The team put on Operation Brimstone consisted of five people.
Peter, the team leader and the most experienced, had black hair, green eyes, and an undying hatred for exorcists, which he had never explained. Then there was John, with blond hair and brown eyes, who was loyal to CROW to his last breath.
After that was David, brown hair and eyes, undoubtedly loyal to the cause, and Matthew, black hair brown eyes, just the same but with a secret soft spot for children. The last and the least experienced was Samson, with blond hair and blue eyes, who was well known to be a soft touch as CROWs went.
After Kanda Yuu, they took out Arystar Krory in Greece, the contents of his suitcase spilled across the ground as he travelled into yet another city.
Then Winters Zokalo in Ukraine, set up to look like a hit gone wrong for the bounty hunter.
Then Froi Tiedoll in Paris, his sister dying with him to keep their task a secret.
And Chaoji Han in China, alone at home.
It wasn't hard; as long as they caught them by surprise, they were fine. They could bind them, their Innocence and their bodies, and then kill them at their leisure. Most of them fought back; none of them won.
But Samson was starting to have his doubts, and like the amateur he was, he let them show.
"The apostles. Do they really all have to die?" he asked John without looking up, focusing on the report under his pen, pretending like it was a conversation with no importance.
"Yes," John replied without hesitation.
"Why?" Samson pushed. It was a little late to be doubting, of course, but… Better late than never.
"They're dangerous," John explained tonelessly, but the look he gave Samson was sharp and discerning. David was visibly listening as well; the peacefulness with which the exorcists had been living before their interference had unsettled the CROW. "Not like us, as I'm sure you remember. No, no – they're weapons. Meant only to earn humanity its victory against the akuma. Now that the Holy War is over, all traces of it must be wiped away – the apostles included."
Samson was not convinced. John looked almost concerned as he gave the blue-eyed man one last look, and added,
"Do not let Peter hear you asking about this. You do not want to go the way of Howard Link."
Howard Link was dead, and his name was almost a curse among the CROWs – the CROW who had risen above his station and himself become an apostle. Samson didn't swallow, because CROWs did not show apprehension, and nodded in acknowledgement.
December 21, 1875 - Alberta, Canada
Allen lived in Canada. He worked in a small bookstore on the corner near his house, and he knew everyone in town by face and name. He also called every surviving exorcist once a week, whether they liked it or not.
Over the course of the last eleven months, eight exorcists had stopped answering, and Allen was deeply suspicious, on top of being worried. Lenalee had been reluctant to even go her own way, Marie had promised to send out wedding announcements, Kanda was an ass but he'd always answered-
He gave his packed bag one last look, sighed, and picked up the phone to call Cross.
Cross was constantly moving around, which meant that Allen was the only one who could ever find him, and only because he knew the man so well. He called the number of three brothels before he found the one Cross was in currently, and then he chatted with the madam for a bit, pretending that nothing was wrong. Finally, the phone was passed to Cross, who demanded,
"Are you calling more often now, stupid apprentice? Am I going to have to stop answering just to get any fucking peace?"
"Shut up, stupid Master," Allen snapped back, heart clenching anxiously, a hollow knowledge sitting in his chest that he determinedly ignored. "I called to let you know that I'm leaving Alberta today and I'm not coming back."
For a few minutes, a heavy silence drifted over the phone. Cross was many things, but obtuse was not among them; he was one of the most perceptive men Allen knew. And he knew as well as Allen did that leaving one of the few pockets of peace he'd known was the last thing he wanted to do, let alone so close to his birthday.
Which was why he'd put it off so long.
"Why should I care, stupid apprentice?" Cross' voice was suspicious.
Allen ignored the question and said instead, in a voice that was careful and measured, "Some of our friends have stopped answering me lately, and I'm a little worried about them." He hesitated, and then finished, "Master, if I miss a call, even once… I want you to go under the radar."
Cross was silent for a few more moments. Allen waited.
"How many?" Cross asked finally.
"Eight. Lenalee, Miranda, Marie, Kanda, Krory, General Zokalo, General Tiedoll, and Chaoji."
