Disclaimer: Nope don't own nor do I get paid.

A/N: I've reposted this story on FF as I've had a few technical probs.

To:

LJQ: Thank you for your kind words, I'm in the process of writing the bar scene, just doing some research (hic)

Drakcir: Hey great to hear from you. Hope you're liking this (you may what to slap me later on though).

Sache8: Thanks again. I owe you, as when you reviewed my last piece you gave me an idea that sent my plot bunny hopping around the garden looking for those revelation Daisies (cheers).

:o) Big sloppy hug to you all.

Quinntet

Chapter 1

Notice me, Take My Hand

The old man bent over the decorative clock adjusting the intricate mechanism with a tender touch. He paused, every now and then, to peel his fingers from the tool so he could ease the pain that seized his arthritic joints. As he laboured he let his mind soar through the delicate escapement of lacy wheels and springs focusing only on his craft. He sighed, clasping his hands together but this time it was against the cold that crept like a thief along the old brickwork. He rubbed his fingers gently and massaged some warmth into their skin before returning to the still and silent timepiece.

The basement was damp; he could feel it seep into his bones even though the overhead pipes still creaked with warmth from the antiquated heating system. He bit his lip, ignoring the pulse of pain, ignoring the cold, continuing with his task and wishing for his youth. He gently smiled as he recalled how he had come to Kelowna from Tirania, almost forty years ago, fresh faced and eager for experience. It had been a different time back then, their governments had formed a fragile alliance against the Andari and there was an exchange of peoples to cement this. He had been conscripted to be an apprentice to a master clockmaker and against a backdrop of enmity had fallen in love with the old man's daughter. So when this tenuous peace between the two nations fell apart he had stayed on and married his Sophia, becoming a Kelownan citizen and disowning his own people.

"Sophia," he whispered her name as if it were a prayer and shut his tired eyes, resting two knotted fingers against the bridge of his nose, "Sophia."

He thought about the one room hovel above, they now shared with the Virens, a middle-aged Andari advocate and his wife, who Ravel's Supremacist Government had assigned to reside with them. 'Assigned', he shook his head, forced, just like he and Sophia had been forced from their home to live in these overcrowded, derelict, apartments or 'Borgos' as the Tiranian and Andari inhabitants now called them.

He sighed again and opened his eyes, struggling with the emotion that fisted in his heart; his wife was sick. He had tried to get her moved, long before the fences and barbwire had entombed the Borgos. He had argued with an official that his wife was Kelownan, that she had family, a brother, in the country, whom she could stay with but the impassive clerk had just shrugged and told him to put his request in writing; that was eight months ago. Now he needed money to buy overpriced medicines on the Kelownan black-market.

When he was satisfied with the repair he closed the casing with a firm snap and placed the clock down on the bench. He sat back taking the half rimmed spectacles from his face and folding them carefully into the case he kept in his jacket. He then reached for his pocket watch and adjusted the clock to the correct time before gently setting the weighted pendulum in motion. He smiled sadly into the brass face of the clock and ran his hand over its curve before patting it and getting to his feet.

He pulled his thick quilted coat from the back of the chair and slowly began fastening the buttons. It was cold outside, winter had come and dug its heels in, freezing the city; but what did they expect? They had dropped a Naquadria bomb on their enemies, their own planet and now nature was retaliating with teeth bared.

He picked up his battered hat and paused for a moment to listen to the silence of the Borgos, for after dark nothing moved on the streets above him. People shut their doors, if they could and drew their cardboard blinds and makeshift curtains, trying to dissolve into the corners of their miserable rooms. For the night brought a terror to these segregated and ostracized people, it brought, with its pitch, the City Guards and their expulsion trucks. At first, the young men had been taken, volunteering to work the mines and other labour-intensive tasks for a promise of better food and housing for themselves and their families; they had never returned. Rumours circulated and more were taken, old and young, men and women but this time without the pretence of a better life. Night after night the trucks came, sometimes just a few were taken, sometimes a building was cleared but no one ever came back and more refugees entered the Borgos daily, taking the place of those missing. So Fyodor stood there, in the gloom, listening out for the drone of a heavy engine before feeling it was safe enough to venture into the night.

