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

9. Welcome to the Killing Grounds Part II

It Could Be Worse (2nd Season)

Episode 9:

Welcome to the Killing Grounds Part II

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.

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. I'm still accepting people into the mailing list. That means you'll be told when the next episode is posted, as well as other tidbits of information about the series whenever I put them online. : )

Author's note: that typo that everyone keeps pointing out in their reviews was intentional. That'll give you something to think about, huh? *smiles*

~~

Still in flashback:

Joren woke up. His eyes immediately turned to his digital clock, which read three A.M. He moved his arm to turn the clock away, but, lying on his stomach, he discovered that his arm was weighed down. He blinked in the darkness. Then he shifted his whole body onto his side and discovered an extra arm draped over his bare backside.

He closed his eyes and cursed himself. Then he sighed in resignation and went back to sleep. There was nothing else to do. Very rarely did he take a lover. And the reasons were never psychologically healthy; he felt so dead inside that he didn't care. These women came and went. There were no emotional attachments, thankfully, and he usually never saw them again.

In the morning, the nameless girl (he hoped it was Sarah, because that was the first name to pop into his head) found a dress shirt of his and put it on. She walked about his apartment barefooted. She also searched through his refrigerator for a bottle of water. Joren possessed no anxiety about her possibly stealing anything of his. He never kept anything of value with him. His valuables were in Paxton's apartment next door.

The two undercover operatives lived above a drugstore that Yukishiro owned. Paxton had been reluctant to accept, but refusing the offer would be an insult. To that day, they still felt nervous about talking to each other about their mission, despite having found no cameras or eavesdropping devices such as wires. This had been the start of their uneasy silences, which he spent thinking of possible lives that were quite impossible.

Joren splashed water on his face to wake himself up. He felt his chin and discovered he was in need of a shave. He picked up his razor.

There was a knock at the door. Joren turned off the faucet and exited the bathroom. The girl hopefully called Sarah had already answered the door. There on the threshold stood Kimmy, incredibly embarrassed. She made a move to run away, but Joren called her back.

Hopefully-Sarah frowned and shot Joren a jealous look. What in the world was there to be jealous of? Kimmy was a teenager. She was a skinny and shy teen; that was all. He groaned to himself and rolled his eyes. "It's just business. She's a messenger. Go make breakfast or something."

"Why don't you go put on pants or something," she retorted saucily and went to the kitchenette.

Joren looked down. Boxers. Oops. He smiled apologetically and jogged to his dresser for a pair of pants. While he searched the mess on his floor for something decent to wear, he invited Kimmy to sit down on the sofa. The adopted little sister of Coram overcame her bashfulness and sat nervously at the edge of the cushion.

"You want orange juice, honey?"

Kimmy jumped a little at the innocuous question imposed on her from the older woman. "Um… sure. Thanks… uh, what's your name?"

"Julia."

Damn. I was totally off. Sounds nothing like Sarah, Joren thought. After putting on a suitable pair of sweatpants, he yanked a white tank top over his head and headed to the sofa. He passed by Julia and took the two glasses of orange juice. Then he handed one to Kimmy while sipping on his own. "So, what did flame-head say?"

"Nothing," She replied in her little voice. "Mr. Yukishiro asked if I would go. Coram doesn't know I'm here."

Joren set his glass down on the coffee table. It was odd for Kimmy to be delivering messages if Coram didn't know. He glanced over at Julia, who was busy making toast and scrambled eggs. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "What did he say?"

She looked down at her drink. "At the end of the week, go to McGinty's and be ready to race. Don't tell anyone, even Mr. Delacroix and Coram."

It was an odd message to send. And why would Enishi send Kimmy if the secret had to be kept from Coram? Why couldn't he tell them? The unanswered questions annoyed him. He had to be ready to race, yet no races were scheduled at McGinty's at the end of the week. Private race invitations weren't even private. Everyone knew when a race was going on, private or public. Was this another test he had to pass to prove his loyalty?

"I'll be there."

Kimmy finished her orange juice and left. She thanked Julia politely and the other woman smiled at her. Joren put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. One problem after another continued to barrel his way. It was his fault for settling so comfortably into this lifestyle. He still had a job to do. How could I have forgotten that? I am an officer of the DJPF above all. When it's over, I'll cart these bastards to jail. And Jack Winston will disappear.

The cushion he sat on moved by the weight of someone else, indicating that his guest had joined him on the sofa. Soft hands began massaging his back, easing his tired muscles. She kissed the back of his neck. "Something wrong, baby?"

"Try everything," he muttered.

