Whew, finally. This took so long to write, and I kept changing the descriptions somewhat. I'm not entirely pleased with the result, but I don't want to mess with it anymore. It will just get worse.

BY THE WAY, guys. I won't be updating much in November. Why, might you ask? Because it's NANOWRIMOOOOOOOOOOOO! National Novel Writing Month! If you don't know what that is, LOOK IT UP NOW. I will be participating, and thus, very busy. But if anyone wants to read the fiction I'll be writing at that point, hey, drop me a quick note, because I can hook you up with that. I already think I know my plot and so I'm really excited!

I'm also sketching a lot more now. Expect sketches of Thatcher and Nikki, soon, just because I can.

ANYWAY, TO THIS CHAPTER.
Fun to write, definitely. And full of juicy action and vented emotions. Mmmm, yum, angst.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing it! Have a WONDERFUL week!

Disclaimer: I don't own KND or Kuki and Wally. Just Thatcher and Nikki, those devious kids.

Love, Sadie

--

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD.

The furious pounding of Wally's boots on the thick pavement kept pushing him through the streets, under the cover of the trees and through the shadows that they created. Sweat was flying off of him like liquid bullets, leaving trails down his face that were similar to tears. His expression, however, was twisted, contorted into a furious rage that kept his jaw locked tightly together.

He didn't know where he was running, or when he would stop. He just wanted to go. Leave this place and forget everything that had happened and never return. It would be so easy to start a new life as something simple, something that would never require him to live a lie again.

There was a rustling noise behind him and it only pushed him to go faster, until he could no longer hear it. He didn't want to see the candy-sweet smile of his teammate, who had pushed him in the way of a train and only laughed when he had crashed. He didn't want to see the mocking eyes of his best friend, the ones that flickered like they were holding the darkest of secrets.

A branch snapped, and Wally knew that he was in trouble.

The blow came swiftly, at his lower body. Before he could fully register it, he had hit the ground hard and rolled forward a few times and come to a stop with his face against the ground. Grunting, he pushed himself upward and turned around to face the cold eyes that were still poking fun at him behind their veiled lenses.

"Where do you think you're going?" Thatcher stood with a feigned innocence, but it was Thatcher himself who had trained Wally to pay attention to the tension in the muscles, not the pose. Even he could see that Thatcher had prepared himself for a fight. He responded by standing simply, defensively. Challengingly.

"Why do you care?" The question hinted of insolence and Wally felt smug when he saw Thatcher's mouth twitch downward. He knew that he was baiting the man, but he couldn't help it. He had no kind words for the lad who had been with him since his earlier years.

Thatcher made a good show of open friendliness, taking a step forward with his arms extended outward in a gesture of goodwill. All a freaking lie. "Wally, you're one of us. We just want you back with us, that's all." When Wally didn't respond, he tried again, with a voice that was almost biting in its kindness. "Come on, mate, so you let one girl trip you up a little. You're one of our best operatives, and you know that you belong with us."

"Nikki did it on purpose." Wally's spitting voice did nothing to face Thatcher, who looked as though he was well-aware of the entire situation. He pulled off a smooth shrug that infuriated Wally to no end – as if he had a right to be calm, as if he wasn't playing with Wally's life like a puppet on a string!

"She's like me." His eyes were open and baiting Wally, trying to get him to understand. "She just wants you back with us." A hand, extended in the offer of friendship. Unwanted. Scorned.

Wally turned slightly, at an angle to Thatcher. A sign. A dismissal. "Maybe I don't want to come back."

At once, Thatcher lost the smile on his face.

The mere presence of a smile transformed his features. When Thatcher smiled, it was easy to believe that the whole world was made of wonderful things, and that somehow, in some way, everything would be okay. That goodness prevailed over everything else, always.

When the smile was gone, his features became dark, a flash of the darker piece of him that lurked beneath the surface. His eyes glinted and he seemed to carry a storm inside of him, clashing and churning and creating an intensity that threatened to consume all that stood in his path. This was the glimpse of Thatcher that Wally feared, and at the same time the glimpse that made him scoff.

"You know what happens when you leave the I.U." His voice was cold, stiff. As though he was already aware of the inevitable. As though he was already preparing himself for what was going to have to happen for Wally to cut the links they had created. "Why would you leave just for some random girl? She's not even attractive."

Wally bristled and slid his foot away, until he was lowered into the proper stance. His fists were balled tightly, harshly, daring Thatcher to come near him. "I'm leaving!" His gunshot of a statement pierced right through Thatcher, and at once, Thatcher had launched toward him, eyes blazing with vengeance.

Wally was prepared for it, but not for the force that Thatcher had piled behind it. His foot slammed into Wally's gut, sending him reeling backwards and sliding across the ground. At once, Thatcher was on him again, leaning over him with a fist pulled back and ready to slam into Wally's face. In fear, Wally thrust a leg into him, shoving him backward and giving Wally enough time to get to his feet once more.

"You can't win!" Thatcher came at him in a flurry of movement, with fists that Wally had to continually dodge to avoid. He hated being defensive, hated having to run. He much preferred offensive tactics. He just needed an opening. "I taught you everything you know, Wally! You can't beat me!"

It was true. Thatcher had been the one to teach him how to throw a punch, take a blow, move around, and use his entire body. It was Thatcher who had spent hours with him in an empty room, shouting at him – hit the bag again, hit it again, hit it again – and pushing him harder, faster, stronger, better. It was Thatcher who had shown him that strength was power, strength was triumph, strength was life.

But it was Wally who had taken his training farther.

