Here's a really lo-o-o-o-ong chapter for all of you. Have fun.

I was kinda rushed posting this, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors there are. I really don't have time to edit this further.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

Talking Is Therapeutic (Yelling's Even Better)

"So…you need to go where?" Jackson asked his brother as Jonathan paced the floor.

"The asylum's sending me to Miami for a few days," Jonathan said simply, hoping that Jackson wouldn't see straight through his lies. It had only been one day since he spoke to Ducard, but he was already somewhat anxious about the whole thing.

Leaning back where he sat on the sofa, Jackson asked, "Is there any particular reason why they're doing that?"

Jonathan sighed. "They want me to meet a potential donor to the asylum. He's insisted on speaking to at least one of the hospital's practicing doctors, and the asylum stands to benefit significantly from this man's financial contributions."

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "Really now." Sitting up a little, he added, "Well, considering that I'm on every Do Not Fly list in the country, I suppose you'll want me to stay here while you're gone?"

"Yes. Just don't do anything particularly idiotic while I'm gone."

Not even gracing that with a response, Jackson asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow night. The board's decision to send me was very short notice." Running his fingers through his hair, he added, "I'll stay there for a day or two, and then I'll take a red-eye back."

Mulling over this, Jackson nodded slowly before asking nonchalantly, "What hotel are you staying at?"

Jonathan frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

Shrugging, Jackson attempted to look as uninterested as he possibly could. "No reason."

-----

"Miami?" Leon asked incredulously as he walked with Jonathan out of Arkham Asylum three days later. "Why do you need to go there?"

Jonathan sighed. "Death of a distant cousin. I barely knew him, but my relatives really want me to come to the funeral."

Leon nodded understandingly. "Family comes first." Grinning slightly, he asked, "I'm not gonna find out you're hiding a wife and kids down there, am I?"

Smiling a little, Jonathan shook his head. Leon laughed. "Just thought I'd check."

As he fumbled for his keys, Leon asked, "So when will you be back?"

"A day or two. I'll call you when I get ba-…" Jonathan trailed off as he noticed that Leon was frowning as he looked at something in the distance. "What's wrong?"

Leon didn't respond, seeming to squint at something across the parking lot until his eyes suddenly grew wide. "Oh no…"

Leon hurried over to the other end of the lot, Jonathan following him closely. Jonathan wondered what was going on, and was about to ask when Leon came to a dead stop in front of his car.

Jonathan peered over Leon's shoulder to get a look at what the problem was. As soon as he got a good look at the car, his eyes widened in disbelief.

For the most part, Leon's car looked like it always did: clean and neat and respectable. But it was several inches closer to the ground than usual, because the air had been let out of all its tires. And the doors on one side were a complete wreck, with three words scratched in large, bold letters across their surface:

"DIE FAG DIE"

-----

The first two years that Jackson lived in Miami were spent training to become a certified killer. For a while, he thought it was ridiculous, considering that he'd already pulled off a difficult kill. But he quickly learned that nothing was left to chance in the organization, and failure was a fate worse than death.

It quickly became clear how the Children of Hades' headquarters was able to pass as a youth center. At any give time, there would be thirty to fifty different trainees in the building, all of whom were teenagers. By contrast, there were never more than twenty or so adults around at any given day.

Training at CoH headquarters was very hands-on; there was nothing even close to the classrooms of a normal high school. And most normal high schools certainly didn't hand out weapons to their students on a daily basis.

"Classes" (if they could even be called that) consisted of a randomly selected member of the organization teaching a topic selected on a whim. Sometimes it would be the handling of some kind of weapon, how to impress a potential hostage, or how to beat the crap out of one another. Needless to say, many "classes" ended with bruises and blood.

These classes were haphazard in their scheduling, and there was really no organization regarding who taught and what they would instruct the trainees. In the end, it was just assumed that trainees would know the basics by the time they turned eighteen.

One thing that became obvious as Jackson underwent training was that the Children of Hades was an all-male organization. He once asked one of the employees why this was so, and received a long rant about two women who fucked up the assassination of Gerald Ford. Jackson immediately stopped listening, though the basic message was clear: women were considered unfit for this kind of work.