Julia crawled under his arm and into his lap. Joren was forced to lift his head and wrap his arm around her lest she fall. He took notice for the first time how unlike other women of lower Tusaine she actually resembled. Her face lacked makeup, but a fair unspoiled complexion and soft features made her radiant. Her hair was soft and curved into gentle strawberry blonde waves. He began to speak to tell her to get out—all for the best, anyway--, but before he could, she shushed him and showered his face with more feathery kisses.

He closed his eyes again and sighed.

"Just forget about everything for a while," she crooned.

Isn't that what I've been doing all along?

~~

The end of the week approached all too fast. He could swear it had only been Monday—when Kimmy visited—merely yesterday. Friday had sneaked up on him like a thief in the night. He managed not to tell anyone about Yukishiro's private invitation. Every time he saw Kimmy, they stared at each other furtively. Obviously, she was having problems keeping the secret from Coram, especially since she had been sent on more frequent message deliveries to Joren over the week from Yukishiro.

"Joren."

His own name. When was the last time Paxton risked saying his real name?

"Who died?"

"What?"

"Has to be something serious if you're using that name, Mark," Joren replied.

Paxton shook his head. He lifted a bit of meat to his mouth with his fork. They were eating dinner at his apartment, talking about the latest piece of solid evidence to slip from their grasp. He spoke. "No, actually, I have a… fatherly-type question for you."

Joren stared at him. This ought to be amusing. He put down his glass and shrugged. "Ask away."

"Don't sleep with Kimmy."

Whoa. Joren could have killed him or he could have laughed so hard he killed himself. "Number one, Pax, that's an assumption, not a question. Number two, I am not sleeping with Kimmy! She's a kid!"

Paxton appeared instantly relieved. Joren cut his meat, pressing a little too hard so that his knife scraped against the plate.

"Well, what was that noise I heard ten minutes after I saw her go into your place?"

Joren groaned. He set down his eating utensils on the edge of his plate. "Monday?"

"Yeah."

"I had another guest."

Paxton slammed his fork down on the table. "You had sex with some tramp in front of a kid?!"

"Argh! She left before then!" Joren yelled back. "And what I do on my own personal time is none of your damn business!"

"We came here to do a job!"

"You're the one who told me to act like all the other racers," Joren snapped. He put down his fork and knife as well. "They expect the guy who wins the races to be 'socially' active! I mean, even Coram's admitted to being pressured into some stupid affairs."

The older man stood up from the table. He took a deep breath and started picking up the empty glasses and plates. "Sometimes I forget you're still a young man with hormones."

"I'm 20. That's not too young. It's old enough for a lot of things." The rest was left unsaid.

After dinner, Joren's focus turned to his meeting with Yukishiro at McGinty's. He left Paxton's place and rode through the dark streets. He had an hour before he had to meet him, and he used the time to think about his life as of recent. The space between him and his mentor increased at times, and decreased other times. Just when Joren thought he could no longer respect Paxton's advice, something would happen to him where the only reasoning that made sense was that of the older man.

It made sense. It always made sense in the end. Often, many sons rebelled against their fathers, only to discover that their fathers were right. Joren hated Paxton sometimes, but who didn't hate his father-figure at some point or another?

McGinty's track was unlit and pitch black. Joren prayed absently to whatever deity was listening that neither Paxton nor Coram attempted to find him at the usual club that night. Kimmy would try to stall her guardian, but he listened to her less and less. It was only a matter of time before he didn't politely ask her at all.

Stay away. Just stay away for your own good.

He dismounted from his motorcycle and watched a streetlight burst into illumination overhead. He examined his surroundings. His shadow remained his only company.  A certain chance existed that he could be early. Wouldn't there at least be another rider besides him? So he stood, unsure of his next move.

The wind picked up. His hair blew over the top his face. As he shut his eyes and brushed the strands away, Joren sensed something else. He kept his eyes closed for a few more seconds. When he finally opened them, the first thing he saw surprised him despite his mental preparation.

"No way," he murmured. He stepped forward. His hands shyly reached forward to feel the new motorcycle in front of him. His own sitting next to it, looked so old compared to the epitome of mechanical beauty in front of him.

It was one of the newer models. The seat dipped down low, and the rider would lean forward with his chest pressed against the rise, lying almost flat on his stomach with his legs tucked in close. It could have been a hoverbike (it looked so good), but there the wheels were. And there was Joren's fascination. His hands returned to feeling the handles, feeling the curve of the seat. He had secretly harbored thoughts as a boy of owning a machine as sleek and top of the line as this.

