Chapter 1.
It was a dark and starless night. In the darkness, in the town that sat atop the Hell-mouth, a teenage boy was running for his life. Definitely not the kind of night he'd had in mind. His name was Lance Darkmatter. Which was a laugh he could have done without. Everybody knew what a boy named Lance was supposed to be. Sweet. Innocent. Self-sacrificing. He'd put a stop to any hope of that right off.
Lance Dakmatter was tough, and he made sure he looked it. Hair bleached bone-white stood straight up from his dark rooted scalp. Jeans as tight as snake skin covered long legs that, at the moment, were desperately trying to keep on keepin' on. A black leather bomber jacket flapped against his back, the silver studs across the shoulders gleaming dully in the streetlights. Thick-soled black boots encased his feet. Perfect for stepping on anyone who got in his way, but far from good for running. And he'd been running for a very, very long time now. So long, he could hardly remember a time when he hadn't been running. A time when he'd felt safe. Or if hadn't been running. A time when he'd felt safe. Or if not safe then at least in control. A time when his legs didn't feel like rubber and his feet like lead. A time when the air didn't burn going in and out of his lungs. Long enough for him to feel like he was running in a forever dream, desperately forcing his body to keep on moving even though his thundering heart knew that on moving that no speed she could reach was ever going to be fast enough. For all the chance he had, he might as well be moving in slow motion. He swung left, his legs pumping as he pounded up the middle of the street right past a pole holding aloft a green street sign that proudly proclaimed ELM. He wished he had enough breath left to laugh at the joke. 'Cause this was a nightmare, no two ways about it. But the truth was all the streets had tree names in this part of TradeWorld . Oak. Birch. Larch. Poplar. Sycamore. The houses were a whole lot bigger than he lived in, every single one fronted by a lush green lawn. What would happen if I suddenly ran up one of those perfectly manicured front walks? He wondered. Pounded desperately on one perfectly painted front door? Would one of the perfect people who lived there come rushing out to help him?
He did manage to laugh then, a strangled sound wrenched, unbidden, straight from his gut.
Dream on. This part of TradeWorld might look different, but, in one respect at least, it was the same as the part of town that he came from. Nobody was coming to help him. Not now. Not ever. That was part of what made TradeWorld what it was. There was only one thing he could do, and he was already doing it. Run. Run. Run.
He veered left onto Oak, traveling down the sidewalk now. Trying not to feel the way his legs had turned loose as rubber bands. The way the breath seared like hot poker thrust into his lungs.
How close are they? Are they gaining? Lance risked a quick glance over his Shoulder, hoping against hope that maybe the miracle had happened and he'd just been too worn out to notice. Maybe they'd finally given up the chase. Gotten bored. Or maybe he'd finally managed to outrun them.
Yeah, right. That was likely.
They were still back there, just the way he'd known they would be. Two guys. The ones he'd spotted for the first time in the alley behind the Bronze. Wearing shirts so white they practically glowed in the dark. Khakis with perfect creases exactly down the center of each pant leg. Penny loafers. Ties. The way these guys dressed made parochial school uniforms look like Tommy Hilfiger. When he'd first spotted them, Lance hadn't been able to help himself. He'd burst out laughing.
But that hadn't been before he seen their eyes. Gleaming. Feral. Yellow. Their foreheads looked funny, some weird deformation, maybe. And they needed some orthodontic attention. Big time. Lance didn't know what they were, and he didn't want to know. The only thing he wanted was to get away from them.
It hadn't been until they started to chase him that he'd realize he actually wanted two things. Lance Darkmatter also wanted to stay alive. He sprinted across the intersection of Oak and Poplar. He knew it wouldn't be much longer now. How could it be? Now, he couldn't feel his legs at all. Why the hell didn't they just close in and finish him off?
End the game. Go for the kill. It was what he would've done. But oh no, not these guys. They had to hold back. Be different. Play cat and mouse. It would have seriously pissed him off, if he hadn't been so terrified.