Jackson was quickly able to sort out which of his fellow "students" were actually trainable, and which were doomed from the start. Strangely enough, most of the recruits seemed unfit for the work required of an assassin.

There were several rather wussy fighters that seemed to have made it in on a fluke. They were pretty obvious, from their excessive bravado, complete lack of fighting skills, and their squeamishness when it came to the prospect of killing people. One particularly unfortunate recruit actually fainted at the sight of blood.

Then there were those whose killing spirit was based on some sort of quest for personal justice. They had the regrettable tendency to assume that they'd be slaughtering others for some kind of righteous cause, rather than for financial gain.

And lastly, were the really sick ones, who turned murder into some sort of fetish. They had absolutely no regard for speed, discretion, or sense of neatness when it came to their targets. Jackson was severely disgusted to discover at least three necrophiliacs and six cannibals among the trainees.

There was very little amiability among the trainees, which was to be expected in such a group. Almost everyone there undertook their classes with a competitive ferocity that Jackson couldn't help but partake in. Most of the trainees regarded each other as enemies, as competition on their way up the ladder to success. Slackers were never tolerated.

And those that did slack off at training?

They were the first ones to disappear.

It took Jackson a few weeks to figure out why the number of trainees at any given time seemed to fluctuate so sharply, and why there was such a high ratio between trainees and actual employees. There were times when trainees would screw something up completely, or would attempt to be a wise-ass to one of the instructors. The next day, they would be gone. There would be no farewell, no sign that they were gone except for bleats of gunfire from behind the building in the middle of the night, and the smell of burning coming from the basement every now and then.

It was then that Jackson truly understood how training worked. It was a desperate struggle for survival, and the stakes were high. Failure was not an option, because it meant swift, merciless death. It was really just a test to see if trainees would live long enough to reach age eighteen and employment.

Jackson only barely made the cut. He found out early that he was not particularly skilled at firearms, something that could have been fatal to Jackson's career as an assassin. Somehow, though, he managed to survive, compensating for his lack of skill with firearms with his natural talent using anything with a blade, as well as a favorable attitude from Guiteau (who was still impressed by his handling of Anna Napolitano).

Still, he couldn't help but tense every time a group of employees raided a trainee's room and dragged him outside, followed shortly by the sounds of bullets being fired. And he couldn't help but feel relief every time it wasn't him.

In the end, the selection process was brutal. When Jackson first arrived at the Children of Hades headquarters, there were at least twenty or so trainees set to be promoted the same year as him. When he did finally become an employee, only two others joined him.

-----

Jackson barely even noticed the sound of the slamming door or the footsteps storming into the apartment, choosing instead to focus on his paperback copy of Macbeth. So when Jonathan's hand smacked it from out of his fingers, he was slightly startled. Looking up to see Jonathan looming over him, he dryly stated, "Good evening to you, too, Scarecrow."

But Jonathan didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes, his face completely humorless as he asked, "Were you the one that did it?"

Jackson frowned slightly, confused. "Did what?" he asked, with a perplexed look on his face.

"Did you do something to Leon's car?"

Jackson tried to figure out if Jonathan was being serious. Deciding that he seemed to be, he answered, "No. What, did pigeon shit land on it or something?"

"Don't make jokes about it!" Jonathan barked back, obviously upset. Jackson was a bit surprised, and he wondered what had gotten his brother so worked up.

"Alright, then, what happened?"

Running his fingers through his hair, Jonathan muttered, "Someone let out all the air in his tires and they keyed a message into the doors."

Jackson frowned. "What'd it say?"

Jonathan paused. After a few seconds of deliberation, he slowly stated, "Die, fag, die."

Jackson blinked, not having expected that, but not really caring what happened to Leon's car. "Huh."

Jonathan turned on him, anger apparent in his face. "You did do it, didn't you?"

Jackson sat up straight, beginning to get irritated with his younger brother. "I did not."

Jonathan walked right up to him, his face contorted with anger and his fingernails digging into his palms. "It must have been you! No one else knows about..."

