A/N:

Hey guys. It's been far, far, far too long, I know; but I just enlisted in the army so I've honestly had very little time or strength to write. But yeah, here it is. Sorry for the long wait; I managed to catch a break recently so I'll be uploading 26 very soon too. Thanks for the constant support and don't forget to leave a review :)

Act II: Across the Valley

Part I: Trees of the Haunted Forest

Volume 25 - Behind Closed Doors

[ - N/A - ]

Thursday, 27th August, 2076

"Is he dead?"

"We do not know, sir."

"So he's alive."

There was a hasty pause at the other end. "I… I s'pose there is no reason to doubt that, is 'ere?"

"Hah… maybe the Original Ones were a mistake after all. Hindsight is 20/20," the doctor murmured. "But your job was to make sure the boy was disposed of properly, Martin."

"I understand, sir."

"I'm a patient man, Martin, but nothing lasts forever. And it is not my own patience running out that is the concern - I am sure you are aware of this." He lay back in the comforting paralysis of his chair. "The courts are in our favour, and so is law enforcement… but all it takes is one nosy journalist for this to blow up in our faces."

"Ah understand, Doctor."

"I do not want to have to kill off another of my senior subordinates. That'd be two in less than, what, a fortnight?" He laughed, a dead, shrill sound. "Understand?"

The man on the other end of the line's voice was shaken. "I will not fail you."

"You'd better not," the doctor responded.

Clovis Emerson already knew of the dealings his underlings had made with each other behind his back. Wyatt had no foresight. He took orders and was able to manipulate his facade at will; as such, his allegiance meant very little. Emerson had no doubt that he would betray him if it meant the Red Hand would be bestowed more power; not that it mattered that he himself had founded the organisation. Or at least… Emerson had given it, say, a sort of inspiration.

Latrell, on the other hand, was selfish without a single good bone in his body. The man knew how to manage a company; but on the science side of things, it was very much evident that he had little competency. Dwelling in the uppermost corner of the wealthy's underworld, Emerson knew that PhDs were as transactable as meals, lab coats as much as the utensils to eat said meals with.

Furthermore, Latrell… was always, always ready to put someone else's head on the chopping block till his very last breath, stealing every single cent he could. He was now dead, however, and so did not breathe very much at all.

Both men lusted for money - past tense for the latter - that much was obvious. So when one of the men found motive to eliminate a fighter, and the other opportunity, it wasn't much of a stretch in the slightest to suggest collusion. After all, running the largest biotechnology conglomerate in Belterra and second in the world ought to be sufficient for opportunity; and a one preceding perhaps seven or eight zeroes on the screen of a laptop computer would very likely be sufficient for motive.

The problem was, Latrell was easy to replace. No talent, no genius - a pretender.

Wyatt… not so much. The entirety of the Red Hand was motivated by him; he was a father figure to them, a beacon to be inspired by; or perhaps it was more accurate to say his image. At least… until that screwup of the mission. Regardless, Emerson decided that give-or-take more than three quarters of them would still be loyal to Wyatt; from what he said, that Raymond boy was callous and not very well-liked by most of his peers. As a result, Martin Wyatt was still alive. How long for, however, would depend on his utility.

But Emerson was most amused by his third and, in some senses, most important contact. Business partner, even. Ethan Williams. He was much, much more difficult to read, much more enigmatic in comparison to the other two; he shared the same ruthlessness, and the same drive, yet it undoubtedly came from a different place. There was no greed for unending hoards of wealth; Williams did not seem much a dungeon dragon or penny-pincher - in fact, he was ironically a source of slightly less than a third of the capital for the operation. He was not concerned with the millions, even billions, of dollars streaming out of his bank account into Emerson's.

Emerson did not know much about Ethan Williams; where he got his capital from, who he was, whether Ethan Williams was his real name. He'd stated interest in the now-named CORN Project at the beginning of the year. The only dimension he knew about Williams concretely to exist was that he had developed an… interest in the boxer; the Smash fighter that no-one really knew much about.