He remembered a competitor and friend of his father. The man was rude and very abrasive whenever he came to visit his chum. He always ruffled Joren's hair badly whenever he saw him so that Joren would be stuck with a cowlick sort of appearance. But the man owned one of the newest racing motorcycles around; he was a sponsored racer. Joren often looked for him when he attended his father's races, just to see the motorcycle.

"You like what you see, my towheaded friend?"

More than you think. Joren knew the voice before he even looked. "Is it yours?"

Yukishiro joined him at his side. "Yes. I'd trade, though, if you wanted to."

"Sorry. I'm keeping the one I have. Family thing." As much as the idea pleased him and set his nerves on fire, he couldn't accept. His father's motorcycle was all he had left of his parents. Memories were nothing compared to something he could feel under his palms.

"Good decision. I daresay I could never find one of those in the world today. Quite a collector's item." He walked past Joren and mounted his novel and popular bike. He wore casual clothing like Joren's, instead of his usual suit. Joren had never seen the infamous man actually on the track, let alone racing. It changed the way he normally saw the man—yes, he admitted to comparing him to a god, just as Yukishiro had done himself. Yukishiro wasn't above him, looking down on Joren just as when they'd first met. He was here, at his level.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Are you going to do the same or not?" The silver-white haired man picked up a helmet that matched the non-color of his hair. "The night is still young while the new gods roam."

Joren hesitantly circled around him and got onto the Black Knight. Anything he had ever pieced together about the man beside him slowly disintegrated.  He didn't know how Yukishiro could possess all this and be capable of so much more. He was indeed godlike in so many ways. It shamed Joren to think that way, but all he'd ever seen of the man invoked these thoughts.

The machine roared to life. Not his, but the one he shamefully coveted. He looked up.

"Come, Young Anubis."

Joren resisted the urge to follow suit. "Tell me something first."

He was met by a pleasant surprise. Enishi smiled, as if he wanted to be asked. He knew what to expect from this boy pretending to be a man. The boy himself never suspected; he couldn't imagine that he could be second-guessed.

"Where's the money, Yukishiro?" Joren asked flatly. A low chuckle sounded deep from within Yukishiro's throat. He stepped back. Paxton warned him time and time again to go about interrogating suspects with caution. Joren was so frustrated and impatient that he didn't care anymore. Yukishiro baffled him. Why did he call Joren out here? So many details contradicted each other.

"Please call me Enishi, now. But what money, Jack?" Enishi asked with a broad grin, fearless of the implications.

"Stop messing around," Joren hissed. "I heard you might have received a load of money from a missing armory truck."

Enishi sighed. "You're a greedy one, aren't you?" He regarded Joren with disappointment. "I called you here for fun, not because I wished to discuss business."

"Why did you call me up here?"

"You have done a lot for me, not to mention your success on the racetrack."

The reason was a lousy one, Joren decided. He wanted to hit the other man over the head with his helmet. "Did you ever invite Coram to a private one-on-one race?"

The other man scoffed. "No. I've considered it, but I don't think he trusts me."

Joren glared at him before putting on his own helmet. "I don't blame him. What makes you think I trust you? You don't trust me enough to say anything about the money."

He was pushing it. He knew this. A demon inside him was blowing his cover. He sensed it happening to him, but couldn't restrain himself at all. He was sick of this mission. He was disgusted with himself every day when he awoke. A punch should have come. A bullet from a crony in the shadows should have come. The penalty for insult like this had to be horrible. Yet Enishi remained composed.

In fact, he looked strangely content.

"I never said I trusted you. My reasons are my own." He clucked his tongue. "I'm going to ask you to do something two, maybe three months from now. If you do it, I'll give you a large cut of the money. I might even give you my share."

A chill crept up Joren's spine. "What do I do until then?"

"Race." And with that, he put on his helmet and sped off. Joren cursed and went after him. He contemplated whether or not he would have shot Enishi right then, if he'd had his gun. The answer was yes.

Two months and he was free of any evil job that Enishi would have set upon him. Should he tell anyone? He wanted to tell Paxton about the money. He wanted Coram to give him advice. Could he? Should he? Despite all common sense, he knew he would never tell those closest to him. If Enishi backed out on the deal, it was wise just to act like nothing had happened. Paxton was having a wonderful time, acting as if he was doing the best of the investigation while Joren had his play at racing.

Joren leaned into the curve, watching the man speeding in front of him with hatred.

~~

"Does it hurt?"

"Physical therapy? No, no. It's gettin' better."