Nobody messed with Lance Darkmatter. Instead, he messed with them. That was the way things were supposed to go down. But nothing had gone the way it was supposed to, tonight. Tonight he'd made a mistake. One that was going to cost him everything.
Why couldn't I have just stayed home?
He was stumbling now, his lower body refusing to cooperate. Sweat from his forehead crept down to sting his eyes.
Would it really have been so hard, just to have stayed at home?
Home, where the walls were so thin he could hear right through them, Where the air always smelled of last nights burned dinner. Home, the place that had never been where the heart was. A place where every angry, hurtful thing had ever been said lived on, forever. The last place on earth he'd rather be.
Particularly when his mother turned on the TV. He was running doubled over now, both arms pressed against his stomach, the memory of the sound of the television roaring in his mind. It was that sound more than anything else that had made him do it. Climb out his bedroom window and head for the bronze. The one place he could forget all the things he was, and all the things he wasn't. Where the music was loud enough to drown the sound of his mother's TV programs from his mind. Always the same show, night after night.
Show after show filled with families who were warm and caring. Ones where the kids and parents had their problems, sure, but nothing that a little love and good communication couldn't solve. Shows where sooner or later, the kids would admit that the parents were right, had always been right. Would always be right. They'd confess their sins, their guilt, their love, then be welcomed with opened arms and absolved.
Fantasy Families, Lance thought. He gulped air as he swung down Larch, his breath a white-hot needle stitching through him from side to side.
The trouble was, his mom never seemed to get the fact that those families on the television weren't the real thing. Her parenting method usually involved pointing out all the ways lance wasn't good enough. And it always involved telling lance what a disappointment he was. If Lance had a nickel for every time his mom had said she didn't understand how a son of hers could have turned out this way, he could have had a condo on the beach in Malibu by the time he was nine. He stumbled as he took the curb at larch and Sycamore was a transition street, not quite as upscale as the streets around it. The houses had big chunks of brown bark in their front yards instead of lawns. Beauty bark, it was actually called.
It wasn't as cool-looking in the hot southern California summers, but it sure cut down on the water bill, a thing Lance heard his mother say. Through Clara Darkmatter didn't care for beauty bark, herself. Which was why, once a year, she had the local garden center deliver a truckload of those nice sparkly white rocks for the Darkmatter front yard. Lance straightened up, got his burning eyes to focus on the end of the street, on the one working streetlight and the bus stop just beyond. If he could make it to the bus stop, a brightly lit public place, would the miracle happen? Would the guys behind him back off and leave him alone? You could make it, he told himself. Come on. Come on. Desperately, he tried for a last burst of speed. He felt his foot wobble, his ankle twist. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, please, God, no. And then he was falling, as if in slow motion. He had time to see the thing that had brought him down. A Piece of beauty bark skittered out from underneath his foot to lie in the gutter. Just one piece, but it had been enough.
Time speeded up again to the sound of Lance's right elbow cracking against the sidewalk, pistol-shot loud. He screamed as a blazing pain roared from his elbow to his shoulder. He rolled onto his back, his right arm flopping uselessly out from his body at a funny angle, and then lay still. Desperately sucking air, his vision went from white, to gray, then fuzzy around the edges as Lance realized he couldn't feel the pain anymore.
Shock, he thought. The only positive spin on this whole situation was that he was left-handed, something the guys behind him didn't know. When they came to get him, he could still throw one last punch. Assuming he'd be able to do anything at all.
How would his mother feel, he wondered, when she realized her only child was gone for good? That Lance wasn't ever coming home.
Then he heard the sound of hard-soled shoes against the sidewalk. A moment later, two pairs of yellow eyes were bending over him, gleaming down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ heather- ^_^ wooooo hope u enjoyed that bit, I'll be writing more in my spare time. There seems to be a lot of stuff around the house that needs some attention, not to mention my room looks like a black hole lol.