His fixation on the boy certainly was… bizarre. It was very unlikely to be a twisted perversion, or of a sexual nature - Emerson knew that much, at least, from his own experiences. And as much as the man was likely money-minded, to have acquired the assets he had, the man was far too obsessed with that one asset in a potentially extraordinarily diverse portfolio, for his mania to solely be for a monetary reason.

Emerson did not know whether the boxer was even aware that Ethan Williams existed. Did they know each other in real life? Was Ethan Williams just an alias? Likely so - and thus, they probably knew each other through a proxy of sorts; Williams had not stated the presence of any family, which was neither a confirmation nor a denial of it, so perhaps a son or wife was a big fan of the boxer's work. As absurd a reason he acknowledged that might seem, quite some funding had come from external sources to keep x or y fighters in the tournament because of their spoiled child's hero worship. The other was gambling, of course; and in much bigger proportion than the former - but regardless, one could not discount the significance of the first source for capital.

It seems that implementing the cutoff had been a good idea after all, Emerson mused, distracted from his original train of thought. The execution had been shaky at best and horrid at worst, he lamented. The fighters and the audience should never have had an idea of where points were allocated.

Thankfully, though, the rejected ones never made complaints, instead choosing to peacefully retreat into the wormhole, back to their previous worlds.

"D-doctor Emerson?" His servant wandered in. "Your wine?"

The glass smashed on the black tile. Millions of diamonds scattered everywhere, some narrowly missing the doctor's face.

"What did I tell you to call me?" The girl trembled, holding her cheek. Clovis stroked the skin of her face, holding her by the tip of the chin. "Tell me."

"-D...D-dad."

"Good girl." He smiled. "Now clean the mess; it would be a shame if someone stepped in it, wouldn't it?"

"It w-would be," she said. Crying, she walked out of the room to grab a dustpan and brush.

"Bring me a new glass, while you're there." The doctor, the ex-military man, clicked the mouse, bringing up a new page. 'Little Mac'... Salvatore "Mac" Monaco. He scrolled through the database. The boy was a weak performer in almost every regard - often scoffed at for his laughable lack of ability to travel laterally through the air, contributing to an almost unwinnable fighting state once he was off the main stage.

Humans were already at a natural disadvantage, not possessing any of the boons being, perhaps, the size of a small boulder, or having the power to manipulate natural elements at will, or having skulls, bellies or both made of material similar strength to steel. Further, however, the boxer wasn't even a special human. He had no special supernatural abilities, unlike the psychic children; no military experience or background, unlike the man they called 'Snake' or the other bounty hunters; no weapon training unlike approximately ten different sword users… The final nail in the coffin was the fact that the boy wasn't even of average height, exacerbating whatever issues of reach he already had with the avoidance of using ranged tools.

Hm. The fighter Emerson found himself comparing the boxer to was one of the first in the sport, in fact; the Falcon. Douglass Jay Falcon was of far above average height and his body was statuesque, yet like Salvatore had no special power.

Or Jane.

The doctor found himself not feel, rather… experience, a pulse of excitement, arousal, at the thought of the girl. He closed his eyes, needing to, before letting the wave pass.

The boy; the boy first.

One, two, three clicks later, and the boy was on screen. Always vertically going down and barely able to make it back. A recurring theme. A reminder of the weight of humanity. All that made it even more impressive that he placed as highly as he did, however. Despite the extra three points of help Ethan Williams paid for in cash, he would've otherwise placed about ninety-seventh out of one-hundred-and-something; which, in all honesty, would have put him close to the very bottom - yet, still surpassing others stronger, more versatile, more experienced than he. At the very least, impressive.

Bravery.

Courage.

This boxer; he had that. Was that the reason this equally mysterious Ethan Williams was so enticed, drawn towards him? A recognisable trait he wished to emulate? A trait that he admired?

"I'm sorry, D-Dad." His musings paused as the servant entered the room, carrying a new glass of wine.

The lass was tall, though not of exceptional height, and toned musculature marked her arms and body; her hair was worn in a ponytail as he had instructed - within the chocolate brown colour, there was a certain tone reflected back that reminded Emerson of her. She was undoubtedly a pretty girl. Emerson, however, felt as though her face betrayed age that was very unbecoming of her youth.