Coram stretched his leg in front of him. He gazed longingly at the dance floor. Restlessness had vexed him for weeks. Anyone could observe that he missed moving about freely, whether to dance or to race. He sighed. "I can't stand this."

Joren pitied his friend. "It won't be much longer."

It really shouldn't be this long. I can't stand it much worse than Cor.

While Joren's jobs from Enishi ceased, so had Coram's. His injured friend hindered the rest of the men when they tried to move in quickly and leave just as fast. Though their work had initially stopped, they still witnessed far too much. Whenever Joren spotted the black ski mask on his dresser, lying unused, he shuddered. It was a comfort, he supposed, not to commit those terrible deeds. The last time he had spilled any blood, it had been when he nicked himself shaving.

When that had happened, he had stared at the single drop of bright color for nearly a whole minute. It had been a while since he knew the color of his insides.  And then, Julia had come over to the bathroom, wiped it off his chin, and put a tiny piece of tissue on it. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he allowed her to stay whenever she wanted. There was nothing emotional between them. That was clear from the first day. She cooked for him, annoyed Paxton with her presence, and teased Coram with her coyness.

She was visiting again one night, bringing Chinese take-out and a merry tune in her voice.

"Mmm… Hey, try this." She went around the coffee table on her knees, holding up a piece of food with her chopsticks. Joren regarded it with skepticism before opening his mouth and allowing her to place it on his tongue.

He chewed for a few seconds and swallowed. Her expectant expression prompted him to reply. "It's okay."

"Okay? That's the best thing I've tasted since my cousin came and cooked for me!"

Joren wiped his mouth with a napkin. He went back to eating as if he had only a limited amount of time left. "I don't care about the food, as long as it's edible."

She snorted. "Well, I hope my food is more than edible to you. I put a lot of work into that so it tastes delicious."

"Damn it, would you stop that?!" he yelled and slammed his fist down on the table. At first, she was scared and wide-eyed at his outburst, but then she mustered up her courage.

"Stop what?" she demanded just as fiercely.

"Stop acting like this is a real relationship. I hate it when you do that," he groused. He stabbed at his food to punctuate his remarks. "You know exactly what all this is and so do I."

Julia didn't respond. They finished dinner in silence. Fifteen minutes went by. Julia placed the food cartons in the trash and cleared the table. He turned on the holoscreen and began watching the news. She eventually joined him on the sofa, leaning against him as if they'd never fought at all.

The phone rang. Joren got up and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Enjoying your months of freedom?"

He could swear his heart had skipped a beat. The smooth voice of Enishi Yukishiro continued.

"I'm calling in my favor. And then the money is yours, my Young Jackal."

Joren glanced over his shoulder at Julia, who was still watching the news without any attention to him. He lowered his voice anyway. "What is it?"

"You're going to get some sleep now, wake up at one in the morning, and go to Bailey's place. He'll fill you in."

"What do I tell Mark?"

Enishi laughed. "Tell him whatever the hell you want. Make some noise with that woman of yours. That ought to keep him from knocking on your door."

He gritted his teeth. "I never told you about her."

"You didn't have to. Gods see and know all, don't they?"

Joren slammed down the phone on its hook. He cursed under his breath and marched to his bathroom to prepare for bed. He slammed everything about as he went through his nightly routine, knocking items onto the floor. A few moments later, Julia was at the door of his bathroom, concerned.

"Calm down. You're going to damage your stuff." She picked up a stick of deodorant from the floor and began sorting the mess. He stared at her blankly.

Without a word, he left the bathroom and undressed for bed. He peeled off his T-shirt and threw it in the direction of his closet. Joren turned off the light and stood beside his bed, running his hands nervously down his face. Daunting premonitions about the job that night made his expression grim. He crawled beneath the covers of the bed, wondering if he was going to regret ever accepting Paxton's mission and Buri's terms.

Julia leaned on the bathroom doorframe, wringing her hands. "Jack—"

"Stop that," he warned. He buried his head under a pillow and turned his back on her.  "Either shut up or get out."

She bit her lip. It seemed that she was torn between doing either, despite their lack of a relationship. Finally, she undressed and got into bed with him, pressing herself against his backside and encircling his waist with her arms. She remained silent.

Joren did not fall asleep for a long time. He shut his eyes and thought of a winding road in Gala that went through the grassy hills. When he was young, he would steal out at night on his motorbike, just to be moving. He imagined that one day, he would spend all his time traveling—not just racing. He liked racing. It was the only thing he had ever known.

But oh, to travel. He wouldn't do it for the beautiful scenery, or the thrill of meeting new people. He simply wanted to be moving all the time. It was the wanderlust in him that he had lost when his home was burned down. Moving to Tortall wasn't traveling. It was an obligatory action.

