It Could Be Worse 2nd Season

by Sulia Serafine

The hits keep on coming and all your favorites are back again! set in a futuristic universe Complete

8. Welcome to the Killing Grounds Part I

It Could Be Worse (2nd Season)

Episode 8:

Welcome to the Killing Grounds Part I

By Sulia Serafine

[A Protector of the Small fanfic set in an alternate universe; all credit goes to Tamora Pierce. I'm broke, so you can't sue me. Any other copyrighted things that don't belong to me in here in fact belong to other very businesslike people. Could you believe that? I guess that's why I'm broke. The song in here is "Make Me Bad" by Korn.

I've switched the rating back to R. BAD LANGUAGE (I. E. cursing, swearing…) as well as serious adult themes!  I want everyone to know I don't advocate smoking or tobacco use of any kind. Neither do I advocate drinking or any other sort of shady activity featured in this story.

E-mail me at silverwlng@aol.com okay? And you know the drill: titles or subjects of emails are fanfiction.net, s.serafine, or icbw. Thanks!

~~

With all things accounted for, she finally proclaimed it as 'The Day That Wouldn't End.' The sun was starting to look a little dull behind the scarce clouds. The sky reflected more yellow pigments than blue so that it appeared as if a leprechaun's golden mist had been sprayed everywhere. A rainbow had a good chance of making a cameo that day.

She went to the garage after paying the taxi driver, wondering if Cleon and Neal had returned with the squad car they were issued. Their parking space remained empty. The female DJPF officer easily resisted the urge to groan as she trudged through the garage on her way to the elevator. She'd just come back from her emergency meeting with Flyndon. They were receiving very ambiguous clues from random street thugs on the recent string of bank robberies, which had thrown the whole Tusaine DJPF into frenzy. She stifled a yawn and entered the elevator, blindly groping for the up button as she blinked her eyes.

"Tired from our tussle, I imagine," a familiar voice said from behind her.

Keladry opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder in her blankly indifferent way that more than a year ago, used to become her. Now it was a forced effort. She found herself tensing the muscles in her jaw so as not to show any emotion. "Would you lay off, Stone?"

"I don't take orders from you, Mindelan," Joren replied.

Keladry decided to engage in passing banter, if she could change the subject. "Why do you hate Liam?"

He shrugged. "Why do I hate anyone for that matter?"

Ah. Yes. That would make sense. Perhaps his hate was totally general after all. "But still," she pursued the matter. "You show a lot more spine when you talk to him than when you insult, say, Faleron. And I wish you'd just leave Liam alone."

He gazed at her pityingly. "You have no idea of what you're getting yourself into, Mindelan."

The automated bell sound went off the appropriate number of times to indicate the floor level. Keladry did not hesitate to walk out, with him calmly following her. "I am not getting myself into anything," she insisted. "You're the one tricking me into embarrassing situations."

"Is it really my fault that you respond the way you do?" he asked in a low, purposely husky voice.

She spotted the trap a mile away. "No, but all the sick twisted pleasure you take in messing with my head is on your conscience. You'll get yours, Stone."

"Ooh. A threat. I'm so scared."

They stood just outside the elevator, two silent figures anticipating the next move of the other. It was chess with words and expressions as their pawns and rooks. If one could only topple the king…

"Your friends' influence is wearing off," he commented dryly.

She tilted her head slightly. "How can you tell?"

"No girlish outbursts while I insult you. You're being very controlled and calm."

"Perhaps I'm too tired to raise up a fuss," she answered. "Besides, I think the whole world would benefit if you turned back into your old self, whoever he was."

She hoped her dignity here threw his position as harasser out the window. If she had turned to look at him, she would have noticed a shadow falling across his features. Her partner half closed his eyes to recall something from the back of his mind. Bothered by his silence, Keladry did finally glance at him. Words could not come to her. It was difficult to yell at someone who looked like he was walking toward his jail cell. She stuck out her lower lip in a defiant pout and walked away from him. She entered her room seconds later while Joren continued on to his.

His feet lifted and moved forward, one step after another, without his acknowledging it. The subconscious regions of his mind guided him to his door, where he stopped.

"My old self? She has no idea of what she's getting into. Absolutely no idea," he whispered to himself, not even thinking of his partner in the least. He went through the motions of reaching for the keypad of his door and entering the apartment.

"They call themselves gods."

Joren blinked. Those words were imprinted on the back of his mind. He could still remember the voice of the speaker and the severity of his expression. He could still recall the exact place he was standing when he'd been told. He could even envision how he had been standing. One hand in his right pants pocket, the other holding a paper up to his face. Everything that morning had been so unexpected.

He forced himself to concentrate on his breathing. Inhale and exhale—that was the way to go. He had to slow his heartbeat so he could feel the things around him with serenity. Serenity had never been one of his more present qualities. It fled him the majority of the time, and the remaining personality was callous and tense, shielded by an impenetrable wall of scorn. He liked walls. He liked knowing his limits of what he could and could not do. It was a constant in a mathematical equation that explained Joren's existence in their universe.

"They call themselves gods."

The little nymph of serenity fled with its light wings through the door. He closed his eyes tightly, wondering why it hurt to see through them so suddenly.

"Gods."

Why now? Why did the memories have to resurface now?

The blond biker sank onto his couch and sank into the dreaded past.

~~

Five years ago:

"They call themselves gods. If I were them, I'd probably say the same."

Joren looked up from the actual piece of paper he held in his hand. It was acid-free, blinding white paper—not that recyclable plastic crap that annoyed him so much. He set down the paper on the black desk in front of him. Members of a notorious crime syndicate were listed on the paper, as well as some of their common stats. The man speaking was beating around the bush, though. Joren had no idea what was going on.

The door to the shady office opened. A short but muscular woman walked in. She wore a gray feminine suit and large bronze earrings dangled from her ears. The way she carried herself, a man knew better than to mess with her. She frowned with dark lips when she saw Joren and the other man.

"What are you doing here, Paxton?"

Paxton Nond bowed his head courteously to the tan-skinned woman. "Myles sent me, Buri. Don't get mad."

Buri set down her briefcase. Her eyes fell upon the paper Joren had been holding. "About this? I was wondering when Myles was going to get back to me on that."

"Yup. And I'm your answer," Paxton replied. He was a lanky man perhaps of his early forties, with a receding hairline. His sandy blond hair had obviously dark roots, and almost unnoticeable freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. His skin was tanned and he had laugh wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. At the moment, he wore a black turtleneck and black slacks. He stood over Joren by half a head.

She seemed to approve. "Then what is he doing here?" She inclined her head toward Joren. "Hmm?"

Paxton looked over at the younger man, who was 19 years old—almost a year out of the academy, and yet so experienced and professional. Under Wyldon's advisory and Buri's guidance, he'd gone far beyond many people's capabilities at his age. Perhaps it was his stoic dedication that brought him thus far. Or sheer will…

"I'm getting old, Buri. That's obvious. I can't play the parts I need to play," Paxton began. There was a hint of sadness in his voice, but he plunged forward into a more ambitious attitude. "Wyldon told me about this Golden Boy. He'll be perfect for the job."

"Are you suggesting that he replaces you--?" Buri asked, startled.

"No!" Paxton protested. "He'd come with me. He's already had some experience in this sort of thing before. Not full scale, like me, but he has done some things, correct? He'd make an excellent addition to this operation. He's just the right type. No one will suspect him."

Joren hated to be talked about as if he weren't in the room. When he saw the still disapproving expression on his superior's face, he cleared his throat. "You don't think I can do it, Buri?"

The woman muttered a curse. "You have no idea of what you're getting yourself into, Stone. It's your choice."

Joren could feel Paxton's judging gaze upon him. He lifted his chin a centimeter higher and locked his eyes on Buri's own. "If I have no idea, then tell me the conditions."

She sighed. A single glance to Paxton expressed 'This-is-all-your-fault'. She moved the paper aside on her desk and sat down on the corner. She folded her arms across her chest and recalled every detail of the conditions that he would have to know. "All your personal belongings will be kept in a high security storage facility and will be restored to you on your return—if you return. All your personal information that is archived anywhere in the world will be suspended and hidden in confidential terminals. Your name will not exist anywhere, even outside of this country." She paused. "If during that time you must enter a facility such as a hospital or a DJPF station, you are to use your pseudo name. Don't give the hospital a chance to get a blood sample. Doesn't even matter if you're poisoned. No sample."

At this moment, she chose to direct her gaze toward Paxton, who had reclined in a chair. He nodded for her to continue.

"In the event that you are caught in a criminal situation with the suspects you were sent to monitor, the DJPF will not recognize you as one of their own and will treat you as a suspect. If you are arrested, all suspended information on you will be deleted and you will be dealt the same punishment as the rest, under your pseudo name. Even I will be bound to deny knowing you, if called up to a witness stand." She finished with a regretful voice, but shrugged it off as quickly as she could. "Do you accept these terms, Joren?"

He looked to Paxton again, wondering if that older man had once been presented with this same choice in the same way as he had. If this man could survive years of doing this, why couldn't he? Joren was capable of being a spy's protégé. It wasn't like anyone would miss him. He could easily disappear and no one would notice, or even assume anything more than that he'd moved away.

"I accept."

He half expected a bodiless voice from above to say: "Your fate is sealed", but no such thing happened. Joren realized Paxton was holding out his hand to him. He shook hands with the man whom he was to accompany in the operation, whatever it was.

All the information he'd received so far was pretty vague. Paxton had contacted him that morning, affiliating himself with Buri and Wyldon—though Joren had not seen Wyldon in little less than a year.  He'd begun by introducing himself as Agent Paxton Nond. The word 'agent' alone indicated that Paxton was a part of the shadier, less known-about part of the DJPF. Joren had been intrigued. The line of work sounded promising.

"Would you like to brief him, Buri?" Joren's new employer asked.

She shook her head. "He's all yours now. When do you expect to begin?"

"There's a series of races going on Friday night. We'll start then," Paxton answered. He noticed Joren's attention perk up. "And yes, Joren, before you ask. I did choose you because of your extensive qualification with bikes and other motor vehicles in general."

Joren nodded. He was not just a protégé; his skills were indeed very useful to his new employer. The feeling of being perfect for the job helped to scrub away uncertainty, if there had been any. Joren did not like uncertainty. Many things in his life had been decided, based on dubious uncertainty.

Buri, in the meantime, cautiously observed him. He'd performed very well as long as he had been under her supervision. She still couldn't believe that a person so young could adapt so easily to a life as demanding as his. She thought briefly of a childhood wasted, a picked flower that had yet to bud—sentenced to die in a vase on someone's kitchen table.

"I'm not likely to see you for a very long time, Joren. Not me or anyone else… You might want to say goodbye to the Riders while they're in town. They came back from Corus today."

He'd forgotten she was still there. Joren shifted his weight to his other foot. "I might."

She nodded. "Alright then. Keep your eyes open and alert."

"I'm not a cadet, Buri. You don't have to tell me that."

Her fingers strayed to the desktop and started tracing imaginary shapes. "I know. But still. You've got your whole life ahead of you and there's no sense in you dying over something stupid that you forgot from your training."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile. "My training for this ended before I even took one step on Mithran soil."

~~

"Pack your life into two duffel bags. I'll call you tomorrow," Paxton informed him as they stood in the open parking lot of the DJPF Government Housing. Somewhere overhead, a bird twittered a song that was sharp in both their ears. Joren couldn't see what there was to be singing about. Animals always knew something that humans didn't, which gave animals eternal happiness while man suffered the turmoil of his own wretchedness.

"Any specific items?"

