It was dark out. The sounds of nearby wildlife could be heard crunching on leaves.

One squirrel in particular, however, had a tinge of curiosity overtake him when he sees a flickering light from the top window of an abandoned warehouse.

Using its natural agility and slim, sharp claws, it climbed its way to the window and observed the happenings from above.

A man in a long, dark cloak sat on a chair beside a small table with a single flickering candle lit. The man was playing with a stress ball between his fingers, rolling it around his knuckles, balancing it on the dip between his thumb and his index finger.

He stopped.

Everything in the room was still. He suddenly launched the ball at the squirrel in the window, hitting it dead on. The creature died upon impact.

The cloaked man took a sharp intake of breath and stood. He wrapped his index finger around the small handle on the candle holder and began walking around the room. As the man wandered about, the bodies of his former colleagues were illuminated by the flame's light. The man continued the stride around the massive room until he came to a stop at a certain corpse.

". . . Hmph." He smirked.

Looking up at the broken window, he spoke, "Hah hah ha. You may have killed all the others, leaving only myself behind. But there's something you forget, boys. As long as the Renaissance Men reside in your memories. We. Will. Live. ON!"

He turned back to the carcass on the floor. The carcass that was short. That had surgical wires along the frame of his face. That had huge red bags under its eyes. That appeared to be an eight year old boy. That looked exactly like the cloaked "man."

"I swear, I will rebuild the Renaissance Men, make it a stronger, wiser, and more elaborate than before! I will continue and finish your mission to cut all ties to the people in your before life! I will use my bare hands to rip apart those who dared call you family! For our name is Shakespeare!"


Steve checked his watch then began rushing to replace the belt on his customer's motor. As soon as he finished, he slammed the hood closed, collected his money, then rushed inside. He flipped the sign on the door to the "Sorry, we're closed" side.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the back room and slowly opened the door. He flinched with every creak it caused. When the door was finally all the way open, he sighed in relief to see that his friend was undisturbed. He cleared his throat and whispered in a soft voice, "S-Soda?"

Said boy flinched in his seat, then he slowly turned in his friend's direction with his head still looking at the ground.

"I-It's time to see yer therapist, buddy."

Soda continued to stay rooted to his seat like a statue, his red-rimmed sleep deprived eyes staring at nothing. After a while of silence, he stands up with a hunch and walks over to his friend. Steve threw an arm over him cautiously and helped the younger walk to his car.

They drove in an tense silence. Every now and then, Steve would steal a glance at Soda's severely hunched over form. He finally broke the silence when he asked, "So. . . h-have you been making any progress?"

No answer.

The older sighed and refocused on the road ahead.

The therapist had become frustrated at this point since having these sessions with Sodapop. Most of the time, he'd just sit in silence, ignoring the doctor. Sometimes the boy would answer in short, senseless phrases. And other times he would talk to his hallucinations, which to the doctor, is the most annoying. This day in particular, sems to be, one of the short, senseless answer days.

"Soda, I need to know what's been going on this week so I can track you progress."

At first, it seemed like Soda was going to ignore him, but then he spoke, "I talked to Ponyboy yesterday. . ."

The doctor scribbled something down on his notepad. "Okay, and what did Ponyboy tell you?"

". . . He said. . . "I'm coming back for all of you, but. . . I'm not coming back. . ."

The therapist sighed and scribbled down on his notepad. "Alright Sodapop," He said with a sigh, "It looks like our time is up. I'll see you Friday, and when I do, I want you talking a lot more. . . Like I told you last time. Alright?"

Soda didn't answer, he just got up and left, slamming the door closed.

The therapist sighed. "Damn kids."


By the time the two made it to the Curtis house, the sun was setting. As usual, Soda plopped himself right down on the porch to watch while Steve went inside.

Steve reached into his pocket and took out his inhaler. He's needed one ever since the incident that ended eight months earlier, mainly because he was stationary beside a small gas leak for about three months. He's also been unable to feel his right hand. . .

He plopped himself down on a kitchen chair across from Dallas after fixing himself some chocolate cake. Dally lightly shaking from anxiety, as if he had something on his mind that he was aching to let out. The New Yorker watched as his friend took out a pill bottle and popped one large pill in his mouth and chased it down with a beer.

"Yer pills started working yet?" Dallas asked nervously.

"Naw. Still can't feel a damn thing in my hand. . ." He suddenly let out an aggravated growl and chucked his pills at the wall. "I don't fuckin' get it! What's wrong with me?" He pinched his right hand.

Nothing.

He pinched it harder.

Still nothing.

He grunted and reached for a nearby knife. Just when he was about to stab himself, Dally restrains him. " Calm down Steve! Stop it!"

Said man glared back at him, still trying to stab himself. When he was returned with a stern look, he threw the knife down and sat back in his chair. He sighed and closed his eyes, still fussing with his hand with no feeling.

". . .Alright!" Dally sighed, ". . . I know why yer not feeling anything in yer hand."

Steve looked at him with his mouth agape. He bit his bottom lip and cleared throat. "You knew. . ." He started with a voice shaking in anger, "You knew what's been goin' on with my hand and waited almost NINE MONTHS after we got outta that mess to tell me about it?" The blonde gulped and slowly nodded. ". . . Alright. . . Tell me, now."

Dally took a sharp intake of breath. "Well, I didn't actually see it happen, but they told me. Here it goes. . . That's not yer hand, they cut it off and replaced it."

The other male sneered. "The hell do ya mean they cut it off?"

"I mean they. . ." He sighed and grabbed his friend's hand. With one good tug, the strange glove came off and exposed the frame and wires of the artificial hand.

Steve gasped at this, but managed to hold back his shock. "S-So, it's still back. . . there?" Dally nodded.

There was a long moment of silence. ". . . I think. . . I think I wanna go get it."

"No! NO! Hell no! We all swore that we'd never go back there!"

"I know! I know! I just. . ." The man sighed and rested his forehead on his fist.

". . . Fine. But, we have to take Soda, you know."

"Y-Yeah, but you can stay in the car with him while I go get it."

"I'm not goin' without somethin' sharp."

"Then it's decided: we're going tonight."


The rusty old truck bounced all around as it made its way down the bumpy dirt road. Sodapop was sleeping in the backseat curled up in a blanket, while the other two Greasers remained shaking in fear in the front. They were nearing the place of their nightmars, their personal Hell.

The rotting building was finally in sight. The two wide-awake men both took sharp breaths in.

"We're really going to do this." Steve said, "Or, at least I'm going to. . ."

"J-Just hurry up, alright? We don't want Soda waking up while we're still here."

Steve nodded in agreement.

The moment he exited the truck and placed his feet on the ground, fear crashed into him like a tidal wave. He gulpped.

"I-I'm going to do this."


It's a slow start, I know. But, I Don't Know You Anymore started off prtty slow too, didn't it?
Here's le question. Why is the name Shakesphere important? This will earn you 8 choc-chip brownies. [::][::][::][::][::][::][::][::]