He wasn't obliged to do anything but take revenge on the world's worst. His wanderlust was replaced by a dedication to justice. Not pure justice. He didn't like those idealists who didn't see the reality in things. You had to play dirty to beat them at their own game. But unlike them, he knew he was doing it for the good guys.

The pillow was eventually moved back under his head. The pocket of warmth he had created underneath it was gone. He looked around in the darkness and to his dismay, noticed that he'd made his own life.

The arm around him moved. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Julia was still deeply asleep. She had been partly responsible for all this. She wasn't supposed to have been good at heart. It was meant to be just one night. Just one. He'd been halfway drunk with hopelessness. He still was, and had his fun pretending to be sober of it all. Carefully, he turned around under the sheets so Julia's head was cradled against his chest.

"You were supposed to be one of them. In and out of my life, just like them," he whispered as he cried. He muffled his whimper with a hand over his mouth and wiped angrily at his moist eyelashes. Julia remained asleep.

At one in the morning, Joren was already awake. He gently removed Julia's arms from his body and slid off the bed so he wouldn't wake her up. It had been a bad move to allow her this far past his boundaries. Coram never overstepped the limits. Paxton didn't want to. Why did she?

He thought briefly of waking her and saying goodbye. Since proper goodbyes were against his religion, he didn't.

He dressed without a sound. Sneaking out was not a problem. He left through the fire escape and rode away on his motorcycle. It didn't take but several minutes to go to Bailey's apartment. He was a hoverbike racer that Enishi had also chosen as one of his elite. He looked for the familiar brownstone building. The air was cold. This was the time when people were in their homes, warm in bed, not out on the streets plotting mischief.

Voices floated through the air, originating from an alley. Joren got off his bike and entered the shadowed place. A hand shot forward and grabbed a fistful of Joren's shirt. He didn't have a chance to react.

"Hey! Oh, Jack. It's just you." Mitchell Gratz had balled up his fist, ready to strike. He greeted Joren with a slap on the back and led him toward the group of men standing outside of Bailey's home, Bailey included. It was the usual assortment of men that Joren had done jobs with before.

Someone was missing.

"So where's Coram? Isn't he going to drive, at least?"

The rest of them turned and stared at him like he'd grown another head. He almost reached up to his shoulder to check. Gratz leaned forward and frowned. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

A former boxer named Noack cursed. He had a nose that always looked broken, but large dark eyes like an optometrist Joren had seen once. The optometrist had charged his customers more than he should have, and that was what Noack always reminded him of. "I knew he wouldn't show up if he knew what was going down!"

Joren frowned. "Enishi told me you guys would fill me in."

Bailey came forward, smothering his cigarette under his shoe. He was about five years younger than Paxton, with a crown of light brown hair. He motioned for Joren to lower his head toward him. The man spoke in hushed tones.

"It's the Purge of the Unfaithful. It's time to get rid of those assholes who would betray Yukishiro."

Oh, fuck.

If it were at all possible, Joren could have keeled over right then and there. So maybe Yukishiro had found out the truth about Paxton and him. He was going to die after all those months of work. To worsen his situation, he knew he was surrounded by faithful Enishi-cronies. There was no point in trying to fight, or flee. He would be able to only shoot half of them before they got him. He wasn't that great a miracle-worker. He was certainly no James Bond, though he only needed experience to remedy that. Now what was he to do? He stood up straight, shaking his head. "No…"

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking," Gratz nodded. "Who'd be stupid enough to try and backstab him?"

"I mean, no…" Joren's head was a mess of confused, anxious thoughts. Don't blow your cover, dumb ass, he told himself. They don't know. Before he started to sound suspicious, he took a deep breath and forced more lies from his mouth. "I mean, no… what does that have to do with Coram?"

Bailey sighed. "He's on the list."

"No fucking way," he breathed.

Noack piped up again. "He ain't doing it. Jack's chickening out."

Joren turned his head sharply toward the offending speaker. "Screw you," he spat. Joren paused. The idea was revolting, but did he have a choice? "I'm doing it."

"You know," Gratz began, "you don't have to shoot him. We've got our orders to cover this up… position them like they shot each other… but Coram doesn't hang out with the rest of them. You can just burn his place down while he's sleeping. Won't have to face him!" He shrugged, hoping the offer pleased Joren. "I have gasoline in my trunk. You can take it."

He ran to fetch the container. Someone offered a lighter.