When he stepped outside the air cut him with icy malice, slashing through the padding of the humble coat. He tread carefully on the gloss of the broken, stone steps that lead from the basement to the street, mindful not to steady himself on the wrought iron railing that was glistening with the cold.

When he was at street level he traversed the slab of crumbling concrete that led to his apartment building stopping for a moment, as he did each night, to lay an outstretched hand on the heavy oak door. The wood was barely visible under a mass of crudely taped photos fixed to a simple, handwritten note; a mournful reminder of those missing after the Goa'uld attacked this part of the city. These battered epitaphs still stood, where so many others had crumbled or fled on the wind, forgotten amongst the immigrants who had left their own homes to help try and rebuild some commonality from the ashes. Fyodor closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to Samhain, the Tiranian god of remembrance. He took his hand away and balled it into a fist, bringing the circle made by his thumb and index finger to his lips as was the custom of his people. He opened his eyes again and went to enter the tenement when a flyer caught his eye. He frowned; he had never noticed it before. It was a Supremacist pamphlet attacking Dreylock's traitorous government, naming those it believed were disloyal to the Kelownans. One name stood out, it slapped at the old man's memory making his eyes sting with tears; that name was Jonas Quinn.

He leant against the door, emotion pinching at his soul, as around him, in the still night, the spectres of his past took flight. He heard their questions, their voices, twist around his head. He closed his eyes, seeing the small interrogation room again, smelling the freshly painted walls and the heavy stench of tobacco oozing from the Government's agents.

"You're Tiranian are you not Mr Arnold?"

Fyodor nodded gripping his hands firmly in front of him to stop them shaking. "So your son's a half blood?" The man with the glasses continued, "his mother being Kelownan?" He didn't look to the clockmaker for confirmation; he remained staring at the clipboard in front of him.

The seconds slipped by as the agent continued to read the documents attached to the board while the clockmaker waited anxiously. "Do you know why you are here Mr Arnold?" He said finally, looking up.

Fyodor noticed that one of the man's eyes was smaller than the other. He found himself focusing on this, unable to look away. "No," he replied, "I have no idea."

"Don't play ignorant with us, Arnold," the largest of the three interrogators stood up, knocking into the naked light bulb, which hung above the desk, causing it to swing.

"You know why you're here. You know your son has been detained by this agency because he has the ability to do things with his mind," the agent pointed to his temple with a thick, yellowing, index finger.

The clockmaker denied the accusation, "there must be some mistake," he began.

The large man laughed, "we have testimony from the boy's teacher, a Miss Helvellyn, saying that your son pushed himself into her mind, making her see things," he opened a file that was on the desk.

Fyodor shook his head, "she, she must be mistaken," he replied, trying to keep his voice calm, "Morgan has never shown any signs of a, a 'mind power', I'm his father, surely I would have witnessed something before now?"

They remained silent, watching him as the light swung backwards and forwards making the flex creak. They knew he was lying. Other children had come forward, children in Morgan's class, children he'd manipulated who had been too terrified to say anything before. It was no use, they had their proof.

He looked across the desk at the one with the glasses, "where is my son?" He asked softly.

"Your son is awaiting sentencing by the Judge Advocate," the man answered, his tone unfeeling.

"But he's only a boy," the clockmaker pleaded, raising his voice.

The large agent bent over him, Fyodor could smell stale tobacco as he spoke, "who has broken one of our most sacred laws, as have you and your wife. You know what the penalty will be 'when' you are all found guilty?"

He did, imprisonment for them and a death sentence for Morgan, which would be publicly carried out within the next day or two. Fyodor's head fell into his hands in despair; the two agents exchanged smug looks.

