A/N: Yeah, so I finally added the first chapter. I was sooo pleasantly surprised to find some reviews already! With only the prologue! WHoo! Thank you all so much. I'm excited you like it. So, I hope this chapter satisfies you as well.

Somehow…I still feel disappointed with it. But eh. Oh well. It's the first chapter-I promise it'll be exciting.

So…once again, thanks so much for the reviews on the prologue! I hope others will read this story and like it. And I hope this chapter satisfies your fangirlishness!

And concerning Riley…

You'll just have to read.

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Disclaimer: I still don't own anything, and never will…but my OCs…Sybila being included.

Chapter One:

We never forget the things we want, people we hate, or loved ones we loose. Somehow, we are burned with an everlasting memory-something we're forced to remember forever. Whether we want to or not.

I could see her standing there, barely leaning over to catch a final glimpse of her sister-in-law. The pain in her eyes could barely match the throbbing that swelled inside me. It wasn't fair. Not for her, and certainly not for me.

I continued to watch her from the corner of my eye. She was trying to stand tall, but would fail occasionally, letting herself lean into me; her shoulder touching mine. Her thin framed body shivered violently, mostly due to the vigorous sobbing that she so desperately tried to hold inside.

Her sniffling and sobbing seemed to echo loudly throughout my ears, allowing the aching in my head to thrash even harder.

"We come here, on the twenty-seventh of April, two-thousand and 6, to pray that our beloved Sybila Howe will never be forgotten." Jonathan Wilson, our local priest, calmly began the sermon and eulogy. As he spoke, his old, aged voice felt like hot acid spiting in my stomach.

I was beginning to feel nauseous. I was beginning to hate him. To hate everyone, even.

Why?

Because no one knew how I felt. No one could feel the real, true anguish that planted itself into my soul. For the first time in years, I felt completely empty. I was alone. Very, very alone.

"We all nearly knew her from way back when she was but a child-running around the church in her brightly colored dresses. Her spirit was so beautiful and so caring…" As he went on, I knew it was becoming more and more unbearable. Even my sister knew it.

Gently, she placed her fingers on top of my palm, hesitating when the cold from my skin touched hers. I glanced over at her-gazing into her black rimmed eyes. Her mascara had streamed down her paling face. She looked miserable, as was I.

She felt my pain. She always did.

For a brief moment, I felt her hand lift to my cheek. Quickly she wiped away a chilling tear that managed to pry its way from my tensed eyes. No words could ever describe how pathetic I truly felt. Nothing could compare. Nothing, I felt, could understand.

I hated him.

However, I also hated to admit that I was selfish. God, however, knew otherwise. I had found that my selfishness had increased dangerously over the past weeks. All of my family, those still willing to come together, could easily see how drastically I had changed.

But who were they to judge?

Their wife wasn't taken away…

Their child's mother was stolen from them.

"Her life was tragically taken from us. God only knows why, and we, as his children, can only know that it was for a reason. Though her death was from evil hands, her soul was never touched. Her soul shall rest in peace."

When the priest had lessened in words, many of the family and friends who attended the funeral began to weep. I could hear them. All of them!

Each and every sniffle and cough throbbed madly-making me far more uneasy than I had ever been. I felt a cold, clammy sweat slide down my face. I hadn't noticed the uneasy breaths I had been taking until a small voice from behind had asked me if I was alright.

"You've been rocking back and forth, son. You sure you can stand?"

I nodded furiously, just hoping he'd shut up. He did, rather hastily too. My sister, however, didn't.

"Ian, you look awful," she whispered in-between inhauls. "You should go take a moment….get a breather, yea?" She nodded lightly, looking up to me. Her green eyes glinted with pouring tears, desperately tried to win me over.

I didn't budge.

I wasn't leaving her side.

I couldn't.

"I'm fine. Got it? Everyone! Please….I am fine!"

I hadn't noticed how loud I had yelled. Nearly everyone fell back a few steps though, so I was quickly reminded that my tone had breeched past a decent limit. Turning away, they tried to pretend my outburst didn't happen. They all glanced down at her coffin. It was white and looked porcelain. Like her skin.

But she was dead.

My Sybila was dead…

I would make Beckered pay. With every last ounce in me…he would pay. Somehow, somewhere…that man would never terrorize my family again. Never.

Never.

"Never…"

"You never pay attention when I'm tellin' you a story!"

With a quick shove of the shoulder, Ian felt his body slide low against the dirty table top. Heavily taking in a breath, the man glanced up.