"That's better, girl," the crippled man murmured, eyes glassy. "You're used to my name, now, aren't you?"

"Y-yes… Dad…" She bowed her head.

"Hmm…" Emerson recalled one of Universe-D's most popular cultural myths, that of the snake-headed monster turning mortals to stone upon making eye contact with them. Warriors with hearts of gold turned into pebbles. They were Gorgons, the most infamous of which bore the name Medusa; it was just as though he was this modern world's own Medusa - one that others were so loath to look at, a hideous thing that inspired distaste, no, disgust. He revelled in it.

Laughter escaped his lips.

The girl retreated, cowering. Emerson's bodyguards surrounded the exit more imposingly; the scene would have been comical if not for the aghast, horrified expression sewn onto the girl's face.

"Nothing to be afraid of, dear," Emerson said, stroking her cheek once more. "I'd like to consider us… equals. Would you?"

She nodded. Her eyes were like a deer in headlights.

"You've gotten used to my name… so we should get you used to yours, too, dear," Emerson rasped. A vile perversion crossed the internal fibres of muscle of his face, perpendicular and against their flow, unseen to the girl but surely felt by the disabled man to the very core.

"I- I- I don't know," the girl quaked - unwittingly, the poor thing muttered the first syllable of the very word her captor had instructed her not to address him by a mere half hour ago, and with that, she was against the wall, clutching her sobbing face for the second time that day.

"Jorge, bring her away. You know where she belongs."

The warrish brute manhandled the girl, his palm comparable to her shoulder in size. She was whipped around, long legs nearly tangling with each other. The two promptly left the room; Jorge slammed the door behind them. Yet, even with the thick walls, the girl's cries could be heard from the corridor.

The disgraced doctor turned back to the screen and exhaled hard, the feeling of sudden tenseness from beating the girl dissipating from his upper body.

Where was I? Ah. An image of the boxer, fighter number 049, reminded him of one of the keys to his entire plan. Hah. Fitting.

The most useless of them all was to have a use.

The points and his qualification for the tournament have already been used as leverage. For money, once, but that is no longer necessary… but what about things like information? Knowledge? I have much to gain, but so has Ethan's boy, his very own Little Mac. This man values this boy; he will do anything to see him get that sweet success that he so deserves, won't he? So… what's to say… that a few improvements to the boy can't be leverage, either?

For only the second time that day, Dr. Clovis Emerson grinned.

[ - Ray - ]

Simultaneously

"The food any good?" Michael Thornton called from the sofa.

I dolloped a spoonful of the potatoes into my mouth. "Not bad."

Bloody cold. The man grunted. He continued watching the television programme.

To be fully true, the peas weren't much better either.

It's been over a week and no-one's come for me. No coppers, no blue-and-red sirens; nothing on the news, nothing from the Red Hand. News about the attack isn't even up on the television. Whatever it is, I'm damn grateful for it. I drank down the water, which ended up tasting like bloody plastic. Still, I've got to keep hydrated. I sipped more of the nasty stuff.

In retrospect, with a sprained ankle, it was damn near impossible to get all that way up north - I'd had to keep the foot in line with the knee and then after the hip to boot. A centimetre out of place and bang, I'd be a goner. A second twist, to say the least, wouldn't be any good.

After all, Dokmus City was about forty kilometres north to south. From the forest base back in La Medaluna to Temperance batshit-in-the-middle-of-nowhere Town was the longest walk of my life; longer than Martin's cock, that was one thing for sure, and I knew more than any-bloody-body else how goddamn long that thing was after getting shafted by that evil bastard. So much so that ten k's was probably an underestimation.

Cal had told me previously he used to live a k or two away from the train in Temperance; I was considering using it - the amount of dosh in my pocket was more than enough, of course - but the state I was in, with blood on my clothes more than a tampon during that time of the month, people would obviously be bloody wondering what was going on. The types of neighbourhoods like Plateau and Silver Rise I was going through were all very well and posh, too, so imagine the shock if they were to see a bloody - a literal bloody - criminal like me on the metro.