"Your little nighttime rendezvous?" Jackson supplied, finding his brother's irritation to be somewhat humorous. "What makes you think no one else knows?"

Pacing back and forth as his frustration mounted, Jonathan answered harshly, "Who else could possibly know? You were the only one I told…"

Jackson stood up, feeling a flare of annoyance at his brother's accusations. "First of all, you didn't tell me anything. I figured it out. And if I managed to, what makes you think that one of your precious coworkers hasn't? Or that dearest, darlingest Leon didn't spill the beans?"

Jonathan shook his head, not willing to acknowledge any logic in his brother's argument and already completely convinced of Jackson's guilt. "Leon wouldn't do that, he wouldn't…"

"And why not? Just because you're naïve about these things doesn't mean he isn't. Hell, tons of people might know that he's gay, even if you didn't until last week."

Jonathan shook his head more feverishly, refusing to let his brother sway his judgment. "Don't change the subject. You were the one that did it, didn't you?"

Exasperated, Jackson practically yelled, "I already told you, I had nothing to do with it!" Sighing, he added a little more calmly, "Does that sound like something I'd do? Honestly?"

Just as exasperated as Jackson was, Jonathan replied, "I don't know! You spent thirteen years killing people! Why on earth would graffiti be such a stain on your morality?"

"Exactly! Why would I do graffiti if I've been a murderer for so long? If I wanted to do something to get at him, all I'd need to do was grab a knife and…"

Cutting his brother off, Jonathan hissed, "Don't even kid about something like that!"

Still frustrated, Jackson exclaimed, "Why are you so angry at me? I've told you several times already, I had nothing to do with what happened!"

"I'm angry because Leon's car…"

Finally losing it, Jackson interrupted by shrilly yelling, "That's not it! You've been angry at me ever since I arrived here, and you're just using this as another excuse for it!"

Pushed to the brink by his brother's words and feeling the pressure of thirteen years of pent-up emotions, Jonathan practically shrieked, "Why shouldn't I be angry? What on earth makes you think I have no right to hate you?"

Jackson was slightly taken aback by his brother's outburst, though he did his best not to show it. He opened his mouth to respond, but it seemed that Jonathan wasn't quite done talking yet.

"What ever made you think that I would be happy to see you? You killed our parents! You set our house on fire! You completely screwed up everything, and you did it all for what? A thousand dollars!"

Jackson frowned, noticing an error in Jonathan's logic. "Back up a second. I killed our parents?"

Jonathan looked at him for a second before falling silent, knowing full well what he meant and what he'd say.

Seizing on his brother's muteness, Jackson continued, "Because I seem to remember that you pulled the trigger on our dear mother, not me."

Anger renewed, Jonathan snapped, "I wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you. If she had kept screaming, you'd have been found out. I did it to keep you from getting caught!"

Jackson tried not to laugh, smirking as he noted, "Really? Because I also seem to recall that you were standing over the bodies as well. Are you sure that you didn't do it to save your own ass, as well?"

"I'm not lying!" Jonathan shrieked. "You think I wouldn't have done it to protect you? To stop you from getting arrested for slaughtering two people?"

Face contorted with anger, Jackson replied, "What's all this about 'slaughtering', Scarecrow?"

"You murdered two people, Jackson!"

"I'm well aware of that fact, but why in the hell are you acting so haughty about it? You're no saint either, Scarecrow."

Jonathan's facial expression stayed the same, but he was silent for a few seconds, as though considering this. Eventually, he managed to reply, "I may have done some things back then, but I have never been as bad as you."

This time, Jackson wasn't sure if he should laugh at the sheer idiocy of his brother's logic or be angry at his brother's hypocrisy. "Are you kidding me, Scarecrow? Do you honestly think you're somehow morally superior?"

"I may have killed Mom, but I've never…"

"Oh, don't feed me that bullshit!" Jackson yelled, finally losing his temper with his younger brother. "You are such a damn hypocrite, do you know that? You think you don't have sins on your head, that you don't have blood on your hands?"