"Your motorcycle gear and tools… the big guns. And when I say that, I'm not talking about the damn .9 mm Berettas. I heard from unnamed sources you got yourself some nice toys. The latest versions of Desert Eagles, maybe? An Uzi wouldn't be so bad right now either." He paused. "I don't think I should have to mention for you not to bring any DJPF issued clothing. No Hyperion Bands, no casual uniform or field uniform. Leave your pager in the boxes that you'll place in storage. I'll take care of the rest."

Joren snorted. "Should I be doing the Beatnik color code, too?"

Paxton glanced down at himself and smiled ruefully. "Whatever looks good on ya. Our first stop will be at Hattie's. She hooks the operatives up with the clothing and accessories we'll need."

"So I should assume we're showing up as either new hot-heads looking for some action, or some common thugs?"

"Later, later. Don't forget your damn helmet and get out of my sight already." He waved Joren off impatiently and took a cigarette from a box in his pants pocket. He removed a lighter from his opposite pocket and proceeded to light it up. Joren took his cue to leave. He then approached the door to the apartment lobby, then to the elevator.

The doors to the elevator were about to close when someone yelled, "Wait for me!"

Joren rolled his eyes and pressed the button that would keep the doors open. A young man not too many years older than Joren ran up, panting. He slowed down as he reached the elevator's threshold and stepped cautiously inside. His broad shoulders rose up and down as his chest still heaved from the run down the hallway.

"Thanks, man." The newcomer straightened up. "So Punk Ass, what's up? I haven't seen you around in a while."

"Maybe that's because you weren't in town. Don't be such an idiot, Dom," Joren grated, miffed at having to share elevator space with the man next to him. The doors closed and they began their ascent to the third floor.

"Well, sssooorrry. I had no idea you would be this grumpy today. Raoul is talking to Buri right now, but if you want, you can meet him later." He shrugged. "I know how you've been trying to squirm out of Buri's range of vision. Raoul's trips are mostly a pain in the butt, but they'll get you away, man."

"No, I won't be hanging around the rag tags anymore."

Dom scrunched up his face, obviously offended. "Well, fine, why don't you just say 'fuck you' and get it over with?"

"You said it, not me," Joren replied, keeping his cool while Dom's face turned crimson. He was always secretly amused at this.

"Like we would have wanted you anyway. Raoul got a new guy. His name is a Qasim—he's a mechanic, too. He's probably better than you. And it's not like Prosper or Seaver give a crap about you. The four of us are all that Raoul needs to be in the Riders' Own." Whether Qasim possessed greater mechanical skills than Joren wasn't the point. It was Dom's revenge for Joren's indifference, which was an insult to Dom. Some how, he knew that his words didn't affect Joren the way that he wished. In fact, he knew it only made himself seem more childish.

Joren smirked as they walked out of the elevator. Both of their rooms were situated at the end of the hall. He took pride in his infinite patience for flustered smart alecks. He could lose his temper with criminals, but harmless twits like Dom weren't worth the effort to become angry.

Dom didn't say anything for a few moments, and then spoke, acknowledging his verbal defeat. "So, why won't you be around anymore?"

"I can't say, buddy." The little colloquialisms such as 'buddy' and 'dude' sometimes spouted from his mouth—a side effect from spending time with Dom.

"What, you're getting court-marshaled or something?" Dom asked, semi-serious. There were only so many things that he could imagine Joren having to leave for. As far as he knew, Joren had no family to visit. He had no close friends, no girlfriend. Dom nor anyone else in the T District had ever seen Joren associate with anyone outside of their close work force.

Joren had never liked people's attempts to befriend him. But he knew he needed allies, so he permitted their presence around him. They were good for a laugh. He always felt that the naivety they possessed for life made him obligated to linger around… make sure they didn't do something stupid, like children. He didn't like children. He was never a child. People would argue it, but he knew that he was never a child.

"So?"

He stopped in front of his door. "I'll tell you later. Don't tell anyone else that I'm leaving, okay?"

"Um, sure. Whatever, man."

Joren nodded and entered his apartment. He left Dom standing there, confused, but intrigued. Of all the Riders, Joren supposed that Dom was the least troublesome. He never gave up trying to be Joren's friend, but he acknowledged certain barricades, such as the topic of his past.

Looking around at the emptiness of his apartment, Joren marched toward his closet. He opened the door and dragged out an empty duffel bag with the toe of his foot. Then he reached up to the shelf to remove a couple of metal briefcases. They were heavy, and he had to balance both of them before he lowered his arms. He steadied himself and brought the cases down. Next he lifted up his leg and leaned his knee against the wall so his thigh was parallel to the floor. Resting the briefcases on half his lap, he proceeded to unlock the top one and pop up the latches.

"It's been a while," he remarked to himself.

He opened the case and touched the foam padding inside, surrounding the components to his sniping equipment. He didn't know if he would need it, but Paxton said that he wanted Joren's best. And if he wanted his best, he was going to get it. Joren shut the case again and set it down on the floor. Then he walked with the other case to his couch.

He set the case on his lap, just as he'd done with the other one, and opened it. Inside were two brand new Desert Eagles, something he'd bought from a weapons dealer in Tortall before he'd left for Tusaine. No one was supposed to know, but somehow word had gotten out, or else Paxton wouldn't have mentioned it. They were brand new and no one else was likely to have the models, which made it so much more important to Joren to hide them from his bosses. He wasn't supposed to have merchandise like that.

It wasn't illegal, but it definitely wasn't legal either.

Joren packed the necessary personal items. After that, he made room for some of his tools and whatever else he needed for the maintenance of his bike. Clothing was not such a big deal. Paxton said that a woman would give them items to wear. Joren had next to none that he cared to bring. Just in case he had to make a run for it, he packed a pair of jeans and one of his random black T-shirts.

His toolbox was open. Joren lifted the lid and discovered a wrench missing. The memory of lending it to Prosper came to his mind. He didn't feel like going to the Rider at that moment. Prosper wouldn't be in his apartment. He would go over Rider business with Raoul until nightfall.

Half an hour later, everything he needed was packed into two duffel bags, as requested. It was noon. Joren remembered his pager and removed it from his wrist. He set it down on his bed and decided to start filling cardboard boxes with his remaining possessions after he ate lunch. Not too many cardboard boxes would be needed.

Lunch consisted of a TV dinner that he deposited in the microwave after poking some holes in the top with his fork. He set the timer and pressed the Start button. The familiar hum of the kitchen appliance filled his ears. He ran a plastic cup under the faucet, filling it with tap water. Then he sat down and started reading the newspaper. He was tempted to check the obituaries for gunned down gang members—anything that looked suspicious. He was about to enter their world, after all.

The timer buzzed and the machine's humming ceased. He removed his meal from the microwave, sat down at the table, and began to eat it in silence.

~~

They still ask sometimes. "Why are you here?" They mean the DJPF, because the people who ask this question are usually colleagues. No, they say that, but they don't mean that. What they are really asking is "Why are you on this earth?" because they know I don't belong. I don't fit in.

Why pick the DJPF in a country that's not your own? My country is rotten through and through, no matter what people say. It looks very fair and just on the outside, but it's all bull. I believe all countries are the same, actually. The difference with Mithros is that it's big enough for me to get lost in. I'm just another face in the crowd. No one knows me here. No one will ever know me here.

When I first came to the Academy, I didn't look forward to the possibility of standing out. I became the gruff stoic jerk that everyone ignored… the one that if you approach, would bite your head off. A man needs his space. Although at the time, I had yet to be considered by some as a man. I was this teenage kid—a foreigner—who only had clothes on his back and his father's banged up motorcycle.

I remember talking to a man on the eastern tip of Mithros. I paid him what little money I had left from my parents to insert false records into the Tortallian Academy Database for new transfers. It was dishonest. I oppose that which breaks the law, but at the time I reasoned that I would make up for it. My deeds would be greater than my crimes.

My false story was thus: A distant relative who had become my guardian thought that remaining in Galla would cause me too much pain, because everything would remind me of my parents. A friend of hers had a son who left the country for Mithros. He became a respected DJPF officer, since everyone in the world knows how disciplined and effective the Mithran DJPF are. So my great aunt, or whoever she was, decided to send me to the Academy in Tortall, because I considered myself physically mature to contend with my fellow cadets.

I was actually a bit young for them. Most of everyone in my classes had finished with high school, or they had started young and planned to finish their high school credits within the Academy (which essentially meant that they would graduate at the same time as those who had already finished high school). Without any peers and without any desire to have peers, I spent my time alone, studying. I would submit requests to Headmaster Naxen for advanced placement tests that would bump me up through the class levels. I wanted out. I hadn't come to Mithros to be stuck in an Academy until my mid-twenties.

For the record, I did meet Owen Jesslaw and Nealan Queenscove in some of my classes. Queenscove was popular; that is, everyone knew his name. He did his work sufficiently enough for someone of his level. Jesslaw was the same. But on the side, the two of them searched for mischievous deeds to keep them amused. The headmaster was angered by a few of their pranks, always insisting that this was an institution meant to train the future defenders of the nation—that sort of rot. I don't believe they started taking the Academy seriously until Mindelan stumbled into their lives. I had a few problems with Queenscove. We used to butt heads during combat training sessions.

There's nothing much to say after that. The Commissioner Wyldon spent two weeks evaluating my accelerated progress when I graduated. He finally decided to send me out to Tusaine, under Buriram Tourakom.

Now I'm going into whole new territory. Something tells me I should be wary of the whole operation, but I'm not. All I've ever wanted to do since then was to uphold the law and kick the shit out of the corrupted. They corrupted my life. They took it away from me. They took it all away.

~~

Joren snapped out his flashback when he heard the door intercom buzz. He went to the entrance of his apartment. He leaned his hand on the intercom button and spoke. "Who is it?"

"It's me." Keladry's voice floated over to him. "I need to borrow your helmet. I have an errand to run."

He let the door slide open and leaned upon the doorframe. "Why don't you drive the squad car?"

His partner sighed. "Cleon took it. I paged him and he can't give up the car yet. Says he's waiting for Roald to get checked by Dr. Perdue or something."

It was an odd piece of information that Joren did not want to know further about. He nodded slowly, as if humoring a preposterous lie. Keladry moved one foot forward.

"So can I borrow your helmet or what?"

"No. Where the hell is yours?"

She moved past him anyway, purposely shoving against his shoulder. "I don't know. But I really have to go run this errand and all I have is my motorcycle, okay? Please let me borrow your helmet."

His lip itched to shout at her about her untimely interruption of his reminiscing. Couldn't a man have a minute alone to think anymore?

On second thought, he welcomed it. He closed the door behind him and went ahead of Keladry to his couch.

"Well?"

Joren shrugged. "It's somewhere here. You're the one who needs it. You look."

She glared at him before beginning to do so. She didn't have much of a choice. Walking around his living room, she looked behind furniture and behind doors.  "You seriously don't know where it is?"

"Would I have told you to look for it otherwise?"

He sat down and watched her even enter his kitchen and his bedroom. He spread out on his couch, crossing ankle over ankle and folding his hands behind his head. He could hear Keladry shuffle through his belongings.

"Are you sure?" Keladry called from his closet. "Didn't you use it today?"

"I might have."

She marched back into the living room. She gazed down at his relaxed form. "You're lying."

"Why would I lie?" He looked up at her with clear unblinking eyes.

"You mess with me for no reason all the time. Come on, Stone. I really need to go to the grocery store."

Joren thought fleetingly of his flashbacks and reached a decision. "It's in the garage. But come here when you get back."

"Why?"

I need you to distract me.

"You're looking to mess with my head, aren't you?" she accused.

If it distracts me enough, yes.

"I'm not some push-over."

That's what makes it worthwhile.

"Just do it, Mindelan," he barked. He mentally stepped back from himself when he realized he had shown more overreaction than her.

