Chapter 10: Full Circle

Hiding furniture under cloth, Henry figures, is utterly pointless. No matter what stains the cover, the mess always bleeds through. He still lies on the couch though, feeling the soft silk caress his scars. Henry shifts uncomfortably against it.

In his twisting and turning, the grandfather clock's ticking and tocking catches his attention. Everything peripherally begins to melt and fade, almost as if the pendulum's rhythm adds weight to his eyelids. A weak smile slowly grows on his face as his head droops. Before unconsciousness can claim him, he reaches into his right pants pocket. His eyes widen.

Empty.

Henry shoots up. He scrambles all over the place, almost throwing the cushions off the couch and flipping the entire carpet over. Nothing, nothing at all. His hands start to shake.

"First, three of my windows, and now the rest of my living room?" Hank holds a mug of coffee, standing by the doorway leading into the kitchen. "Should I expect the rest of my house to burn down tonight?"

"Where-?" Henry runs a hand through his own hair, gripping at his scalp. "Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"My rosary!" Henry turns to Hank. "I had a rosary attached to a fob watch. Damn it, I can't believe I really forgot about them for so long!"

"Okay, slow down." Hank sits in a chair across the couch. "Well, when Damien starts crying his eyes out after he loses his toy gun, we tend to help him retrace his steps. So how about we do that?"

Henry points a finger at him. "Don't screw with me right now. You don't have the faintest clue as to how important this is to me."

Hank sips his coffee. "Is that so?"

"Y'know what? Just sit there." Henry raises his hands in incredulity. "Don't help me."

"Alright, alright." Hank gets up, setting his mug on the glass-top coffee table. "Any idea where it might be?"

Henry heads towards the kitchen. "Somewhere in this house, I know that for sure."

"And when was the last time you remember having it?"

Henry pauses, still staring at the refrigerator. "In my pocket. When I got here."

"That just about explains it." Hank sighs. "Henry, you are aware you're wearing my pants, right?"

"Oh yeah." Henry blinks, looking down. "Forgot about that."

"Yeah, I'm noticing a trend of 'forgetfulness' here. I'll go see if Catherine accidentally left it in the wash."

"You go do that."

Another detail catches Henry's eyes as Hank leaves. Bloodstains on the kitchen's tile floor, hued brown from age.

Maybe Cathy didn't have the right cleaner for blood. Just like Vickie.

Henry returns to the living room. The dryer's white noise stops; a dull quiet invades his thoughts. In retaliation, he taps his foot on the wool carpet, knocking the wood floor beneath. By instinct, Henry puts his foot under the couch and resumes his tapping. Something rough crackles under his shoe.

"Found it!" Henry yells, as he reaches under and pulls the rosary and fob watch.

He pops its back open. Amidst the many gears, he grabs the copper rod on the bottom with his index finger and thumb, and twists it. The little metal pieces all click into place, moving forward once again.

A long exhale escapes Henry's lips as he slumps his shoulders. His counterpart returns to the living room.

"Where was it?" Hank asks.

Henry points. "Under there."

"Right." Hank takes a deep breath. "I'm honestly amazed you didn't find it sooner with you almost ripping my couch in half."

Henry opens the watch again. "We all have surprises."

Hank takes a gander at the device. It has four hands: one for the hour, another for the minute, a third for the second, and a fourth based on… Hank wasn't quite sure. How fast it moved? The decisecond, maybe?

Hank picks up his mug, ruefully swirling it as he realizes his coffee went cold a long time ago. "How'd you get that watch?"

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're implying." Henry closes the watch. He caresses the engraved initials on the front, "MTW," with a thumb. "My grandfather made this for me when I entered junior high."

"And I'm guessing you're really a praying man?"

Henry gives a chuckle as he detaches the fob watch from the black and white rosary. "When I'm not drinking or causing problems for myself."

"What's the story about the rosary?"

"It belonged to my great grandmother. Passed down through generations of blood and family." Henry tightens his grip on the rosary as he presents it to Hank. "Now I have it. And with the way things are back where I'm from, I'll probably be the last."

Hank stays silent, watching as Henry lifts it against the ceiling light. The rosary casts a great shadow.

"It was blessed by Pope Leo XIII," Henry continues. "The last of the Popes before the Great Apostasy."

Hank rolls his eyes as he finishes his drink. "I see. Also..."

"Hm?"

Hank puts his mug down against the glass. He sits on the couch nearby.