When Jonathan said nothing, Jackson continued, rage emanating in his voice. "You think I haven't seen you? You already know that I've followed you around, and you think I didn't notice all of the things that you try and pull in broad daylight? I've seen you meet with Carmine Falcone, you know. I've seen you agree to lie and cheat and steal for him. And don't think I don't know about your little poison, either. You think I didn't figure it out after what you did that first night? You torture your patients." Looking at his brother condemningly, Jonathan hissed, "I may be a murderer, but you're a torturer, Scarecrow. So don't you dare act so damn innocent."

Jonathan bit his lip, obviously still angry. "You still killed people. You killed an innocent girl, you killed our father…"

Fed up with his brother's self-righteousness, Jackson hissed, "Oh, please. You're just angry because you got left behind."

There was a long pause in which neither of them refused to speak. They looked at each other fiercely, each still angry and each still convinced that they were in the right.

Finally, Jonathan broke the silence, stating bitterly, "Yes, you're right. I was angry that you left me behind. Why shouldn't I be upset that my brother abandoned me, leaving me with no home, no family, nothing?"

Jackson chuckled sadistically. "What house? What family? All you had was a shack, the two people who just happened to be responsible for your birth, and absolutely no chance over ever getting out of that hellhole of a town."

"And you think that excuses what you did?"

"Yes!" Jackson exclaimed. "Scarecrow, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but we were never, never going to leave that town. We were going to live our lives just like our father did: with crappy jobs, shacks for houses, wives that hated us, and kids that wouldn't even care that we were alive."

Looking at Jonathan with what he hoped was a sincere look on his face, Jackson resumed his tirade. "Can you blame me for taking that job? Can you blame me for wanting to get away from that town, for wanting to take that opportunity?" Gesturing towards Jonathan, he added, "Do you think you'd be here if I hadn't done what I did? That you'd be head of a hospital, that you'd be living in a nice apartment, that you'd be making at least three times what our father did?"

Jonathan didn't reply. Jackson stared at him for a few seconds before slowly saying, "You may think I'm an evil bastard, but you're sitting on the spoils. You benefited from our parents' deaths, admit it. There is no way you'd be here if you'd stayed in Tennessee, so don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise."

Breathing heavily, Jonathan countered, "That doesn't excuse anything. You couldn't have known we'd end up like this."

"Well, I knew things weren't going to improve in that shithole, that's for sure." Jackson exhaled before stating sardonically, "Good 'ol Tennessee, land of the rednecks, hillbillies, and a state full of inbreeders."

"Well, you'd certainly know about inbreeding, wouldn't you?" Jonathan stated icily. Jackson arched an eyebrow, knowing full well where this conversation was headed.

"Angry about that, too?"

"Possibly," Jonathan stated coldly. Jackson simply scowled, tired of Jonathan's attitude and tried of his never-ending list of grievances.

"What, are you going to tell me that I'm a rapist, that I somehow hypnotized you into dropping your pants? I'm not sure if you're aware, but generally, sex requires two people."

"We should never have done it. After that first time, we should have stopped."

Gesturing widely, Jackson responded, "But we didn't, did we? And I'm afraid what's done is done, Scarecrow! I'm not saying we should be proud of it, but we can't exactly change the past. All we can do is get over it."

Outrage renewed, Jonathan yelled, "You can't just get over something like that!"

"Yes, you can! I have!" Looking at his brother calmly, Jackson stated, "But I suppose that's the difference between the two of us. You thought there was some sort of emotional attachment to it, but I thought you were just a cheap lay."

With icy eyes, Jonathan spat back, "No, the difference between us is that you're the only one who couldn't get anyone to fuck him but his brother."

Jackson made a tsk-ing noise, folding his arms over his chest to show how little he cared for this conversation. "Touché, Scarecrow, touché."

Seeming to try to stop himself from exploding into another rage, Jonathan hissed, "You stand there and act so nonchalant, as though this meant nothing! Yet I've spent the last thirteen years trying to 'get over it'. You think it's easy? You think it's easy, going to a funeral for your entire family, watching your house burn down, living your entire life knowing that you killed your mother and you fucked your brother?"

Tone softening slightly, with his anger still evident, Jonathan continued, "Every day, I'd hear them say that you were dead, that you'd died and were never coming back. And I knew they were wrong, and I'd tell myself that every single time they said. But now? Now…sometimes…"

Without thinking, Jonathan blurted, "Sometimes I wish that you had died in that fire!"

