Chapter Thirty-Eight: Scattered Time

There was no time to pull away. Their breathing matched, their writhing synchronized as if rehearsed, their muscles quivered and their chests heaved. Each tiny bead of sweat that clung to their heated skin began to run.

"Cloud?"

Their tandem sounds of pleasure quickly brought them both to a finish, nearly at the same time. Moans were choked and stifled, quickly silenced as they released into each other's mouth without restraint.

"Cloud?"

They didn't want to pull away from each other, but they had to if they wanted to finish with a kiss. Their bodies untangled and lifted away just long enough to face the same way and situate beneath the blanket next to each other.

"Cloud."

It had all started so fast that there was no time to feel embarrassed or to have second thoughts. One kiss on the lips led to another on the neck, hands caressing led to hands fumbling to remove clothing. Only one pleasuring the other wasn't enough, so Cloud was turned and coaxed on top this time.

"Cloud."

Zack had called the position a funny name, and at first he didn't quite understand the meaning of it until it had to be explained to him. He had heard other men in his unit talking about it, and even had heard it being spoken between his friends. It didn't make sense until now.

"Cloud … "

But he forced himself to do it to feel normal. In reality, it was anything but that, as nerves tingled, and sheets were gripped through convulsing fingertips. Heart rates were frantic, made impossibly fast by emotion and experience alone, and any thoughts that had been made normal in his head from habit as of late were then momentarily gone. Being stroked and whispered to by Zack – being treated normally by Zack – it all made his insecurities disappear.

"Cloud!"

Cloud gasped, blinking a few times as his eyes fixated on the blonde woman in front of him. She looked irked, but that disappeared when he began stammering sheepishly. He became so lost in the thought of the previous night with Zack that he had forgotten where he was. She had just been prattling on and on that there was no way his attention could have been strong.

"Welcome back," she said slowly. "You spaced out for a few minutes. What were you thinking about?"

"A … number."

"A number?" The psychologist gave him an inquisitive look.

Cloud shook his head dismissively. "It's … not important," he mumbled and looked away from her as she began to inspect him over. He was thankful that he had the pillow in his lap, as his thoughts had led to an … obvious predicament.

"Of course it's important. If you're thinking about it, it must mean something."

"No, really. I don't know why I was thinking about it."

She was quiet for a few moments and jotted something down in his chart. He always had wanted to get his hands on it and read what was in there, but then again he was afraid to know what it said. His mind began to race with possibilities.

He already would take a bet on a few key words that would be in there. Timid, low self-esteem, maybe even weak-willed. A phrase with the word 'worthless' might have even been in there. If he had gil to bet, and someone to bet against him, he would take it.

"Cloud?"

It could say that he was crazy. What would happen if it did say that he was crazy? Did she actually think that of him? Did anyone else think that of him, for that matter? If someone in the office had gotten a hold of his file and took a not-so-innocent peek at it …

"Cloud?"

Zack must have thought he was crazy at first. His fleeting behavior, his temper that would flare at the drop of a hat, even his random bouts of crying and the nightmares only a few weeks ago. All of it … what would Zack think? But no … Zack seemed to be relaxed with him now, despite their troubles. He wasn't crazy … he was normal, and what they had been doing was normal. Normal.

"Cloud!" the psychologist said loudly, firmly. She had stood up and walked over to him, and he didn't even realize it.

"I, uh … yes?" He watched as she took a seat next to him on the edge of the couch, but her body was shifted towards him, their knees inches apart. That closeness was making him nervous.

"Is there something that's been distracting you that you would like to talk about?" Her voice was now back at its usual soft tone, but this time slightly more concerned.

"No."

She removed her reading glasses with an inaudible sigh. The only reason why Cloud knew she sighed was because a curly strand of her hair that was in her face was blown to the side. "Then there must be some reason why you're so inattentive today."

"I'm not, ma'am," he said. He felt his eyebrows furrowing and he began to wonder why what he had just said seemed very untrue.

"You have been. I called your name about ten times. Just in this second time alone."