"We need to talk. Take a seat."

Henry obliges. In spite of everything, he still does not feel comfortable on those cushions.

Henry tries to splay himself casually on the couch. "What'cha need to talk about?"

Hank crosses his arms. "What happened when you were alone with Hanssen?"

"Well," Henry sits back up again. "Not much. They had me on some kind of narcotic. All the details are fuzzy. I don't know if he was studying the drug or me."

"Did you know Hanssen from your place?"

"Nah, but I think it's obvious he's not to be trusted."

"Yeah?" Hank slyly smiles. "What gave that away?"

"Just how incorruptible do you think a group of misfits really is? There are at least hundreds of double agents or sleepwalkers in Antithesis. My only guess, with your case, is that complacency is why they're not caught."

"And yours is?"

"Classic corruption. Men and women that only care about the bottom line or how to make their ideology last as long as they can. Bribes, blackmail, insurgency. Then again, there was no good side in that war."

"I beg to differ. One side experimented with children."

"And the other wished to control them. Real solid morals you got goin' there." Henry feels the scars and bullet hole on his left cheek. "All it takes is putting on the uniform to dehumanize the enemy. Tell me, who do you think was really on the good side in the forties? The Red Army or the Japanese Imperialists?"

Hank grimaces. "You're sounding a lot like someone I had the displeasure of knowing."

"Do I? It's good to know someone has their marbles in the right order over here."

"If you consider nearly incinerating the state and everyone in it 'sane,' then sure."

Henry slightly sinks his back into the couch. "Are you really comparing me to your brother-in-law?"

"And what if I am? Your pessimism's leaking all over my carpet."

"We're the same person."

"We had similar events. Like me and my brother-in-law."

Henry huffs. "So… what? You think you're better than me or something? Is that it?"

"No. I'm saying that we can be better than that."

"You're gonna get yourself killed with that optimism!" Henry gets off the couch. "And you nearly did, if I didn't crash through your windows weeks ago!"

Hank's posture stiffens. "I could've handled it."

Henry laughs. "No, you've gotten soft. They would've kidnapped your family at best."

"Why do you care?" Hank shoots a glare back at Henry. "They're not your family."

"No, they're not. Doesn't mean I still can't care." Henry outstretches his hands. "Maybe I'm not the self-loathing pessimist here."

Hank gets up from the couch as well. The five seconds that they spend staring each other down, equal in height and stature, feel like an hour.

"Is everything alright?" Cathy walks in from behind Hank, wiping her hands against a small towel. "You guys are getting a little loud."

Her voice tears Henry from his gaze. It was enough to let him lose his grip on the breath he was holding.

"Yeah." Henry sits back down, looking away from the both of them. "We're fine."

Hank still stands there, with Cathy. Yet somehow, he feels alone. The discomfort forces him back to his seat, too. As they sit on the farthest opposite ends of the couch, Cathy looks back and forth between them.

She frowns. "Something happened. And one of you is going to tell me."

Hank grunts.

"Yeah?" Henry rests his head on an arm against the couch, mildly intrigued as he looks at her. "Or else what?"

Cathy twirls the towel before snapping it at Henry's direction. "Or else neither of you get any of my Sunday Spaghetti Special!"

Dead silence hangs over the three of them. The awkward air freezes Cathy in place. Henry can only face-palm and shake his head. But then, he lets out a chuckle that evolves into laughter.

Cathy's face turns a little red. "What's so funny?"

"Ahh, I get it now." Henry keeps laughing. "I just expected more."

Hank narrows his eyes. "You insulting my wife now?"

"Not her, you." Henry wipes a tear from his eye. "Spaghetti? Was that all it took for this dimension's Hank to fold? Now I see why you were named 'Shawnson.'"

"First of all, that's not why. And second," Hank crosses his arms again. "It's some good fucking spaghetti."

"Language!" Henry exclaims. "You have a kid!"

"He's right, you know." Cathy slaps at the top of Hank's head, before kissing it. "But thank you. I worked hard on my cooking."

Henry cocks his head. "Spaghetti's a struggle?"

"Oh, you don't know the half of it…" Hank mumbles.

Cathy slaps his head again. Henry laughs—somehow, the thought of a Hank bobblehead sends him off the edge. His laughter fades, but so does his smile.

"And yet, you're still coming so close to throwing all this away," he mutters.

"Oh, here we go again," Hank says. "Who are you to judge? Have you ever thrown away anything in your life?"