The strong-willed young woman sighed deeply and agreed. She didn't appreciate his lie from a few minutes ago, telling her that he didn't know where it was. He never actively sought her out to spend 'quality time' with her. What reason could he have now? "Fine. Whatever. Is the helmet on your bike?"

"Where else would it be? I'm surprised you didn't think to look there first."

Her cheeks flushed a tiny bit and she started for the door. She muttered a curt thanks and left. Joren wanted to run out the door and yank her back in. The majority of his days were spent alone, but he didn't want to be alone today. His mind was a tumult of painful memories that would slowly drive him upwards toward heaven to remember the ecstasy of a starlit sky, and then drag him down, down into hell to remember the pungent smell of brimstone.

Joren shifted onto his side, staring ahead at the coffee table. He gradually raised himself to an unwanted sitting position.

This is it, Tenderfoot. Show them what you got.

Paxton Nond. He hadn't heard that voice in so long. The man was a whole other thing unto himself. He was like a different species of man that didn't fear anything. He just lived for the danger—the thrill—and lived much more happily than Joren could have ever hoped to live. In many ways, Paxton had become a pseudo-role model for Joren. He was skilled, strong, and alone. And he gave it no second thought.

What are you waiting for? Let's get this over with before my hair turns gray.

"Just a second, Pax," Joren whispered. "Just a few more seconds."

~~

"Well, I'll be downstairs. Meet me down there when you've finished closing up." The voice of his new mentor filtered through the intercom at Joren's door. Joren hefted a bag over his shoulder and lifted another cardboard box under his arm. It was the last box that needed to be placed in storage. His apartment of not even a year was now empty. Only the furniture remained. It was never his to begin with, just hunks of crap that belonged to the apartment complex.

He let the door slide open and walked out for what he hoped was not the last time. He often told himself that he hoped for nothing in life, but it couldn't hurt to hope for a life long enough to see what great tragedies befell mankind. Maybe one day he would be able to let go and be happy. Happiness was a myth.

Joren had been so distracted that he didn't sense someone focusing a camera upon him from behind. He didn't know until a bright flash lit the hall. When he turned, he didn't know whom to expect. Any reporter who dared to trespass this far was as good as dead. All the residents of the DJPF complex were very particular about their privacy.

"What are you doing?"

All four members of the Riders' Own stood behind him. Prosper held the camera, looking like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Dom spoke first.

"Aw, it's nothing. We were thinking that you might… get busy or something, and not come back to boring Tusaine. So," he shrugged as he rambled. "So we could get a picture of you for record-keeping purposes."

"You mean: if I die, you want a picture to display at the funeral?"

"No! Well, that could happen, but you're not going to have a funeral."

"You're right. I plan to get cremated without a service. If there's a body to be had."

Dom growled. "Well, maybe the rest of us would still have a gathering in your memory. Funerals are for those left behind to help them cope."

Fearing that he spoke too much and fearing he'd appeared like a sentimental sap, he looked at his companions so that they nodded as well. Joren shifted the box under his arm. He didn't know what to say to these men before him. They were acting like his friends. The only friends he'd had growing up were his racing buddies, but these men knew nothing about him. He couldn't afford to have friends. They were liabilities waiting to happen. With all the coldness he could summon, he spoke. "You're a bunch of pansies."

The newcomer, Qasim, looked ready to yell back, but Prosper stopped him.

"Aw, just forget it, Joren. You'll be back, right?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I'll be gone for a while."

Dom nodded. "Yeah, well, it's not like we're always here either. So, I guess you got your traveling papers after all."

"You should listen to yourself sometime. You sound like an idiot."

"I know."

The Riders returned to Prosper's apartment to watch football. They began to talk in hushed tones. They dismissed him from their minds like the weather. Dom lingered behind, his brow creased and a frown on his face. Joren glared at him. "What now?"

"I don't know." He sighed. "So, how dangerous is it?"

His mission? Was that what worried the Rider? Joren could lie to him. Anything that calmed the other man down so he could leave without worrying someone… Dom was always too softhearted, Joren reasoned. He cared about everyone around him, even thankless men like Joren. It was an admirable quality, but often irritating to those who could not stand sympathy.

So what should he say?

"If they find out my real identity, I'll most likely be shot in the head," Joren offered.

Just as Joren expected, Dom's frown deepened. He nervously cleared his throat. "Oh… Man, that has got to suck."

"You have a talent for understatement."

"I bet I do."

Miraculously, Joren chuckled. Dom grinned, proud that he'd incited a good emotion from a callous man. Joren looked in the direction of the elevator. "I have to meet Paxton now." He considered something. "We'll go for a beer as soon as I get back."

"You don't drink, pal."

 "By the time I come back, I probably will."

The other man laughed. "Yeah." He paused. "Hey."

"What?"

"We're… friends, right?" He looked with uncertainty at the departing man, hoping to high Heaven he wouldn't be laughed at.

"Yeah…" Joren said reluctantly. Of all the people to let under his skin, he supposed Dom was the best possible choice. "You tell anyone though, and I'll kick your ass."

"Right, right." Better than nothing. "I guess I'll see you around then."

"Yeah. See you, Dom." This might be the last time he spoke to Domitan Masbolle. People breezed in and out of his life all the time. He didn't think to say a proper goodbye at all anymore because when proper goodbyes counted, he never received the opportunity to say them. He never said goodbye to his parents. He hadn't the opportunity.

Life was a collection of opportunities and follow-throughs, he thought while riding down in the elevator with his belongings. A big opportunity awaited him with Paxton. He wasn't about to miss it.

Paxton's choice of transportation was a black four-door sedan with a slightly rusted bumper.  It looked like it had been through hell and back. The hubcaps were dull, but could have been shiny had they been properly cared for. The windows were thankfully tinted, but dirty. It also looked like mud had recently been tracked onto the floor of the passenger seat. Joren swung open the door and sat down. The car's interior seats were covered with dark rough material, like an itchy blanket made from coarse threads. Joren wondered about the stain in the back seat that was as brown as the rust on the bumper. Paxton commanded him to toss his bag in the back seat and they would be off to see Hattie.

On the drive downtown, Paxton started to act more normally around him.

"Is this your usual car or did you pick it up just for this… mission?" Joren asked

"Does it matter?"

"Sounds like it needs a new muffler."

Paxton spared a glance at his new protégé. He laughed. "Yeah, well, you can do all you want with it. I personally don't give a damn about the hunk of metal, but you're welcome to do what you want. Whatever keeps you occupied!" He held onto the wheel with one hand while scratching under his chin with the other. "It might be good cover for you to be under a car, pretending to be looking at a muffler and really be eavesdropping on other guys."

Joren squared his shoulders stiffly. "What is this whole thing about anyway? You've been relatively quiet about it from square one."

"What's it about? Take your pick: a cartload of money that's been missing for over eight months, extortion, loan sharking, illegal races, occasional homicides... or all of the above." One had to be completely dense to miss the cynicism in his voice.

"All under the same group?"

"Light me up a cigarette, would you, kid?" While his companion obeyed, he responded to the first question. "What does it sound like to you?"

Joren light the cigarette and handed it to Paxton, who opened the windows and took a short drag.

"It sounds like organized crime. What you said at Buri's office actually tipped me off."

The older man nodded approvingly. "Close. But it makes more sense to call it an underground society that's bigger than this here city. Ever since we discovered it's existence a few months ago, we've been astonished at its success. You can't pin anything on these bastards." He puffed on the cigarette once more. "So the head honchos of the DJPF figure we need some people on the inside to find the cornerstone of this whole place and kick it out from under them."

"The boss."

"Yeah. But we need more than just that. If the DJPF raid the place, who is to say that the boss won't get a warning and hightail it out of there? We have to find a weakness." He shrugged. "And evidence. Photos, wires, actual cold hard cash in briefcases. The works."

Joren breathed in sharply at the thought, and then immediately regretted it as he caught a whiff of Paxton's smoke. He coughed and rolled down his window, letting the fresh air wash over him. Paxton laughed and ground the cigarette butt into a small plastic cup and tossed it out the window. Joren made a mental note not to pour any coffee into the cup, though he doubted Paxton would remember.

"Sounds really heavy."

"What sounds heavy is your breathing, Tenderfoot. Get used to it. Not only will you be immersed in clouds of cigarette smoke, but who knows what else!" He stopped the car in front of a blue house with a white picket fence and a bright yellow mailbox surrounded by sunflowers. A woman stood at the door, untying an apron from her waist.

"What do you mean, what else?" Joren asked suspiciously though he knew the answer.

"Pick a hallucinogen. Any hallucinogen," Paxton replied in a melodramatic voice. "How about drinking? Can you hold your own?"

Joren never drank. That had been made clear long ago. He couldn't see why anyone would be willing to destroy his bladder and brain cells. "Won't know until I try."

"Well, you drink with me tonight after the race."

They got out of the car and entered the quaint home. The woman with the apron in her hands approached them before they reached the door. She was short with a petite body and very delicate looking hands. Her skin was fair and her hair whispery blond. Joren didn't expect her to be much older than 25 or perhaps 28 if she pushed it. The woman shook Paxton's hand and gave Joren a friendly smile. He assumed that she was Hattie, though he couldn't find a reason for the set up around them to be cheery and normal. She ushered them inside, offering them coffee. They both declined.

"What do you want first?" she asked. "Threads or equipment?"

Paxton upturned his palms and made a who-do-you-take-me-for gesture to Hattie. "I'm a man of style, Hattie. You know that. We'll start with some nice threads."

She giggled. "Of course. Follow me, Gentlemen."

Within her hallway, she lifted a carmine rug to reveal a hidden entrance. With a thin piece of cord she lifted the panel up and moved the polished wood out of the way. Paxton politely offered his hand to her as she descended on the metal steps into the darkness. Joren hesitantly followed, one hand out toward the limestone wall to steady himself. A light clicked on from below him. Hattie had already found the switch.

Clothing racks were arranged in perfect rows. A changing screen was placed in the corner. The left side of the stairs was slightly different. Metal cabinets lined the wall there. Joren wondered what was in them, but Paxton called to him.

"Get over here and pick your clothes."

In another universe, they could be in a department store. Paxton could have been a father, insisting to his son to buy clothing for the new school year. Instead, they were choosing their disguises for an operation that might cost them their lives. Joren went to the closest rack and started looking for sizes that fit him. Most of the items on the cart were darkly colored. Paxton started on a similar cart, occasionally picking out something like a red alligator skin jacket. Joren wrinkled his nose at the choices and kept his own selections simple and dark.

Hattie noticed and intervened. She went through the clothing he had already picked and learned his size. Without informing Joren of her idea, she also began selecting clothing and replacing Joren's stack of clothes. Twenty minutes later, Joren examined his stack and noticed most of his picks were gone. Hattie smiled and patted the table. "You still need a jacket."

"I'm not wearing this stuff."

Paxton was at the metal cabinets, unlocking them with a key from who-knows-where. He snorted. "Just take them. When you're done, get over here."

Joren growled low in his throat. "I don't care about this stuff. Isn't the operation the important thing?"

The woman at his side laughed. "It won't work unless you look the part." She disappeared behind a rack of clothing that was taller than her. Moments later, she returned with a brand new black leather jacket. Joren stared at it. It looked like something an old teen rebel movie might feature on its main character. He hesitantly allowed Hattie to put it on him. She pushed him gently toward the mirror. "It was made for you."

He ran his fingers over the material. His eyes wandered, noticing a red stitching just on the inside of the collar. "'Jackal'? What is this?"