Now his face was really heating up and it took him a few moments to realize that his whole body began to feel that way. His leg began to bounce.

"Are you feeling all right?" She placed a hand on his knee to stop its movement.

"Yeah," he said quickly and just began to bounce the other leg.

She placed her other hand on his other knee, stopping both now. "Are you certain?"

Cloud sat for a moment, staring down at her hands. The more he thought about it, the more his head started to hurt. And the more he thought about that, the more he realized that his head had been hurting the entire time and in fact had been since he woke up that morning in his bunk.

"What?" she asked, leaning in close to him.

"I didn't say anything," he said, frowning at her.

"Yes you did, Cloud. You said something right now."

He rubbed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "That's right, I said I'm actually not feeling very well." He assumed that was what he had said, at least.

"You are welcome to lie on the couch if you'd like."

He remembered that his neighbor had a very comfortable couch in their house. He had sat on it a few times while visiting with his mother. He was fairly young and was too shy to really speak with the young girl that lived there, so most of the time he would just sit beside his mother quietly. The couch in this office was pretty nice, but his neighbor's was nicer. Maybe he just didn't want to give this couch any credit for being anything other than a symbol of the worst sixty minutes of his day. Why … was he thinking about couches so much?

"Are you listening?"

Her voice seemed to reach him again. His head lifted from his hands and he squinted at her with a grimace. "What? S-sorry. I just … can't concentrate right now on this."

"Perhaps we should end this early. There's no point in continuing if you're not listening."

He stammered. He really didn't know what to say. "I guess I'll just go back to the front desk," he muttered eventually.

"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to relieve you of your duty for the day. I can't have you working with the patients and their files if you can't concentrate." She stood up and moved back to her desk to write down the time and then possibly other words like 'crazy'. "Report back to your barrack and get some rest."

"But …"

"If you need another day of rest, you may take tomorrow off," she said blandly and closed his chart. She then smiled at him just as blandly.

"It's just a little headache. I can take some aspirin and get back to work."

She studied his face for a moment and he lifted his eyebrows to show his eagerness. He really didn't want to go back to the barracks, as that would mean a report to his superiors as to why he was relieved of his light-duty. Questions would be raised and possibly prolong getting back to full-duty, which he so desperately wanted.

Eventually, she nodded and he practically scrambled to his feet. A few aspirin from the first-aid kit were taken and he continued his duties at the front desk. At first he felt a little better, but as the day went on, the headache worsened and his ability to concentrate was gone. He found himself staring blankly at either the computer screen or the files aimlessly. After several hours of this, he somehow managed to get through the day.

The pain was becoming sharp. His vision was shaky and he could hardly keep his eyes open as he tried to walk back to the barracks. He was passing by people in the halls, but there was not one face he could make out clearly. Details and features were a blur, and even the noises around him were muffled. He knew his hand was trailing along the wall to keep the balance that was slipping away, but even the feeling of the wall felt strange beneath his hand.

Through the pain, he was at least able to recognize that he was in the barracks, but at this point he wasn't even sure it was his own. He heard people talking to him and he even felt a few hands on his shoulder to stop him as he blindly stumbled to what he assumed was his bed. It seemed familiar, and he could even make out a faint trace of Zack's scent on the pillow and blanket from having spent the previous day with him and going to bed still smelling like him. It was comforting and he tried to enjoy it.

He wasn't sure how long he had been lying face down in his bunk for, but after a while he heard someone speaking to him gently and realized it was Ratcliff. The man helped him sit up and asked him a few questions, to which Cloud found himself unable to answer clearly. He did understand the words 'infirmary' coming from Ratcliff, and then the word 'no' coming from himself, however.

Much to his dismay, he was ushered into the infirmary by an overly-worried Ratcliff. After a while in the waiting room with his head in his hands, he was seen by a doctor who only asked him a few questions and took a look at his chart to see that he had previous head injuries. He was simply given pain pills for the headache specifically, and then was released.