Screw it. Screw it all.

Still with half the journey to go, mosquitoes on my skin like the Black Death, and crawling under the Carras Bridge for the night was the worst bloody thing. Though, to be fully true, having the bridge in the first place was a damn blessing. I could rest under it and look like a normal homeless git and no-one would bat an eye - and I could dump my old, bloody shirt on the stream underneath and let it sail away.

The water was oozing black like blood underneath the thick pillars.

I couldn't see a goddamn thing if it were twenty centimetres from my face. The stars were a bit brighter than in the city, because of the light pollution and all that nonsense, so it reflected off Cal's watch. Feeling water on my feet, I'd realised I had missed Cal a lot - the crazy bastard gave me a shirt and thirty-seven quid, which was bloody all he had.

I too remembered Clair and her sexy, calming voice. The way she called me 'love' and all that good, sweet nonsense - I couldn't help but smile a little bloody bit at the thought, hey. But it was bitter.

I was bitter about her being stolen away. And to be completely honest, I had no bloody idea when I was going to see her next.

The gods just didn't want to see me spend time with her. Oh well. I felt bitter, but I didn't feel that bitter. Clair was just a girl, and even though she was a fit girl, if it didn't click, it didn't click. Plus… I didn't want another thing on my mind. The bloody right to breathe, the plastic water, the bloody cold peas and of course, the fucking shit potatoes too, were luxuries as was. And no, it wasn't that I couldn't handle having a woman, but I wasn't really all that interested.

Sleep hadn't come easy that night. I was goddamn exhausted. Tired and out of my bloody mind like that winged bastard who made a damn ruination of the plan. But overall, I was paranoid - not really, but a little bit. I had no idea what the hell was going to happen. The uncertainty of it all… kept me awake maybe a little.

"Wash the plates when you're done," he grunted.

"Alright," I replied.

Michael Thornton muttered some nonsense reply under his breath.

He wasn't the most proactive doctor; to be absolutely truthful, he was a lazy git. Not that I wasn't grateful - but he really was lazy.

First off, his practice's hours were eleven to four; five hours long. Hell, his quarters were integrated right with his CLINIC, so he barely even had to leave the house.

And a mean average of two and a half bloody people had come in the last three days I'd been staying - no bloody wonder, right? It was a quiet town, Temperance was, in the first place, but, of course, you might expect a little bit more for a non-niche service people would actually be bloody using like a clinic. It was a miracle that the man was of… well, fairly normal weight for his age.

I walked over to the sink; or more, limped. The ankle was feeling much, much better than a week ago, when I'd tripped and fallen tits-flat in the ground. It was obvious that it wasn't fully healed, but there was little pain. When Cal described tearing his ankle, it was like the madman couldn't budge his foot at all without taking a fist up the arse; this was not even a tiny little fraction of that.

They always said I was a tough wanker - I just felt less pain, I guess.

Soap suds fell off the last plate and I placed it on the rack. The last thing to wash, though, was the cup of water. I wasn't thirsty and chucked the rest out. "I'm turnin' in early, Mike," I called, watching the liquid guzzle down the drain.

"Goodnight," he burped, bringing a can of beer up to his lips.

"Goodnight."

I leaned on the bannister to the left for support. It held, but creaked. The house was old - probably owing to the man's disinclination to fix things or even bloody move - and out of fashion. Better than the quarters in the warehouse, at least. If it weren't for the circumstances, I'd probably appreciate its more quaint 'feel'. No rats running amok like they own the place; thank whichever god's not bloody abandoned us yet for that one.

The room wasn't small, but it wasn't humongous either. There was an old rectangular telly playing some news softly in the corner on the ground. Opposite it was the quilted bed I'd just plopped my fat arse on. Fatigue set in; and my feet - they felt goddamn heavier than the weight of everything I needed to think about.

But regardless… I did need some time to think; time to think about my next move.

I couldn't just stay at Thornton Family Clinic forever. Not that it was boring - but inevitably, as patient and… well, lax, as the man was, Michael Thornton would run out of hospitality. And I didn't want to poke that alligator, no, not anytime bloody soon.