The man with the glasses shoved a sheet of paper across the desk; Fyodor looked down at the document "what's this?" He asked.

The large man place a hand on his shoulder "a way to save your family," he offered with an insensitive squeeze.

The clockmaker looked from one man to the other, the agent with the glasses spoke, "it's a consent form for an operation to remove the diseased part of your son's brain," he tapped the sheet of paper.

"I don't understand," Fyodor responded, moving a trembling hand over the document.

"Let's just say our 'doctors' have a vested interest in performing a procedure called a craniotomy, for research purposes, the only thing they lack is a wealth of 'volunteers'."

Fyodor looked up in horror, "no, there must be some other way?"

They just stared back at him with annoyance; the large agent shook his head, "it's either this or certain death for your son. Only your signature can save him."

The clockmaker bit into his lower lip, "is it safe?"

They didn't answer and he knew he had no choice. The man with the glasses offered him a pen, he looked down at the dotted line and signed, scraping the pen against the paper, "can, can I see him?"

He was told that would not be possible until after the operation. The two agents took the document from his grasp and left the interrogation room but one man still remained, a doctor who had been watching, silently, from the corner. The man got up and walked over to the desk, opening Morgan's file, "a beautiful child," he said turning over Morgan's black and white school photo.

"He takes after his mother, same colouring," Fyodor remembered, touching the picture.

The Doctor smiled and the clockmaker saw that he was only a young man. He sat down informally on the edge of the table, next to Fyodor, "would you mind if I ask you another question, for my file?" He indicated to the pad he was carrying.

Fyodor shook his head, what else could he do? He had no power here, "I'm sorry I've forgotten your name?"

"It's Kieran, Doctor Kieran," the man answered politely, resting his pen against the notebook, "why do you think your son attacked the other boy, Jonas Quinn?"

The clockmaker took a deep breath and looked into the man's deep brown eyes, wondering if what he was about to say would help Morgan in any way, "I think he was jealous, Doctor."

"Jealous?"

"Yes, that boy, Quinn, he has just lost his sister?"

Kieran nodded, "yes."

Fyodor sighed, "I know my son and he would have resented the attention that boy was getting from the other students and teachers at the school."

The Doctor looked astonished, "really?"

Fyodor nodded sadly, "yes, Morgan likes to be noticed, to be the centre of attention at all times."

"And you think that was the only reason for the attack?" Kieran waited for the answer.

"Yes, I believe so," the clockmaker looked down at his hands.

The Doctor nodded and patted Fyodor's shoulder, satisfied with the older man's answer. He couldn't save Morgan but at least he could safeguard Jonas Quinn from Government scrutiny. He coughed quietly, "must have been hard for you and your wife, bringing up someone so," he searched for the right word, "headstrong."

The clockmaker smiled weakly, "we tried to warn him," he said candidly, "about using this, this ability of his. He's not a bad boy, Doctor, he's just a little impulsive. Please," he grabbed the other man's hand, squashing an imprint of Kieran's ring into his own flesh, "could I see my son, before the operation, I need to talk to him, to explain things, let him know how much we love him."

The Doctor stood up, "I'll see what I can do," he promised.

Fyodor picked up the photo of his son, "thank you," he whispered with tears in his eyes.

Kieran looked back at him before shutting the door.

Fyodor never saw his son again.

The clockmaker reached out and tore down the sheet paper, screwing it into a tight ball and tossed it to the ground.

When he entered his room he was met by the wonderful aroma of cooking. Manon Viren looked up from the old wood burning stove, which coughed and hissed with all the spitefulness of age and smiled, "it's Shoboshic," she said proudly, lifting a bowl that was warming on a cast iron pot.

The room welcomed him, shining with the stove's tepid heat, Fyodor removed his coat and hat "smells good," he replied, looking towards the area where he and Sophia slept, the curtains they had erected for privacy were drawn around the bed.