And he actually took them. Normally, he would have thrown them away, but it didn't help that Ratcliff was fussing over him and practically lecturing him like his own mother would. It came as no surprise, and Cloud was too out of it to really care. The man's voice eventually faded away, as did the pain, once the pills were taken, and he drifted to sleep.

He was in and out. His mind would slip between a dark nothing to a strange awareness for what was going on around him. He could hear faint voices but none he could piece together and put a face or name to. A cold and damp feeling on his face would come and go, and he felt a gentle stroking across his forehead and through his hair. It made him smile, and that alone drained away any lingering discomfort that he had. Only one name and face came to mind then.

"Zack."

There was a soft sigh and the hand on his head stopped stroking him, pulling away. The loss of comfort quickly roused him and his eyes opened with sights and sounds flooding him once more. It took a moment for his senses to adjust to everything, but after they did, he was able to see the person who had been watching over him as he slept.

Ratcliff smiled at him awkwardly, shifting over to Elici's bed as Cloud sat up. "No, sorry, not Zack. Just me, yeah."

Cloud looked around, his narrowed eyes slowly opening wider as he woke. He mumbled something under his breath as he rubbed his face.

"Feeling better? You had me worried, yeah."

"Much better," he finally said. "I had that headache all day."

"That was no simple headache. That was a migraine, yeah." Ratcliff tossed aside a damp cloth that he had squeezed in one hand. "I'm not sure if you remember, but the doctor said it was from stress."

"Oh." Cloud glanced him over, watching as the man fidgeted a bit and looked away when their eyes briefly met. "Thanks for taking me, but you didn't have to."

"Yeah I did, you were planning on not going."

Cloud was silent for a moment, racking his memory and trying to remember any bits of conversation he had with Ratcliff or the infirmary staff while he was there. The majority of it came back to him and he remembered that the doctor wasn't the same one from his first stay there, or even the second stay. Cloud also remembered begging the doctor to not extend his light-duty because of this.

"Have you been getting headaches a lot lately …?"

"No."

Ratcliff frowned at him, their eyes finally meeting again when Cloud's voice came out none-too-convincing. "Cloud."

He shrugged meekly. "Maybe a few here and there."

"Feeling scatterbrained?"

"I guess so."

"You guess?"

Cloud growled, rubbing his face again with his hands and his voice came out sharp and irritated. "Yes, Ratcliff. What's with the questions?"

"I take it you've had a short temper lately as well, yeah?" He chuckled when Cloud just scowled at him and didn't bother responding. "Look, I only ask because I'm worried, yeah."

"Well, don't be. I'm fine."

"Not the words that someone who just came from the infirmary should be saying, yeah. Now, tell me everything."

They were quiet again and both watched as the other men began to clean up around the barracks before bed. Some were playing card games, others were writing letters to family and some were just grouped together chatting. There was an upbeat mood through the room, and yet for some reason it was making Cloud feel uncomfortable. Perhaps it was Ratcliff putting him on the spot that was making him feel that way.

Eventually, Cloud began to explain how scattered his thoughts had been lately, and how he couldn't stop himself from snapping at Zack a few times. He had been linking it with what had happened to him emotionally and mentally, and so when the doctor said it was stress, it wasn't all that farfetched.

"Can you … not mention anything to Zack about this?" he asked in a very quiet voice.

"Promise to take care of yourself and I won't, yeah."

"Ratcliff …"

"I mean it," he said firmly. "I don't like the sound of any of this. Stress?" He laughed. "My ass. I think it's from when you hit your head those times because it sounds like what I had when I was a kid," Ratcliff said, his own voice sounding irritated now.

Cloud looked up at him, a combination of curiosity and fear on his face. "What're you talking about?"

"I hit my head on the ice back home when I was ten, yeah. Knocked me out for a few weeks. For months after I always had bad headaches and my concentration went out the window. And my brother said I became the hugest dick on the planet." Ratcliff laughed again, but this time it was more light-hearted. Perhaps it was to lighten the mood as Cloud suddenly looked horrified. "I couldn't stop myself, yeah."