"The jacket belonged to a friend of mine. I have no idea what it means, but the jacket is so you. Take it." She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

A little bewildered, he went over to Paxton, who was examining Kevlar vests and handguns. There was also a row of hooks with keys on them. Pictures of hover cars, motorcycles, and hover bikes were placed over each key. Joren thought of his own bike, locked up with the rest of his belongings in storage. "You said we were racing tonight. Why don't I just bring my bike? It's not like it's actually registered. No one can trace it."

His mentor eyed him. "If you race on it, are you more confident of winning the race?"

"No problem."

Paxton nodded. "You arrogant little turd… Alright then. We'll go back for your bike. Our debut will be when you race. That ought to catch Yukishiro's attention."

"Yukishiro?" This had been the first time Joren had heard any name that might be the boss. He glanced around him. Hattie was packing up their clothes in laundry bags. He turned back to the older man and leaned in. "Is he the guy? The boss?"

A nod was his reply. Paxton remained silent for a few more moments. "Enishi Yukishiro. Yeah, we think so. I don't know much about him. I don't know what he looks like, so we'll have to find out as soon as possible. It's a pattern for his closest men to be motorcycle or hover bike racers. One of them is a former Motocross champion, I think."

"Does he race?"

"I don't know. Guess you'll find out if you manage to get on his good side."

"Do you want me to get on his good side?"

Paxton glared at him. He reminded Joren of a painting of the Devil with his dark expression.  "What do you think?"

~~

The sound of revving engines filled Joren's ears. He walked behind a dumpster, hoping that the sound was partially blocked. It wasn't. He went back into the open, kicking up dust from the empty lot. The beginning of the racetrack was at the opening of the lot. Cars pulled up to the starting line, covered in bright colors and logos. Huge torches burned overhead. They cast a red glow around him. The throngs of people emitted more noise than the engines of a jet, or the noise of a buzz saw. They were all lower forms of society. The prostitutes strutted about the place, hoping to get some cash that night. Other men drank and laughed. Some fought with their fists. The condemned old district of Tusaine surrounded the lot, almost a few miles outside the official city limits. There were no enclosures or buildings around, except the abandoned two-level garage.

On the second level, overlooking the whole lot and most of the road that the cars planned to race on, were a group of men in suits or men with 'high-status' written all over them. They stood, talking amongst themselves about the stock market and about the dead man they had dumped into the river two nights ago. Joren couldn't help but think that he could stand right next to one of these men in the line for the ATM machine. Yet here they were. And here he was.

Paxton whistled. "Get over here."

"What?" The blonde young man fanned the air around him and prayed that he wouldn't contract lung cancer from second-hand smoke. He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets. The leather was much more comfortable than he ever imagined it could me. He secretly thanked Hattie for her choice.

"Yukishiro is up there, watching. When your race is up, you'd better put on a show. Go check up on your bike right now. Make sure no one is messing with it. I'll stay here and look for someone to squeeze for information." His tone of voice was identical to that of a man searching for something in the grocery isle while ignoring his child sitting in the food cart. He held out his hand for Joren's jacket.

Joren rolled his eyes and took it off, now left in his red and black racing uniform. He made his way toward the lower level of the garage where his motorcycle was. He made sure to park in a corner in the shadow of a huge van so no one would see the Black Knight X40. Other mechanics and racers milled around, slapping each other on the back and sharing lewd jokes heard from a bar. He could hear a man throwing a wrench to the floor, yelling at another man beside him. They shoved at each other for a few moments before resuming their work.

It would be a lie to say he wasn't nervous about racing. He had not raced anyone in a long time. Even then, Joren had raced on a dirtbike, not a racing motorcycle. Sure, even on a couple of hoverbikes. He had never raced anyone on his father's motorcycle. He didn't know if he could. Tonight would be the first time. If he couldn't handle it, he would have to wait until the next illegal race to catch Enishi Yukishiro's eye. A nagging spirit in him rebuked him for being so confident to Paxton about his father's bike. What would Yukishiro think if Joren crashed right in front of him? There would be no chance then to get into the inner circle.

Who is this guy? He thought. It didn't seem possible to him how one man could start a community of corruption in one city and never be caught. Not once. What happened to the agents who had tried to catch him before? Did they die? Were they murdered?

Now is not the time to think about that.

He double-checked everything he could think of, but it still didn't seem like enough. His hands rested on the handlebars. He gripped them hard through his gloves to get the familiar feeling back in his arms, stretching forward toward eternity. His helmet was no longer recognizable. Before they had left Hattie's, Paxton suggested they airbrush a picture of a jackal's open jaws on it—to match the jacket. Joren didn't see the reason of creating a persona around the image, but Paxton assured him it would enhance his popularity in front of those they were trying to fool.

The blood red image against black was outlined in silver and was placed on both sides of the helmet. He removed his hands from the handlebars and started tracing the visible teeth of the picture. This was his new image: a predator on the hunt. Criminals were his prey. It sounded cliché when he whispered it, but it would be true to him. He might have to lower himself to their level, but it didn't mean he would become them. He would hunt them. Like a predator stalking his prey. I'm a friggin' wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Hey, New Guy."

Joren turned. He was met by a man his height, dressed in a navy blue racing uniform. His spiky hair was unnaturally bright red with streaks of blonde. The way it stuck out almost gave him the appearance of a head on fire. He had a tiny scattering of freckles on each cheek and a goatee that matched his red hair. He could have been one of Joren's opponents in his upcoming race. But the man limped as he approached, indicating that he was obviously injured and therefore unable to race.

"Never seen ye around 'ere. Aren't ye a bit young to be racin'?"

"No. Aren't you?"

"I'm 24, punk," he snapped. There was an accent in the voice, which made his letters roll on the tip of his tongue like a purring kitten and his vowels distorted. He folded his arms across his chest and looked Joren up and down. "So, what's yer name, New Guy?"

"Jack Winston," Joren replied automatically. He'd spent all afternoon practicing introductions. The last thing he wanted to do was slip out his real name. His new pager read nothing but lies. He was supposedly two years older than he really was, and born in Carthak. He was not a DJPF officer nor did he have any friends in the DJPF. He was just another average Joe with a thing for motor vehicles.

His visitor extended his hand. "Coram Smythesson. I'm the usual top dog around 'ere, but I crashed into some fire barrels on the course last week. Yer lucky that I'll be out for a while."

Joren insecurely glanced at his own protective padding. He doubted he would injure himself, but nonetheless, the idea irked him. He was also a little discouraged by Coram's proud statement, "top dog," but he was much more concerned about getting information.  Coram didn't come off as the type to steal or murder. Joren tried to think of many people there at the races as terrible as they seemed.

"Since you win so much, have you ever met the guy who runs all these races?"

The new acquaintance's mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head and shrugged. "I have. What, are ye one of those poor S.O.B.'s trying to become one of his favorites so he can hook you up with some good jobs?" Before Joren could reply, Coram snapped at him like a cobra once again. "Because if ya are, just forget it. Yer a young lad, just get yerself out of 'ere, ya dumb fool."

"Number one, I'm not a young lad. Number two, I'm definitely no dumb fool."  He wouldn't back out. He really had no choice. Whatever Coram knew, Coram was afraid of it and he was trying to do Joren a favor by scaring him off. Joren could tell if he tried hard enough, he could earn Coram's trust and thereby earn a useful ally. The man with an accent was already a prominent racer in this underground world, and also a close associate of Yukishiro.

Coram's intensity did not diminish. "What are ye after around 'ere?"

"Just looking for a good race like yourself."

"Well, when yer finally in the thick of things, don't say I didn't warn ya." He paused. "If you get that far."

At that moment, Joren's pager chose to start beeping. He glanced at the tiny screen. Paxton had no success except for the usual responses: 'oh, I've seen him around.'  "It's my partner, Mark."

"Partner?"

"You can talk to him if you want. My race is up." Joren said. He got on his bike and put up the kickstand. The other motorcyclists in the garage were also preparing.  He quickly gave a Coram a description of Paxton so he could find the other man and speak with him while Joren raced.

Coram nodded. "Well then, g' luck."

"Don't need it." Joren grinned and put on his helmet. He moved up in line with the other men while Coram exited the garage by hopping over the concrete divider.  From that point on, Joren dismissed the new acquaintance from his mind. Now was the time to focus. It wasn't the same as racing down interstate highways with no one else around. It wasn't the same as going down a country road and looking up at a starlit sky. This was for speed and victory.

He took in the familiar sounds of motors and wheels screeching as they left tire marks on the pavement. He rode out of the garage in line with the rest of the competitors. They were a crazy assortment. Some had dyed hair like Coram, others were in neon colors and odd logos. Some talked together in friendly tones. Others insulted each other with words and gestures. He wondered if this was actually going to be a fair race. If it were not fair, he'd have to pull a few tricks of his own. He didn't like the thought of it, but a man had to do what a man had to do.

He hated that line.

The atmosphere was filled with rivalry. No one came here just to have a good time, no matter how much they denied it. It was all business. Bets were being exchanged, drug dealers sought buyers, and prostitutes sought money on legs. A minority of men and women had come for the sake of the race, but they were so few and far between that their faces blended in with the rest of the crowd.

"Racers, approach the starting line!"

Joren and the other racers lined up, leaving just enough room to get by. He noticed that a few women were racing as well despite the crude looks they were receiving by other men. He leaned forward on his bike, flexing his hands around his handles. The vibration of the vehicle beneath him was unsteadying. His muscles tensed as he watched the light drop down from red… to yellow…to green.

They sped off, bursting from the starting line like rockets into the sky. Joren fought to get a good length ahead of the dozen plus riders around him. After the initial scramble and (Joren mentally shook his head) elbowing and fighting, he secured third place. He leaned into the curve, glad that torches and fire barrels lit the course in front of him. He also glanced behind himself, knowing he must be aware of other opponents trying to make a pass.

The adrenalin was rushing through his veins. His every little movement or adjustment made all the difference between victory and defeat. He had learned that a long time ago, when his father had taught him to race on dirt bikes. The wind whipped at him through his uniform and padding. Icy daggers were driving themselves into his skin. It felt so odd to be speeding along a racetrack again. A billion and one thoughts filled his woozy head, all telling him what to do.

Up ahead, he saw a wide curve, perfect to make a pass at first place. It led right into an obstacle area of fire barrels and ramps, and then a drop from the pavement. Joren tensed all his muscles even more so. When he noticed, he relaxed a bit and threw more of his mind into the concentration of things.

This was the feeling, he realized a split second later. This feeling of pressure, the burden of knowing he had to win this race and make a name for himself in front of these people: Joren Stone, the victorious mystery man.

No. Jack Winsoton. He meant, Jack Winston.

This wasn't for his pride or his own glory. How could he have fooled himself like that? Joren raced to please a man he'd never met before so he could please Paxton, a man he barely knew. His life wasn't meant to please others, just him! Yet here he was again.

He sped up with a loud roar from underneath him. He perfectly balanced himself while leaning into the curve and passing the men who had previously been in front of him. The curve had actually been tighter than he had anticipated. One false move and he could have fallen and skidded out of the course and into the tin barrels. He took first.

The formerly leading men would be wanting to pass him now—this hot-head whom they had never seen before. Joren wouldn't allow it. He moved to block them on the straight sections. One of them could have tried to pass. Joren would have blocked him, while the other got by. Since each man was racing solely for himself, the two behind him did not cooperate. He undoubtedly had the lead.

He skillfully dodged the fire barrels and took to the ramps. His legs absorbed the jolt upon landing. He didn't look behind him, but he could hear those who did crash into the barrels and missed the ramps. Someone whooped over the din, indicating that some of the crashes weren't accidental. There was one more jump before the finish. He had to nail it or else he could lose his place.