Joren closed his eyes. He thought long and hard about the decision that was in front of him. When he opened his eyes, he nodded. "Okay. Fine." He accepted the lighter and Gratz was already strapping the gasoline to the back of the Black Knight.

Just like me to choose the coward's way out.

"Page us when the place is ablaze," Bailey commanded. The other men nodded to Joren in sympathy. They knew that Coram and Joren had become comrades. Words of sympathy almost formed, but they remembered who they were and stopped. They all had to kill comrades that night, but they also cared more about their own hides than anyone else's.

Noack stared Joren straight in the eye. "I don't think you'll do it."

Joren growled. He shouted, at the end of his rope, "Would you stop being such a damned ass!? I said I was going to do it, and I will!"

"How do I know that?"

"Because you do."

"You're a smart ass punk."

"Rather be a punk than a prick."

The other man sneered at him and departed with the rest. Joren took a deep breath and moved backward until he was leaning against the brownstone building. He ran his calloused hands over his face, asking himself how he was going to get the guts to perform his task. He checked the time on his pager. Coram and Kimmy would definitely be asleep. Maybe they wouldn't feel a thing. Perhaps they'd stay asleep until the very end.

But he knew that wasn't true. When the first flame appeared on the bedspread, Coram would awake and he would die, suffering great pain and anguish. Joren slammed his fist against the brick he leaned upon. He bruised his knuckles, and felt no better.

"It's not fair," he muttered, almost childishly and just as futilely.

He forced his legs to carry him over to his motorcycle. He mounted and started it up. The vehicle roared to life once again. He would murder his friend to please his enemy. Because Joren was playing a game of pretend and he was the enemy. It was for the best that a few good men should die so that ring of hell could be torn down and built over. Where there once was a whorehouse could be an elementary school, where children would run across a floor and not know a man had died there, bleeding from his head.

When he reached Coram's residence, Joren wondered what could be built over it. New life could always spring from ashes. There were trees nearby, dying of disease and neglect. Maybe the city would have an empty lot, and plant trees. Children could play there, too. Maybe people could walk their dogs there. His mother had liked dogs.

He looked up at the dark windows. Coram's car was sitting by the curb, its raggedness reminding him of an old man who desperately wanted eternal rest.

"Easy enough," he said to himself. He thought of the red gasoline container strapped to the back of his bike and removed it. He climbed up the fire escape, and tried to remember which windows didn't lead to bedrooms. He found one that suited him and broke the lock, lifting it up by the bottom and shoving it the rest of the way up.

He shimmied through the narrow opening with the gasoline container, spilling the clear, smelly liquid as he walked down the hall. The muscles in his arm stiffened out of tension. He set down the container on a chair and looked around.

After this I'm home free. I'll have the evidence to lock up that guy who thinks he's a friggin' god…

Joren looked around the living room. He spotted a photograph framed on the wall. In the picture, Coram posed with a woman whom Joren had never seen before, and a younger Kimmy. They were at a carnival. Kimmy held onto the string of bright yellow balloon. Coram held a box of popcorn in one hand.  The woman held a large stuffed animal in her arms. They appeared to be the epitome of a happy family.

That could have been his family.

He cried out as if someone had struck him right there and then. He couldn't do this. Not like this. Leaving the gasoline where it was, he dashed toward the window again and left.

~~

Three quarters of an hour later, Coram awoke to someone shaking him hard by the shoulder. He opened his eyes and sat up quickly, afraid that it was Kimmy, having seen something like a burglar in their home. He was even more stunned when his vision focused and he saw Joren standing over him. He sat up, startled.

"Holy… what the heck are ye doing here, Jack?"

Joren grabbed his friend by the arm and hauled him out of bed. The absence of his bed sheet made Coram shiver. Goosebumps appeared on his bare chest. His peculiar racing buddy pushed him toward his closet. The racer tripped on his bed sheets.

"Go, take a few things. Just hurry up! We have to get Kimmy and then the two of you have to leave!"

Coram grabbed a hold of the corner of his dresser and used it to support himself on his good leg. He stared at Joren as if the man he'd known for half a year was in fact, a lunatic.

"What the heck is going on? Why do we have to leave?" He sniffed the air. "What is that smell?"

He watched as Joren lifted the gasoline container and thoroughly soaked his bed.

"What the… Jack! What are ye doin'?!"

The blonde man set the container on top of the bed. His face was full of more emotion than Coram had ever seen. There was sorrow and regret and all the other emotions that weren't supposed to live in him. "He ordered me to kill you, Cor. He ordered me to kill you!" He pointed to the closet. "Get your money, grab some clothing, and wake up Kimmy. I have to burn this place down. All of it."