Cal's watch, or perhaps his dad's, shone in the moonlight streaming in from the window. Of course. I bloody have to repay him.

Staying here just won't cut it.

Where could I go?

I couldn't go back to the warehouse, no. I wasn't wanted there. I was supposed to be dead. The thought of Martin… I felt my blood run hot. After everything that happened between us, and the type of man I thought he was… it was a bloody betrayal.

Confused? A little, maybe.

Angry? Pissed off? Yes.

It looked like it wasn't even bloody hard for him - dropped me as soon as I was a goddamn liability to him. A single speck of blood was all that was necessary to the wanker. Threw me onto the pavement, pretended I was just another homeless bastard who got beaten up - he just didn't care. Medaluna was a shithole, after all; one long road that went on for three k's with nothing but trees and decrepit old houses on either side. Homeless people everywhere. Drugs.

I was wrong about who he was.

I laughed.

Funnily enough, I ended up right where I started. Without an identity, nineteen, maybe more or less, years ago; and now, exactly the same. He wasn't wrong, Martin - I technically was homeless. I had nothing to my name - I wasn't sure if I existed in any official capacity. The orphanage wasn't real, from the little I knew; I didn't even know if I had an actual birth certificate.

Screw it; screw it ALL. Martin, the cold-hearted cocksucker, can go to hell.

I could take him.

I was a tough wanker. They always called me that; my ankle had already healed barely a week after spraining it - the internal bleeding wasn't even shit for me after being beaten half to death by the winged bastard. I could take Martin; I could take Connor; I could take Patrick; I could take all of them if I needed to.

And no doubt that if I went back, Cal, Tim and Clair would be on my side.

But what good would that do? They would screw Cal sideways the second I was seen. They knew I would probably survive and regroup and all that fine nonsense, but with this brand new clothing, all healed up and everything, I must've been helped in some capacity by someone.

Why didn't they kill me?

The sudden thought surprised even me; but I was on to something.

Medaluna. A warehouse in the middle of nowhere… Jungle on either side… It would have been convenient; easy, even. The bastards said they didn't want any trace of the blood and my DNA or whatever sciency shit-nonsense from the crime scene; but they'd have to clean that up regardless of whether I left the warehouse half-dead or left the Earth.

They don't want any connection to me.

I should not be here now.

I should have fucking died.

"I should be dead," I murmured. I wasn't too scared of death - if it happened, it happened; but it was fitting, funny even, to be threatened by the very group I'd been a part of all these years. And it would have been ended by them in the same vein.

Maybe I can't die.

It made a lot of bloody sense, that statement. There was no way of knowing that I was interested in trying, but it at least was 'in congruence' with whatever nonsense just went down in the last week.

I'm going back.

Why? I wanted to. I wanted to watch that warehouse burn down to dust the same way the bastards inside of it treated me like dust. Like I was nothing; like I was disposable.

What's the point? Insatiable fury had no point; I was well a-bloody-ware. I clenched a fist half-to-shitpoint, a burning lust for violence eating me from the inside.

Be rational.

"How?!"

Just keep asking why.

I had to do just that. I knew.

Rescue Cal? Why? And rescue him from what? He was well enough taken care of. Sure, damn shit pay, damn shit food, damn shit life; but he had Tim and Clair over there. He wouldn't be a fugitive like I was.

So I couldn't do that.

Kill Martin? Why? With what? And would that even be good? You'd have a murder on your hands. And he's the only one in that bloody warehouse who knows what he's doing, who's kept the entire thing undercover for so long.

So I couldn't do that either.

It then hit me. I wasn't used to thinking like this about my life's overall direction.

It was true - I'd never had a sense of direction; I was always following orders from someone else. And it was always Martin; he'd never stated his reasons for anything, for any mission he'd sent us on - bloody hell, we'd just blindly followed. Like sheep to a blind, crippled, retarded shepherd; no one questioned a thing. Sure, Martin always kept things undercover, but why?

I won't get a clear answer asking him. I'm meant to be dead to him.