Madame Viren read his mind, "she's sleeping, come, eat first," she offered, placing the bowl down on the table.

Fyodor turned back to the Andari woman, "how's she been?"

"A little better today, I think, she even helped prepare the vegetables," Manon responded, taking a seat at the table and gesturing for Fyodor to do the same.

The old man nodded and took his place in front of the bowl, "you've all eaten?" He asked.

"A little while ago, now you eat, you must keep up your strength."

Fyodor lifted the plate off the top of the bowl and looked back to Madame Viren in surprise, "where did you get such ingredients?" He enquired, inhaling the rich scent of the various, stewed, vegetables.

Manon held her hands out and shrugged, casually, "I exchanged them for some pearls with a Kelownan market trader I know," her small, grey, eyes gleamed.

Fyodor looked at her but the woman just shook her head, coiling a loose tendril of greying hair back into its double knot that was fastened at the back of her head, "a pretty corpse I'd make with an empty stomach and an expensive keepsake round my neck. Now please, eat, before the City Police take the bowl away as evidence of my black market dealings."

The clockmaker laughed and asked discreetly, "and I'del he didn't mind you parting with your pearls?" He glanced across at the burly man sat reading in the other bed.

Manon gave him a quick smile and winked, "his hunger quietened his opinion," she answered, "and anyway he's too busy trying to finish that book by the philosopher Tibboh before we have to burn it." She nodded in the direction of the stove and the pile of books unceremoniously stacked against it.

Fyodor loaded his spoon and let the hot broth rest in his mouth for a while, savouring every flavour, before swallowing. Madam Viren went back to the stove and picked up a boiling kettle bringing it to the table.

"Ah, before I forget," the clockmaker said, reaching into his coat pocket, "I believe I can add to this feast."

Manon raised her eyebrows as the old man pulled a corked, blue, bottle from its inside pocket, "Gazala," she cried in disbelief, "where did you..?"

"A customer of mine, a good man, slipped this to me this morning; he hid it in the back of a Tall clock."

"Then we shall drink to his initiative," she retorted, pulling four china mugs from a shelf.

"Indeed," Fyodor responded, nodding in agreement, "he only wishes he could do more."

Manon took the bottle from him and poured a small amount into each mug. "There are many who wish they could help, I know," she reflected, topping up the liqueur with hot water from the kettle, "but Ravel keeps them on a tight leash and feeds them so many lies, that they have forgotten how to think for themselves."

The clockmaker nodded again, "they are afraid, too," he said with a small sigh. "Oh, they may act all euphoric, believing they are Langaria's chosen people, digesting all that Ravel preaches but they are afraid, afraid that next week it could be them residing in the Borgos because of some new law or some jealous neighbour." He took the drink that Madame Viren offered and went back to his Shoboshic.

She picked up her own mug and looked away to the boarded window, "they say that the rebels liberated a truck that was bound for the mines," she said softly.

"There are always rumours," he countered and then smiled at the younger woman, "there is always hope," he said gently.

She looked into his compassionate blue eyes, "we must go on believing that, mustn't we?"

He took her hand in his, "always."

She stood up and delved into her skirt pocket, "here," she said placing a large pear shaped pearl on the table next to him.

"What, what is this?" He asked puzzled, releasing her to pick it up.

"For you, you and Sophia, to help towards the medication."

"Manon, I can't…"

She closed his gnarled fingers around the gem, "yes you can," she assured. "Fyodor, when I'del and I first arrived here, we had nothing except a few belongings and the clothes on our backs. You and Sophia helped us find our feet, gave us more than you could give; we owe you so much."

"Anyone would have done the same."

"Would they? I've seen the animosity still between our peoples, even here, on these cramped streets. I've seen Tiranian and Andari youths fighting with broken bottles and steel rods while the City Guards take bets on the outcome. No, my dear Fyodor not everyone would."

