisco. The view was truly breathtaking if one could see beyond the blighted cesspool that was San Quentin State Prison. The primitive shackles had rubbed his wrists raw as the armoured van had bounced about along the road for countless hours.

It had been dark when the blunt faced guards had thrown him into the cursed vehicle and it had seemed like an eternity riding with the sullen bastard who had stared at him the whole time as if he were a wolf loose among a flock of sheep.

Damien smiled. Finally they had arrived at his new home and grave and it greeted him like an old friend. A half dozen men and women in black vests adorned with the San Quentin badge that they wore with so much pride awaited him in silent vigil. Sullen face prodded him with the butt of his energy baton as if he wanted to remain in the back of a van.

“Have no fear,”
he said in his polished British accent tinged with the memory of his time in Maine creating a musical cadence his mother loved. "I don’t want to spend another moment in here either, friend.”


That produced another prod in the back, this time harder. Damien simply rose and exited the van, savouring the breeze that caressed his face and awaited the approaching escort.

It was a skinny man with a balding tonsure who approached him first. Damien examined this unlikely paragon but was halted by the sharp tone in his voice as he spoke. “I am Warden Adam Beech, welcome to San Quentin, Oakland.”


***

“This here is the most secure facility in the world, despite what you may have heard,”
Beech was saying as they walked down a hall of what looked like stainless steel. The metallic shine was broken only at precise intervals by almost imperceptible indents that passed for doors. “Those doors”
Beech continued as he noticed Damien’s curiosity, “can be altered. One way Clear to look in or regular, just like glass.”


Beech’s sharp tone with that southern accent and barely decipherable words grated on his nerves but he contented himself to watch and listen lest the two dull-eyed fellows that served as an escort decided to use their weapons rather than just thinking of it.

It was something that had baffled Damien to no end. The ones who eyed him with hatred. Disgust he understood, even fear, but he had not done them any personal harm. Even had he been the terror they dreamed of, their violence was petty. It stunk of vengeance disguised behind a transparent veil of false justice.

“...and here we arrive at your home. Section C-5, Death Row.”


Damien’s attention was drawn back to Beech as they approached a dead end. The smooth surface of the wall was broken by a small indent and a panel. Beech pressed his face up against the obscured panel and the wall slid open to form a doorway.

The hall beyond was identical to the previous; Damien had to wonder if they meant to kill him with boredom. “Watch yourself, Oakland,”
Beech said, shuffling up to whisper in his ear. “Your pretty face won’t do you good here.”


Damien did not dignify that with a reply. He merely surveyed each face as they passed into the most notorious apartment blocks in the US. To say he was not impressed was an understatement. Beech listed each man’s crime as if he cared to know what monstrosities the dregs of humanity could commit. Rape and murder, mass murder, serial killing. It was all the same to him. Sociopaths, psychopaths and every other kind of –path you could think of arranged like trophies on display.

Damien soon ignored Beech’s droning list, distracted by the light and warmth that lay just beyond his reach. The illusive mystery confounded him more than anything in the world. What was it? Why did it taunt him so?

It had been the glow that had killed Elli, he was sure of it. Oh, it had been him. He had reconciled himself to the fact long since. He had dissembled the moment in his mind down to the last inch. He had grasped the light and it had given him strength. Power.

It had been the most glorious moment of his life, the moment before his world had burned around him. Literally.

“Here is where you will be staying.”


Damien resumed his attention and surveyed the room before his eyes. It was stark and drear. A smooth rounded chamber adorned with nothing but a toilet and a bed with a sealed bag containing his chosen possessions at its foot. It was surprisingly spacious though, a little smaller than the room he had spent his childhood in, which was by no means tiny.

“Alright, get settled in. You’ll be in here twenty hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of your life, best make do with it.”


Damien entered without a word and did not glance back as the door closed and resumed the dull metallic of a wall. He sat down on the bed, breathing in the sterile and scentless air. Why did the light elude him now? Why did it hide? It was his, he knew.

But how to make it mine again?

He had a long time to find the answer.
Edited by Damien, Feb 19 2014, 06:40 PM.

