I apologies for the late update for anyone who's still reading this (which, let's face it, is probably two or three people), and wish you a good day on my birthday. Woo woo woo, you know it.

26th April, 1997.

The night after his brother's arrest, Desmond sat silently at the dining table, a plate of uneaten steak in front of him. He wasn't exactly hungry, and considering these recent event, it wasn't that surprising. It's only been 24 hours, yet Desmond already missed Zeke. Zeke had this charismatic ability to cheer you up with a smirk and a nod, an ability that when combined with his chiseled physique and the habit of not wearing shirts, certainly made him popular with several high-school teen girls who, amid whispered giggles, observed Zeke picked up Desmond from school once or twice in his 58' Plymouth Fury.

Oh, how he wished Zeke was still here…

"It just goes to show that he is not one of us." Lyle said though a mouthful of steak. "I mean, really. I should've seen this kind of trouble coming from the moment I adopted him. He's not part of my bloodline. No, he's just a commoner. And I'll tell you something about commoners, Desmond. They see us, the rich folk, the successful folk, and they hate us. Because they're jealous of the fact that we are better than them."

Desmond was listening to more of his father's tirade than he wanted to. Lyle swallowed a particularly large bite of the meat, and already had another piece impaled on his fork. "And the thing is," Lyle continued. "Those people, the commoners who hate us because they're not us, would kill. They would gladly rip out your eyes, Desmond, just for a tenth of what I have. They can't be trusted, because underneath the skin, they all are bad people. They're nothing but scum on the face of God's green earth, and Ezekiel was one of them."

"No he wasn't." Desmond spoke up, quietly but forcefully. "Zeke was a good person."

Lyle paused, shocked that his son had spoken out against him. Then, he lowered his fork to his plate and shook his head. "No, Desmond. He wasn't."

"But he-"

SMACK!

Desmond rubbed the side of his face where his father's slap had connected, his voice dying in his throat. Tears began to swell in his eyes and the pain ran through him, and Lyle sat back down in his seat with a casual thump.

"Never interrupt me again, you damned retard." He hissed, fixing Desmond with a glare that could've frozen the sun. "You need to learn a lesson in respect, boy. Or would you rather be outside, with the commoners baying for your blood?"

Slowly, Desmond shook his head.

"I thought so. C'mon, you." Lyle grabbed Desmond by the wrist, with a grip as tight as an Iron Maiden, and dragged the unresisting cat from the dining table, their respective meals forgotten. Lyle led his son down the hallway, stopping by the side of the stairs. He fumbled around in his pockets, before finding a pair of keys and unlocking the door to the basement. He pushed Desmond inside, and slammed the door shut.

Darkness surrounded Desmond. He whimpered loudly.

"I know it's dark. Hopefully this'll teach you a lesson in respect." Lyle's voice said, from the outside door. Then, footsteps fading away as his father left him locked in the darkness.

Desmond, blind , alone, and scared, knelt down in a corner and put his head in his hands.

"Do you have a… eight?" Flippy asked, studying his cards carefully. He had three sixes, two nines, a jack, and two eights. He wasn't good at this game. Flaky grinned, and shook her head.

"Nope. Go fish."

Flippy grabbed a card from the pile, glanced at it, and moaned. "Why don't I ever get anything useful?"

Flaky shrugged. "Probably because you really suck at this game. You got any sixes?"

"Damnit." Flippy threw his sixes to Flaky, two out of three of them landing in Flaky's quills.

"Was that really necessary?" Flaky asked, pulling the cards out of her quills and inspecting the newly-crafted holes in them.

"Yes." Flippy replied, in a tone that didn't show whether he was joking or being serious. Either way, Flaky got the hint that he was tired of the game, and began packing the cards up.

"Soooo…" Flippy twiddled his thumbs, thinking. "This gathering of yours, what's the plan for it?"

Flaky paused for a second, then recalled the general plan she and some others had agreed upon. "Well, we've decided that we'll bring some party food to the town square, and we'll have a late-night showing of movies. We're not sure what movies yet, Giggles seems dead-set on some Twilight thing… but it's generally a socializing thing. You can never have enough friends, right?"

"Suppose not…" Flippy mulled, not entirely sure about that. "So who's attending?"

"Pretty much everyone." Flaky shrugged. "Pop agreed to bring Cub, on the condition that they both be home by 8, and I think Petunia managed to convince Lifty & Shifty that they could attend if they behaved."