"Andari or Tiranian," the older man said sadly, "they are just trying to survive, our situation brings out the worst in all of us."

"And the best," she said gently as she let go of his hand leaving the pearl still in his grasp. He looked up at her, "who would have thought enemies such as us," he said quietly.

"Who would of thought," she whispered back, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, "and you being part Kelownan too."

"Only by marriage," he jested as she picked up two of the mugs.

"I wish you and Sophia a good night, Fyodor and may Morpheus aid your rest."

"And may Noden, the Tiranian God of sleep, enlighten your dreams my dear Manon."

She gave him a subtle smile, "I think the Gazala will do that," she replied and joined her husband.

Fyodor went back to his food waiting until he heard the Virens draw their curtain around their part of the room before leaving the table. He took the other two mugs from where Manon had left them warming on the stove and turned the oil lamp down, navigating his way around the room from memory.

He pulled back the drapes and entered, Sophia immediately sat up in the bed, "Fyodor?" She asked tenderly.

The clockmaker lit a melted stub of a candle that had solidified on their dilapidated dresser, "I'm sorry dear, did I wake you?" He lent over the bed and kissed her on the forehead, touching the glow of her cheek as he did. His face crumbled with concern as he scrutinised every detail of her fragile frame trying to gauge her wellbeing.

She took his hand, he felt its coldness, "no, no I was just resting my eyes," she replied, making herself more comfortable, "did you eat?"

"Yes and what a feast it was," he said brightly, unbuttoning his woollen jerkin, "and I have a surprise for you."

He turned back to the dresser to pick up one of the china cups and walked over to her side of the bed. He sat on the hard edge of the mattress and placed the drink into her hands, helping to bring it to her lips. "Gazala," she cried in delight, looking up at him.

He smiled, the egg blue of her eyes still held that blithe spirit that had captured his heart all those years ago but the rest of her was being crushed by illness. He watched her try and gain control of each unsteady breath in an endeavour not to worry him. He put the mug to her lips again, "more?" He enquired.

She smiled, pushing it away momentarily, "I'm feeling much better, really," she emphasised, "maybe tomorrow I can help you with the repairs?" She took another large sip, letting the bitter taste of distilled plants and roots burn through her blood.

Fyodor lightly petted her head and kissed its crown saying tenderly, "maybe sweetheart, we shall see."

He stood up and she looked at him with her unblemished soul and smiled, "who needs medicines when I have your love."

He stooped down, kissing the turn of her nose and then stiffened, "Fyodor, what is it?"

A truck, his body went taut. He drew back the curtains and was met by the anxious face of I'del mirroring his own actions. They both stood cloistered and still in the semi-darkness as below them Fyodor's clocks caught every passing second. The old man swallowed as he heard the advance of footsteps fluting the cold earth with their uniformed tread, marking a pathway through the ice to their dwelling. The old oak door was pushed aside and a fist hammered at the entrance to their room, the wood buckling under the action. I'del looked across at the clockmaker, too scared to move, Manon joined her husband, placing her arm through his, pulling him close. Fyodor nervously licked his cracked bottom lip and inhaled, as if for protection, as he walked towards the door. He looked back at the Virens before opening it; they withdrew, slightly, into the gloom. A City Guard stood in the neglected foyer; he stared at the old man with ruthless eyes while his young face remained blank. "Fyodor Arnold?" He snapped, in a voice not long passed puberty.

The clockmaker held his gaze, "yes," he replied, his mind spiralling in panic.

"You are to be relocated," he informed him.

The old man swallowed, "relocated?"

The young guard rolled his eyes as if he was talking to an imbecile and thrust an official piece of paper at Fyodor, "by order of the Kelownan Supremacist Government."

Fyodor looked down at the sheet, the typed letters dancing on the page in a blurry waltz. He rubbed his eyes, making out a few short sentences, 'Fyodor Arnold of Tiranian decent,' 'to be relocated to Naq."

"Naq," he whispered ominously, "the, the mining town?"