Joren never felt more alive than at that moment. His heart was pounding between his ears and every muscle in his body was tense. The danger… the thrill brought his consciousness to new heights. He didn't think he could become any higher on a drug than how high he was at that moment. His head was practically in the clouds.

The finish line was not too far away now. He sped up, approaching the ramp. Waiting for him at the finish was either the chance Paxton was looking for or the agony of defeat. Enishi Yukishiro was watching. He would see everything.

And then Joren was in the air. His stomach did flip-flops for the few seconds he was up. It was a feeling of complete weightlessness, then gravity pulling him harshly back down to a hard, but successful landing. He heard the pack of riders right behind him, trying to speed up on the home stretch. He gritted his teeth.

Oh, hell no. I don't think so.

He decided to take it up a notch, and sped up even more. It was pushing the Black Knight to its limits. He wouldn't be surprised if he repeated one scene from his childhood where he blew a top end before the finish of a race. But he had to do it. The others were too close behind, with newer bikes… better equipment.

But not his skill. He fought to keep in control. At such high speeds, every little movement he made affected the bike's movement. He could hear the crowd cheer. Were they cheering for him? Did they want the newcomer to win? Yes. They did. They want you to win, so just do it, he told himself. The only thing that was going to pull him through this was his own determination.

In the end, the only thing you could rely on was yourself.

You will do this. That's all there is to it.

And then he was there. All at once, he could feel his chest start to slow its heaving breaths, sucking in air at a slower, more relieved pace. He decelerated as soon as he thought to, curving around in the dirt. He curved back around to the garage entrance. The light was better there, and he could see everyone finish behind him. His head was spinning, whether from the ride itself or the sheer magnitude of what he'd just done, he didn't know.

Joren set his feet down. He leaned on one leg, still seated on his father's motorcycle. Then, he reached up to remove his helmet. When he pulled it off, he felt immediately refreshed by the cool night air. It made his face tingle, and he was glad he didn't have a beard so he could feel nature tickling him.

Paxton and Coram approached him while the remaining crowd shouted their approval. Everyone accepted this newcomer with open arms. He was a brilliant distraction from their downtrodden lives, which they didn't bother improving. It would all end one day anyway, wouldn't it? There was nothing left but to savor the good moments like these.

"I knew you'd do it," Paxton said proudly.

Coram nodded. "Not bad. Not bad at all. Ye led the pack almost half the race."

The blonde racer wanted to grin. He'd never had a more satisfying victory. That's how he felt: satisfied. His heart still raced though his breathing was again regular. The adrenalin rush was still there. He could dodge bullets as calmly as spreading butter on bread—if he wanted to.

"Do you hear them? They like you. We're in," Paxton whispered. He looked about to say more, but the suddenly let his gaze drift upward. The curiously happy man smiled.

Joren followed his gaze. On the second level of the garage, the dignified, self-appointed Gentlemen Elite looked down on him. Some clapped while the more dangerous appearing men put their fingers to their mouths and whistled loudly. Their manners were more crude, but more expressive in their congratulations. Three or four women spotted him and blew kisses. The gestures spoke of a private invitation that he was unwilling to take. He had better remain focused, hadn't he?

And that was when he saw the man with white hair. He appeared young, so why was his hair the shade of newly fallen snow? It wasn't like how other men dyed their hair different outrageous colors. The man simply had white hair in unruly waves around his head. It was almost like a ragged halo. Only fallen angels recognized their own.

Other details began to register. Everyone else gathered around the strange white-haired man, like saints to the harking messenger. What message had Joren to learn from him then? He shivered, as if snow really had fallen, and it not only fell on that men's head, but on Joren's body as well.

His mentor and his new acquaintance were conversing about future races.  Paxton was making himself appear like a sponsor or coach. It suited him fine at the moment. They could easily change details later. Nothing was ever set in stone.

"Jack?" a voice called. "Jack!"

Joren blinked. Right. I'm Jack. "What?"

Coram regarded him with newfound suspicion. "Ya are looking to get into his good graces, aren't ye?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Who do ye think? Yukishiro, the man yer starin' at!"

Paxton's immediate interest was apparent. He stepped forward so he came between both Joren and Coram. "Is that him then?"

Joren looked back up. A shiver ran the length of his body from his fingertips to his toes. Yes, that was Yukishiro. Finally seeing him was as climatic as earlier conversations with Paxton made it seem. It all came down to how well he duped this man. If he duped him at all.

Someone tapped his shoulder with a well-manicured nail. He turned at the waist, his feet still rooted to the ground on either side of the motorcycle. A young lady—more like a girl, really—dressed in a mini skirt and a pink shirt with ruffles bowed her head to him. It could have been out of respect or merely to hide her flushed cheeks. Her ten-minute curls did an outstanding job of hiding her face when she lowered her head.

"Are you the winner of this last race?"

He glanced at Paxton, who was similarly perplexed. Joren tucked his helmet under his arm and nodded. "That's me."

"His name is Jack Winston," Coram spoke up. He stepped in front of him and then laid a gentle hand on the girl's quivering shoulder. "Did ye need something, Kimmy?"

The girl's face tilted up at the man speaking to her. The way her eyes softened, Joren surmised that they were familiar with each other more than just a first name basis. In fact, her expression was almost one of… admiration?

"Mr. Yukishiro requests an audience with Mr. Winston."

Coram let out a deep breath. He stepped away from the girl and nodded to his companions. He knew it was a great achievement for them, but at the same time it bothered him on a whole new level. He absently reached for the girl's arm, tugging her toward him and whispering something. She nodded and jogged away into the garage again.

"Alright," Joren said. He dismounted from his motorcycle. "Let's go then."

Paxton frowned. "I'll load the truck and meet you later."

He was leaving Joren alone to face this man? How could he do that when he knew that Joren wasn't experienced in these matters? Joren felt helpless again, like an intern left at the desk while his employer/instructor decided to busy himself with coffee. He had indeed gone undercover in certain cases before. But compared to this, those were child's play.

Joren dismounted. Their limping guide walked a few steps ahead. He knew they would catch up soon enough since he was at a slow pace. Joren waited until he was out of earshot before speaking again.

"What do you think you're doing? Why don't you come?"

"You know what needs to be done. I trust you."

He gritted his teeth and tried hard not to reach forward and shake his mentor for all that he was worth. "And what the hell about you?"

"You'll introduce me later, when you've earned his approval. Page me when your meeting is over." The older man pointed to the dimly lit garage. "You had better go."

The first test of his deception competency was about to commence. A feeling like a dull lead weight rested at the bottom of Joren's belly, pressing into his other visceral organs. He had lied to men's faces millions of times, mostly to trick and trap the scum of society. All of this was merely a step up from what he was accustomed to. Joren, squeezing his helmet under his arm, walked with long swift strides into the garage.

The whole way up the concrete steps, Joren ran through different pieces of information that he might need to tell Yukishiro. Little pebbles under his boots made tiny jabbing pains in the soles of his feet, distracting him. He stepped aside from them but continued to stare at the ground as he walked. What could he say? If only Paxton had less faith in him. Then he would be here, instead of Coram—a possible, but not assured ally.

Lights on tripod stands resembled those a photographer used in a photo shoot. They were placed at corners of the gathering area. The men and women here were an odd mix compared to below. A middle aged man in a blue suit clinked champagne glasses with a rugged youth with two nose rings. They seemed to be acting very civil to each other, which only confused Joren more.

Coram stood at the edge of a group of men, Kimmy shyly clinging to his arm. She looked afraid to be anywhere else. He motioned for Joren to approach the group. Joren insecurely looked around. He observed for the most part that people ignored him. He met Coram and asked, "So where is he?"

"Ah, you must be… Jack Winston? Is that the name, Coram?" a smooth velvet voice floated to his ears.

The group parted easily like the waters of the sea in biblical legend, revealing the mysterious white-haired man. All eyes fell on him. He was surprisingly and truly young in appearance, about thirty at most. His aquamarine colored eyes shone brilliantly despite horrible lighting. His intelligence was carried across in his perfect pronunciation. It was like a badge worn on his sleeve. The way he held himself—simply the way he breathed told the whole world of his apparent superiority.

Joren had an urge to demand what fantasy movie had the man escaped from, or what mystical place was he born in. He couldn't conceive of ever meeting someone this naturally… radiant outside of a theatrical play. Even the smirk on his face seemed unreal. It was confidence without arrogance and determination without a particular goal.

"I'm Jack," he answered rather lamely.

Enishi Yukishiro smiled. Perfect pearly teeth, all straight. He could have advertised toothpaste. "The race was well run. Congratulations." He noted Coram absently. "I see you've met Coram. What do you think?"

Coram shrugged, realizing he was being addressed. "He's a good lad."

Joren and Coram exchanged looks. Coram still didn't completely trust Joren, but he was willing to look after him in Paxton's stead. The way Paxton spoke of the blonde man to Coram while the two strangers had spoken indicated something like a fatherly role.  Joren himself did not wish to depend on anyone to gain Yukishiro's favor, but it wouldn't hurt his situation.

If Yukishiro wore his confidence on his sleeve, then Coram's good intentioned heart was on a pedestal waiting to be seen by all. The purely innocent look on his face was too genuine. It couldn't have been faked. Joren wondered if Coram could help him out by showing him the ropes to this place. Anything at all would do.

"I'm curious," Yukishiro began, jogging Joren's attention. "Why have I never seen you here before? Where do you come from?"

Joren shifted his helmet to his other arm. "Carthak. And uh, please, just call me Jack. I'm not into formalities." He paused before he added. "I'm here with my partner Mark. We were looking for specific job opportunities, you might say."

The man, the leader, in front of him folded his hands behind his back. He took a moment to scrutinize Joren from where he stood. For Joren's sake, he hoped the man liked what he saw. Or else, the young operative was as good as gone. Joren would not leave until he got what he needed, and if he screwed up now, it would take three times the effort for another opportunity.

And he should never waste opportunity. The follow-through was the thing.

"I see. Well, Jack, you'll find many job opportunities here." He paused in consideration. "I think it would be beneficial for you to see me at my office in the city tomorrow." He waved his hand toward the forgotten Coram. "You'll show him the way, won't you?"

"O' course." The accented man's grip subconsciously tightened, causing Kimmy, still latched to his arm, to squeak.

Joren was but one feeling that moment: relieved. He could be nothing but relieved that he had passed this first test. The difficult part was over. He had the approval, and now an invitation. Now he just had to play up to the expectations and take his winnings while he could.

Yukishiro delved into some personal history. "So how long have you been racing?"

"Since I was a little boy. But I started out in Motocross."

"You like it?"

"Love it."

The chuckled emitted from the man's lips was unexpected. "It sounds like someone I know." He glanced at his watch—a silver Rolex, naturally. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Winston. I'm afraid I must take my leave of you, though. Business, you see."

Joren bowed his head politely. Yukishiro inclined his own head to Joren and walked past. Three men followed briskly without even speaking. The rest stood absolutely still and then resumed conversation only when he was absolutely out of sight. Joren didn't know what to do now. Should he stay or leave to meet Paxton?

Then he remembered Coram who glowered at the blonde young man. Coram whispered something to Kimmy. She left. He took Joren roughly by the arm and yanked him to the side, where they looked out over the ground in the dirt lot below.

"Just looking for good races, eh? I thought ye were just going to take the money ye won and leave it at that." His malice was unchecked. It was obvious that though he was injured, he was still a very big threat to Joren's well being.

Joren could leave Coram angry. After all, he'd gotten in with Yukishiro. That was his main objective. He didn't need Coram, yet something in the other man's eyes hinted at an unbreakable loyalty that could benefit Joren if he decided to make amends with him. So it came down to this: would he or wouldn't he? What would his mentor say?

Screw him. He left me here with Coram to face Yukishiro.