"Finally. Sheesh! Thought you were in some psycho comma, man!" Brad laughed, sending the few others at the criminal table laughing as well.

Ian, however, was not amused.

The look on his face, and the thin glare in his eyes only explained his lack of interest in the group he was forced to sit with. What a bunch of lousy criminals, he thought, smirking lightly.

"Ah, c'mon man, you never pay attention. You're like…the only guy here who DOESN'T know the story of how I nearly lost my hand in an alley fight!" He went on, poorly bragging, as if he were some silly child in a high school.

Ian Howe barely paid any more attention to the story from what he had before. His eyes were drowsily gazing at the plain white and grey walls of the prison, occasionally glancing up at the guards who paced up and down the wide aisles between the lunch tables.

He admired them, somewhat, and hated them even more.

For the past six months he had been stuck in the pit of despair, a prison in Massachusetts. They had transferred him once before, sending him to one in D.C, but the federal agents and the involved judges and attorneys decided it best to keep him with the smaller group, in Massachusetts. How lovely.

What Ian felt was truly disappointing was the fact that he was separated from Powell and Viktor. They were left in D.C. Lucky them.

"So then he sent his knife right at my face! But I was like a cat, man! An alley cat! I spun around and kicked him where the sun don't shine!"

The constant laughter and cheers form the table only rotted Ian's stomach. He felt like he was stuck with the most juvenile prisoners ever. It was starting to become unbearable.

"You know what," Ian finally added, turning his head slightly, "No one cares if you ALMOST lost your hand. No one cares if you CROUCHED like a ninja cat. No one cares. No one ever will."

The group fell daftly quiet. Ian grinned. Finally, peace and quiet. At least he could hear his thoughts now, even though he had to admit, the recent thoughts weren't quite pretty either. The images of Sybila, dead and in the coffin only irritated him further.

"Well," Brad continued, followed by all of the men's stares, "At least I get some action! You got stuck in here for breaking into a dumb old church, and some other crap…or something…." They laughed.

Ian felt his neck and cheeks burn with fury-perhaps even a little embarrassment.

Quickly, Ian rose from his seat, pounding his foot onto the bench and leaned over, grabbing Brad's jumpsuit collar. Their gasps only brightened his pride. Good, he thought. I have their attention.

He pulled him closer, tightening his grasp, making it harder and harder for Brad to push away.

"You think it's funny when you open your big mouth, don't you? Yeah, you do. Well, I've got a surprising reality check for you, pal. It's not. And if I hear another bloody word escape from your rotting mouth, I'll punch your nose in. Alright?"

Brad just narrowed his eyes, huffing and puffing. Ian figured he was trying to hide his shivering. Nothing worse than looking like a wuss when you were stuck in prison; mixed with a group of criminals.

"And for the record…" he added, "You should do your research before accusing a criminal of his crime. You might make me angry."

"Yeah?" Brad dared, still glaring-even if his face was sweating profusely. "You ain't so tough. Not without a gun anyway," he chuckled nervously, starting a dangerous fire.

"I don't need a gun to kill someone," Ian ventured further as well. Brad's breathing rapidly increased.

"You wouldn't dare. Not me. No-I'm the only friend you got in this joint!" He mocked.

"Friend? What makes you think we are friends? I don't need friends, Bradley Wade…and if I did? I would have no problem shooting them, then leaving them in a deep, dark, dank tunnel. Interested in being my Friend now, Bradley?"

Ian had pulled him closer. Although he felt a bitter empowerment flood through his shackled appearance, he did regret using a mistake as part of a threat. Remembering Riley's face only placed a heavier weight on his worn shoulders.

"Set him down. That's an order!"

Ian released Brad quickly. The teaser in the officer's hands didn't look to friendly, but showed incredible desire to spark someone. Nodding to an agreement, Ian backed away from the table, feeling the officer place a firm, merciless hand against his shoulder, dragging him away from the lunch tables.

"You can skip lunch for one day, Mr. Howe," He said, and pushed him through the cafeteria doors, then heading through the halls.

"What a freak…."

Wow….So, what did you think? NO! Don't thin it ! Go review it! Silly.

Hahaha. Hope you liked it. I wanted something dramatic-something powerfully devastating for Ian to enter into. I needed the drastic part touched, hoping you'd be interested in reading further, understanding his pain a bit from before. You'll know why he wanted to find the treasure soon enough.

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