"That's right old man," the boy mocked, "would you like me to read the rest of it to you, I have nothing better to do?"

He looked back at the guard, "but, but I'm a clockmaker," he argued, uselessly.

"And we have many good Kelownan clockmakers, here in the city; we cannot afford to support Tiranian tradesmen as well," he spat on the floor without turning his head away.

Fyodor looked down at the glob of sticky discharge that had coated his boots and then back to the boy. The guard stretched himself into his stature and placed a hand on the cosh at his side, challenging the old man, waiting for a reaction; Fyodor did nothing but let his shoulders drop in resignation of his fate. The young man smirked, enjoying his authority, "I also have a relocation order for a Sophia Arnold," he watched the clockmaker closely, relishing his distress.

Fyodor took the other piece paper the guard offered with a trembling hand, "my, my wife?" He questioned.

The young man snorted, "it is a state felony for any Kelownan citizen to marry," he raised his supple eyebrows, "or have a 'relationship' with those of another race. You should think yourself lucky that I am not here to arrest the both of you for this transgression," he said with all the insolence of his convictions.

"But she is ill," the clockmaker pleaded, trying to reach the guard's conscience, "please, just take me, let her stay."

The young man's eyes remain dismissive and callous, "the paperwork says two, these are my orders."

"Please, I will do the work of two, just let my wife stay here," Fyodor implored, "what, what if it were your mother, son, if she was sick…"

It was a mistake. The old man felt the impact from the cosh hit his shoulder, pushing him to the ground, "how dare you speak of my mother, you scum," the boy remonstrated, his voice high with anger.

Another blow struck his back, Fyodor put his hands up submissively, "now get up," the guard ordered, bending over the injured man, "and bring your old bitch out, unless you want me to go in there and do it for you?"

"There is no need, young man," they both looked up to see Sophia standing there dressed against the cold.

"Come my love," she said softly, offering her hand to her husband, "we must go."

Fyodor took his wife's hand and stood up. They looked at one another for a moment and Sophia offered him the cup with the Gazala, which was now cold. The clockmaker took it from her and put it to his lips, "one last drink," his wife whispered with sadness, her eyes full of meaning.

"One last drink," Fyodor repeated in understanding, swallowing the liqueur which she had laced with a lethal dose of her medication.

Sophia smiled and helped her husband with his jacket, "we are ready now," she said with great dignity and to Fyodor she whispered, "take my hand, my love."

The clockmaker held on to her and closed his eyes. He heard I'del cry out from within the gloom and felt a tender embrace, "Fyodor."

Manon held him, her body shuddering with tears, "shush," he said gently, releasing his wife so he could lift the younger woman's head, "shush, come now, it's not goodbye, we'll see each other again, once we get settled, we'll send word to you." The lie tainted his lips.

"Promise?" She sniffed.

"Of course," he feigned a smile as she let him go, hoping she couldn't see the truth in his eyes.

Fyodor took her hands in his and squeeze them; Manon bit back the tears, nodding before turning to encircle Sophia with her arms. Sophia kissed her cheek tenderly, "we must go now, Manon dear, we cannot keep this gentleman waiting," she said kindly.

"Yes, yes of course," Madam Viren replied, watching the clockmaker and his wife go.

I'del came and shut the door, the relief apparent on his face. Manon stood there, a little longer, rolling the pearl that Fyodor had returned in her hand for comfort, knowing she would never see them again.

There was a bridal veil of snow sparkling on the ground when Fyodor and Sophia walked out into the night, their hands entwined, both supporting the other. The clockmaker saw the empty truck just ahead but it looked a million miles away, he thought he would never make it, that his nerve would go. He licked his lips; he never dreamt his end would be like this, that he would forfeit his own life. He looked around him, at the vacant streets, trying to take in as much as he could, needing to see one last thing of beauty in the grime and hopelessness. He looked at Sophia and there it was; love. A tear fell down his face and she squeezed his hand as if she knew what he was thinking giving him the courage to take another step.