And Chaoji wouldn't have been a cause for concern, or Zokalo- maybe not even Tiedoll. But the one time Miranda had missed a call she'd spent ten minutes apologizing the next week, and Krory was always happy to talk about the places he'd visited, while Lenalee never failed to talk to him for at least half an hour and Kanda- Allen knew Kanda too well to think he'd break away now.
"Fine." To his credit, Cross showed no signs of being at all alarmed by this. Allen almost hated him for it. "And I would've anyway, dumbass; you wouldn't miss one of these for anything short of your own death." A brief moment of hesitation. "Don't get yourself caught, stupid apprentice, or I'll bring you back just to beat your ass."
Allen almost smiled. "Stupid Master, if I get caught, you know who it is."
Because Cross had about as much faith in the Vatican as Allen did, and there was only one group who would be able to find either of them on the run.
Shortly after that, Allen hung up and picked up his bag to sling it over the shoulder, then opened the door and left, not looking back and not bothering to lock the door behind him. He had one more goodbye to say, and then he would leave, and he wouldn't look back then, either.
Like most of the exorcists, he'd been left with lingering effects when the Holy War ended. However, unlike them, he had a relatively easy time adjusting; after all, he'd lived the first ten years of his life without the use of his left arm. He could do it again. The blindness in his left eye was a little more difficult, but certainly not impossible, and he'd gotten used to it - to both handicaps.
He pushed open the door to the bookstore, shut it, and then waved at the woman inside. Mrs. McKenna was the owner of the bookstore and therefore his boss, but they were fairly close.
"Mrs. McKenna," he greeted with a smile; the woman had given up trying to get him to call her 'Penny' after the first few months.
"Allen," she returned warmly, but she also looked sort of like she was about to cry, which meant she'd heard already. Sure enough, "You're leaving today, then?"
He smiled at her apologetically. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be," she said urgently, hurrying around the counter to come up and hug him. He tried not to stiffen too much (she always got the saddest look when he did that) and hugged back carefully with his good arm. After a few moments, she let go and stepped back to smile at him. "I should have known a wandering soul like you would only stay so long."
He smiled at her weakly. If only it were that simple. "I'll miss you," he told her. "And everyone here."
She chuckled. "I know you will," she replied fondly. "And we'll miss you too, darling. You're such a joy to be around." Allen ducked his head and smiled bashfully, and she laughed and teased, "Who's going to take over Milton's shifts now?"
"He can do it," Allen mumbled, cheeks a little red. "He's stronger than he thinks he is, and I'm sure he can make it through, even when he's sick." He shot her a concerned look. "You'll look after him, though, right?"
She nodded, smiling. "The world needs more boys like you, Allen Walker." Her eyes lingered, concerned, on his left arm, which he couldn't move well enough to make a fist or even lift above his waist, and flicked to his scar as well before settling on him again. "You take care of yourself, understand? I know you've had a lot of bad luck, but it'll get better."
"I will," he promised solemnly. He smiled. "And I know."
She smiled at him and, from under the desk, produced a small package, which she gave to him. "Here. A present for you. Open it on Christmas, won't you?"
Allen looked startled. "You didn't have to-"
"Of course I didn't. I wanted to."
He smiled a little, soft, and, under her watchful eye, juggled things around a little before he placed it in his bag. "Thank you," he said, and it was heartfelt.
Outside, it was snowing gently, just drifting down to nestle and melt in his hair and shoulders and settle in the creases of his bag and his clothes. A thin coat covered the ground, and he left a trail of footprints behind him.
He didn't make it five miles away from the town before he was attacked.
Allen's heart just about stopped when the five CROW slid out of the trees around him, and he spared a moment to curse himself before he dropped his bag (too light to do any damage) and jerked into motion.
Of course they'd been waiting. Of course.
Blind in one eye and with his left arm down for good, Allen wasn't nearly as good as he'd been with the Order. But he'd lived the first ten years of his life without the use of his left arm, and he'd been fighting every minute.