There was a short pause. Then, "How the hell did she convince them to do that?" Flippy asked incuriously.

Flaky shook her head. "Beats me. Everyone else, I think, have confirmed their attendance." Then, another short pause. "Well, everyone, except…" She trailed off, and grinned.

"Everyone except?" Flippy prodded on.

"You, silly."

"Oh. Well, consider this my response: I accept this invite, and will await the glorious evening in which I shall be enjoying myself heartily with my friends."

"Good lad." Flaky nodded, then frowned as a thought occurred to her. "What about DJ?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yeah. I should probably call him and ask."

"That might be helpful, yes." Flaky agreed. Flippy reached for his phone, and remembering DJ telling him the number once before, tapped in the numbers and held it to his ear as Flaky went to get a drink.

Brrrrring. Wait, was it even the right number?

Brrrrring. Yes, because it has the three consecutive sixes in the middle of it, Flippy remembered that.

Brrrrring. That can't be coincidence…

Finally, on the fourth or fifth ring, the phone was answered with DJ's soft English accent.

September 22nd, 1997.

The cold wind billowed through the streets of Manchester, freezing the blood inside Desmond. He shivered, hugging himself for warmth, and continued his walk home. School had been just as bad as usual, with the comments about being 'the murderer's brother' being particularly insistent, and as per usual Desmond said nothing about it. Really, who was going to listen? The teachers, in all honesty, cared more about their next paycheck than the welfare of students, and if his father was going to care, think again.

Desmond glanced at his watch, and exhaled in tiredness. 5:00. School ended about an hour ago. Lyle knew how long the walk from school to home was, and did nothing to help, why? 'To build up muscle or something like that.' It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Lyle honestly didn't give a damn.

Zeke used to pick him up…

Desmond sighed. Zeke was going to be gone for a minimum of eight years, he might as well try to get used to life without him.

"Hey!"

Oh, dear.

"I'm talking to you, you little asshole!"

Desmond glanced backwards, and shivered. The shouter, a faintly-recognizable blue ferret, stepped up from behind Desmond, malice in his eyes. "Pay attention, bitch."

Desmond froze where he stood, watching the ferret with fearful eyes. Something was familiar about him… But what?

"Your brother killed my brother." The ferret spat.

Oh. That explains it.

"Your asshole brother's lucky he's in jail, and not anywhere near me." The ferret said, taking a step towards Desmond. "You, on the other hand…"

Desmond whimpered, and took a step back.

"I'm going to make your brother feel the same way I feel… By killing HIS brother!" The ferret cried, and brandished a small bowie knife. The lowering sun glinted off the polished steel, the ferret's eyes reflecting a disturbing lack of sanity. Desmond gulped audibly, his eyes fixated on the knife, and took another step backwards.

"No no, stay still, you coward. This won't hurt a bit… For me." And with a slasher smile that Jack Torrance would be proud of, the ferret leapt forward and slashed the knife right at Desmond's face.

Desmond, having already taken several steps backward, was already prepared to flee, but this caught him by surprise. He stumbled back, trying to avoid the knife's blow… and failed.

The knife sliced a gash of Desmond's forehead, just about his left eye. The cut probably wasn't too deep, but blood still dribbled out in front of Desmond's eyes. Seeing your own blood dripping in front of you may be the deciding factor in a 'flight or flight' response, and for Desmond, who was never a type to fight, this was a sign that it would probably be best if he started running like hell.

Desmond, clutching at his bleeding face with one hand, desperately ran as the ferret got to his feet and chased after the cat. "Stop running, you'll just die tired!" The ferret screeched, which in retrospect was a pretty decent badass call. Still, Desmond ignored him, and with harrowed breaths, tried to put some distance between himself and his crazed attacker.

Since his pursuer was taller, more athletic and dangerously unstable, he quickly caught up, and with a dirty, unkempt hand, reached out and grabbed Desmond by the scruff of his neck, literally lifting him off the ground. Desmond had only a fleeting moment of floating, before he felt the blade of the knife press against his throat.

"Any last words?" The ferret whispered in his ear.

Instead of saying an iconic string of words, Desmond only whimpered and struggled.

"I'll take that as a no." The ferret whispered, and poised to slice Desmond's throat open…

When one of Desmond's errant kicks managed to land squarely in the ferret's crotch.

The ferret hissed, his hold on Desmond weakening in favor of protecting his doubloons. Desmond wrenched himself free from the ferret's grip, and sprinted, sprinted away, around a corner, and quickly hid himself underneath a parked sedan.