Grasping his fist, Wally hurled the body over his shoulder, slamming Thatcher into the ground with a sickening thud. A jolt seemed to race through his body, and when Thatcher returned to his feet, he was shaking slightly, as though the blow had shocked his entire system. Unfortunately, he was well-trained. Used to such incidents. Able to brush it off with ease.

He forced Wally to the ground and sent a foot flying into his side, knocking the wind out of Wally's lungs. It was a desperate attempt of Wally's, but he gripped Thatcher's ankle and yanked him to the ground while scrambling to his own feet.

It was a dangerous dance, one that kept them circling each other and watching for any signs of movement. It was a waltz, with them darting back and forth in an attempt to avoid the flying attacks. It was a tango, keeping them close to each other while trying to gain the advantage. It was a sweeping ballroom sequence, while they swept each other off the firm foundation of their feet and sent the other tumbling to the ground. Again and again. Unforgiving, unrelenting.

Finally, Wally felt himself tiring, and yet Thatcher looked untouchable. Summoning what was left of his strength, Wally pulled back his fist and hurled it into Thatcher's face, feeling the sharp crack of the blow beneath his skin and watching Thatcher stagger back, coughing blood out of his mouth and spitting scarlet liquid from his lips. His knuckles were streaked with the blood, and Wally felt himself sicken at what he had done.

Thatcher touched his face and stared at the red substance, sliding down his fingers and staining his palm. His eyes met Wally's and his gaze hardened, until it was nothing but a burning fire that was both chilling and enflaming. His mouth moved, ignoring the blood that had touched his lips. "We're not done, here, Wally. Not by far." And then he was gone, disappearing behind the cover of the nearby trees.

A dagger of cold fear stabbed itself into Wally's stomach. No. No, oh no, no.

The rules for the I.U. were that if anyone tried to leave, they were to be beaten. They were to be silenced by iron fist, to be left in a pile of bloody helplessness. To have their lips pressed together and keeping their words back because of nothing but fear. Wally had thought that by defeating Thatcher, he had escaped this rule.

So naïve.

No, Thatcher would be back. He would be back with reinforcements, with weapons, with all manner of tools to make sure that Wally was put in his place, that he would regret his decision to leave the I.U., that his vocal cords would be ripped apart in order to keep him silent and suffering every day of his life. He would be merciless and cold, and the friendship that they had shared, the friendship that was so easily severed, would be nothing but a memory, one that Thatcher would easily defile.

Run. He had to run.

Wheeling around on his heels, Wally took off running in a different direction, with gasps that were both from fear and from a lack of breath. He was too alone to fight, he would never survive by himself. He had to hide, to escape, to leave this place and stay out of their way until they considered him dead and forgotten.

Along with the fear, there was a smoldering anger inside of him, one that was churning and beginning to enflame inside of him. He wanted to fight Thatcher again, to push his face into the ground, to feel the satisfying impact when his foot connected with Thatcher's jaw. He wanted to hurt Nikki, to insult her, to tear her down until she was nothing left, simply a ripped soul that didn't deserve to have feelings anymore. He wanted to ruin their lives like they had obliterated his. He wanted to make them pay.

He hated them for what they had done to him.

But there was no place that he could possibly go. Where would he find a place that could shelter his quivering fear that he had buried deep inside of him? Who would hold a door open for the rage that blazed inside of his lenses? Where could he possibly find love, who could pity him?

No one. No place left. Nowhere to go.

Where is my place now?

--

"I hate him!"

The refrigerator door was slammed with such force that the contents inside rattled. A few of the more unstable bottles probably toppled over, but at the moment, Kuki didn't care. Her declaration was loud, forceful and meant for her ears alone. So she was vaguely surprised when a voice sounded from the next room, amused and concerned all at the same time.

"Who?" Her dark-skinned roommate came in to lean against the doorway, flashing a grin at her that was meant to calm her down. When that did not succeed, she approached the green-clad girl, slipping an arm around her shoulders and touching their forehead together. "You ain't got enough hate inside of ya, girl. Maybe dislike, but not hate."

It was a weak attempt to make Kuki laugh, and it barely worked; a breathy chuckle passed through her lips. But her violet eyes were hard, a type of rock-solid ferocity that was only occasionally present inside of her lenses. "No one. Just. . . a boy."

"Oh really?" When Kuki shrugged nonchalantly, Abby began to stroke a hand across her upper-back, a technique that often soothed the overemotional girl in times of dire stress. All at once, Kuki seemed to relax slightly, a soft sigh escaping her as her brow furrowed in concentration. "Look, girl, all that Abby knows is this: If a guy's gonna break your big, soft heart, then he ain't good enough for ya."

"I guess." Once again, it was not a committed response, and Abby frowned even ask Kuki added, "Thanks." But it was clear from her overcast expression that she needed something more, something to take her mind off of her current troubles. Finally, Abby simply grabbed her wrist and began to tow her toward the door.

"Wh-"

"Don'tcha worry, girl, Abby's gonna fix it. We're going to spend tonight celebrating. After all, the point of life is to live, ain't it?"

--

"You were right." Thatcher's voice was cold as he snapped his words angrily into the phone. Two of his fingers were skimming the skin of his nose, shying away from the most sensitive spots, trying to ascertain as to whether the obstinate Australian had broken it. Stupid kid. "He's deserted."

On the other side of the phone, the feminine voice was a feline purr. "I told you that he would, didn't I?" At once, it was amused, even behind the obvious frustration at the situation. "You sound like you're in pain. Did he beat you?"

"Shut up, Nikki." Thatcher felt like throttling her, except that she wasn't even present. Some other time, then. "Just get ready to attack, okay? You know the rules."

She laughed, and the sound was chilling. "We'll get rid of the kid quick, Thatch. Don't even worry."