"I'm sorry." Apologizing was not one of his strong points. He struggled with the words. "It wasn't something I'd planned on saying. It just kinda popped out."

"It'd be better if ye left while ye could. Ya got a future in racing. Ye can turn pro."

"Why didn't you?" Joren shot back, also offended that his first apology ever had been ill received.

Coram's face was now stricken. "Rispah asked me… she asked me to take care o' Kimmy…"

Joren regretted his words. Why couldn't he have guessed something like that before? It didn't make sense for Coram to be at these underground races unless it was not just for money, but for the power that Yukishiro handed out. Professional racing brought in even more money, but wasn't as influential. That didn't seem to fit. Coram Smythesson on first glance was a purely kind soul. And on second and third and any other subsequent glances, he was an angel in disguise. The only reason he would have to stay associated with the likes of this strange mafia were if he was being blackmailed, or trapped.

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's alright." He bit on the corner of his lip and explained. "Only Yukishiro knows. Everyone else thinks she's just a numbers runner for Big Al."

There was silence after that. Joren had no idea who this Rispah was, but she trusted Coram enough to leave Kimmy in his care. And whether it was she or Yukishiro that kept Kimmy waiting in this darkness he could not figure out. There would be all the time in the world to pry later. He was here to learn Enishi Yukishiro's darkest deeds and expose them. And then he would get the evidence and shove it in his face.

Would he leave after the job was done? Could he leave Coram stuck here? The man was certainly trapped. If Joren arrested Yukishiro in the end, Coram and the other men would be listed as accessories to whatever crimes he'd committed. No chance at the professional league. Kimmy would be alone if Coram was in jail. She was certainly too old for the orphanage, and too shy and demure to survive without either her 'big brother' or Rispah.

And somehow, he guessed Big Al wouldn't help either.

Help. Paxton. Paxton could help. Aw shit. Have to page him. And he did. He looked up at Coram's contemplative eyes. "I have to go. Need to see Mark and pack up the truck. Get the prize money. You know, that sort of stuff."

His newly acquired friend nodded. "Right." He reached into his pocket. "Hey, where can I find ya tomorrow? Ya know, if I'm to bring ye to him."

Joren rattled off his new pager number. Coram wrote it on the back of his hand with a pen. The former hoped that he wouldn't confuse Paxton's messages with Coram's now. It was too late to back out of this new alliance with the injured racer. He had to kick back and watch what happened. If anything happened at all.

Coram pocketed the pen and nodded. "I still hope ye can leave all this before yer in too deep."

"Why do you care? It's not like I've been particularly nice to you. And when you're healed, I'll be your competition."

The older man shrugged. "Ye remind me of myself. I used to be like ye. In ways, I still am. It just takes time and the right sort of people." Joren imagined the other man was talking about the unknown Rispah. "If ye stay here too long," he whispered, "Ya either break and surrender like me, or ya become what ye hate. Like him."

"I wouldn't change that much. Are you sure I remind you of yourself?"

"Definitely."

He snorted. "I'm not dying my hair red."

Coram ran his fingers through his spiky hair. "Ye won't have to. Ya change in other ways."

They continued talking as they descended to the first level of the garage. A man who wore sunglasses despite the time of night was waiting with Paxton to give Joren his prize money. Coram jogged forward and shook hands with the peculiar money-bearer.

"How much was it?" Joren asked his mentor.

"A cool thousand. Good work." He started to speak with the grim faced money-bearer again.

Joren's eyes widened. He had expected only half as much. Coram clapped him on the shoulder.

"You'll be fine living on that. Where are ye staying anyway?"

"Motel near the condemned building on Forsyth."

Coram nodded. He started to back up. "I'll see you tomorrow then, Jack."

Paxton turned away from his conversation and fixed Joren with a curious eye. "What's happening tomorrow?"

"Yukishiro."

The older man's eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. Joren shrugged humbly. He shook hands with the waiting money bearer and accepted the briefcase with its wads of bills.

"Remember what I said!" Coram yelled from a few feet away. "Ye still have time!" And then he walked further into the garage, heading upstairs to meet Kimmy. If Paxton was a substitute father figure, then Coram suddenly appeared like the older brother Joren never had.

"So I see that Smythesson is looking out for you. This could come in handy," Paxton noted. "What about Yukishiro?"

The short summary of the conversation pleased Paxton. He laughed loudly and grinned. "I think this calls for a celebration."

"Now? Don't we have to think about getting wires for—"

Joren was quickly silenced when Paxton punched him in the gut. Joren doubled over, gasping for air. Paxton yanked him upright again. He whispered menacingly into his left ear. "Are you trying to give us away, you idiot?"

He suddenly saw his grievous error and wondered how in so many years, he had slipped in the one place that counted the most. He could practically hear Buri, yelling at him and saying, "I warned you!" Yes, she had warned him. But he really had forgotten some of his training. He supposed he ought to stop being so rude toward his former boss, but he wasn't even sure if he'd ever see her again.

Paxton cooled down after a few seconds. He apologized in a monotone mumble and commanded him to follow to the truck. His bike was loaded into the back of a truck that resembled a small moving van more than anything else. The car Paxton had previously driven was parked at the motel. The two partners spoke very little on the way back. His mentor brought up subjects that he wanted him to ask Yukishiro about. Coram would know what pleased Yukishiro, so Paxton also permitted Joren to retain good relations with him.

Joren couldn't run the risk of wearing a wire and getting himself caught. He could wear one in later months, if he chose, but Yukishiro's people still didn't trust him. They would no doubt keep an eye out for him.

Deception was such a handy tool, he thought. It plagued a man's conscience, but Joren was trained to ignore that.

They parked at the back of the hotel.  Paxton lit up another cigarette. "Check everything before you come up. Sounds like you pushed it to the limit right before the finish line."

Joren nodded and got out. He went to the back of the truck, still wondering how he was going to deal with his problems. He grabbed the handle of the sliding door and hauled it up. He gaped at the sight he was greeted with.

"Kimmy?"

He glanced at the driver side and saw that Paxton was already making his way into the motel. He cursed openly and returned his gaze to the little stowaway. "What the hell—"

"Please, hear me out!" she cried. She crouched down at the edge and beckoned him inside the truck. Looking around for the last time for any witnesses, Joren climbed in and lowered the door behind him. Kimmy grabbed a flashlight from the toolbox and turned it on. She was frightened enough as it was, being away from her guardian.

"What are you doing here?"

"Coram has a message for you. He couldn't page it. He doesn't trust his number anymore."

If he were Coram, he, too, wouldn't trust anything that Yukishiro had access to. It was a smart move. He didn't know why exactly he trusted Coram. Even the good guy quality about him could be an act. Perhaps Joren was making a huge mistake and both he and Kimmy were lying to him. And yet… with all the betrayal he had seen in his lifetime, he could imagine himself trusting this stranger.

After all, something in his eyes had sparkled of loyalty, hadn't it?

"What's the message?" he asked finally.

Kimmy swallowed nervously. She squeezed the flashlight in her hands. "Coram is being tested now, too. The way you handle yourself tomorrow affects him as well." She looked down at her lap. "It happened right after you left. I had to run to catch you. Some guys were talking to him… and… and he yelled back, and shoved. And then he took me aside and told me to tell you…"

He shushed her like a little baby. It felt so alien to comfort her, but anything else probably would have induced tears. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "So what do I do?"

"Just impress him. He can hurt Coram. Coram isn't racing anymore… and his leg…"

"It's okay, Kimmy." He stood up, but bent over so his head didn't hit the roof of the truck. "Do you need a ride home?"

She shook her head. "I can get there."

The fairy figure of a girl waited for him to lift up the door. She hopped out, incredibly nimble in her tight clothing. She ran into the shadows. Joren hated to think of what could happen to a girl like that in a place like this. I should have insisted on bringing her home. Last thing Coram needs is something to happen to that pixie.

Unfamiliar thoughts. Back home, he wouldn't have thought twice about giving a girl like Kimmy a ride home. She was under Coram's care, and anything that happened to her was eventually reasoned to be his fault. Despite a day's acquaintance, he was already protecting the other's own. What would he start doing next, carpools?

He finished running checks on his father's motorcycle. For something as old as it was, it faired pretty well. Joren headed up to the room he temporarily shared with Paxton. They were looking for apartments to settle into for the duration of the mission. None were found to their liking.  They needed something outside of Yukishiro's ring of influence. When he opened the door, he was greeted with a stranger sight than Kimmy in the truck.

Paxton waited at a collapsible table, sitting with his hands folded on the table. In front of him were two rows of shot glasses of different colored liquids. A bottle of tequila stood on the table next to Paxton's elbow. Joren's eyes narrowed into slits.

"This your idea of celebrating?"

He smiled in a way that prompted Joren to take a step back. "In a way. Remember how you said you weren't used to alcohol? Well, we're going to remedy that." He leaned toward the floor and patted a large plastic bag with different liquor bottles inside. "I've got a different one for each glass. By tomorrow morning, so help me, you'll know the difference between a Royal aged 40 years and one that's aged 39."

~~

The next morning was sheer hell. In Joren's head, little dwarves were mining with picks and shovels, creating a terrible racket in his head. His mouth was dry, but tasting horrible anyway, and his belly made little grumbling sounds that just weren't normal. He groaned and rolled over in his messy bed. The sheets were kicked off, as usual, but the bed was soaked in his sweat.

He'd only fell asleep at three a.m., after who knew how many 'mystery shots' and a half hour of retching in the bathroom.

I feel like I'm gonna die.

"Wake up, Sunshine," Paxton sarcastically called. He studied the young man lying facedown on the bed. Then he grabbed a fistful of Joren's wheat-blonde hair and yanked the head up.

"OW! What—"

Paxton immediately let go and pinched Joren's nose with the same hand. With the other, he poured a glass' contents into his protégé's mouth. Joren made a muffled sound of protest. He couldn't breathe, so he had no choice but to swallow the vile. He almost gargled and choked, but Paxton merely tilted his head back even more.

"You'll appreciate this later."

Like hell I will. Joren managed to swat away Paxton's hands. He shook free of the hold and immediately stuck out his tongue from his open mouth. "That was awful!"

"Cleared your head up though, didn't it?"

He paused. His headache was rapidly fading, and he could feel his belly stop its grumbles, much to his chagrin. He shut his mouth and glared at his mentor all the same. "Well, whatever it was, warn me next time before you pour it down my throat." He paused. "What was it?"

"I'll teach you later, Tenderfoot." He picked up a still smoking cigarette from an ashtray and took a drag. He blew it directly into Joren's face on purpose.  The other flinched a bit, but otherwise stared him down. A few seconds later, he fanned the air and allowed himself to breathe. He was aware that he must become accustomed to it. There was no alternative since he would be trapped in filthy, polluted-air places.

He would learn to cope, but he wouldn't learn to like.

"So, have we learned from last night?"

It doesn't matter what kind, alcohol at extreme amounts can make me shit-faced.

"Sure."

Paxton placed a shot glass under Joren's nose. The latter rolled his eyes.

"Just a tiny sip. Tell me what it is and I'll never make you go through last night ever again."

Joren glared at him. He placed the shot glass at his mouth and sipped. When he'd gotten the taste on his tongue, he defiantly went further and flung his head back. The whole thing went down in a gulp. He exhaled sharply and ran his tongue over his teeth. "Scotch."

A smile crept onto Paxton's face. "Okay then. You're good to go. I'm glad to know the Paxton Nond method is successful." He chuckled. "And don't drink it all like that. That drink was made to be taken relaxingly."

"Duly noted." His young partner mumbled something else, incoherently, and got up from his bed. He stumbled to the bathroom, still weak in the knees, and slammed the door. He made an oath that morning never to experience another hangover ever again.