"What was wrong with you?"

This time his short laughter seemed forced, almost sarcastic. "What wasn't wrong with me?" he muttered to himself, looking off to the side. He paused for a bit, then eventually looked back up to Cloud with an awkward grin. "I had post-concussive syndrome. You can get it after a serious head injury. It can develop months after and then last for a long time, yeah."

"You think that's what I have?"

"Sure sounds like it, yeah. Sleeping okay? Your balance okay?"

Cloud thought for a moment, frowning a little. "My balance has been okay. But sleeping has been off."

"Keep an eye on all that. I'd even keep track of your headaches if I were you. Things can develop slowly with it and it'll really mess with you, yeah."

"Isn't there anything for it?"

"What, like a miracle cure? Nope. Doctors won't do shit for you, yeah. They can't, really. Just give you pills for the pain," Ratcliff said casually, waving his hand about to dismiss Cloud's hope. "Doctors are useless sometimes, yeah."

"So … it goes away on its own?"

"Sometimes it doesn't. Some people can have it for years."

Cloud swallowed hard and shifted on his bed uncomfortably. The headache was returning just thinking about it. He settled back down with a quiet groan and just stared up at Ratcliff's bunk. He felt Ratcliff give him a pat on the thigh and then started to climb the ladder for the night. "Please, don't mention anything to Zack."

Ratcliff looked over the side of his bunk and frowned down at Cloud. "Like I said, I won't say a thing, so long as you take care of yourself. You continue to take those pain pills they gave you, yeah."

Cloud nodded, his face stricken with uncertainty and what looked like pain. He rolled onto his side, nearly lying on the prescription bottle beside him. He picked it up and turned it over a few times, inspecting the label. It was tossed aside with a sigh and his eyes closed for the night.

"I mean it, Cloud," Ratcliff said firmly. "You take those pills."

"I will, I will," Cloud murmured.

There was a slight disturbance in the dust that settled on the handrail up the stairs in the mansion. It was just a few brushes against the surface along the right side, but it was enough to send it into the air. The dust was illuminated, each individual particle spotlighted in the sun that crept through the old windows. It danced and swayed as if alive; as if each had its own purpose and its own will.

He hadn't paid much attention to the minute details in the surroundings the first time through when he got into the town. The dead silence throughout the entire mansion was enough to put his suspicions that anyone could be there to rest. But now, that silence was disturbed by the simple movement of the dust.

He walked quietly through the ground floor first, retesting the large double doors below the staircase that had been previously locked. They remained in the same state – shut tight, undisturbed. He checked through a few open rooms as well, seeing nothing but old woodwork and aged décor.

The stairs were grand. If it hadn't been for the evidence of time and neglect in the mansion, the stairs could even be considered welcoming. But the rails were too far apart to just casually brush a hand along as they were climbed, so for someone to walk to the side and actually use one of the rails probably meant that the person needed to use it. Someone elderly perhaps, or perhaps someone injured. He continued along the stairs, his hand only leaving the rail when he reached the top.

More weathered furniture … more forgotten rooms. Everything, even the air was standing still. What were once lush plants, now sat withered in faded pots beneath thinning windows. Linens on the beds in some of the rooms were dulled, smelling of musk and of time. Old floors would moan, stiff door hinges would creak, every corner of the mansion had drooping cobwebs … there wasn't one thing about it that seemed new or lived in.

But things were odd. An unlocked front door, locked rooms inside, unsettled dust floating about … yet no evidence pointing to any signs of life in the entire building was apparent. Maybe Cloud's mother was mistaken about it all.

There was a cluster of rooms down the hall to the right of the stairs that he had yet to check. He decided to duck into a room at the beginning of the hallway. It was small, with yellowing paint and ignored artwork on the walls. It looked like any other room in the mansion, but there was something that … lured him into it. There was another room adjoining it, and that luring feeling became stronger. It was now less of a feeling, and now more of a physical something thatdrew him closer.

The smell of mako.

It was strong in this room.

