Chapter Two: Still Not Dead

Peter assessed the situation. He was standing, in the middle of a street, in the middle of the night, where moments before he'd been seated in his penthouse in ARK Tower. He was thankful that he at least had on a robe over the pajamas he'd thrown on when he'd snuck out of bed earlier. The headache that had been assaulting him had vanished.

"So, what exactly is the extent of your powers?" Fleming asked. "You shape shift, you cure headaches…"

"Your headache's gone because you haven't been born," Deveraux interrupted. "You can't very well be hung-over if you don't exist."

"What the hell are you talking about? Of course I exist!"

"Not here you don't. You wished you were never born. In this world, you weren't."

Deveraux didn't take any pleasure in granting his descendant's wish, but he felt that it was for Peter's own good. He'd tried to distract the younger man from his troubles, to no avail. If he wanted Peter to stop blaming himself for the state Palm City was in, he'd have to show him how much worse off things could be.

Peter groped in the pockets of his robe. It was probably fruitless; he must have left his wallet on the bedside table… Huh. His fingers closed on his wallet, though he didn't remember grabbing it.

"If I wasn't born," he said, as he withdrew the wallet from his pocket, "then explain…" He trailed off. His credit cards were missing, although he supposed Deveraux might have ripped him off. But his driver's license was missing, too, and why would anyone swipe that, but leave the cash inside?

"Your I.D. is gone because you don't exist," André explained.

"Just take me back to the Tower," Peter hissed, infuriated. He couldn't even see the skyscraper from here, which somehow struck him as wrong. Maybe he should just hail a cab already…

"I can't. Don't you get it? You weren't born. No Peter Fleming means no ARK Corporation, which means no ARK Tower!"

"You're joking. Or you're mental."

Peter, Chess spoke up. I think he's telling the truth. Take a closer look around. ARK Tower should have been right across the street from us.

Peter stared. There was no doubt about it. He could make out other landmarks, but ARK Tower had simply ceased to exist, leaving (not a gaping hole, which he would've expected, but rather) a much shorter, less impressive building in its place.

"You weren't around to have the building commissioned for the company," Deveraux was explaining. "Heck, the company wasn't around. You were the one that had it incorporated. It was your brainchild. Without you, it doesn't exist."

Peter, get—him—to undo what he did. Or I am going to kill you. You arse! If you weren't born, that means I wasn't, either!

Chess had thrived off of every news report detailing his gruesome crimes and speculating as to who he was. He would no doubt have been quite impossible to live with after his faux death in the explosion, when the media attention had gradually begun to fade away. Instead, he'd stopped talking to Peter altogether for a while, probably sulking.

I wasn't sulking!

If Fleming didn't know better, he'd think the sociopathic alternate personality was having a panic attack.

I'll show you a panic attack! Everything I've done—down the drain. No one fears the name Chess… or the name Peter Fleming, either. Don't tell me that doesn't gall you.

It was a bit too much to wrap his head around, the thought that all of his accomplishments and his reputation had just been erased. He turned to the shape shifter.

"So you're saying that I don't own Palm City. Then who does?"

"Well, the city isn't owned by any one person. It's carved up into different—"

"Who has the largest piece of it, then? Who would be considered the most territorial?"

Deveraux waved a hand. Thankfully, Peter wasn't blinded by light this time, but he must've blinked because one second they were standing where ARK Tower should have been and the next he was in a warehouse down by the docks, in front of a certain deformed smuggler. Peter didn't know where his companion was, but at the moment, he didn't care.

"Raoul, the last time I saw you, you were being arrested," Peter stated, as Scales reflexively pulled a gun on him.

"Odd; I don' remember ever sharin' a cell wit' someone who could teleport. Or were you a copper?"

"You don't remember me? Peter Fleming—I'm the reason you were arrested for killing Voyt."

Notice how he's not in prison now, Peter?

"Killin' Voyt? What's this, then? Who said he was dead? VOYT!" Scales called.

Peter turned around and then he felt the blood drain from his face. Marty Voyt, his former Chief of Police, the man whose funeral he'd not only attended, but paid for, was walking towards him.

Since you need someone to spell it out for you, without us, no one hired Raoul for the assassination. Hence, Voyt is alive and Raoul is a free-man, Chess supplied. Also, it appears Voyt is working for Scales here.

Marty was wearing his uniform, but it was for the Palm City Police Department, not ARK Corporation. So Palm City's law enforcement was never privatized.

But evidently it was corrupted.

"Yes, Mr. Raoul?" Marty asked.

"This nutter's under the impression I had you done away with. D' you recognize 'im?"

"No, sir; I've never seen him before in my life."

"Voyt, it's me! Your boss—I hired you, I promoted you. I threatened your family a number of times, but surely we can put that behind us."

"No one's allowed to threaten my employees' families," Scales hissed.

"He didn't. I think I'd remember," Marty assured him. "Do you want me to escort him out?"

"I'm sure I can find my own way out," Fleming interjected.

Scales, who had put away the gun when he'd decided the stranger was harmless, shook his head.

"He's not worth yer time. Where are we on dealin' with the Lich?" he asked, paying no more attention to Peter. Apparently he assumed that Peter was already heading for the exit.

"I got in touch with Tarot as you requested," Marty reported. "They've sent an assassin to do the job."

"Which one they send?" Scales asked.

"Justice," Voyt replied.

"Justice," Scales repeated. "That'd be…"

"Rosethorne," Marty answered.

Peter, who had decided to head towards the exit, where he'd finally spotted Deveraux standing, stopped cold. He turned back to the two men.

"I'm sorry, did you say Rosethorne?" the billionaire asked.

"I did," Marty replied.

"Are you still 'ere?" Scales demanded. If the intruder had had half a brain, he would've left. On the other hand, if he'd had half a brain, he wouldn't have burst in in the first place…

"What's the assassin's first name?" Peter asked Voyt.

"Danielle, I believe. Do you know her?"

"I thought I did."

"Used Tarot before, have you?" Scales asked.

"Yes," Peter replied absently, though that wasn't how he had recognized the name. "Must be a funny coincidence; you see, Rosethorne was my wife's maiden name."

Author's Note: Voilà, Scales! He might not be appearing again in the fic, but I wanted to make sure I got him in there. I seem to recall someone being a fan of Scales…

Are you still with me folks? There's more angst to come.

This chapter's name comes from Skye Sweetnam's "Cartoon."

I want to thank meridian-rose, IronAmerica, and Orwell for reviewing!