The oath would be broken within a week.

At least I can definitely drink beer with Dom when I get back.

When he left the bathroom, Paxton threw something straight at his face. His hand instinctively snatched up and caught the thing. It turned out to be his pager. He didn't even need to check the message. Paxton had read it for him, leaving no space for privacy.

"That Smythesson guy is coming to show us to Yukishiro's office. You neglected to tell me that you have given him the location of our place here."

Joren shrugged. He draped his towel over his bare shoulder. "I didn't think it was a big deal. We can trust him."

The last thing he expected was for Paxton to pick up the phone and throw it against the wall. Absently through the loud noise it made, he was glad it was a regular touchtone phone and not a COM screen. That would have broken on impact. Joren observed his mentor, who looked furious, and the abused phone, which had dented the wall. A vision of a bull cornering an overly confident matador came to mind.

Where the hell was the distracting red bull-fighting cape when he needed it?

"If I ever teach you anything, it's not to trust anyone!" He stabbed a finger in his direction. "If he gets threatened enough, he will turn on you. I guarantee it."

The unbreakable loyalty that Joren believed Coram possessed seemed to disappear within seconds. In its place was the reality that Paxton had known for years. And perhaps it was true. It made so much more sense than the idealistic trust that Joren was going out on a limb for. Coram was still practically a stranger. He could be a really good actor. That Kimmy girl, too. It was all a sham. It had to be.

Joren let out a deep breath, wondering how stupid he could be. "I'll be careful."

"You had better be. I swear, one day you'll be the death of me."

You picked me, Pax. Not the other way around.

The elder one knew this. Joren bent down to pick up the phone off the floor.

"You know," Paxton started. "You are the Golden Boy that Wyldon made you out to be. It just takes time."

Without even mentioning it, Joren immediately knew that Paxton referred to times when the older man had first started out as well. Was it always this frustrating? Joren wanted to ask. Knowing you had what it took, but not being able to put it together? On the verge of greatness, but still so damn awkward? Joren felt like he was stuck in the middle of two worlds. It was a transition, almost like a second puberty.

Bad simile, he thought.

Five minutes later, Coram was at their door. He wore an ironed blue shirt and black tie, with pants that looked tailored just for him. The only remaining characteristic from the racer's appearance last night was his spiky red and blonde hair, like flames dancing on his head.

"You know, one day someone will throw a bucket of water over your head and I'm going to laugh," Joren told him.

Coram shrugged shamelessly. "I like the attention. Come on; he's waiting."

"This early in the morning?"

"Real businessmen go beyond nine to five, my friend."

"I'll get dressed then." He headed to his bags. He grabbed the first set of clothing he came upon. Hattie had packed his clothes, and knowing that he would choose his garments in a haphazard way, had packed matching outfit on top of matching outfit. Thus, his selection ended up being a pressed red shirt that had shine in the threads, and a pair of black leather pants. By the time he realized his choice, he was already in the bathroom. He didn't want to look like a fussy dresser and go back out and search for something else. Not in front of other people, waiting on him.

I ought to kill her for picking this, he thought while tugging the pants up over his hips. I'm really going to get her for this. He stared at himself in the mirror, aware that on a man who was trying to attract women, it was stunning. But he was out to impress a suspect, not a sexy woman in a club.

"I should let her do all your shopping," Paxton joked when they left the hotel room.

"Who?" Coram asked.

"My girlfriend," he lied on cue. "She wanted us to look our best, of course."

The racer frowned, but didn't ask any further questions. They got into his car, a Cadillac that had seen better days. It was in far better condition than Paxton's car, nevertheless. The three men set off for downtown Tusaine. The radio was switched to the weather, so they listened to the broadcast for heat rather than think about the heat they could be in, should any one of them screw up in front of him.

Joren thanked whatever lucky stars he had that the district he was in was not currently patrolled by anyone he knew. The last thing he needed was Dom or Prosper blowing his cover. He looked left and right and found no familiar faces. If Buri knew anything about his location at all, she would purposely keep his friends from the area.

The streets were fairly deserted. A few coffee stands were open. Early commuters and boys delivering stacks of newspapers milled about. Blocks away, the skyscrapers stretched toward clouds. They stopped at a corner in the slums, where the buildings (five stories at most) were plain brick. Advertisements covered bus stop benches. Billboards were shredded and torn where they stood against dingy walls.

"Which one is it?" he asked, hoping he sounded casual.

"He owns all the buildings around here. But we're going to that piece o' glass over there." Coram pointed to a building on riverfront. He started the car up again and they continued down the street. "I just wanted to show you what his territory mostly looks like." The mini-skyscraper they did park at was indeed a bright "piece o' glass" that reflected the morning sun.

Joren glanced at his mentor. He wondered why the other wasn't drilling Coram for information, especially since the information was very willingly being given. Did he expect Joren to do the interrogating since he had chosen to trust Coram? It struck him then that he hadn't mentioned Kimmy's late night message. It was probably for the best. It might have led Paxton to believe that Coram was planning an intricate, double-crossing trap.

At times, Joren realized, he didn't trust Paxton. He might be able to trust him, later on, but not at the moment.  Paxton Nond should have been the one person he trusted the most. And yet, he wasn't. What was trust anyway? It was faith. It was loyalty. An alliance that allowed each to leave their back unguarded, just right for the stabbing.

"What does Yukishiro do? Officially, I mean."

Coram parked. They got out. Their breaths were visible in the early morning air.

"Yukishiro owns a string of nightclubs, drugstores, and restaurants. He also deals with stocks. Quite an investor, he is."

Men in suits, he thought. I thought they looked a little like the weasel stock type.

Coram glanced about before entering the building. Fear shown in his wide eyes. "He is a charitable man, despite what others might think. He sponsors the orphanages and donates regularly to children's welfare funds."

He didn't see that one coming, but it was a good development. It provided some insightful information. The bit about the orphanage stirred up unwanted emotions, though. Was it merely coincidence? Of course it was. No way in the world could that man know that Joren had almost been forced into an orphanage.

The grim expression on his mentor's face confirmed what Joren suspected he was thinking.  The charity was a smokescreen, a false public image. Though that was most likely—considering what else Yukishiro did—what if there was actually a good heart's effort behind it?

"Top floor," Coram said to himself, filling up the eerie silence as they walked through the lobby. The man at the desk kept one hand just below the desktop, no doubt grasping a handgun and ready to shoot any unwanted intruder. Joren glanced above his head. Were there any hidden security cameras? He couldn't see any cameras at all. That was a bad sign. They were hidden. They had to be.

Paxton whistled a merry tune, nodding politely to the man at the desk. His wide, alert eyes were like a child's eyes when he was in a toy store where everything was off limits. Schemes of secret agents filled Joren's head. He always considered how like a James Bond movie his life sometimes reminded him.

The elevator ride lasted a while. Joren gazed out the elevator's transparent wall… window really… that gave a spectacular view. The river shimmered like gems surfacing from Neptune's treasure chest. Birds flew in a flock in the sky, changing directions and singing their erratic melodies. Tusaine was beautiful during the day. Joren knew it. He never spoke of it, but he recognized the greatness of the city he came to call his own. During the time he had spent in the DJPF here, he never knew that it could be that ugly, too. And now he knew that as well.

"Good morning, Gentlemen." The secretary's perfectly impassive face reminded him of a porcelain doll. Perfect and dull.

Other men stayed in the waiting room, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Just as the night before, they were an interesting mix of punks, thugs, and businessmen. One man with uncombed dark brown hair and stubble on his chin stood up. He set his cup of coffee down on the table. "Oy, Cor! How's the leg?"

"Better," Coram chuckled. "What's up with ye? I heard Gratz broke yer nose."

"He wishes!"

The two men guffawed a bit raucously enough for others to take notice. Joren's guide realized his charges were waiting patiently. He cleared his throat and wiped a tear of laughter from his eye. "Sorry. I've got some business to take care of. We'll talk in a few minutes, alright?"

The other man nodded and sat back down again, chuckling and muttering to himself while he lifted his steaming cup of coffee to his chapped lips. Coram beckoned for his companions to follow him. He let out a deep breath and focused on more serious matters. They heard from behind them the secretary press an intercom button and inform someone that they were here. The old-fashioned oak door slid into the wall.

They went in. Joren, who followed Paxton, felt his own arm being tugged very hard, then being released. The young man glanced behind him with a slight turn of his head. His guide stared at the floor. The muscles in his clenched jaw twitched in agitation. Joren remembered what Kimmy had told him. Was it really a trick? Or could it be true?

"Please, sit," Yukishiro bade them while the door closed. Joren and Paxton did so, but Joren found himself distracted by underlying matters. His mentor coughed politely.

"I hate to have come uninvited, Sir. My name is Mark Delacroix. I'm Jack's partner… or coach, you might say."

Yukishiro nodded his head slowly, his fingertips on fingertips, as if posing for a cold, calculating profile shot. "Ah, so this boy's speed is partly because of you? I'm honored to meet you then, Mr. Delacroix." He leaned back in his large black office chair, slick with comfortable leather. This morning, he wore small shaded spectacles with round lenses. They hid his aquamarine eyes until he deliberately lowered them on the bridge of his nose. His white hair was still in fluffed waves as if his head had been one of the plaster imitations of ancient gods. His voice, full of purpose but not self-importance, commanded Joren from the inside.

The confused young man felt inferior all over again, and Yukishiro had barely spoken a few sentences. He hated Paxton for taking partial credit for his speed and skill in front of the white-haired man. He hated that he couldn't stand up and denounce him in front of this man. He wanted to do anything, anything at all, to get rid of this inferior feeling.

"Something troubling you, Jack?"

The question hung in the air like bad cologne. Something indeed troubled him. Many things, to be exact. He wanted to yell that he wasn't Jack. Jack was non-existent and that amazing speed demon last night was none other than Joren Stone, the son of a great man whose motorcycle deserved the credit, if not he, and definitely if not Paxton. He moved uncomfortably in his chair.

"I'm fine, Mr. Yukishiro."

Yukishiro's almond shaped eyes regarded him thoughtfully. "I think I might let you call me Enishi soon. There's an interesting quality about you, Mr. Stone. Peculiar, but interesting."

Never mind Joren's foul mood, his mentor was impressed with the turn of events. He tapped Joren's foot with his own, a miniscule noise with no presence to Yukishiro. It was a prompt to speak.

"I'm sorry, Sir. You summoned us here?"

"Yes, I did. You told me last night that you were looking for job opportunities. I've got something in mind, but I wasn't too sure that you were the right man for it until I," he paused and smirked, "talked to Coram. He enlightened me."

Joren's breathe caught in his throat before he opened his mouth.  He squeezed the armrest his hand laid upon, but met the calculating eyes in front of him with no fear. I want to believe it's true. I want to believe that Coram is on our side and that man is not. He blinked and shrugged. "So what did Coram say?"

"It's not important, is it?"

Paxton glared at his protégé. "No, it isn't."

Joren looked down at his lap.

"As I was saying. I heard you were looking for opportunities, Gentlemen, and I am only too happy to oblige." Yukishiro pressed the intercom button on his desk and murmured something. At once, two men entered from the sliding oak door. One was the same man Coram had addressed earlier and another who was even more ominous looking. Before the door slid shut, Joren glimpsed Coram, who was standing in the waiting room corner with shaking hands clenched in fists at his side.

"Do you mind if we do a security check, Gentlemen? These days, it's so hard to find an honest man."

Before they could even speak—and a good thing, since Joren was at the end of his rope and about to curse his lungs out—they were shoved to the wall. Their palms were pressed to the wallpaper above their heads while their legs were nudged apart. The silent cronies commenced a pat down, searching for devices or concealed weapons on their persons. The men found wallets, pagers, and Paxton's lighter and cigarettes.