My view glazed over. I didn't know why the Red Hand was even an organisation that existed - interrupt, disable the targets we were assigned to. Even kill. Journalists. Independent reporters that were a bit too curious for their own good. Sometimes it was those damn fighters with their superhuman abilities, or those animals with fire coming off their bodies; those were the bloody hardest projects to contend with.

I felt the noise from the telly on my skin more than I heard it; something about the Pit guy, the bastard who made this entire mess happen.

Maybe it was a blessing after all, I thought, snorting. You made me see how dangerous Martin Wyatt truly is, Pit, whoever the hell you are.

I recalled the mission briefing; someone called a hit on the girl, the sort of tall one - but I nearly hesitated because she looked nothing like she did on the big screen. Her hair, her one distinguishing feature, was a damn different colour - went from green to shit-brown.

When I slammed the special knife into her temple, I thought the world was upside-down for a good bloody minute. The hair reverted back, the boy sprouted goddamn big wings out of his shoulder blades, and then I was being chased by him. I'd never thought about how painful it would bloody be to even watch someone's scapula torn in half by that, but I swear to the Lord it half-made me retch. And even worse, it was raining piss - water on asphalt in the dim visibility of the night made the situation as sticky, dark and slippery as a sex dungeon.

The rest was history.

"Shit!" It was disappointing to say the least that I stumbled. I made a mistake. I was one of their best, and I never slipped up.

But it did happen. I couldn't change that now, and the disappointment faded into lukewarm resentment.

Unnecessary boiling, bleeding fury was always one of the markers of fatigue I knew I had. I wanted to let loose and destroy like I felt I was born to.

Sleep might do me some good. After all, in spite of the active emotion knocking me up worse than Martin did, my muscles were as heavy as that cursed bloody knife and its weighty core whatever was inside it. Maybe I'd use a little bit of time tomorrow to consider my options, if Michael wasn't intending to use me as his goddamn errand boy.

I turned to the telly. Just a little bit. Five minutes can't hurt. My neck felt stiffer than normal.

On the news, the angel boy was still the centre of attention; video footage played of him at a mall. There was a foreign-looking teenage girl, black hair and all that silly goth nonsense; a mob of snot-nosed kids about her age moved around him. Their faces were demanding, spelling trouble. All their shitty phones with the glitter cases and bizarrely misshapen bits of plastic were out; the cameras were on and it was obvious that even though he was a tall bastard, Pit seemed to be shrinking under their glares, seemingly outnumbered - even threatened.

"...the famous fighter was seen to push the girl, who will not be named, backwards, before dashing away from the growing crowd. We have not been able to track the sportsman down for an interview since then; and whatever official consequences that are to be carried out as a result of this incident are also yet to be seen," the reporter droned on. How did this broad get the job? Her voice made me feel as though I was sinking into and even past the goddamn bed underneath me.

Isn't the angel kid always the cheerful, relaxed one? It's the little dick who's always roided up and aggressive, isn't he? Huh.

That's a bit bloody bizarre, innit. My brain was foggy. Maybe I should go talk to them. Maybe they know what's going on more than I do.

I opened my mouth wide drowsily. I can't think straight. Might do me one better to sleep on it. Not much to think about, right.

The feeling of the pillow under my head, I longed for it. I thought it was a little sudden, but then I yawned for the second time.

I reached for the telly-remote-shaped brick, or maybe it was the brick-shaped telly-remote. Heh.

No more silly noise, no more retarded teens. No more boring broads.

Thank you Mike. To be able to sleep and relax - after so long of just damn pain and stressful running, it was like a reward for all… all.

It was a reward for all. The pillow mingled with my head and I couldn't really tell the bloody difference between them. I watched detachedly with eyes that were more closed than open as white moonlight trickled in from the window. Okay view, heh.

It was just like the bridge. Cal's watch. It was still, on my wrist.

For a room so threadbare. Just a bed, half a bloody cupboard and a telly, it was alright - the lights were already off. That's funny. I don't remember turning them off. Well, thanks, Mike. I looked at Cal's watch again, it was black.

I closed my eyes till I saw black.

I'm having a dream and in it someone grabs my feet.