Coram stood dumbfounded, his mouth open wide in disbelief. Joren yelled at him again in a raw voice that was filled with desperation and anxiety. It shocked the other man into his senses. He yanked a jacket from a closet hanger and went through his bottom drawer for his money stash. When he'd gotten some of his belongings gathered, he stood up and fearfully questioned Joren.

"Jack, if we leave, where will we go?"

"Just get Kimmy!" Joren ordered as he dumped gasoline all about the room. The container was empty. Joren preceded Coram into the hall and picked up another gasoline container. This time, both men went to Kimmy's room. He allowed Coram to rouse the teenage girl and explain to her what was going on.

Once again he busied himself with soaking the room with the foul smelling liquid. He heard crying behind him and knew that the girl was becoming very distressed at the idea of being burned alive. Coram pulled her out of bed and helped her gather a few of her belongings. Joren urged them to hurry, his hands still shaking as he poured the gasoline everywhere. There was no spare time for hesitation. The task had to be done.

"Grab that last container and start splashing the living room," Joren ordered.

"Right," Coram nodded. He handed his things to Kimmy, who was still sobbing pitifully. He ran past his coffee table and started dousing the kitchen, with its easily burning wooden cupboards. He spotted something large and black behind his couch. Joren went behind the couch and started to drag one of the two black things forth.

Coram squinted in the dim moonlight. When he recognized the large objects that Joren was dragging toward the bedrooms, he gasped. "Ye stole cadavers from the hospital? Are ye out of yer mind?!"

The cadavers were meant to help new surgeons learn their practice. Tonight, they were meant to help give new life to two people Joren wanted to see free of it all. Joren wiped the sweat off his brow. He grunted as he lifted the corners of the body bag again. "Get the other end!"

"I'm not touchin' any corpse!" Coram cried.

"You won't have to! I will," Joren snapped. "Now get on the other end!"

Coram was reluctant, but Joren was impatient. And the impatience was much more violent, so he didn't have a choice. Together, the two men transported the first cadaver into Coram's bedroom. They grunted with the effort, and had to set it down more than once to catch their breaths. They heaved the cadaver in its body bag onto the bed.

"This isn't going to work!"

"Yes it will." Joren began unzipping the body bag. He could hear his friend begin to curse and back away from the bed. "Everyone knows you live here. The bodies will be burnt and charred. The coroners won't examine the bodies thoroughly." He paused. "They're lazy after living in this town." The zipper got stuck halfway. He roughly tugged at it until it moved freely again. Bitterness caused hastiness in his movements. He freely cursed as if he were doing something as ordinarily irritating as pulling weeds.

After that he commenced to put on his gloves and rolled up his sleeves. The smell of all the gasoline fumes was getting to him, but he couldn't get out yet.

"Go… go put the other one in Kimmy's bed. It shouldn't be that heavy."

"This is so friggin' sick," Coram muttered, feeling like he might vomit at any moment as he looked down upon the corpse that would replace him.

Joren dropped what he was doing and faced him. "Do you want to die then? Just shut up and do it!"

Coram rubbed the back of his neck nervously and left the room. Joren calmed his nerves as much as he could before he returned to his task. He lifted the body out of the bag and placed it onto the bed sheets. The body was very cold from the freezer. Joren could feel ice through his gloves. The blue tinge in the skin, combined with the slight yellow haze that showed the body wanted to decay.

For a moment, Joren caught the eyes of the corpse, staring at him. He shook his head.

"Creepy," he muttered. He freed the body from the bag and shoved the bag to the floor. He'd never had to deal with disposing bodies. Handling a corpse now made him feel jumpy.

This isn't Night of the Living Dead. He's staying down on that bed. Not gonna rise and kill me.

He went through Coram's drawers, finding a pair of pajamas that he could put on the naked corpse, whose dignity was lost at time of death. He dreaded handling the stiff limbs and the cold flesh again. As quickly as he could, he put the pajamas on it, heaving the heavy stiff body into a sitting position. The upper body dropped down again as Joren went to put on the pants.

The fumes bothered him. If he breathed any more in, he was going to pass out from the dizziness. He silently berated himself for pouring the gasoline too early, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He finished dressing the cadaver and threw the bed sheets around him.

Joren ran back into the hall where Coram was waiting. The muscles on Coram's bare midsection twitched as if he really did have an urge to vomit. The two men exchanged tired and weary looks. The younger one forced himself forward into the teenage girl's room where his second job was awaiting him.