"This is our choice," she whispered, her breath dancing in the darkness.

"Yes," he said, not feeling the cold any more.

The young guard stopped them before they got to the transport and told them to wait. He then left and joined his colleagues who were loitering by the truck; it was then Fyodor noticed the black car. The door to this vehicle opened with a luxurious click that echoed in the silence and a figure stepped out into the night.

The guards coveted this stranger's movements and in the dim glow of the headlights Fyodor thought he saw a look of loathing cross each of their faces. He turned his attention back to the figure, which glided in their direction. It seemed out of place on these rundown streets and a little bizarre, for it was dressed in an opulent, white, fur that shadowed each step, merging with the ice on the ground. At first Fyodor thought that it was a woman, a girl, by the provocative and tempting sway of its hips but he was wrong. The form stopped when it reached them, removing the hood and for a moment the clockmaker stopped breathing.

"Morgan?" He cried in confusion, his heart beating again in a wave of emotion.

"Father," came the terse reply.

Fyodor glanced over this caricature of his son unable to believe his own eyes. This gaudy, painted, young man was the same baby he had rocked to sleep in his arms, the boy he'd bounced on his knee and the child the government had taken from him because he had shown he was 'different'. "They, they told us you were dead, that you died on the operating table," he stammered in bewilderment.

The angelic face, that was so reminiscent of Sophia, hardened, creasing the burgundy that stained his lips, "maybe it would have been better for you if I had," he hissed, unable to contain his hatred.

The old man rocked slightly, "I don't understand," he uttered, "why would they lie to us?"

Morgan sighed, raising a jewelled finger to touch his father's creased face as one would do to a small child, "because it benefited them to lie to you."

He leaned closer to his father and Fyodor could smell the pungent aroma of perfume, "most of those who endured that barbaric operation did die as the 'doctors' tried to perfect the procedure," he parted his golden hair to expose the deep scar that was heavily powdered in an attempt to conceal it.

The clockmaker winced and reached out with his fingertips to touch the mark but Morgan grabbed his fingers, squeezing them with the pain of memory until they clicked. The old man let out an anguished cry and his son loosened his grip. Fyodor cradled his aching hand, the hurt in his eyes coming more from his heart than his fingers. "But I was one of the lucky ones, father," Morgan continued pushing his hair back into place. "I lived."

"Then why…? the old man begun.

Morgan put a painted and manicured index finger to his father's lips, giving him a carnivorous stare that silenced the clockmaker, "the government and the scientists decided that some of those who survived the surgery could be experimented on, utilised for chemical and biological weapon trials because of their 'half blood.' Others, me included, were allowed to take a more 'active' part in Kelownan society, to become cannon fodder, laying mines on the boarders and any other assignments deemed to dangerous for those of good Kelownan blood."

The old man stared at his son, not knowing what to say. He looked around him, at the sleek car, at Morgan's bejewelled appearance, a realization dawning on him, "but now you work for that same government?" He asked, puzzled.

Morgan threw back his head and laughed, "oh father, how very little you know of what's going on around you. I do not work for Ravel's government, I 'work' for Ravel's benefactor. Someone who needs," he stopped and smiled, "who wants me for 'all' that I am. You see, the Kelownan butchers did not rid me of my gift and this patron sees it as just this and not an affliction," he curled his mouth around the last word and spat it in his father's direction. "I saw your signature on the consent form, you handed me over to them."

"I had no choice, son," Fyodor countered, "too many had come forward to testify against you, they would have found you guilty and sentenced you to death."

Morgan face coiled into a smile, "and they've all paid for their betrayal," he said coldly, "except for you and Quinn."

Sophia stepped between her son and husband, looking deep into her son's seething, blue eyes, "he never betrayed you, Morgan, he loves you, we both do," she touched his heavily rouged cheek with her fingers. "Look into my heart, use your gift, tell me that I lie," she placed both hands over her chest watching his face closely; Morgan stepped back as if he had been stung.