It was a dark and starless night. In the darkness, in the town that sat atop the Hell-mouth, a teenage boy was running for his life. Definitely not the kind of night he'd had in mind. His name was Lance Darkmatter. Which was a laugh he could have done without. Everybody knew what a boy named Lance was supposed to be. Sweet. Innocent. Self-sacrificing. He'd put a stop to any hope of that right off.
Lance Dakmatter was tough, and he made sure he looked it. Hair bleached bone-white stood straight up from his dark rooted scalp. Jeans as tight as snake skin covered long legs that, at the moment, were desperately trying to keep on keepin' on. A black leather bomber jacket flapped against his back, the silver studs across the shoulders gleaming dully in the streetlights. Thick-soled black boots encased his feet. Perfect for stepping on anyone who got in his way, but far from good for running. And he'd been running for a very, very long time now. So long, he could hardly remember a time when he hadn't been running. A time when he'd felt safe. Or if hadn't been running. A time when he'd felt safe. Or if not safe then at least in control. A time when his legs didn't feel like rubber and his feet like lead. A time when the air didn't burn going in and out of his lungs. Long enough for him to feel like he was running in a forever dream, desperately forcing his body to keep on moving even though his thundering heart knew that on moving that no speed she could reach was ever going to be fast enough. For all the chance he had, he might as well be moving in slow motion. He swung left, his legs pumping as he pounded up the middle of the street right past a pole holding aloft a green street sign that proudly proclaimed ELM. He wished he had enough breath left to laugh at the joke. 'Cause this was a nightmare, no two ways about it. But the truth was all the streets had tree names in this part of TradeWorld . Oak. Birch. Larch. Poplar. Sycamore. The houses were a whole lot bigger than he lived in, every single one fronted by a lush green lawn. What would happen if I suddenly ran up one of those perfectly manicured front walks? He wondered. Pounded desperately on one perfectly painted front door? Would one of the perfect people who lived there come rushing out to help him?
He did manage to laugh then, a strangled sound wrenched, unbidden, straight from his gut.
Dream on. This part of TradeWorld might look different, but, in one respect at least, it was the same as the part of town that he came from. Nobody was coming to help him. Not now. Not ever. That was part of what made TradeWorld what it was. There was only one thing he could do, and he was already doing it. Run. Run. Run.
He veered left onto Oak, traveling down the sidewalk now. Trying not to feel the way his legs had turned loose as rubber bands. The way the breath seared like hot poker thrust into his lungs.
How close are they? Are they gaining? Lance risked a quick glance over his Shoulder, hoping against hope that maybe the miracle had happened and he'd just been too worn out to notice. Maybe they'd finally given up the chase. Gotten bored. Or maybe he'd finally managed to outrun them.
Yeah, right. That was likely.
They were still back there, just the way he'd known they would be. Two guys. The ones he'd spotted for the first time in the alley behind the Bronze. Wearing shirts so white they practically glowed in the dark. Khakis with perfect creases exactly down the center of each pant leg. Penny loafers. Ties. The way these guys dressed made parochial school uniforms look like Tommy Hilfiger. When he'd first spotted them, Lance hadn't been able to help himself. He'd burst out laughing.
But that hadn't been before he seen their eyes. Gleaming. Feral. Yellow. Their foreheads looked funny, some weird deformation, maybe. And they needed some orthodontic attention. Big time. Lance didn't know what they were, and he didn't want to know. The only thing he wanted was to get away from them.
It hadn't been until they started to chase him that he'd realize he actually wanted two things. Lance Darkmatter also wanted to stay alive. He sprinted across the intersection of Oak and Poplar. He knew it wouldn't be much longer now. How could it be? Now, he couldn't feel his legs at all. Why the hell didn't they just close in and finish him off?
End the game. Go for the kill. It was what he would've done. But oh no, not these guys. They had to hold back. Be different. Play cat and mouse. It would have seriously pissed him off, if he hadn't been so terrified.