There were five CROW; two blondes, one with brown hair, two with black.
Black hair green eyes was clearly the leader, with familiar hatred in his eyes, and two of them looked uncertain (brown hair and brown-eyed blond).
Allen barely noticed, because an anger he hadn't felt this strongly in years was roaring through his veins like fire, and a long-forgotten scowl marred his face.
"I knew it," he whispered, voice shaking. "I knew it, you bloody, rat-faced…" He clenched his fist; it shook, too. "I only wish I could say I couldn't believe you're doing this, but I never had that much faith in you." His eyes filled with furious tears. "But those were my friends, you bastards."
Allen had always had reservations about ordinary humans; he had a history, after all. He knew that, he acknowledged that, and he tried to be fair about it, even if it was hard.
People like this were the reason why.
When he was upset, when he was angry, Allen fought like a street rat. Rough and dirty and thoroughly uncultured, but it worked like a witch's charm and he was holding his own, because his left arm wasn't working but his Innocence's strength hadn't left him.
They talked, but Allen wasn't listening; like fighting one-armed, tuning people out had been a survival skill for years, and he didn't want to hear a word they had to say.
Any lingering doubts he might have had were banished by this. His friends, everyone who'd stopped calling, were dead now, and while he was still good, he was under no illusions. He could not beat the CROW, and even if he could, he could not run for long. So he didn't fight to live. He fought to hurt.
Because soon, the rest of his friends would probably be dead, too.
Tears were pouring down Allen's face and froze on his cheeks, and his mouth was set in a snarl that was painful and desperate and furious. A leg swept under one CROW's feet (and missed) and his right fist slammed roughly into another's jaw, and he took a blow to the back of the head and the sternum and his ribs, and the whole time, he cried for his friends.
Even fueled by anger, Allen couldn't keep it up forever. Soon enough, he started to slow, panting with exhaustion and bleeding badly, vision blurring and head aching, and a long string of spell tags wrapped around his arm.
That was all it took. Allen was jerked into a sudden stop, and he let out a whine and collapsed into the snow, unable to move, still crying without a sound, shivering softly from the cold and the shock and the grief and betrayal.
He wondered if this was why Link had disappeared, after everything.
His face was pressed into the icy white ground and he couldn't see, his sightless eye the only one exposed. He heard cautious steps approaching, a nudge of a foot making sure he was down. He felt his legs bound together, but he ignored it. Soon enough it wouldn't matter.
"Allen Walker," one of them said finally, sounding tired but satisfied. "Combat general, eight years of experience, 154% synchro. Medium risk."
"Medium?" another asked, startled. "With that level of fighting ability?"
"He was known to be gentle and likable," the first explained, indifferent, "and he placed a high level of value on the lives of others. However, his history is unknown, and he has familial connections to the Fourteenth Noah and the Millennium Earl."
"...And we're killing him?" The second sounded horrified. "For that?"
"It's not your place to question, Samson," the first said sharply. "Watch yourself. John, go ahead."
Allen let out a long, shuddering breath as a knife slid into his back, and he could no longer feel his legs, and it hurt, it really hurt, and the knife twisted and he whimpered and it was pulled out. Wet warmth spread across his back, but he felt cold inside.
One of them, neither of the original speakers, reached down and Allen flinched as he felt fingers card through his hair, strangely gentle. "I'd like it to be known that I disagree with this decision."
"Noted, David. And you've been warned. It doesn't pay to have mercy on the exorcists. They're monsters, and ordinary humans oughtn't to have anything to do with them."
Allen shivered, and the world faded away.
Above him, Samson crossed to the bag, picked up the present, and, out of morbid curiosity, unwrapped it. It held a small cookbook, and a card.
From me to you, Allen Walker. Take care of yourself, and I wish you well wherever you go.
Ah, Allen. Yes, the part about the CROWs was a little necessary. For one thing, I had to explain why Link didn't have anything to say about this. -.- Anyway, thanks for reading, and please review!
Edited 9/26/16 for detail and mood.