So, I'm not actually dead, just very busy. To be honest, I have things I SHOULD be doing rather than writing these things, but to be honest again, I;d rather write one of these. Sorry it took so long for an update. I love you all, and I hope you enjoy this little explanation.

Chapter 6

Though he had only just got home, John Raynor was up in his study, his desk covered in papers he needed to read and organise for a meeting the following morning. He had a pen in his hand and was reading the top page of the pile, his tired mind trying to make sense of it, when there was a knock at the door.

John took off his glasses and rubbed his temples, hoping the action would wake him up a little. He had been at work since six in the morning and had only just got home, yet he had just a few hours before he needed to be sleeping to be awake for his job tomorrow.

He may have gotten a six figure salary, but he was definitely working hard for it.

The knock sounded again, and John pushed himself from the table and got to his feet. He felt like he needed a warm drink and a breath of fresh air to clear his brain, and decided that would be exactly what he would do when in a moment, once he gave whoever was at the door what they desired from him.

He though it was one of his kids, and in a sense, he was right.

Twisting the handle, John was rather surprised not to see his wife or any of his kids at the door. There stood Charlie, the forgotten son, with a cup of hot chocolate in each hand a the most serious expression John had seen in his whole life spread across his face.

Fang held out one of the mugs to his father, and John took it without breaking eye contact. Swirling the contents of his cup, Fang took a swig of the overly sweet hot chocolate and swallowed it's warmth. It trickled down his throat and warmed his bones, sending an involuntary shudder down his spine as John swirled and sipped from his own mug.

"We need to talk."

Despite never meeting with the kid in his childhood, John could see a lot of his won mannerisms in the boy who had just slipped so silently into his study he could have been a ghost. Closing the door with his free hand, he turned to find Charlie watching him carefully. The tall adolescent's eyes were cast down to look the couple of inches shorter than his own eye-line, catching his Father's as soon as he turned around, an intense stare John knew he gave to many an employee at work when he meant business.

He motioned to the office chair. "Please, uh…Fang, was it? Have a seat." He said it with ease, without a quaver in his voice, and Fang instantly felt a few of his muscles relax. With that little reassurance he broke eye contact to look around at the aforementioned chair, just away from the desk where John has left it only minutes ago, and happily fell into it. The upholstery was leather, but well padded, moulding around his shape as he let his light frame sank into the backrest.

In the second the eye contact has broken, John had allowed himself to breathe and think. It was blatantly obvious why his estranged son was here - he wanted answers - and John didn't blame him. Had he any other choice fourteen years ago Fang would never have fallen into Jeb Batchelder's hands. Money would have been very tight, but they would have gotten by, wouldn't they?

He shook his head at the thought and turned to his bookshelf, scouring the folders for the correct label. If only it had been that simple…

When Fang looked back up, placing his barely touched drink on the table, he was faced with his Father's back as he pulled a file from the many cramming an old oak bookcase on the other side of the room. Where it had originally been grey, the folder was dust covered and sunlight faded, leaving it a sickly grey colour even once the grime layer was brushed aside.

He read the label, and bile rose in his throat. Batchelder, Jebadiah. Though the label itself should not have roused any concern in the young boy, the name on it's own was enough to evoke a reaction. Fang's muscles instantly started tensing up again while his Father pulled up the stool from next to the bookcase, sat down and flipped the box-file open.

In all honestly, Fang had no known what to expect when he walked back into that house. He wasn't sure if he should be ready for an argument, or for a pleasant man-to-man, something he really wasn't looking forward to none the less. But here he was, with John as he rifled through at least fifty pages of documents and official letters, and being handed what his Father deemed as important ones.

The very first one he was handed was from right on top of the pile. It was dated about eight months before the birthdate Barbera had quoted, written in a hand Fang recognised without looking at the signature. It had been scrawled across their charts in the school so often it almost brought back painful memories.

Mr and Miss J Raynor,

I hope this letter finds you in good health after your news from the doctor's surgery not a week ago. I understand that you are expecting a baby that you cannot afford to support, and the doctors have informed me you are considering abortions and terminations. If I may spare a moment of your time, I would like to suggest an alternative.

My name is Jeb Batchelder, and I work for a company that is both experienced and enterprising in the field of genetic experiments for the betterment of mankind. We are the labs that cure diseases and grow life forms that can aide us in our day to day lives, and I hope you will be able to help us.

We are currently in need of developing babies for a project to eradicate genetic diseases and safeguard the future of our race. If I may ask if you would be willing to donate your unwanted child to our research, we would be most grateful for the chance to continue our vital research in such fields that may well benefit you or future children from distress or the pain of loss.

My email address is attached. Please do get in touch, time is short.

J. Batchelder

Research Scientist, ITEX.

John leant a little closer, with just a few other sheets of paper from the whole pile in his hand. "Before I got that letter, I'd never even heard of Itex," he said gently, watching Fang's eyes scour it a second and then a third time. "Apparently our doctor was contacted to call him if any couples discussed abortion with him, and forwarded our details."

He leant a little closer and took the paper from Fang's hands, laying it back down on top of the pile. The boy stared at his empty hands for a few seconds before looking up at his father, who was picking out the next document for him to read. Though he was anxious, given away by the slight shake of his hands as he separated the papers, he wasn't readily giving that away with his calm exterior.

"You didn't want me." It was a statement, and it paused John's hands as he glanced back up at his son. The boy's stoic features had barely moved, but his eyebrows had knotted very slightly at the thought of being unwanted. They kept eye contact for a few seconds, until John conceded, put the papers down in his lap and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

Finally, with a sigh as his foggy head cleared slightly, he looked back up. "We wanted you more than we could ever have guessed," he answered softly, resting his forearms on his legs and leaning forwards, not taking his eyes from Fang's. "But we were young. Too young. I was a couple of thousand in debt from just staring up my company and both our wages barely covered the bills. We wanted to keep you more than I wanted that company, but…it was too risky."

Unknotting his eyebrows, Fang softened his expression as his father continued. "We couldn't afford another mouth to feed, not while the business was trying to take off. Barbera…your mother was adamant that we could keep you, that she could keep working after you were born, but I knew that was just hopeful thinking. We couldn't afford you, but I didn't want to kill you…that's why I contacted Jeb."

He held out another piece of paper, and Fang took it swiftly, casting his eyes over the writing. It was the original of the form he had seen on the computer, with his Father's signature in the 'Parent 1' box and Jeb's signature in the 'Parent 2' box. His full name was handwritten in my his Father's hand.

Fang's hand shook a little. It was like a prison sentence on a piece of paper. He's signing over to the school.

"I never told your mother what we were planning," John added, confirming why there was no signature from the boy's mother. "She would rather have seen you aborted, probably. I am sorry for what they did to you, Char- Fang. What I did to you by signing that paper. If I had known they were going to treat you like that I'd have…"

"Killed me?" Fang added quietly, looking up from the certificate in his hand to catch his Father's eyes. The man couldn't hold his son's gaze and instantly dropped his eyes to the little envelope, the last item in his hands. He fingered it and rolled it over uncomfortably, and Fang's eyes soften. The man had only down what he thought was right.

With a little bit of thought and a lot of hope it was a normal thing to do, Fang leant forwards and placed a firm hand on his Father's shoulder. John looked up, almost surprised at his son, as the boy squeezed it and gave him a reassuring half-smile.

"I'm glad you didn't abort me, Dad."