He stepped to a strange wall, one hand leaving his assault rifle to reach out and smooth over faded and dark bricks. It was a conspicuous wall – rounded and protruding from the corner of the room. There was what looked like a door sunken in. That, too, was made of brick.

Were those … voices?

He pressed his ear to a small gap in the door, listening. He could hear it – garbled and eerie trails of a voice from deep behind this wall. It was very faint, but such a sound would travel easily through utter silence.

The old floor moaned behind him. A looming shadow, then a flurry of swift movement, and Graves was given only enough time to duck down as the sword was swung over his head. The blade sent shards of brick flying out as it missed its mark and struck the wall in front of him. He watched in stunned shock, his hand leaving the wall to grip his rifle again.

A quick reaction wasn't enough. It only allowed for a single moment longer before the tip of the sword pierced his body. It drove into his shoulder from behind, sending his body jolting forward into the wall as he tried to resist. His nose connected into the brick first, followed by his own guttural cry.

Sadistic chuckling – it drowned out any noise he made.

The sword left his shoulder. He pushed himself off the wall, rolling across it as he spun to face the man behind him. A flash of silver crossed his vision as the weapon was once again brought towards him. His finger sought out the trigger of his rifle as his eyes darted wildly about. Any sense that he tried to grasp onto was fleeting as he stumbled towards the doorway. But shaking legs were straightened, the trigger was found and pulled.

Three metallic pings filled the small room in quick succession, mingling with the rupture of gunfire leaving his rifle. Holes appeared in the walls and ceiling, the drywall crumbled down in thin lines around the man with the sword.

A grin split onto Mejia's face as he lowered the sword, shifting his firm stance to lunge again. He ran forward, swinging his blade for Graves' neck, still grinning even as it missed by several inches.

Graves jumped back, slamming up against a rickety dresser. The attached vanity mirror swayed, sending the layers of dust billowing out around him. He fired off a few more rounds at Mejia as he ran towards him, but with a swing of his sword, the bullets were deflected. Graves dodged again, seeing the man finishing the movement of his attack from the corner of his eye as he scrambled towards the door. The sword easily sliced through the weakened wood.

He ran out through the adjoined room and into the hallway, nearly tripping over a shredding rug as Mejia pursued after him. He could hear the sounds of the sword slicing through their surroundings; he could feel the air current from the attacks hitting the back of his neck, reminding him of how close he was.

His leg began to throb as he turned sharply on his heels, trotting backwards to watch the doorway. The muzzle of his rifle was raised, aimed at the door as Mejia rounded the corner. He fired a burst shot at him again, but his arms were shaking from adrenaline. Blood was running down his face and neck from his nose; his breathing was thick. Rhythm in his movements was nonexistent, thrown from this man's incredible speed.

Mejia swung his sword out as he neared, sending the rails of the banister collapsing into several rolled off the second story and fell, hitting the floor below loudly. Graves jumped back again, wincing as his leg protested the movement with more pain and more difficulty moving. His mobility was slipping, but his determination was solid.

They reached the left side of the wide landing, Graves glancing over his shoulder as he trotted, careful not to slam into the doorframe behind him. He slipped into another hallway with frantic eyes that searched his surroundings. He dropped the empty magazine, his hand patting around the pouches on the shoulder straps to his seabag on his back. He found another magazine – his last – and reloaded.

Wedges of the doorframe and wall slid out of place as Mejia's sword cut through. He emerged through the wreckage, body unflinching as more bullets were fired at him. Several grazed his arms, some hit the blade of his sword, causing a moment of disruption, but none stopped him.

More wreckage around as he wielded the weapon, of which Graves could not have the time to even comprehend what was being destroyed. He heard several pots breaking in between gunfire, and windows shattering as they scrambled between rooms. He could feel his own heart beating – slamming – in his chest as Mejia neared. He was being backed into a corner during this fight – quite literally. The back of his legs bumped against something large and hefty, and he realized that fleeing was no longer an option. He began to unload the magazine, firing off burst shot after burst shot. With unreal speed, they were knocked away with the blade of Mejia's sword.