No less than two seconds later, the ferret rounded the corner, one hand against his weak spot, the other still brandishing the knife. From Desmond's point of view, the ferret's feet paused just inches from the car, the ferret apparently looking around, then continued down the path.

Desmond breathed, and rolled out from underneath the car. Smiling in relief, he wiped the dripping blood from his vision, and continued his walk home in the cold dark.

DJ's fingers tapped the keys of his grand piano with precision and accurate timing, despite having his eyes closed. The tune of Michael Giacchino's Life & Death echoed through the room, the music bringing a sad smile to DJ's face. Finishing the final notes, he rested his hands above the keyboard, and breathed deeply.

Brrrrring.

DJ's eyes snapped open, his smile turning into a frown at this disturbance as the ringing echoed throughout the house.

Brrrrring.

He glanced at the caller ID, and raised an eyebrow. Flippy? What was he calling for?

Brrrrring.

DJ mentally debated whether he should answer it, before the better half won, and he answered it on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"DJ, it's Flippy."

"So the caller ID says." DJ noted, rolling his eyes. "What do you want?"

"Well, a few of us were organizing a get-together, a snacks and late-night movie thing, and I was wondering if-"

"No." DJ instantly replied.

"Why not?"

"Large crowds aren't exactly my thing."

"Oh, pish-posh."

"… Did you just say 'pish-posh'?" DJ asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Irrelevant. C'mon, DJ. You need to get out of your shell and, you know, meet other people. Make some friends."

"I don't need friends."

"Everyone needs friends. We're all very nice people, DJ. Mostly."

"Look, Flippy, I appreciate you asking me, but the answer is no." DJ said sternly, and was on the verge of ending the call when Flippy pulled out his hidden ace.

"I think one of the movies showing will be a Stephen King one."

DJ paused, the mention of a movie based off one of Stephen King's novels appealing to him. Finally, he sighed in defeat. "Where and when?"

Desmond silently closed the front door behind him as he stepped into his home. Already, he could smell the stench of liquor. Father's been drinking. Again. Unsurprised, Desmond tip-toed into the lounge room and glanced at his father. Lyle Jazed, once again passed out in a drunken haze, snored lightly as a bottle of empty alcohol was clutched in his left hand, the right holding a picture frame, the contents partially hidden behind Lyle's figure. Desmond glanced at his father's sleeping face, and took a few tentative steps forward. His curiosity far outweighing his sense fear, he reached for the picture frame.

Lyle Jazed grunted. Desmond literally jumped back as his father pushed himself up, not as asleep as previously thought. Lyle dropped the empty bottle and put his hand to his forehead, most likely feeling a hangover. He fixed Desmond with a drunken stare, eyes unfocused. "Desmond."

That one word, spat from Lyle's mouth, was enough to freeze Desmond to the spot.

"It's your birthday." Lyle noted, and glanced at the picture frame in his right hand. He tossed the picture on the coffee table, and Desmond got a glance of it: Taken many years ago, a smiling Lyle Jazed with a hand around his wife's shoulders, Mary Jazed, Desmond's mother. Desmond looked back up at Lyle.

"She was the beautiful… Smart… Caring." Lyle said, his eyes fixated on the picture of his deceased wife. "The best woman I ever met. Marrying her was the best day of my life." Then, he gave Desmond a glare that could've disintegrated a boulder. "Then you came along and ruined everything." He spat, his drunken eyes now reflecting hatred, sorrow, anger. "Everything was perfect. I was happy. She was happy. Hell, even Ezekiel was happy. But you… You just HAD to come along and FUCK EVERYTHING UP!" Lyle furiously roared.

Desmond trembled.

"Do you have any idea… ANY IDEA how much you've ruined my life? She died, MARY DIED bringing you into this world, and how do you honor her memory? By being a FUCKING DISGRACE!"

Desmond was on the verge of tears, willing himself to stay strong as his father calmed himself, staring at the picture of Mary.

"Desmond, for your birthday, can you do me a favor?" And Lyle looked at Desmond with a look that nightmares are made of. "Die."

Tears welled, and began to leak as Desmond backed up and ran from the room, from his monster of a father.

Yeah… sucks massively to be DJ. Reviews are welcomed. Bloody Vengeance will (hopefully) be updated within the coming week, and Bermuda closely afterwards.

Cheers.

~ DJ.