Henry's jaw tightens. He looks away from his reflection.

"I was stationed as a sniper once. No witnesses."

"A standard HVT op?" Hank asks.

"No witnesses." Henry repeats, looking at the coffee table. "His family was there."

The quiet returns, this time colder.

"It was the past." Hank's tone seems softer now. "You need to move on."

"I don't think it's about need, but if I even can. Drank harder than Sanford, for the same exact reasons. Drinking to forget, but always remembering."

"Hey," Cathy pauses as she pats Henry's shoulder. "You're in a better place now."

"I don't know. It is often considered a curse when you realize every decision you've made has been the wrong one."

Hank crosses his arms. "You don't know that."

"Do I?" Henry sits up and faces Cathy. "I trusted a woman like… you in my life, and you were the only one who could've helped me. And now, even though you're right in front of me, I have to accept that you're gone. I've given my life and limb for the Higher Powers and for what? Running from pitchforks every day?"

"You seem pretty comfy right now to me," Hank says.

"No. I don't belong here. This is yours. You've got your wife, your kid, your home, and I've got…" Henry tries to gulp down the words, failing miserably. "Me."

Hank shrugs. "Honestly, that doesn't sound too bad."

"No, it is wrong." Cathy yells over her husband's indifference. Her eyes start to reflect hurt. "You know what it's like being alone."

Hank rests his head on one of the couch pillows. "I kinda miss it, actually…"

"I'm not joking." Cathy points at Henry. "He's saying almost the same things that you told me years ago. Don't you owe it to yourself to at least be honest?"

"Look, Catherine." Henry sits up straight. "I don't want to be caught between this. I think it's nice of you to care so much, but this isn't worth arguing over with your husband."

"That's another thing that always got on my nerves!" Cathy pushes her finger towards Henry's direction. "When it comes to talking about these things, you both always try to weasel your way out by acting selfless."

"Never said I was," Henry says.

"Well, you are. If you keep acting like this, thinking that you don't deserve to be happy, you're going to feel like you're constantly being ripped apart from the inside."

"I already feel that way, you don't have to lecture me."

"It's exactly why I have to. Because neither of you want to admit it."

"Admit what?" Both Hanks ask.

Cathy takes a step back, looking at the two of them.

"It hurts living like that, doesn't it?"

Neither of them give a reply. Henry finally looks at Hank, still speechless.

"I know you've probably heard this a million times already," Cathy continues. "And I know you're probably going to make fun of me when I say this, but…"

She closes the distance between her and him, giving him an embrace.

"If you live long enough, it can get better." Cathy says by his ear with her eyes closed. "Always."

The two men freeze up. Where Hank can only stare, something in Henry's gut twists like a knife. Time seems to move again as Cathy lets go.

"Y'know," Henry coughs, before letting out a noticeably shaky chuckle. "I'm starting to realize you roped your Hank with a lot more than just spaghetti."

Hank snorts to himself. Cathy sighs.

"I suppose, maybe, you might have a point. Possibly." Henry looks at her. "But, there is something still bothering me, and it'll probably leave me sleepless if I don't get an answer."

Cathy cocks her head. "What's that?"

Henry took a deep breath, before nodding some confidence into his next words:

"How did Deimos not cheat on his wife?"

Even Hank has to let out a laugh. "It's an enigma, isn't it?"

"More like the tenth Wonder of the World." Vivid memories make Henry's face pale. "He puts strays in heat to shame."

"Oh, well. That's an easy question." Cathy places a hand on her hip. "Mary just milks him dry."

Henry guffaws. Hank looks past her before meeting her eyes again.

"What?" Cathy shakes her head. "Girls talk about these things too, you know?"

Hank simply points to her rear. She turns around, dropping the towel in her hands. Damien looks up to her with wide eyes.

"Uncle Deimos is a cow?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Henry retorts. "I'd say more of a dog, though."

"Language, Catherine." The monotone in Hank's voice oozes like poison. "We have a kid."

"Ahh, I've had it!" Cathy stomps for the kitchen, her face turning redder by the second. "You two are on your own! Spaghetti's ready!"

Hank gets up. "All right, time to go back to the kitchen."

Henry follows suit. "After you."

Hank smiles. "Why thank you, you're such a gentleman."

The fragrance of steam pulls them towards the kitchen. Damien giggles and woofs to himself as he follows them.

Henry rubs at his stomach. "I don't think I've had that dish since I was a child."