Mejia closed in, bringing the sword up into an arch before falling down towards him. Graves' feet shuffled on the ground in hesitation, waiting for the right instant to dodge. He was overwhelmed and disorientated, but instinct took over and he was able to dart to the side.

The sword hit the object behind him with a shuddering force. A loud metallic sound reverberated throughout and caused Mejia to recoil, wincing from the blunt hit and the noise. Graves took a quick glance and saw that he had struck a large metal safe, and he thanked it inwardly as that gave him enough time to aim the muzzle of his rifle at the man. Mejia just turned and slammed his foot against Graves' thigh before the trigger could be pulled, pinning his body against the safe.

The room suddenly tilted and immense pain erupted in his leg, all while Mejia smirked before him. He buckled, hitting the hard floor; there was too much pain to even make a sound. He fought to keep his hands on the rifle and for his eyes to stay open, but both were slipping.

His body began to move on its own, being dragged across the rubble and back out onto the landing. Blood was beginning to soak through his pant leg – he could feel it. Whatever hairline fracture that could have been in his femur was most likely a full break now, with the wound at least reopened. He wasn't sure if he would even be able to physically walk, not like this. But he was determined to walk – if not crawl – away from this fight.

He pawed around for his rifle as his eyes opened. It had slipped from his hands. It was being dragged behind his body, the strap having snagged around the foot of his wounded leg. He couldn't reach it; he couldn't even lift that leg with the hopes that it would slide down so he could reach it. He could only watch it scrape along the floorboards, reflecting the daylight from the large windows above them.

Mejia tugged on him roughly as he dragged him by the seabag. His sword was still clutched in his hand, but it was lowered to his side. Thoughts began to race in Graves' mind then. Mejia could have killed him already … just as easily and quickly as he probably did Elici.

Light reflected off the handle of his combat knife. His hand reached up to a pouch on the shoulder straps and pulled it out swiftly. He released a growling cry as it was plunged deep into Mejia's thigh. Mejia cursed and yelled, both hands going to fight with Graves' firm grip on the handle. He was twisting it, hoping that with each turn, the tip would grind into his femur bone, not allowing Mejia to pull it away.

Fingertips began to dig into Graves' hand as it was pried away with a fearsome strength. Graves scrambled to keep hold, but the hilt of Mejia's sword swung around, knocking into his wrist. He lost his grip.

His body was hoisted up and tossed over what was left of the banister. He fell to the first floor, landing on his wounded shoulder. A sick popping noise shook through him and through the room, but no sound could be uttered. Air refused to fill his lungs; pain filled them instead. He strained his head up, watching as Mejia tore the knife from his flesh and tossed it aside. Mejia's sword was now poised as he leapt over the banister and plunged down below. The tip was aimed right at him.

Graves forced his body to roll. He tumbled a few times as Mejia landed where he once was. The blade sunk into the wooden floor, through a puddle of his own blood. Mejia smirked, removing his weapon with ease.

"Wonderful things happen in this place."

He finally managed to suck in a wheeze, his lungs painfully inflating. "It's nuffin' but a dusty old mansion!"

Mejia ignored him, walking forward. "Your expression is priceless. You're surprised how fuckin' quick I am, right? Much faster than in Costa del Sol."

Graves watched as Mejia firmed his grip on the hilt of his sword. He glanced around for his assault rifle and spotted it lying a few feet from him. He pushed himself up, body almost unwilling, and scrambled towards it.

I ain't gonna die like this.

His finger found the trigger, sliding onto it as he whirled back towards Mejia. The last rounds pumped out of the magazine, tearing into Mejia's gut, leaving him with nothing. The bullets disappeared inside his flesh, but he continued forward at an incredible speed.

The barrel of Graves' assault rifle was sliced in half as movements became a blur. The weapon fell to the floor in front of his knees and he watched it in disbelief. He couldn't take his eyes off it. He blinked, watching as red liquid began to pool around it, and his eyes trailed along, leading back up to his own body.

