Author's note: This is where the violence comes in, as well as some other psychological shit that happens off stage.

John. You know that name. Where though? You usually had a damn good memor- oh.

Yes. You remember him. Been a couple years since you've caught sight of that little guy. He was cute.

Probably grown a bit since then, grown into those buck-teeth of his, gotten taller, maybe even gotten a smidge a muscle on the skinny frame of his. Too bad you'll probably never see him again. You were normally on high alert, especially so around your prey, especially so around John, but he still managed to get away; his house was bare by the time you realized something was amiss, and a sign on the lawn read: for sale by owner. Not a trace of the pretty raven-haired boy.

He was your only hunt that had ever gotten away from you. Then again, he was the only one you ever got truly invested in, emotionally. Sure, there is always a certain bond that forms between the hunter and the hunted, it's one of your favorite parts of the kill in fact, but it didn't compare to what you had with John. With most, you simply observed, tracked, and ended; with John, you watched, you waited, you touched, you tasted, but never killed. A nip or scratch here and there, none but you and John were any the wiser and you already knew John was yours; he never told another soul (do you even have a soul?) about what went on when the sun set and all eyes were turned elsewhere. Practically asking for you to keep coming back, hell, he stopped trying to run away from your mandatory cuddles after just a few times.

A pleasant distraction John was, an amusing toy, an exquisite pet. You loved running your fingers through his hair (so soft, like a rabbit's). You'd thought about stealing the blue-eyed boy away and keeping him all to yourself, maybe get him a collar or something to mark him as the pet he was, but you knew in the long run it'd be better to let him live with his only living parent, at least for now.

But he got away, all because you thought you'd let him celebrate his fifteenth birthday with his dad instead of you. He took that gift and threw it in your face, disappearing entirely while you contented yourself on his special day by indulging yourself in a bit of fresh human meat. Yum, you especially like it when they're still alive and screaming, feeling the fight drain out of them through the many wounds you inflict upon them with your teeth and nails.

You think it is a waste to use traditional weapons for killing when you already have such lovely built-in tools at your disposal. Sharp incisors and long serrated metal claws; what more could you ask for? You had first found your taste for blood when, well when you first tasted blood to be honest.

It was a squirrel, an adorable fluffy thing that had been shooed into your and ADS12-395's room long, long ago (room wasn't really the right word though; it was more of a habitat). You had taken an instant interest in the tiny creature, quickly warming it up to you in a matter of days to the point where you could feed it little nuts and stuff from the palm of your hand. It would come up to you as you knelt with food in your hand for it, resting its little paws on you and sniffing you before it began to eat. You and ADS12-395 never really saw eye to eye and at the time unfortunately, there was nobody else, so you talked to the squirrel. Pretty pathetic, but it wasn't like you could keep a diary and it was nice having a furry little pet follow you around.

You and ADS12-395 got in a fight one day. You don't remember what, probably something stupid, but it was brought up that you were weak, that as a soft spot in the armor, you should be eliminated. You said that you were the stronger of the pair and you would prove it, you could do anything he could and more. You ate those words. You had outright refused his request at first, saying it was too far and completely unnecessary; you could perform any other task ADS12-395 set out for you and he knew it. He said that was exactly his point; you cared far too much about the small animal, and it needed to go. If you didn't do it, he would, as slowly and painfully as he wanted (which would be as long as possible with ADS's sadistic streak), and after making you watch, he would kill you too. Dead weight isn't welcome. If you killed the poor thing though, it would be quick and painless, a broken neck. Your brother watched as you whistled for the squirrel. You had lifted up your hand after it climbed on and the animal didn't so much as flinch, that's how much it trusted you. You wondered what it would feel like ripping the life from it using nothing but your bare hands. You'll find out soon enough you had thought to yourself. You had looked over at your brother who nodded his encouragement, and it was like a fucking switched got flipped in your brain. You ripped apart that squirrel and ate it as ADS12-395 cheered you on, giving you a high-five after all that was left of it was the blood you licked off your lips. Once he was out of earshot you puked. You cried for hours afterward, running off to the small burrow you had started that was little more than an almost cave a few feet deep, not very wide and just enough to squeeze into. You let the greyish tears drip down the sides of your mask, a hand clamped tight over your mouth as you shook, lest ADS12-395 hear you. You hadn't cried because the animal you called your friend (aka Cal) was dead, no, you cried because you liked killing it, loved the feeling of it being ripped apart, savored the taste of its blood on your tongue. It was terrifying.

ADS helped you get over it though. He called it exposure therapy or something, basically assisted you in becoming as much as a sadist as he was, killing as much as your captors could throw at you, to revel in the pain of others. You're glad he did; it made killing him all the more enjoyable years later.

But your thoughts are back to John now, your unattainable prize.

Maybe not so unattainable now though, because even after your wandering across the country and eventually into Washington, you'd know that scent anywhere. It's John, mixed with something you haven't smelled in even longer. Is that..?

You jerk to a halt on the edge of an apartment building, one of the nicer looking ones, teetering on the cement ledge as you inhale deeply, eyes closed. It is.

Dave.

You've always called him that internally, ever since you found him asleep and wrapped in a blue blanket, placed in your, DIS12-395's, HAL12-395's, and DSP4-310's enclosure. You didn't think it was right to call him by something they named him, DS12-395 printed on a paper bracelet around his wrist. Dave was what you named him, though you never told anybody that.

Dave is what you smell now and like fucking hell you aren't tracking your baby down and having the happiest goddamned reunion with him. Screw John for now, you're getting Dave back.

You leap off the tall building and spread your wings; no time for being discreet, you've got to find Dave.