This is a story based on a roleplay character I made for Half Life 2 Clockwork Roleplay. His backstory, his past, and even up to more recent events.

Authors Note: If people like this, I will likely write much more, probably on fanfic or somewhere else like Deviantart where I won't clog up the forums. I wrote this at 3:30 AM in about an hour, and if I write more I do promise it would likely be better detailed and worded, though I don't think this was the worst I've done. Hope you enjoy.

Note #2: The story is meant to be a bit jumbled. It will come together more clearly in the end if I do write more, so let me know if you'd like me to, I have no issue whatsoever, in fact I enjoy writing this story so far :)

Wraith

"Do you know what happens to a man, when he loses everything? When he loses his friends, his family, his home, his goal in life?"

"I don't believe someone can lose their goal in life. One's goal, one's meaning, cannot be stripped away from them."

"Ah. That may be true, but you can strip their will to follow it. One's energy, one's strength, can be chipped away at over and over, until the point where they no longer have the desire to follow their goal anymore."

"Fine...What happens?"

"What's love, Javert?" The young 13-year-old boy asked his older brother, sitting on his bed in Javert's room. The room was relatively empty, with a dark, oak desk sitting in the corner with a small lamp on it, a single bed with dark green sheets and blue pillows, and a small closet in the corner. Relatively empty, that is, except for books. While most ordinary children would have clothes strewn around the room uselessly, food wrappers and empty sodas, in Javert's room, there were only books. Piles of them, stacked around on the floor, on his desk, piles of them under his bed, and even some in the drawers of his desk and on the top floor in his closet. Different genres, different authors, different forms of writing-To the boy, it was like a library.

"Well, lad, that's a bit hard to describe." He responded, glancing towards his younger brother. He didn't look the least bit surprised by this question, though for the past hour they had been reading in complete silence together, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, deep into their own books. He should have been surprised, but he wasn't. Partially because he had given his younger brother a certain book by the name of "Hearts in Atlantis" written by Stephen King, which included much about love. Partly because he was just incredibly bright for his age, and usually saw things coming before they happened.

Athard waited for an answer for a few more seconds, knowing he would likely get none. He, too, was quite a bright kid for his age, especially for the age of thirteen, but most of it had been picked up from his brother. He took his habits, learned to read people's emotions like he did, adapted relatively well. No answer came, like he knew it wouldn't, so he continued:

"Well...How do you know when you're in love?" Athard asked him, curiously, turning his gaze away from the book, fully towards his brother. His bright amber eyes rested upon the eyes of his brother, who was still deep inside his own book, or so he seemed, if Athard hadn't known better. No, Javert was really giving Athard his full attention.

"You know you're in love when you don't have to ask." Javert replied thoughtfully, nodding slightly as he spoke the words, seeming to confirm it to himself as he said so.

"Well..That's not very specific.." Athard said in a cute, grumbling tone that few ever heard, usually which was done on purpose.

"It's a feeling of never getting bored of being around someone. Knowing that you'd be fine as long as you could be with them forever. Feeling an uplifting feeling, no matter how bad your mood is, at least just a little-A feeling in your very soul that just says..Everything's right here." He explained more thoroughly, reading at the same time as he spoke.

Athard considered this for a while, reading through the next two pages of his book before speaking again.

"Are mom and dad in love, Javert?" He asked, slowly turning his gaze back to his older brother.

This time, his brother returned the gaze, looking at him solemnly. He said nothing for a few long seconds, before exhaling through his nose, and then opening his mouth.

"No, little brother. I'm not sure they are."

Athard Blaicess was born 1988 in Dublin, the capital of Ireland, into a family with only one other sibling: An older brother by three years. His father was a relatively wealthy doctor, and he was damn good at his job. He worked in 's hospital, a relatively well-known one with plenty of clients, and he was paid an above-average salary, even for a doctor, because he had been working at it for so long. His mother was, unfortunately, unemployed, and stayed at home most of the day with the children, when they weren't away at school.

I could give you more details-but I won't. That would ruin some of the surprise. So sit back, reader, and relax. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Take my hand, now, and hold on tight-I'm going to take us through some pretty dark places, but the story is one worth reading, and I think I know my way around. Enjoy the show.

March, 2002

The school bell rang after the end of last period, and for most kids at 14 years old, that was a blessing. Friday afternoon, school was out for the weekend, and were they thanking the lord for it. Athard walked behind the rest of the herd of students moving through the classroom door, and a few moments before his step to freedom, a deep male's voice behind him called out.

"Athard, could you stay for a minute?" The teacher called, sitting at his desk and thumbing through some papers, giving a brief glance towards the young man.

The "young man" stopped and turned on his heel in response. Even at the age of fourteen, you could tell this young man was going to grow up with looks on his side. His features were already beginning the slow process of becoming more defined and masculine. His straight hair, a dark, hazel brown color, hung down to just an inch or two above his jaw line, which was defined and smooth. He had decently high, smooth and rounded cheekbones, with the faintest of a pink tint to them. His skin was a soft tan color, he didn't go to the beach all the time, but he certainly developed a tint. He had a fair complexion, and his body, even at this age, was in very good athletic condition-Gym was one of his two easiest classes, and he could run farther, faster and longer than any of the other boys in his grade. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were a bright, golden-yellow shade of amber, a very rare color in humans, and later in life, most adults would find them very unique and cool, while high school kids were more inclined to just say...Well, 'weird'.

He approached the desk and stopped at the corner, looking down at the man with the faintest of polite smiles crossing his lips.