"Really?" Cathy smiles to herself as she collects their plates. "Then welcome home."

Damien wolfs down another forkful of spaghetti, splattering some more sauce onto the table. He burps.

Henry chuckles. "You gotta teach your kid some table manners."

"He'll learn," Hank says, rubbing Damien's mouth with a napkin. "Say 'excuse me' when you burp."

"'Scuse me," Damien says, while chewing on one last oversized forkful.

Hank sighs. Henry smiles.

"You shouldn't talk with your mouth full, Damien," Henry says.

Hank turns to his twin. "Hey, you trying to be his dad now too?"

"Only if I have to. Besides, I saved him too."

Hank falls silent. Cathy quickly shuts off the sink faucet.

"One of you is plenty enough, thank you very much." She finishes the dishes with a clatter. Then, she turns to Damien and gently pinches one of his cheeks. "You'll grow up so fast just like Daddy said, right baby?"

Henry has to cover his mouth as he almost laughs just as hard as Damien. Both of them make toothy grins pockmarked with holes.

"How's school, Damien?" Hank asks, his tone noticeably lower.

"I'm doing great! I was the only one who got 90's on all my tests!" Damien gets a little jumpy in his seat. "Oh, also! Also! I was the best at dodgeball! I threw the ball really hard and smack! Right at the back of the head!"

Hank slightly recoils. "Did you hurt anyone?"

"Ah, what're you so worried about? It's P.E. for Goodness sake. Kids gotta take some hits for the real world." Henry playfully cocks his head towards Damien. "Right, Damien?"

Damien beams. "Mmhmm!"

"He's only seven, Henry," Hank says.

"So? He has to learn at some point. And I'm talking from experience too. I can definitely relate to your kid."

"Yeah?" Hank's pitch wavers in caution. "How so?"

"I was the only one who got 38's on all my tests!"

Everybody goes quiet. Cathy scoffs before going into full-blown laughter. The rest of the table follows suit in a domino effect. Henry stops first, taking in his surroundings. For the briefest of moments, the picturesque scene feels… complete. Not a single thing, or rather, person, out of frame.

An unfamiliar warmth in Henry's chest inspires him to clasp both his hands in front of him. Squeezing between his palms is his fob watch as he bows his head.

"What'cha doing?" Damien whimsically asks Henry.

Henry takes a moment before raising his head. "I was praying."

Damien tilts his head. "You were what?"

"Praying." Henry stares at him, mouth slightly agape. He turns to Hank. "Your kid doesn't even know what prayer is?"

Hank puts his hands on the table. "He's only seven."

Henry looks at Cathy, who says and reacts to nothing.

"Prayer." Henry gives Hank his attention again. "I'm not asking him for a recitation. Is he even baptized?"

Damien sits up. "What is 'Baptized?'"

Hank lowers his gaze. "Henry-"

Henry smirks. "Baptism is a holy sacrament that gives new life and erases Original Sin."

"What's that?"

"It's the Sin of Adam and Eve from eating the Fruit from the Tree of Knowledge."

"So, Damien!" Cathy lowers herself to Damien's level. "You got all 90's? That's amazing! What did your teachers say?"

"The Tree of Knowledge?" Damien asks, enraptured by the glint of crimson he sees in Henry's eyes.

"Correct. It's an important part of Christianity," Henry continues. "It is what caused sin, disease, famine, destruction, War."

Damien's eyes light up at the last word. The boy's mouth quickly opens, struggling to find the right words he always wanted to ask-

"Henry!"

Hank slams his fist against the table as he yells. Damien instantly loses all momentum and courage. Everyone's focus is now on Hank, his strike still reverbing off the walls.

"Damien." Hank takes a deep breath before looking at his son. "It's late. Get to bed."

"But-"

"Now."

"No. He can stay here." Henry keeps a glare on his counterpart. "I'm sure there's a lot he wants to know about."

"Excuse me?" Hank narrows his eyes. "Who do you think you are?"

"Uncle Henry." Damien grabs one of Henry's calloused fingers. "Good night."

The child forces himself to hurry off, like ripping a bandage off an aged wound. Henry feels his remaining teeth painfully clench against his ruined gums.

"What the Hell's wrong with you?" Henry scowls.

"Have you completely forgotten who and where you are?" Hank presses a finger against the table. "That is my son in my house. Your earlier contributions don't change that."

"That wasn't my intention."

"Yeah? Then why'd you ignore me earlier?"