Moments passed and the snow fell as ashes, kissing those standing in its pall with icy lips. Morgan's thoughts began to tumble around his head; voices leapt like acrobats each one with a different resolve. He still felt his mother's touch on his cheek corrupting him with its sentimentality. He nearly faltered, for a moment the petals of his heart began to open but he had been bitter too long, there was no sunlight in his soul and the flower of emotion starved.

He grabbed Sophia by the arms, "I sense nothing in your heart but death, old woman," he spat.

"That maybe so son," she stammered, holding his gaze, "but there is also love for you."

Morgan gripped her tighter, shaking her with the strength of his own anger, "don't try and tell me what I see," he yelled pushing her to the ground.

Fyodor went to his wife's aid, helping her to sit up. He stared at his son, his eyes hostile, "you, you wouldn't know what love was, even if you did feel it, you, you are incapable of such an emotion."

"Fyodor please…" Sophia began, trying hard to control her breathing, which rasped against her chest.

"No, Sophia, this needs to be said. You were always distant, Morgan, cold, but we thought that our love would change that in you; we were wrong. Look at you, look what you've become, prancing around, made up like a festival performer," the old man shook his head, "but all of this, this excess, child, cannot hide the coldness of your true soul."

Morgan heard a few of the City Guards, snigger at their exchange; he turned to them, his face purple with rage, "take them away, now," he commanded, his voice a little high to be dynamic.

The guards looked at each other, raising an eyebrow or two and then walked lazily over to Fyodor and Sophia, "yes sir," one remarked pulling the old man away.

Sophia turned to her son as another guard grabbed at her arm, "I only hope, that this person you say you are with can live up to your expectation. I hope you can find some happiness Morgan," she said softly, her gaze unwavering.

Morgan watched as they began to load his parents in the truck. An uncontrollable anger shook his body and lamented in his ear, 'they've cheated you, Morgan, they've willingly kissed Death's cheek. You saw it, when you looked into your mother's soul, you saw Death's embrace around them both.'

It laughed, 'all this time you have waited for your revenge, to make them suffer and now they have taken that away from you.'

The words snapped around his mind, fuelling the turbulence of his expanding fury, until each separate thought seemed to rip at his brain. He pressed a palm against his forehead and tried to breathe but a fire of resentment clawed at his lungs. He heard laughter, mocking him, coming from his parent's building, he turned his head, listening more intently. No, it wasn't laughter it was the rhythmic tick of father's clocks from the basement below. Their synchronised echo pushed at the serrated edge of his anger, provoking the storm of his retribution. A blistering wave of invisible energy impacted in the cellar, juggling the timepieces into the air before turning them to ash. Its insatiable current spread along the network of pipes sparking an explosion as it collided with the heating fuel in the next room.

Morgan turned his back on the growing flames and gestured to one of the guards, "we have intelligence that this location is a meeting place for the rebels, see that no one escapes."

The guard went to ague but something in Morgan's countenance seized at his heart, turning his blood icy; he drew his weapon and pointed it towards the only exit.

Morgan saw the look of absolute dismay in his parents' faces as he climbed back into the car he had arrived in. He allowed himself a contented smile as he sank into the lavish, leather, seats, signalling to the driver to get underway by tapping on the glass partition. He brought his knees up to his chest and bundled the coat around him, the cold beginning to bite into his skin. The car pulled away from the glow of the building as the fire savoured each nook and cranny with an elated lick of flame. He heard a round of gunfire and smiled again, looking at his reflection in the side window, unable to contain his excitement for his revenge on Jonas Quinn.

As the car snaked its way through the darkness of Borgos no one noticed a figure watching it pass, a figure with a gaze of molten lava, "yes, Morgan," it whispered, "we will have our revenge on Jonas Quinn."