Humiliation was the name of the game. Joren could feel his cheeks burning with anger and embarrassment. It only augmented the inferior wretched feeling. He had never been through this. He'd seen criminals go through it, and those who failed to pass the metal detector at DJPF stations. It was an invasion of his personal space and he didn't appreciate unwanted hands forcing their way into his pockets to take his wallet. He wanted to punch and kick, but he forced himself while biting his lip, to remain still.

Finally, Paxton and he were made to sit down while information from their wallets and pagers was read and evaluated on the flat screen computer sitting upon Enishi's desk.

"So, tell me, how big was your family?" he asked Joren.

The flushed young man rubbed his forehead as a signs of stress. He knew the answers well enough. "I had both my parents, who altogether had four kids. I was the youngest."

"You don't keep pictures of them?"

Again with the damn personal questions. Make something up. "We're estranged. You can imagine why, since I'm here."

Yukishiro nodded. He picked out a piece of yellow paper and dialed the number on it into the COM screen. Joren glanced fearfully at Paxton, since he did not recall having any sort of scrap in his wallet.

A woman's face appeared onscreen. She had a round face with blue eyes, but light brown hair that went straight to the base of her thick neck. She wiped her hands on a pink apron and frowned. "Hello?"

"Yes, may I speak to Mrs. Winston, please?"

"That's me," she answered, still very confused. She imagined they were some telemarketers, or men collecting funds for the DJPF Highway Patrol. What would they want with her?

He smiled congenially. "Thank you." He tapped a button, which ended the connection. His attention returned to the wallet and pager. "Well, well."

Who was that? Joren asked inwardly. He checked to see if either of Enishi's cronies were looking, then mouthed his question to his mentor. The other man winked and made a low shushing sound. He laughed and cleared his throat.

"Sir? If you're convinced now, I'd like my cigarettes back." Though Joren still had trouble not hating him that day, Paxton stunned him with his fearlessness and confidence. The older man could have yawned, even with the barrel of a gun shoved in his mouth.

As Paxton had expected, both their items were returned to them. The cronies bowed low to their employer and exited as swiftly as they had entered. This time, Joren squinted to see the corner where Coram had stood in the waiting room. The man was gone, and the door closed behind the two other men.

"That's interesting."

He frowned for the fiftieth time that day. "Excuse me?"

Yukishiro pointed to Joren's collar. "Jackal. Was that an intentional nickname? Jack… Jackal?" He made a sound of understanding as he leaned back in his chair again. "I remember now. Your helmet! I thought they were decorated with a wolf's jaws, but they belonged to a jackal."

"Yes…" Joren responded uneasily.

"Are you Anubis, then?"

"What?"

 "Anubis is the ancient god whose head was that of a jackal's."

Paxton's words rushed back into his skull. They call themselves gods. It was just as he had been told. His mentor displayed no reaction to the interrogation and sat calmly puffing away at his cigarettes. Then is it true? Joren thought. They think they're gods?

A rhythmic tapping sound was produced as Yukishiro drummed his fingers on the desk. "Let me ask you, Jack. Do you fancy yourself a god?"

How was a mere mortal like he supposed to answer that blasphemous question? If anything, Joren considered himself like an angel who was cast out from heaven the moment he sought hatred and revenge for his kindred. He was not worthy of wings, any wings—whether demon or angel. What egos did these men have? What fading humility?

"I don't really know, Sir. It all depends if I ever learn the mysteries of the universe. A god would know, wouldn't you say?"

The tapping ceased. "Yes, I suppose a god would know."

~~

When Joren looked back on that day, he shuddered to think what might have happened to Coram and him if he'd failed to get into Yukishiro's good graces. He also cringed, remembering the crime committed that very night by his hands. He'd never told anyone what had happened those lost nights. They wouldn't believe it anyway.

He could still see the terror on the man's face, the first man, as his house was raided right in front of his eyes. The loan had gone unpaid. It was no one's fault except his own, Joren reasoned. The man should have known better than to accept a loan from Yukishiro. Non-profit organizations existed to help those with financial problems. Joren couldn't figure out the reason why he was defending their actions. He didn't mean to. No man deserved being terrorized like that.

Did men and women out in the city suffer everyday because they made desperate choices and refused to ask for help from those who wanted to help them? Joren remembered how his pride caused him to refuse help. The heated passion he had for survival and revenge had effects on his attitudes toward benefactors. He disrespected them and ran away.

His passion for revenge had taken a twisted form. He used his job to beat down the corrupted, yet he left those men who had ruined his life alone in Galla. Psychiatrists could easily accuse him of harboring a fear for these men, though it was obvious that Joren could best them.

Men like that bribe their way out. And if I were to kill them… He gently separated himself from that thought. His parents would not approve of revenge in their honor being so bloody. Even if it was justly deserved. And yet he had broken that rule too.

~~

The nightclub was loud, dark, and reeked of sin. The throbbing bass from the stage's speakers made his body throb as well. The heat from moving and grinding bodies created a thick humidity in the air. Sweat trickled down the small of his back. He focused on the music. Heavy rock like this always incited a primal feeling in him. The beat pounded in time with the blood in his veins. He could go out and kill a lion right then and there. There was too much energy, but not like adrenalin. This was beyond that. He was so filled to the brim with energy that he moved slowly so as not to spill a drop.

He sat at the bar with a plastic cup filled with beer. Coram would meet him soon, according to earlier stipulations. He meant to tell Joren about his upcoming opponents in future races. Last week, Coram had pulled a muscle in the same leg that made him limp. It had happened when he and Joren were jumping a metal fence, en route to the "getaway car."

Four months had officially passed since his descent into this world within a world. Joren felt like he was losing a little more of himself every day. His character settled in him like a parasite. He was starting to think and act like that fake identity, without even forcing it. It scared him. What scared him even more was that no one had toppled him in the races. He wanted to be defeated, so badly. Just so he could fall out of the limelight that Yukishiro placed on his winners—an excuse to escape from the intoxicating thrills of their world.

Coram wouldn't be the one to finally take the coveted spot on the podium. He had abandoned all plans that year to race due to his injuries. He miraculously maintained his status with the white-haired man in charge. Truly, he would have slipped to the bottom of the ladder, yet Yukishiro secretly continued to use him as an incentive for Joren to do as he was told.

The incentive was useless. Paxton would always be there to make sure Joren didn't chicken out. He had faith in his stubborn Golden Boy that all would end well. The older agent was steadily gaining information. He would piece together bits of evidence that incriminated Yukishiro. But then they would disappear as soon as he found them. There was no plot that assured them a chance of catching Yukishiro red-handed.

The older man went along on only half of the horrible tasks that were assigned to Joren. His body, though very fit, just didn't perform as well as the other, younger man's body did. Joren feared that Paxton subconsciously hated him for being young and vibrant. The building tension between the two partners would cause an explosion soon.

A few minutes passed. When the flame-headed racer finally wound up at the bar, he was flexing his right hand and cursing. He yelled uncharacteristically for a beer (it was uncharacteristic for him to yell) and sat down on the next stool. His injured leg, out of habit, was elevated and rested upon the foot bar of Joren's stool beside him.

"What happened?"

"Ye wouldn't believe it. One o' my best buddies accused me of cheating. Ya know, talkin' to ye as I have about their racing styles. I couldn't believe his nerve! I don't get to race this year, and even if I was, it's not like I still wouldn't help ya!"

Joren shrugged. "Would you still, knowing that I was competition?"

Coram drank a large gulp of his beer. "O' course! I've done it before. I helped Mitch all last year."

"But you still win."

"I never raced Mitch. He ran the shorter courses. He won."

Joren held back from pointing out the hypocrisy of the reasoning. He would most likely race his friend if he had to, and win. It all came down to necessity. It was absolutely necessary for Joren to win. If he had to beat Coram, he would without a second thought. After all these months, he still didn't see how Yukishiro could determine half his close companions by their racing success. There was no trend that said racers made excellent thugs. Coram's heart was certainly not in it. He did it by obligation.

"Ye know that guy from Tuesday?" Coram asked.

"What guy?"

"Ye know… that guy."

Joren remained quiet for a few seconds. "Oh. Right. What about him?"

"Finally kicked the bucket. They pulled the plug this mornin'. No sense in keeping a vegetable around." He drank another sip. "Sometimes, I wish…"

"Don't start that. More of that and you-know-who can just snap his fingers and we'll be gone." Joren finished his beer. He turned around on his stool so he could face the groups of bodies swaying and dancing to the loud deafening music. Coram was left alone to his thoughts.

A girl quite randomly noticed Joren from her place at the edge of the throng. She approached him, swaying her hips seductively in front of his eyes. Her lips parted, and a tongue darted out to wet them. Joren glanced at his companion, who was oblivious to the world at the moment. With very little enthusiasm to dance, but great ardency to escape his horrible life, he got up and followed her into the dancing crowd.

His friend, still at the bar, started to watch him for as long as he could. The younger man appeared halfway drunk, or halfway hopeless. His body moved freely with the girl's, quite explicitly. It seemed as if he didn't care anymore. The flirting would take his mind off all his troubles. And yet, his troubles would only pile themselves on even more than before. Even the song mirrored his dead-to-the-world thoughts.

I am watching your eyes
And follow my salvation
There's so much shit around me
Such a lack of compassion

 Joren rested his hands on the girl's gyrating hips while her arms were entwined about his neck. Her mouth softly trailed across his collarbone. He could care less.

I thought it would be fun and games
(it would be fun and games)
Instead it's all the same
(it's all the same)
I want something to do
Need to feel nothingness
In You

He didn't consider himself promiscuous. Paxton encouraged him often to do as other men his age did. If Joren happened to use those activities to distract him from his own pain, then so be it. In defiance to his own guilty thoughts, he pulled the girl closer in the middle of their scandalous dancing.

I feel the reason, as it's leaving me
No, not again
It's quite deceiving, as I'm feeling
The flesh made be bad

All I do is look 4 U
And when I fix you
Needed to, just to get some sort of attention
Attention

He would receive no attention there. Ten dozen other last-minute couples were doing the same, all throwing caution to the wind. They lived recklessly in the moment, only to feel pleasure and no pain. It was a natural high. Joren could feel himself spiraling to the top, like riding a cloud to a mountain summit.

What does it mean to you
For me, it's something I just do
I want something
I need to feel the sickness in you

The girl leaned up and whispered huskily into his ear. He couldn't make out anything she was saying, but took a guess when she started to cup his crotch. He gasped slightly at the contact, and she laughed. He weighed his options and thought it didn't matter.

I feel the reason, as it's leaving me
No, not again
It's quite deceiving, as I'm feeling
The flesh made be bad

~~

Author: Phew! I know, I know. FINALLY! When I discovered that episode 8 was over the limit on file size, I decided to delete the plans I had for episode 9, and put the second half of into episode 8 into what would have been episode 9. So here we are! "Welcome to the Killing Grounds" is one of the seediest little things I've written, but I've been in this deep trend thanks to school reading materials. I hope I've pleased you all.

I know. More focus on Joren. I told you guys before that he would own this season, just as Keladry owned the last one. Please tell me what you think about the absolute truth on our resident "bad boy".

Episode 8 and 9 are my "English teacher influence" episodes. Out of all the things I've written, these two have the most hidden meaning and all that other figurative language crap. I felt like I was writing a novel, so I added some other things to kick that idea out. Can you interpret the episode meanings?

Episode 9 will be coming very, very soon. I've decided to hold it back for a while, just to tweak it and make it into the best piece of anything I've ever written. Well. Okay, maybe not, but just better than before. Thank you for reading!

© 2002 Sulia Serafine