"Because the kid wanted to know something."

"Guys." Cathy tries to break between them. "Calm down-"

"He doesn't need to know it," Hank says over his wife. "We don't need to cover anything that happened prior."

"Like what?" Henry asked.

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Say it. Give an example."

Hank freezes in place, alongside everything else in the room.

"When, Hank?" Henry pushes. "When do you plan on telling him what happened to us? When he's ten? Eighteen? On his deathbed?"

"When he's ready. That's not your choice to make."

"And it's not yours, either. It's his." Henry distances himself again. "I'm warning you, the longer you wait, the more it's going to hurt him. He still thinks you're his hero. Matter of fact, that's what you want, isn't it? For him to keep thinking you're his infallible knight in shining armor?"

"Well, thank you very much for your input, but we didn't ask."

"We?" Henry briefly glances at Cathy, who is wearing a horrified expression. He shakes his head. "Are you really that ungrateful? Is this all your family is to you? Trophies?"

Hank slaps his palm against the table, half out of his seat.

"Take another step in that direction and I will fucking end you. You understand?"

A newfound warmth consumes Henry now—blood rushing to the ends of his fingers as his muscles tighten. A thousand different words and phrases swim through his mind. None are adequate enough, compared to action.

"Hank." Cathy grabs her husband by his stiffened bicep, her hands slightly shaking. "Hank, please."

He doesn't move an inch at first. But then, slowly and subconsciously, his posture loses power.

"I understand. Completely. You can't treat your son like property. Unless you forgot that's how they treated us, right?" Henry gets up, his gaze cold. He tries to restore some warmth in it as he looks at Cathy. "I'm sorry."

He walks off. In the distance, they can hear the front door close.

Cathy lets go of Hank. "Wasn't there a gentler way to handle that?"

"No, Catherine. There wasn't."

"How can you be so sure?"

Hank straightens out his back, exhaling. "Because he's me."

"That only makes me worry more."

He looks at her as she starts exiting out of the kitchen.

"Hopefully you two weren't too loud," Cathy continues. "But I wouldn't be surprised if Damien's terrified right now. We never went at each other like that, not in this house."

Hank gets up. "I'll go check up on him."

"Hank. To be honest." Cathy turns around, looking him dead in the eyes. "I think you should first worry about yourself right now."

Like Henry, she leaves Hank in complete, stupefied silence. He falls to his seat, his eyes naturally drifting towards the wall. A newspaper snippet, framed after all these years, still proudly hangs on its nail:

"Former Mass-Murderer Strikes Again!"

The full moon shines on every path and intersection sprawling across the scenery. Nothing to see but the silhouettes of houses neatly lining the block. No lights from their windows—only silence and cold.

The stiff air has a welcoming familiarity in Henry's lungs. One step at a time, he can hear his own footsteps clacking on the concrete. Echoing against the dark, into nothingness.

To his right, a bar fades into view. Dilapidated woodwork and mortar defy all logic as they hold the structure into place under glowing red lights.

Henry's footsteps pause. For a split-second, his head throbs. Those same red lights are broken. A crack on the western wall fractures into many. The building is still standing there, still calling in refuse and those undesirable. He remembers the interior, many orange lights. The spinning neon luminescence always gives the viewer a trance if he stared into it for too long. This structure, however imposing, should be the same one he has been in some time ago.

Henry's migraine subsides. As reality fully settles back in, he notices the establishment's southern wall is still there, making the place smaller than he remembers it. Even with the entire structure still intact, Henry can still hear the albatross from the patrons. Screaming and hollering alongside the clanking of glass forces him to cover his ears.

Henry only makes six paces until he remembers the name of the bar behind him. The Hydra Jaguar, now fading away. Only the lack of light coming from the sides of the street catches his attention.

He is no more than six blocks away and already, he's in a different part of the town. Leaves and tree branches rustle. Henry jolts back. Minutes pass; the wind hisses at him as the same rustling sound comes again. Sighing, he continues walking down the same path.

Wandering through the darkness, Henry finally sees a new light ahead of him. He can hear his footsteps become louder and more hollow as he gets to the lamp post. He looks ahead and can see a neo-gothic building. The geometry of the roof remains sharp and steady followed by the windows beneath, all formed with a majestic curvature in perfect stone. Shaped like a church. The white marble looks filthy, covered in dust and vomit that leaves a putrid stench to anyone at his distance.

The crosses are all missing.