"Yes, Mr. Brautigan?" Athard asked him, using his best ass-kissing polite tone, knowing fully well that Mr. Brautigan saw right through it.

"Your essay...It was very good, you showed some creativity-and a bit of brilliance-that I haven't seen from you before..." he began, holding out a few stapled papers to Athard. He took the papers and briefly glanced at the mark, which was a 96%, which turned out to be the highest mark in his class on this certain assignment.

"But...It was surprisingly dark, as well. Keep up the good work, however...Try not to be so...Pessimistic, for your age?" finished, smiling slightly at him, looking up through a thin pair of glasses.

Athard stared at him silently for a few seconds, before a polite smile crossed his lips again, and he gave a brief but enthusiastic nod.

"Yes, sir. I'll keep up the good work." He said simply, before turning and slowly walking out of the classroom, heading to his locker.

Athard is what you would call...Unique. Nobody knew quite why, and some couldn't put their fingers on what was so odd about him, but the smart ones always did. Athard barely passed all of his classes, occasionally even failed some during the first half of his school years. Except for English, which he usually got high-70's to mid-80's, and Gym, where he got high 90's, closing in on 100%. But despite his nearly failing classes, you could tell he was smart. You just had to have a conversation with him, or read one of his english essays, to know it. You just had to catch him looking at people, sometimes. He had this...Sharpness about him. He was always paying attention to his surroundings, always trying to read things from peoples emotions and interpret them, and if you had a rare conversation with him, he had a hell of a lot of knowledgeable things to say. He even had a substantially higher use of vocabulary than most children his age, and most often did not understand a quarter of the words he used-though few were humble enough to say so and ask what they meant.

He gathered his things from his locker, slipping on a slightly torn jean jacket, a pair of black leather gloves, and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, before pushing his locker closed and locking it. A few seconds later, he was outside, walking towards the bus stop that would take him home.

He never made it that far, instead he ended up in the hospital.

Three boys that were leaning against a wall-one of them smoking-stood up and followed behind them. Two were one year older than Athard, another was in the same grade, and one of the bigger ones were carrying a baseball bat over his shoulder.

The youngest one came up behind him first and gave him a good, firm push on his shoulder, sending him stumbling forwards slightly before he caught his balance and turned around.

"Ey, Goldy." The young one said with a toothy smirk, showing his somewhat yellow teeth, and an under bite so obvious that you could almost feel the air cringing.

Athard's gaze slowly swept over the three boys, his expression utterly calm, his face showing no sign of fear or anxiety.

"Ello. Do ya need something?" He asked, actually smiling slightly. It would only later, much later, occur to him that the smile is likely what set them off so quickly.

The younger one lunged forwards without warning, sending his fist in a right hook towards Athard's head. His reactions were quick, surprisingly so, but not quick enough to see it coming. He tried to take a step back, just too late, the hook clipping the corner of his jaw line, his head spinning slightly to the side as he finished his step backwards, raising one hand to the wounded spot out of instinct.

Underbite began to lunge after him, but within a few instants, Athard unslinged the backpack from his shoulder, the strap sliding swiftly down his forearm to his wrist, and he swung his arm forwards, the bag flying off with the momentum and hitting Underbite square in the face. The moment the bag fell, Underbite yelling in surprise, Athard's right foot came up above it and made contact with the young mans stomach, sending him stumbling back and then tripping onto the pavement, sprawling and groaning quietly. Athard hadn't done much fighting in his life-Not yet, anyway-But he was quick, and he was creative. He knew he couldn't outrun the other two, even though he was the best runner in his grade, he could tell just by looking at them. He raised both fists, one beside the other, watching them carefully.

The one with the baseball bat ran forwards, swinging it hard at the side of Athard's ribs. It also occurred to him later that, perhaps, the baseball bat would have been used just to threaten him, to toy with him, had he not hurt Underbite quite like that, or maybe if he just hadn't smiled. He lunged his body downwards, ducking under the bat and slamming his right fist hard into the boys gut, who took two steps back with a brief "Oof". As he began to stand up, the third boy was already upon him, sending one curled fist crashing across the side of his face.

Athard stumbled back two paces, seeing stars, quickly trying to regain his balance, blood starting to drip from his nose now. He shook his head in time to see the baseball bat coming at his shoulder and didn't have time to duck, he instead raised his left arm in defense. His upper arm made contact with the bat, and, thankfully for him, the bat hadn't been at full momentum, or his arm likely would have broken. Instead came a searing pain that would later be bad bruising, he let out a yelp, but refused to scream.

The third boy sent another punch at him, to this one he ducked and punched the man straight in the groin, sending him sprawling to the ground in a groan of agony.

Then the baseball bat came again, to which he ducked and slammed his shoulder into the mans chest, causing him to drop the baseball bat to the ground. Athard raised his fist to punch the man square in the face, but a moment before he swung, the youngest boy had grabbed the bat and hit him in the back of the knee. Athard went down with another yelp, and a moment later he saw a foot come up to the side of his head, and then he was seeing stars as he sprawled to the left onto the pavement, head crashing into contact on its side, a gash opening along the left side of his head. He tried to get up, but one more hit came, the baseball bat to the side of his ribcage, this hit strong enough to fracture one of his ribs, which made him yelp loudly in pain and then grip his side, groaning. At which point, all three boys ran off to who knows where.

Athard laid there for about twenty minutes, groaning and squirming in pain, before somebody finally came over, asked what happened, and then went and called the police. An ambulance picked him up ten minutes after that, and Athard Blaicess spent his first of many times in the hospital during his recovery.