.

"Just because you grow up in a family of abusive monsters doesn't mean you have to become one."

[1]

And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth.
And the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters.
And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered.
Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered.
And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man:
All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died.
- Genesis 7:17-22.

Antonio Di Nicola Jewelry wasn't much in the way of a big deal. He knew that. It certainly wasn't much of a big deal for someone with a B.A. in Economics, let alone one from the University of Chicago, with a GPA of 3.5—with Honors, and a stellar record in Varsity Baseball. It wasn't what he first had in mind. It certainly wasn't what his parents had in mind. But despite the, as his mother had once put it, lackluster career prospects paved way for a jewelry store employee—working for Antonio Di Nicola as an accountant was not the wrong choice to make.

It wasn't a mistake when his first paycheck came into his account. It wasn't a mistake when he earned a few extra hundred dollars after learning how to repair watches and rings, either.

Bertram Walker doesn't make mistakes. Incidentally, neither does Thomas Ward.

Oh, sure, he might not know how to solve a problem immediately, but once you've shown him how to do something, or given him the tools, the resources, to learn on his own accord, wherever it's as simple as navigating to his new apartment or as complex as multi-dimensional integral calculus, he won't make a mistake doing it. It's one of his virtues. Like being able to run to first base in less than four seconds. So when Thomas slaps the door into the store that morning, clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee and a Breakfast Burrito, it isn't a mistake and he knows it.

See, Bertram Walker hasn't got prospects. His family life before college was practically non-existent; he grew up in the Birch Hill Home for Boys, struggled his way through Head Start and, suffered through a disappointing childhood where nobody stays for long and greed is the short and long of everything. Ergo, by the end of it, Bertram Walker has nothing to lean on aside from an intimate grasp of the bible and a skewed perception of how family works. Oh, and a mind for how math works. That's something. That's something that can get him good grades, that can get him a scolarship—working hard is something that can make that scholarship worthwhile, and find work when he graduates. According to Bertram Walker, that is how the world works. Thomas Ward is not entirely dissimilar. Sure, Thomas Ward had a family. He had a brilliant education and was handed his place at Chicago on a silver platter, but if he wants prospects, real prospects, he's got to strike it out on his own. He's got to ignore his old bank account. He's got to begrudgingly write Christmas cards a week before the New Year. He's got to visit his parents sparingly, when he's sure that it's safe.

Ultimately, Thomas Ward and Bertram Walker are on their own. If they want something, they'll have to fight for it themselves, because there is no way that anything else will. That is what the world taught them.

Mrs. Pacini, his boss' wife, also knows that Thomas working here is the correct decision. She's stood behind the counter when he enters.

"Bertrando!" She greets, voice high and tight, dark hair pulled back in a bun behind her head. She wrestles her bulk out from behind the glass cabinets, making a beeline for Thomas, who can't manage to put his breakfast down before she's pinching at his stomach, clicking her tongue unhappily. She has a big, round face with rivers of veins and canyons of crevices, helter-skelter gray hair, a movie screen forehead, and Katharine Hepburn cheekbones. In fact, right now she reminds Thomas of Queen Eleanor in The Lion in Winter.

War agrees with you, Bertrando. I keep informed; I follow all your slaughters from a distance.

What can Thomas say? He likes old movies.

The only part about Mrs. Pacini that doesn't look age appropriate is her eyes. They're glossy, bright, and young. They grip people when she's mad, like monster fists. She never uses her bare hands to get people's attention, which is good, 'cause she could choke an elk; she's six feet tall, and packing a good three hundred pounds. There's no ignoring her when she's in your vicinity. She's a presence. A planet. She has her own gravity. But in the end, it's her eyes that pull people in.

And, of course, her many and varied theories on Thomas and, more often than not, Thomas' weight.

"You are getting thin!" She admonishes loudly and pinches at him a second time. Thomas is glad that they haven't opened yet, because, well, geez. What a way to make an entrance. "Come winter you will freeze, tsk—last I saw you, you look like a cherub, now you look like a skinny man-child. Bertrando! You come by our house sometime, now, hn? I make you a good dinner. Put some meat back on those bones."

Thomas doesn't remind Mrs. Pacini that he's actually working in reverse in terms of his weight, here. He's not exactly... trim at the moment, despite what she might believe. In fact, he's had to start watching it. It's become a right pain to keep off.

He leans over, kisses her on the cheek absently in greeting and sighs. "You're too kind."

And she is. They both are, the pair of them, Mr. and Mrs. Pacini. They've been good to him since he first got here a year ago, and even after the incident, they've been there. Genevieve, too. It makes him realise just how darn lucky he's been. Considering.

"Now, Sonya, you leave the boy alone." Gripes Mr. Pacini from the back room.

Mrs. Pacini lets out a disapproving noise at the back of her throat. Thomas sighs again, offers a small smile as he retreats, and takes his breakfast into the back room. Mr. Pacini himself is leaning over some boxes, the silver hair atop of his head reflecting the fluorescent lights.

"You lose something?" Thomas asks, and Mr. Pacini stands up straight.