The structure becomes an obstinate memory. No matter how hard he tries, his mind could only produce white static in remembering the church. Henry tears his eyes away from it, refocusing them on the road ahead.

More street lamps reveal the rest of the area surrounding him. Cracked sidewalks on both sides of the road, all possessing exuberant hues that invade his vision, pushing him to face passing strangers. Their smiles and waves make him jolt—by the fifth person, Henry manages to mimic everyone's demeanor. Something shimmers his chest as he hears murmurs and whispers of the other pedestrians. When was the last time he heard a sentence without a word of contempt?

The colors begin to lose their shade. As he walks up a hill, the sight of dead grass is somehow welcoming. Gray headstones decorate the dry dirt, some with names too faded to read. With each step up, their markings grow less and less weathered. Under the pale moonlight, a marble sarcophagus stands tall at the apex. This… shouldn't exist here, he knows that for a fact. But each step closer he takes pushes forward the truth, with the painstakingly chiseled letters under the sarcophagus's wreath become clearer and clearer:

In Memory of Those Fallen — Never Again

Henry turns to the rest of the cemetery. Perhaps its the dark twisting his mind again, but he can feel the graves watching him. Judging him.

He puts his hands behind his back and bows his head.

"Lord, guide these lost souls so that they may truly rest and see the kingdom of Heaven. I only ask You grant them that."

Footsteps reverb off the concrete. Henry turns to see himself towering over an old man and a child. The geriatric lights up for likely the last time in his life as he grabs the kid by the shoulder.

"You see him, Clyde? That's Hank Wimbleton!"

The boy keeps a straight face as he looks at Henry from head to toe. He stays still as his elderly caretaker sprints a whole two feet to reach for Henry's right hand.

He shakes it vigorously. "Thank you so much for bringing my son back from the dead! If it wasn't for you, that poor boy wouldn't have ever gotten to see his father again."

Henry tries to keep himself from getting pulled in by the old man. "Your son?"

"Yes! After the Insurrection. You do remember that, right?"

Henry rubs at his brow then the rest of his face. "It's been a long night, my memory isn't as good as it should be right now."

"Well, I remember that day just like yesterday." The old man raises his hands like he is holding an orb. "It was your funeral, we all thought you were dead and then you showed up, and lightning came down from the sky…"

He pauses and smiles at his grandson. "Scores of lightning came down and we saw many come from the grave, and eventually, that boy's father, my son, Jonathan Ronald Yates walked back to us."

He turns back to Henry, "We were never so happy… Ah, is something the matter?"

Henry realizes his frown is too large. He rubs at his lips with the palm of his hand. "It's all right, something happened earlier today. Keep going."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really. Please continue."

"Oh. Well, my point was, we got to see Jonny once again and he-"

The boy finds his voice. "Mister Wimbleton?"

"Yes?" Henry asks he looks down to meet the boy's eyes

"Why did you have to take dad from me again?"

"Again?"

The old man puts his hand on Henry's shoulder. "Jonny could only stay with us for a year, then he died of organ failure. Many people who came back died the same way."

"Why couldn't you let dad stay?"

"Clyde!" The old man's brow furrows as he grits his teeth. "Clyde, you better apologize to this man. Do you hear?"

The boy shrinks his head as his eyebrows indent. "Why should I, he's the reason why dad died both times!"

"You're going to get a beating if you keep this up!"

The child turns and runs off, followed by his old man.

"Clyde! GET BACK HERE!"

With those two out of Henry's sight, he turns back to the monument. "In Memory of Those Fallen – Never Again," he mouths to himself in monotone.

"How did you do it, Hank?"

He looks back to the night sky. Only the moon and a few stars can be seen thanks to the city lights that surround him.

"How did the Higher Powers grant you that wish?"

That question invades his mind, more viciously than the images of colorful streets, of smiling Nevadans, and of things and places that should not exist. Where did things go wrong for him?

Where was he wrong?

Returning back to the house, none of his unusual surroundings pique his interest anymore. All he can do is stare at the gray, cracked concrete of the streets as he walks. Only that much is familiar to him. Henry reaches for the door handle; he is welcomed without issue.

"Was this door never locked? Was this meant for me?" He pauses as he turns back. "Or was this just carelessness? Again."

A single step into the house and Henry can feel the warmth. He scratches at the old scars on the side of his face; down the hallway, he can see the kitchen. The floor is finally cleaned of his blood. All that is left is white tile.