[Damien]

Six Years Ago

The first year in San Quentin had proven the most challenging. It afforded him the luxury of personal penance. His deficiencies had been the cause of his incarceration and the death of Elli and for that he had decided to pay the price.

Three times he allowed himself to be beaten within an inch of his life in the first year. He appeased the shallow brutality of the prisoners in silence. Each blow that fell and every drop of blood that spilled from his body served not only as a lesson but a reminder of what had been lost. He held no grudges against his assailants. He did not even learn their names or burn the image of their faces into his mind. The sacks of corrupted humanity escaped his notice along with the pain. All he saw was the magnificent glow of Power that lay beyond his reach.

Each time he suffered, he grew closer to the light that was his world. He spent days on end staring into the mesmerizing depths of ecstasy only to brush its surface and fall from the heights of expanded perception. The days drifted in an unending dream of metallic solitude where he was occasionally awoken by a faint gleam of metaphorical sunlight.

Like all dreams must, his came to an end. It was irritating that it had taken him so long, but the euphoria of success overwhelmed vanity. It had happened so suddenly after an endless desert of failure. Not satisfied with his blood, one brute of a man who was likely mad and most certainly dangerous wanted more.

Damien remembered the day well. It had been overcast and rain drizzled the fenced yard. The two others turned away as the beast strode out with all of the pomp of a preening peacock. Damien was lathered in the sweat of monotonous exercise that kept his body in top condition.

“I have heard stories from the boys, but I did not believe that a man could be so pretty,”
the beast had said with taunting scorn. “The fuck you doing in here, pretty boy? You don’t belong; someone needs to teach you your place.”


He heard pants drop amidst the soft patter of rain and turned from his contemplation of the grey ocean above. “You are right, I am not like you.”


His head spun as a fist struck his cheek with sluggish brutality and he dropped to the ground. The beast knelt behind him like a mongrel and panted in his ear. “I’m going to rip your ass so hard you won’t sit straight for days.”


Anger flared as he struggled against the putrid heaving form above him. Who was this bastard who thought he could defile whomever he pleased?

Damien did not care who, he would not allow it. Could not. He stretched his mind towards the glow of power, willing it to submit. It could not fail him here. He had grasped it before and he could do so again.

The sound of ripping cloth cemented his resolve and like a hammer he struck fast and hard. Damien jerked his elbow up into the beast’s chest with the essence of power pervading his mind. He smelled burning hair as the sharp edge collided with a meaty rib-cage and a howl of surprise and pain was the last thing he heard before his world faded to black.

When he had regained consciousness, Beech stared into his cell with a patient gaze. He then related the rest of the story. The brute had fled like a whipped cur alerting the guards where they found Damien unconscious but unsullied.

He dismissed the incident, his anger already faded. He had more important things, important revelations. The glow had heeded him. He tried again, but it did not come, yet his mood was not soured. It had responded to his call.

It was only a matter of time before he would control it.
Edited by Damien, Feb 21 2014, 09:25 AM.

[Damien]

Four Years Ago

The iridescent glow of Power had flicked the switch in his mind. After the second encounter, Damien assumed a more animated existence not unlike the days he spent in London. Word had spread of the incident and the prisoners stepped lightly around him with equal parts superstitious fear and sullen resentment. He sensed the time would come when they attempted to exact revenge and he resolved to be ready for it.

It took them longer than Damien had expected to overcome their trepidation which served only to decrease the likelihood of success. By the time the attack came, Damien had already asserted an imperfect control over the light. It now came to him if he was in great need. Day by day the urgency needed was whittled down so that he had more than enough time to respond to the three thugs who cornered him in the gym. The fact that the guards were conspicuously scarce confirmed his suspicions but he had a infinitely greater shield.

When Damien had walked from the room he encountered no more inconveniences. It gave him the opportunity to focus on mastering the wayward power. In between the necessities of everyday life and his pursuit he found himself thinking of Elli and opened his mind to the events that had transpired.

Time once again drifted without meaning. It was no longer spent in the haze of a dream, or rather, a nightmare. It now passed beyond his notice. He had failed to control himself once before and he would not stop until that was remedied. It was the least he owed to the girl’s memory.