Nobody messed with Lance Darkmatter. Instead, he messed with them. That was the way things were supposed to go down. But nothing had gone the way it was supposed to, tonight. Tonight he'd made a mistake. One that was going to cost him everything.
Why couldn't I have just stayed home?
He was stumbling now, his lower body refusing to cooperate. Sweat from his forehead crept down to sting his eyes.
Would it really have been so hard, just to have stayed at home?
Home, where the walls were so thin he could hear right through them, Where the air always smelled of last nights burned dinner. Home, the place that had never been where the heart was. A place where every angry, hurtful thing had ever been said lived on, forever. The last place on earth he'd rather be.
Particularly when his mother turned on the TV. He was running doubled over now, both arms pressed against his stomach, the memory of the sound of the television roaring in his mind. It was that sound more than anything else that had made him do it. Climb out his bedroom window and head for the bronze. The one place he could forget all the things he was, and all the things he wasn't. Where the music was loud enough to drown the sound of his mother's TV programs from his mind. Always the same show, night after night.
Show after show filled with families who were warm and caring. Ones where the kids and parents had their problems, sure, but nothing that a little love and good communication couldn't solve. Shows where sooner or later, the kids would admit that the parents were right, had always been right. Would always be right. They'd confess their sins, their guilt, their love, then be welcomed with opened arms and absolved.
Fantasy Families, Lance thought. He gulped air as he swung down Larch, his breath a white-hot needle stitching through him from side to side.
The trouble was, his mom never seemed to get the fact that those families on the television weren't the real thing. Her parenting method usually involved pointing out all the ways lance wasn't good enough. And it always involved telling lance what a disappointment he was. If Lance had a nickel for every time his mom had said she didn't understand how a son of hers could have turned out this way, he could have had a condo on the beach in Malibu by the time he was nine. He stumbled as he took the curb at larch and Sycamore was a transition street, not quite as upscale as the streets around it. The houses had big chunks of brown bark in their front yards instead of lawns. Beauty bark, it was actually called.
It wasn't as cool-looking in the hot southern California summers, but it sure cut down on the water bill, a thing Lance heard his mother say. Through Clara Darkmatter didn't care for beauty bark, herself. Which was why, once a year, she had the local garden center deliver a truckload of those nice sparkly white rocks for the Darkmatter front yard. Lance straightened up, got his burning eyes to focus on the end of the street, on the one working streetlight and the bus stop just beyond. If he could make it to the bus stop, a brightly lit public place, would the miracle happen? Would the guys behind him back off and leave him alone? You could make it, he told himself. Come on. Come on. Desperately, he tried for a last burst of speed. He felt his foot wobble, his ankle twist. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, please, God, no. And then he was falling, as if in slow motion. He had time to see the thing that had brought him down. A Piece of beauty bark skittered out from underneath his foot to lie in the gutter. Just one piece, but it had been enough.
Time speeded up again to the sound of Lance's right elbow cracking against the sidewalk, pistol-shot loud. He screamed as a blazing pain roared from his elbow to his shoulder. He rolled onto his back, his right arm flopping uselessly out from his body at a funny angle, and then lay still. Desperately sucking air, his vision went from white, to gray, then fuzzy around the edges as Lance realized he couldn't feel the pain anymore.
Shock, he thought. The only positive spin on this whole situation was that he was left-handed, something the guys behind him didn't know. When they came to get him, he could still throw one last punch. Assuming he'd be able to do anything at all.
How would his mother feel, he wondered, when she realized her only child was gone for good? That Lance wasn't ever coming home.
Then he heard the sound of hard-soled shoes against the sidewalk. A moment later, two pairs of yellow eyes were bending over him, gleaming down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ heather- ^_^ wooooo hope u enjoyed that bit, I'll be writing more in my spare time. There seems to be a lot of stuff around the house that needs some attention, not to mention my room looks like a black hole lol.