Mejia stabbed Graves through the chest.

"That's the difference between you and me." The sword was removed with a sickening squish; his blood splattered onto the old floor. "Between me and all of you."

Graves' jaw began to quiver, his hand patting around his chest blindly, fingertips being lost in the blood. His lips moved to utter words, yet nothing but a pained gurgle escaped.

Mejia only grinned, observing as Graves' body began to sink into shock. He twisted his head with a deranged curiosity as he watched Graves convulse and lower to the ground in a hunch, doubling over his feet. It was a sight to see him there in such a position, and he found himself smiling wider when he felt Graves' blood soaking through his boots. He reached down and grabbed him by his neck, giving him a rough tug upwards as he began to drag him.

The dust at the top of the stairs moved aside, parting from their mingling dance to allow the passage of the two men.

Bleary eyes – tired and defeated – fought to stay focused … to at least be able to face his fate with open eyes. Graves saw yellowing paint … drooping cobwebs … blood – his blood – on dark and faded brick once more.

The smell of mako was even stronger now.

Darkness enveloped him, but he could feel himself blinking. Strong silence greeted his ears until his body began to thump over more stairs. It wasn't hurting … why wasn't it hurting …?

Down. They were going down. Darkness became darker, silence became deafening. He tried to focus on something, but the only thing he was able to pick out was his own heartbeat. Even that was growing quiet.

A light … green, lots of green. Cold metal, glimpses of white fluttering about … chilling metal against his back …

Hands that had killed, that had violated were now holding him down …

A pinprick …?

That eerie voice again.

No … not a pinprick. This burned.

He struggled, but his strength was depleting as more green flooded his vision. Veins were constricting – screaming. Muscles fermented and writhed.

Mejia's smirk … that same foul smirk. Graves could do nothing but spit on it.

Those hands were now leaving his body as the silence was broken with an angry cry. A flash of silver crossed above his eyes as they began to close.

"Do not decapitate the specimen," he heard. "I need the head intact."

Mejia's hands were back on Graves' body, slowly, reluctantly.

"That was our deal for your freedom."

… To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Nine: Worth.

Ending Author's Note: Hello all! Just need to mention a few things …

Someone brought to my attention that I was plagiarized … again. Please, if you see that someone's story resembles mine please let me know. This is twice now that it's happened (who knows how many other undiscovered times there can be) and if it starts to get out of hand, I will not hesitate in pulling this story down and not updating again. I don't write and post so other people can take my ideas and use them for their own. In no way is it flattering. :/ Anyway, this shouldn't just go for me. If you notice that another story has been plagiarized, please let that author know too. Don't assume that it's already been taken care of or brought to their attention because it's most likely not. We all should be looking out for each other, you know?

Anyway, that aside, I hate to say this, but I need to take just a mini hiatus from writing and computer things in general. The fingers in my right hand have been going numb since the end of May, and I think it's the start of Carpal Tunnel. OTZ I didn't realize how bad it was until I was at McDonalds and the employee handed me my change and I couldn't even feel the coins between my fingertips. XD So I'm gonna hold off on posting the next chapter until Tuesday September 7th. I'll take this time to rest my hands in hopes that the tingling and numbness will go away. Sorry about that, folks, but I need to feel my fingers! How else can I grope Cloud? Erm … I mean … *shifty eyes* I mean … how else can I continue writing? 8D

So next chapter will be on that date. Also, I mentioned this all the way back in chapter twenty-four, but I'll mention it again:

Any views expressed in this story do not necessarily reflect my own personal views on anything relating to psychology, psychiatry, or the use of these professionals. I know that the psychologist in this story is viewed as a "quack" or as "pointless" from some of the characters, and that is for entertainment purposes only and is only meant to serve as character development for this story. I have nothing against them, nor do I think negatively of any individual who use their services. Just wanted to make that clear … again.

I really need to keep these notes shorter. Thanks for reading and reviewing, my friends! Until next time …