A long pause greeted that sentence, one in which neither brother spoke. Jackson's face became stony and cold, while Jonathan's eyes widened as he realized that he'd gone too far. They stood there quietly, Jackson enraged and Jonathan afraid.

It was Jackson who eventually broke the silence. "Your plane leaves tonight. You should get going."

Jonathan, an almost apologetic look on his face, murmured, "Jackson, I…"

Losing his temper once more, Jackson snapped, "Just go."

With that, he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him as he left.

-----

As Jackson became versed in the ways of the organization, he slowly became more familiar with the people who lived and worked inside of CoH's headquarters.

At the bottom of the ladder were, of course, the trainees. One level above them were the laymen. They constituted the majority of the adults living inside of the building; they all had different skills, and each one of them was as tough as nails. They were the ones that carried out the specifics of assignments, and they all had different jobs they were assigned to. Some were hit men, some were experts at gathering intelligence, some dealt with hostages and other necessary non-members, a few were translators, etc. There was some leniency regarding who did what; a hit man on one job might be a negotiator on the next. But on specific assignments, each person's role was clear, so that it was easy to determine who was responsible for success, and who was responsible for failure.

Above the laymen were the managers, such as Sal. They were the ones in charge of organizing and executing the various operations. For every assignment they were given, they'd gather one or a group of laymen together, depending on how many people were needed and what exactly needed to be done. Then they would plan out everything, and they were in charge of seeing the plans come to fruition.

Above the managers was Guiteau, and only Guiteau. He was in charge of everything, from which managers received which assignments, to what supplies were needed for each job, and which employees and trainees were "disposed of". He was also the only connection between their headquarters and the rest of the organization.

For a while, Jackson was skeptical that there even were other branches, until their building became overwhelmed by new assignments. Suddenly, Guiteau was "borrowing" agents from other branches, who would babble in foreign tongues as they provided aid for various assignments. And when things slowed down, these other agents would disappear, and other branches would "borrow" Miami employees for assignments in other areas of the world. Agents would come back talking about the heat in the Middle East or the attitudes of Europeans. Right after Jackson became an employee, Guiteau himself flew out to Mexico to participate in the assassination of Luis Donaldo Colosio.

When he finally made it past training and into employment, Jackson was joined by only two other trainees: one name Ray and another named Laurence.

Ray gave off the appearance of a puppy dog, with wide brown eyes and fluffy blonde hair. Jackson remembered sizing him up early on and deciding that it was only a matter of weeks before they'd be dragging him out to the streets to be shot. He wasn't particularly vicious, and he didn't revel in the ferocity with which the other trainees hated each other. If anything, he was downright polite to everyone else, and Jackson had to wonder how in the hell he'd been recruited in the first place.

But it turned out that Ray was very much the kind of killer that the organization was looking for. He followed orders without questions, and only partook in violence as he was ordered to, rather than engaging in it needlessly. The innocent look he had about him was perfect for getting people to trust him, which was a handy skill in their line of work. Plus, the kid was one of the best shots among all of the trainees. And there was a latent, potent ruthlessness underneath his well-mannered demeanor. Apparently, one of the managers had recruited him after he garroted his stepfather in his own backyard.

The other trainee, Laurence, had no innocent appearance about him, and he seemed proud that no one would ever mistake him for a guiltless soul. He resembled a snake, from his thin, lithe body to his cold eyes to the venomous way he spoke to others. Unlike Ray, he reveled in cruelty and blood, and had arrived in Miami an expert on all kinds of obscure weaponry. Luckily for him, he had the good sense not to overdo his love of gore. He knew enough not to sacrifice agility or discretion for thrills, and was quite good at not getting caught for his crimes.

Since they were all graduates at about the same time, the three of them were often put together for the same assignments. They generally had small jobs for their first few years of employment: destroying evidence, manipulating targets, causing "accidents", etc. As such, they entered a kind of reluctant partnership with each other: although they didn't consider themselves "friends", they knew that, at the very least, they were compatible.