When control finally came to him, it was not through any need of his own.

Three years in the pit of degeneration has inured him to the savage primacy of the inmates. Blood and anger could be found in abundance and Damien left them to their fate. It did not matter to him if they consumed each other in the reciprocal fires of what they called the ‘rules’ on the inside; a pathetic attempt to justify sating their own lust for cruelty and violence which the guards seemed content to allow and even encourage.

That day, however, marked the beginning of something new. There had been several murders since he had arrived and countless before that. It had the sickly cast of tradition.

The showers were almost always deserted by the time Damien was allowed in. He had been labelled a danger and his movements severely restricted after the previous incident. That day, fate delivered four men into his hands.

As he entered the nondescript room he could already smell the sharp scent of fresh blood. The sound of running water and strangled cries caught his attention. Three inmates surrounded another who lay on the floor stained with the blood he had smelled. The three men set about their task with barbarous glee.

Damien turned to leave before he caught a glimpse of a youthful face through the red and bruised mask. This ‘man’ was nothing but a child; he could be no more than eighteen. His pathetic sobs stirred Damien to action. The moment was incredible in its simplicity. The light and power flooded him with life.

He struck the first man with inhuman strength which sent him crashing into the wall. The other two had little time to react before they were dispatched with similar ease. Such a defining event lasted mere seconds and left him dissatisfied.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,”
the boy repeated over and over with an outstretched hand.

Damien looked at the pitiable youth for a long moment, watching the blood and water stream down his face.

That day he did not have the chance to shower. He returned to his cell and sat, revelling in his new found control. The commotion that was raised when the guards found the four men was barely perceptible.

Damien drank deep from the light, drank until it diffused his whole being. This was how it was meant to be.
Edited by Damien, Feb 24 2014, 08:07 AM.

[Damien]

Damien flourished in the following four years as he mastered the light of power. He extended the scope of his learning and began to study the art of philosophy. From Aristotle to Descartes, Socrates to Nietzsche he became a consummate student and adapt philosopher in his own right.

His experiments with the light did not always meet with favourable results but his determination and the death sentence that hung over his head allowed for rapid, if brutal, growth. This growth brought with it fear and respect. His self-assurance took on an otherworldly and unshakeable serenity which drew the attention of the warden and his staff.

Beech first approached him as he sat reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius one afternoon under the mild autumn sunlight in the yard. The balding man was accompanied by two heavily armed underlings who eyed the prisoners with wary contempt. It was a pointless affectation. None of the dozen or so inmates would dare approach him without good reason.

“So you’ve made peace with your situation, Oakland?”
the Warden asked, condescending to sit down on the smoothed bench of steel. “What with all that trouble you caused at first, I thought you were a goner for sure. I’m pleased you’ve decided to settle yourself.”


“I am content,”
was all he deigned to say without looking up.

Beech cleared his throat and the guards shifted with restless energy. After a protracted silence, Damien looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You have something you wish to discuss?”


The skinny man looked hesitant but spoke with a clear firmness. “The results of your recent appeal.”


Damien did not move. “I wasn’t aware I attended the proceedings. Tell me Warden Beech, did I miss something?”


“No Oakland, you didn’t. The judge has pronounced his decision though.”


“Of course,”
he replied. “When is my next appeal?”


Beech grimaced and he actually looked embarrassed. “I tried to delay the proceedings... Two years. The courts will not review your case for another two years.”


“Thank you, Warden. Is there anything else?”


Beech made to say something but caught himself and shook his head. “No, that will be all. You have twenty minutes remaining.”


Beech and his men left Damien to his own devices. Some of the inmates looked at him with nervous apprehension. Damien ignored them. He looked up towards the cloudless sky. Two years... and how long after that before they ended the charade?

He wrapped himself in the comforting presence of the light of power. He had learned to master the use of the strange threads of power. He could knit them together to create a host of otherwise miraculous feats. He had suffered, persevered, listened and learned for seven years.

His penance was finally at an end. It was time.