"Bah! What don't I lose now I am old, hn? My glasses, papers—some lady phoned us last night about a ring, and I cannot find her number. She'll be wondering what is taking us so long!"

Of course, his boss still lived in a world where phones had cords and the only way to store important information was to write it down on paper. Thomas glanced once at the stack of annual reports on the deck opposite and mentally assesses the chances of actually leaving on time today. He was supposed to be meeting Genevieve for lunch, but, well... Mr. Pacini is getting on, now. If he can't find the number at this very moment, he probably never will, unless Thomas steps in. He might even start to forget about the ring entirely.

That sort of thing isn't very good for business, understandably, so Thomas sets down his breakfast and takes off his coat.

"Come on, it can't be very far. I'll help you look."

[1]

1995.

On the day that the Russian ruble drops to 3,947 per dollar and 1994-95 NHL Season begins after a lengthy strike, six-year-old Thomas Ward and his older brother Grant are out in the back garden, searching for the baseball that Christian lobbed out of the third-story window yesterday afternoon. Thomas' baseball. The one with Mickey Mantle's autobiography on it.

"Mom'll get angry about it, if we'd tell, y'know." Thomas notes, dressed in his winter duds and wellingtons. It gives Grant the impression of an overstuffed sausage.

He shakes his head. "Why. So she can just go n'yell at me, too?"

"You didn' do nothin'."

"That doesn't matter." Grant grumbles. "Come on. The sooner we find it, the sooner we can play."

It's not that he blames Thomas for leaving his baseball out. Christian would break anything if you'd let him—and there was sure no stopping him if he put his mind to it, but it doesn't help that Thomas doesn't quite understand that you can't do anything about it. Grant has the sneaking suspicion that he never will. Understand, that is.

'Cause Thomas doesn't get told off by Mom like Grant and Christian do. Dad, fair enough, it's rare, but he can certainly get incensed enough to divert his frustrations towards Thomas if it comes to it. Mom would never hit Thomas, though. Certainly not. So Thomas doesn't get that getting upset, crying and wailing over broken toys and bruises will only make things worse.

Because the more Thomas wines, the more Christian, and Grant, to some degree get punished. The more that happens, the more they get resentful, and the more resentful they get, the more likely it is Christian will seek them out to divert his frustrations at Thomas and him. It's just a cycle that keeps on going.

And Thomas certainly makes things worse, even if he doesn't mean too. That's why they're outside on a cold January morning, trying to find Thomas' baseball before Mom comes out and asks them what they're up to.

Thomas stands up on the little wall that runs around the flower patch and sticks his arms out, balancing along. "Can we go to the park to play with it?" he asks. "I wanna practice my fastball."

Grant actually can't see this as a bad idea. It'll keep them out of Mom's way at least, and with Dad out in his regional office, the only real problem they'll have is Christian. But Christian was pretty old, now. He didn't like to hang around little kids like Thomas. Never had, but now there was some kind of big kid thing preventing him from even hanging around Thomas at home, let alone outside. Unless he was angry, that is. Grant, well, Thomas could be annoying, sure, and he was a wimp at times, but he wasn't all that bad. He did what Grant told him to, most of the time, and he was pretty swell at baseball.

In short, perhaps out of mutual bond, perhaps out of necessity—surrounded by near-enemies on all sides in a house that was too big to feel love, Grant and Thomas only really have each other. They were as much as best friends as they were brothers.

[1]

Thomas had been dating Genevieve Rutherford for little over a month. She was a news correspondent who worked for one of the state newspapers and they met last Christmas, when she had come in looking for a nice necklace for her sister-in-law. He still doesn't know how he did it, honestly, with his awkward ways and soft demeanor when Genevieve herself was full of fire and idealism, but gradual visits to the store had eventually turned into trips out, and what was a reasonably platonic relationship ultimately developed into something much more. Something Thomas actually considered impossible, at one point. There was a time when he was too paranoid to let anyone near him.

He's been getting better at. Genevieve, and her large circle of friends—his boss and his extended family, they help with that. Help make Bertram Walker more than just a cover-up, anyway.

Thomas on the phone talking to her about wherever or not that little cafe down the street would be an acceptable place to meet or not (they do make some mean steak sandwiches, he's just saying) when he hears the gunshot. Genevieve must have heard it too because she demands to know what it was, but Thomas really doesn't have the time to explain.

So he quickly disconnects the call and sits up from where he was originally slouched, heart pounding, eyes diverting toward the front of the store. This could be a robbery. It could. All evidence points toward it. Surely that is not such of an impossibility in a jewelry store of all places.

But he's also got the sneaking suspicion that it isn't. This place hasn't been robbed in the entirety of its history; it's in a good neighborhood, and there is a police precinct a mere block away. So if people are going to storm this place, it's not going to be for the hundred-plus dollar jewelry, that's for sure. Thomas sticks his hands up, throwing his cellphone against the desk in one smooth motion as he does so.

Sure enough, when that dark-suited fellow comes in, shotgun in hand, and seems to stop at the sight of him, Thomas knows he's been found.

Because Thomas Ward doesn't often make mistakes. If ever. And he'd be foolish to assume otherwise, now.

Still, he would like to know...

"How'd you find me?"