-----

It was a few hours after Jonathan had left that Jackson heard his brother's cell phone ring as he sat in Jonathan's apartment. Knowing well enough not to pick it up, he vaguely wondered how Jonathan had managed to forget it when he was going to be gone so long.

Eventually, the ringing stopped, and Jackson simply watched the tiny piece of machinery, both curious and cautious. After about twenty seconds, he picked it up, holding it to his ear as he hit the button to play messages.

There was a loud beep, and then a familiar voice began to speak piercingly into Jackson's eardrum.

"Hey, Jonathan. It's me, Leon. Just letting you know, I went down to First Precinct to report what happened to my car. Turns out, about five other people on that street reported the exact same thing. Some asshole must be having some fun with his keys, right?

Anyway, I know you're probably still on the plane. Call me when you get down there, okay? I'm gonna be home all night, so just give me a ring."

With that, a robotic voice announced the time, and Jackson pried the phone off of his ear.

So Leon would be home all night, hm?

Mulling over this, a wide grin broke out all over Jackson's face. Striding over to the briefcase where he kept all his disguise equipment, he practically felt giddy.

Maybe he should pay Dr. Warren a visit.

-----

As Jonathan stood in line by the front desk to his hotel, he couldn't help but feel irritated. He was annoyed at the bitchy couple in front of him, at the incompetent employee attempting to soothe them, at that baby who hadn't stopped crying on the entire plane ride to Miami, at Jackson, at the world, at himself, at everyone. It was not a good way to start his trip to Florida, but he was beyond being cheered up at this point.

When the bitchy couple did finally go away, he stalked up to the desk with a scowl on his face, though this did nothing to deter the cheerfulness of the girl behind the desk.

"Welcome to Lux Atlantic Resorts, my name is Cynthia. How may I help you?"

Handing over his reservation confirmation slip, he said, "I have a reservation for a single."

After tapping away at the desk computer for a few seconds, Cynthia perkily replied, "Alright then, Mr. Crane, you're all set. Your room is 1015." Handing over his room key, she added, "If there's anything I can do, just let me know."

"Sure," he said as he reached down to grab his suitcase. As he did so, he looked over to see a brunette woman standing off to the side of the lobby. She seemed to be staring at him, her face contorted in what appeared to be anger. But what had he done for her to be mad at? Jonathan ignored her and grabbed his suitcase. He was about to walk away when the girl behind the desk asked, "Say, do I know you from somewhere?"

He looked at her with a confused expression. "Excuse me?"

"You seem familiar. Have you come here before?"

Jonathan shook his head, still annoyed and wanting only to get to his room. "This is my first time in Miami."

Slightly crestfallen, Cynthia said, "Oh." Perking up, she chirped, "Well, in any case, enjoy your stay."

As he walked towards the elevator, Jackson glanced back to where the brunette woman had been standing, wondering if she was still glaring at him. But when he looked back, she had vanished.

He didn't remember the strange woman from the lobby until later, when he walked down the halls of the hotel in search of a vending machine. He was desperately thirsty, which did nothing to alleviate his persistently bad mood.

On the one hand, he was still angry at Jackson. He was angry for what he'd done all those years ago, angry for what he'd done since he'd arrived, angry for his mocking attitude towards the world. On the other hand, Jonathan was angry at himself. He was angry for losing his temper, angry for letting Jackson walk all over him, angry for sleeping with his older brother, but mostly angry for telling Jackson that he'd wished he was dead.

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, it wasn't true.

His thoughts were cut off when he heard the loud clacking of footsteps coming down the hall from behind him. Jonathan ignored them, still wondering if the hotel even had vending machines. It didn't bother him at all when the footsteps from behind him grew faster, turning into a quick sprint until Jonathan found himself being slammed into a wall.

After the initials shock of being thrown against the wall, Jonathan saw that it was the brunette woman from before. Her face was just as angry, her eyes wide with rage and her teeth clenched together. Even though she was smaller than him, she was still an intimidating figure. As Jonathan looked down at her, he saw a large knife in her hand, which she clutched malevolently in her right hand.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, and Jonathan found himself at a loss for words.