He forced open the doors, the iron scraping loudly against the floor. The dust coating the floor formed clouds as his feet shuffled across the barren room. Evidently the previous owners had vacated long ago. But he had been afraid of that. He made his way down the hallway, peering into each room in turn. At the last room he stopped, and actually walked into this one for a closer look. It appeared to be the room of an artist, with crude sketches of machinery, buildings, and animals, although these sketches seemed to lean more towards anatomical analyses than aesthetics.
The young man smiled as he brushed his fingers over drawings he had made more than ten years ago. His mentor had taught him to use drawings such as these to better master his abilities. But his talents had only brought him trouble, and had landed him in prison. Now he was out, but it appeared his mentor and fellow student had moved. He was admiring one sketch he had been so proud of, of a lemur he had seen fleeting glances of while living on the island. The dust kept him from hearing the man walk up behind him, but he heard the loud throat clearing well enough.
Whipping around, his hand shot out for the stranger's throat, but the newcomer had him pinned against the wall, the sketch at the small of his back, before he had the chance to strike. The negfghwcomer's face was pale, and he had a look of mild curiosity mixed with amusement plastered on his sickly-looking skin. The man against the wall, struggled to get out from the others grip, but his fingers were like iron. Finally he went limp.
"Ok, I give," the young man said with resignation heavy in his voice. The other let him go, and he slid down the wall, the sketch fluttering to the ground next to him. Rubbing his wrists, he looked up at the pale man from the floor. "Just who are you? What are you doing in my home? Do you live here?" The questions burst out before he could even really rationalize what he was saying, and he felt no regret for saying them, just interest in what the man's answer would be.
But no answer was forthcoming. Instead the man just beckoned with one hand for him to follow, and then left the room just as silently as he entered. By the time the young artist finally left the bedroom, the other man had vanished. It didnt take long to find him again though, sitting in the only other bedroom, on the bed, wearing an all too familiar mask. The concealed face didnt move upon the artists entrance.
"Hello Deacon. It's been awhile. How was prison?" The dry voice, the mocking tone. Deacon smiled sadly and sat down on the bed next to his old friend and former peer.
"Interesting. Prison was... interesting. You're still here after all these years. That must mean Baygen's dead, no?" The masked man nodded almost imperceptibly. Silence filled the room for what felt like an eternity. Finally the other, who's name no one knew but had always been known as Ripper, spoke.
"How... did you escape?" The question hung in the air, almost tangible in its weight. Deacon hung his head, the thoughts rushing around like frightened mice. His escape from the prison had been a grueling one, for if he had been noticed, or even his abscence noticed, he would be wanted again throughout the world. He had waited, storing up enough energy to warp the very space inside the cell. The dead guard he had left in his place would be mistaken for his own body, and the world would forget about him... for now. Ripper sat silent and motionless throughout the entire description of Deacon's escape. He didn't know if he had been the first because some prisoners had gone missing recently. All he knew was that one of them had some sort of hormone problems, and he didn't care to get involved with those freaks. His tale at an end, he sat back with his head resting on the wall. It was awhile before anyone spoke again.
"I've been waiting here in the hope that someone might return, Deacon. Now that you're here though, I find myself wondering," Ripper said as he stood and faced hid friend, "What do we do now?"
Deacon smiled, a curious expression even Ripper couldn't read perfectly. The pirate leaned forward, placing his hands on his legs, a fire lighting his eye. He still felt the rush of the escape. Not even Impel Down had been able to hold him. His exploits could go down as the stuff of legends. But not yet. Now was a time of preparation.
"Now, my good friend," he said slowly. "Now we hunt."