And we begin to have some plot.


Tearing down the pavement, breath coming in sharp, short bursts; Mihael ran faster than he ever had in his life. Hot beads of sweat trickled steadily down the sides of his face and perspiration glued his shirt to his body. As he ran, the wind threw dirt and bits of grime into his eyes, making them burn. But still he ran; past streets and alleys and houses and people, with the sounds of his pursuers' footsteps growing louder every second.

He had to get away, to go faster or else they were going to catch him. And if they did, they would kill him. They would beat him until he was a mass of blood and broken bones, crying and moaning in the street. 'No!' Mihael thought, 'No, it can't end like this!" He lowered his head and put on a fresh burst of speed even though his lungs felt close to bursting. 'Just a little more. A little farther and I can lose them!'

Then, as he skirted around an empty storefront, it happened. He felt his foot catch on some unseen object, perhaps a stretch of broken sidewalk, or the edge of the curb. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. All the mattered was that he had failed, they were going to catch him. A million thoughts ran through his brain as his momentum propelled him down onto the ground, smashing his chin against the cement and biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. The sound of feet pounding along the pavement grew closer and closer until they were almost on him. Mihael squeezed his eyes shut. This was it; this was the end.

Except that nothing happened. No fists came crashing into the back of his skull, no shoes rammed into his back. Mihael struggled in vain to listen for any sound that would indicate they were still there over his own labored breathing. He could hear nothing. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed himself warily off the ground and turned to look.

Mihael screamed, a sound of utter, unadulterated terror, and threw his arms up to protect himself and-

His eyes snapped open as the alarm clock above his bed let out a shrill screech and clattered down onto his head.

"A dream?" he murmured, reaching up absentmindedly to replace the clock. He ran a hand through his hair and winced at a stinging pain in his palms. He held his hands out in front of him and was shocked to see little half-moons of blood dotting his palms. He had been unconsciously digging his nails into his own flesh as he slept.

Mihael slowly curled his fingers, making his hands into fists, and brought them to lie in his lap. He couldn't shake the feeling of horror from his nightmare. And it didn't help that this was the second night in a row it had occurred. It had been three days since the confrontation in the alley and his meeting with the two strange boys but still Mihael couldn't stop thinking about it. He couldn't escape, not even in his sleep. All day he thought of Matt. Matt, with his warm, wry smile and his genuine concern. He even thought to some extent of Near and of those cold, calculating, gray eyes. But contemplations like that were tolerable. They weren't what was making him lose sleep and wake up in a cold sweat every few hours.

It was the damn nightmare, the same one he had been having since that night. He ran and ran and ran, but no matter how fast he was, the two men were always right behind him, ready to tear him apart at any moment. And just when Mihael thought he could finally get away, he would trip or stumble and end up on the ground. He would turn- and instead of seeing his attackers- he would see the young man with the deep brown eyes. Only now he looked different. Bruised and bloodied beyond almost all recognition, but with eyes that shone through the gore. Eyes that screamed at Mihael. Why? Why didn't you help me?

It always ended the same way as well. The young man would reach out one scraped and bloodied hand towards Mihael and then- Mihael would wake up, drenched in sweat, whimpering and frightened. It was ridiculous. He was seventeen years old, he shouldn't be having nightmares like a child.

He berated himself for not being able to control his own mind while he was getting ready for school. He went through the motions of taking a shower and brushing his teeth on autopilot all while having a mental battle with himself. He could control these nightmares. He had to. They were getting out of hand.

He made his way quietly down the stairs to the breakfast table, making sure to hide his abused palms as he poured himself a glass of water. As usual, Mother was standing at the stove, humming while she scrambled eggs and flipped bacon. Father sat at the table, flipping quietly through the newspaper. Mihael concentrated on buttering a piece of toast and had gotten halfway through eating it before he saw something that made his heart stop in chest. He choked on the bit of toast in his mouth and made a coughing, hacking noise in his throat so loud that Mother stopped cooking and Father peered over the edge of the newspaper.

"Are you alright, Mihael?" Mother asked, concerned written all over her delicate features. It was from her that Mihael had inherited his blonde hair, blue eyes and the gentle curve of his jaw. Her blue eyes searched quickly for signs of fever or something of the sort.

"I- I'm fine," Mihael said as he coughed, "Father… would you… mind if I looked at the paper when you're done?"

Father beamed, his own hazel eyes full of good nature. He absent-mindedly smoothed back his graying hair before answering, "Absolutely! Mihael, is it possible you're finally showing an interest in current events? It's about time you did! Here, why don't you take it right now, I've got to finish getting ready for work anyway." Father folded the paper in half and handed it to Mihael before disappearing to the back of the house to put on his tie and gather his briefcase for the day.

"Mihael, I suggest you read quickly or you'll be late to school. And don't think I don't want to talk to you about how late you got home last night, young man."

"Yes, Mother," Mihael answered, trying to sound as neutral as possible. Mother made a small sound of approval in the back of her throat before turning back to the stove.

The other half of his toast completely forgotten, Mihael flipped frantically through the paper, hoping that he was wrong about what he thought he had caught a glimpse of. 'Please, please, please, let me be wrong. Please,' Mihael pleaded silently. Finally he found the article he was looking for. His eyes grew wide as he skimmed quickly over the black and white print, and the paper quivered as his hands began to shake. Words and phrases seemed to jump off the page and sear themselves into his brain as he read. Murder victim…beaten… no suspects… downtown… 22 year old college student… any information, please contact police…

Mihael felt the unpleasant sensation of bile rising at the back of his throat and he realized there was no way to avoid it. He threw the paper down and made a mad dash for the bathroom, ignoring Mother's concerned calls after him. Slamming the door shut behind him, he threw himself down in front of the toilet, retching the toast along with the rest of the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl.

He slumped to the floor and stayed that way for a long time, forehead resting against the cool tile. The position he found himself in reminded him of that night, lying in the street. He felt his whole body begin to tremble again and tears came unbidden to his eyes. He had no clue what he was going to do. He had no doubt in his mind that that article had been about the young man in the alley. It was the right day and the right part of town. Should he go to the police? But even if he did, what could he tell them? Or would he himself get into trouble for running, and not calling immediately? He had never been so confused and unsure in his life.

But maybe… there was at least one thing he could do. One thing he had to do. The article had mentioned a memorial service, the following afternoon. He would go, he decided. And then, then he would decide what to do.


Beta-ed once again by Jeevas' Opheliac. Please, please let me know what you think with a review!