"You think just cleaning up all your messes makes everything work?"

His words only echo back to himself as he continues his trek through the house. Standing atop the wool carpet of the living room, he turns to see old photos on the walls and stops. A framed picture of Hank holding a plastic pistol up and Cathy smiling to the side, holding a toy beetle.

Ridiculous.

Henry turns to the television and spots a red tag just barely outside one of the drawers of the stand. Approaching it, he yanks out the drawer and finds a small pistol. A gray wire winds through the slide and out the magazine hold. He turns the gun on the side and sees distinct letters:

M&P 9mm.

Not the caliber Henry would choose for home defense, but it will be sufficient for the job he has for it. Henry reaches back into the drawer and feels the walls until he touches the taped key.

Unlocking the gun, he gets the magazine out of the stand and loads it in. Henry begins walking to the stairs. Each step echoes inside his mind. As he reaches the final step, he can hear Cathy snore inside Damien's room.

Henry pulls back the slide and the pistol shakes in his grip. He strikes his right wrist and the gun is steady once again.

Not a single star can be seen upon the horizon. The moon alone watches over the city as Hank looks out the window of his new car. Only symmetrical houses can look back at him as he continues driving down the road.

"Damn it Henry, where are you?"

Hank pushes the hazard lights button and pulls his car over to the side of the road. The engine hums to him as he puts it in park and takes out his phone. He dials in a number and hears a few rings.

"C'mon pick up, damn it. You know what I'm dealing with right now."

The line picks up. "What is it this time, Hank?"

"I need your help. Again."

"Your twin?"

Hank sighs. "Yes."

"Is it an emergency that requires me to send my boys in?"

"I don't know."

"That's not good enough." Sanford pauses as Hank hears him take a swig. "As much as I'd love to chase after the crazy chucklehead, I'm swamped with paperwork."

"Fine. Go get drunk, I'm sure Melissa appreciates it."

The line clicks. It takes all of Hank's strength to not crush his phone and dial another set of numbers instead. In fewer rings, he gets an answer.

"Hank? You calling is… unusual."

"Listen. I need you to get Mary off your johnson and help me out."

Before Deimos can respond to his less-than-polite request, a dial tone takes over the call. Hank pulls the phone from his ear.

Catherine

"Hang on a sec."

"SERIOUSLY?!" Deimos stammers on the other end. "You can't just call me in the dead of the night and put me on ho-!"

Hank switches the call. "Hello?"

"HANK!"

Her voice makes his blood run cold; the last time she was like this was during Dan's Insurrection.

"Catherine? What happened?"

"Hank, I… You…"

Sobbing and incomprehensible strings of words from her end only makes Hank nervous. He shakes his head to himself.

"Catherine. Cathy!" It was enough to shock her into temporary silence. "Stay right there! I'll be home in five minutes!"

Hank switches lines before her contagious panic attack spreads to him.

"Hello?" Deimos asks with clear irritation in his tone.

"My wife's in trouble!" Hank yells as he makes a violent U-turn, screeching the rubber off his car's tires. "Call Sanford and get your ass over here NOW!"

"Wha-?! Jebus!" Hank can hear Deimos fall out of his bed and scramble back to his feet. "Okay, yeah!"

A/N: And it's finally done! So sorry for the long wait, I had job and vehicle problems throughout the year and now things are somewhat getting in order. But still, we've got the world in chaos just like in real life and hopefully we have the popcorn ready to see how it ends. But still, this chapter took some heart and soul from the both of us. With that in mind… Here's the co-Author!

Spirit's A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? I think Death said most things I agree with; I myself have been wrangling around living in Japan, but I'm super happy to give something back to the community after so long. I'm still around for the record; I just haven't really been active as of late for a number of reasons. Though I want to say this much about this particular story and why I appreciate still being able to work on it.

In editing this story, I've seen Death's writing not only significantly improve, but also take joy in seeing how he's experimenting with finding his own style. I still remember how we would drone on for hours on end about fundamentals when we first started this project, so it's incredible to see how far he's come as a writer himself. I just wanted to say since it's been so long, thanks for keeping me around for this wonderful journey, Death.

I hope those of you reading his works can see the amount of commitment he's put into it as I do, as well as how he's grown compared to where he first started. Stick around; more to come from the both of us. ;)

Back to me: Thanks Spirit. You really sound like my tutor. Anyway, more to come. More to be dazzled by. See you guys next time.