This cadaver was much lighter, but putting clothing on it was a more mentally grueling task. The female corpse was almost the same in age. He'd been sure to have that. But now being alone in a room with this body, trying to dress it and make it look innocent, he thought he was going to lean over the side and vomit. His dizziness from the fumes wasn't helping that either.

His hands fumbled with the buttons of the flannel pajama shirt. Out of instinctive courtesy, he averted his eyes as his hands passed over the breasts. This had once been a teenage girl, whose body was now going to save someone's life by replacing her. When he finished, he placed the covers back over the body, and over the face so he wouldn't have to see the sadness in it.

Coram and Kimmy had taken some jackets and put on their shoes. Otherwise, they were still dressed in what they'd worn to bed. Kimmy carried a few plastic bags, filled with what they could afford to take.

"Okay, the fire escape. Let's go," he ordered. He ushered them in front of him, partly because they were the ones that needed to be rescued, and also because he didn't want them to see him stumble. Joren commanded them to go behind the dumpster and wait for him.

He threw the empty gasoline containers out with him. Gratz had agreed earlier to plant the containers and some matches on the fresh bodies that he would create that night. Joren climbed out of the window and breathed in the fresh air deeply. He leaned back in and lit a match.

At least Coram finally gets to escape this life. He threw down the match and withdrew. He saw large tongues of flame flare up immediately on the soaked carpet of the hallway. Joren began climbing down the fire escape, knowing that his friends were escaping, but he couldn't. Not yet.

Joren went behind the dumpster, thinking of the dumpster he had ducked behind that first night he raced. He realized he was still wearing his fouled gloves and tugged them off, throwing them into the dumpster. He unrolled his sleeves while Coram dared to step forward into the light.

The older racer was looking up at his apartment, starting to make out the smoke from the burning windows. The girl by his side whimpered and clutched her bags closer.

Joren let out a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't go with you. Um, take you out of town, anyway. I have to meet back with those bastards."

Coram took his eyes off the sad sight of his home and focused them on his blond friend. He nodded and turned his palms upward while he shrugged. "It's okay. I mean, hey, ye got us out."

Kimmy remained blissfully ignored. She stared up at her burning home as Coram had.

"Yeah," Joren also shrugged. It was the default movement to do when one was unsure of everything.

Before the young operative knew what was happening, Coram had embraced him in a brotherly hug. Joren tensed at first. He awkwardly moved his arms around as well so that he returned the embrace, though weakly and shyly. They stood that way for a few moments. Joren didn't own many memories of hugging anyone. Maybe his mother, but he'd stopped hugging her when he deemed himself one of the 'big kids' and began hanging out with his racing buddies from Junior Motocross. This led to hasty kisses on the cheek before he ran out the door to join his peers. He wondered now if that had hurt his mother.

"Thank ye for everythin'," Coram said. He let go and stepped back. "No matter what ye say, ya are a good lad. Just a little trapped is all. Just a little trapped."

Joren felt tears spring to his eyes, and observed that the same was happening to his friend. They laughed to ease the pain. Joren shook his head, placing his hands in his pockets.

"I… I don't want to be trapped. But I don't think I'll be free for a while, either."

"Ye will be."

"Hopefully." He cleared his throat. "Hey, Kim!" The girl looked up, tears still staining her cheeks. "Listen to Coram now, you hear?"

She nodded absently, and returned to her silent weeping. She would be traumatized for a long time, but he knew that she would eventually grow out of it. It took time to heal the heart. Not his, but Kimmy wasn't as far down as him. The two Tusaine refugees began to back away from Joren.

"Do you think you can get out of town okay?"

"We'll be fine. Ye take care of yerself, Jack. I want to see ye racing pro some day."

The two men smiled. And then one departed, disappearing into the shadows of the alley with the frightened girl. The other stayed until he was sure that they were gone, then slowly approached his bike. It was late at night, and though the burning apartment was bright and blazing like the bowels of hell, help wouldn't come for some time. He mounted his motorcycle and sped off, remembering to page Gratz and Bailey as soon as he was far enough.

People breezed in and out of his life all the time.

The proper goodbye had been a bonus. He'd have to forget it soon. There was no room for that sentimentality where he was going. And he knew it. There was no time to be a 'good lad.' Time only existed for opportunities and follow-throughs. And maybe the little lies that he honestly spoke when there was time to kill.

~~

When he called Bailey and told him the task was complete, Bailey ordered him to go home and sleep. Business could wait until later. Enishi wouldn't be awake at this ungodly hour, so Joren could not receive his money. Joren did as ordered although he was unhappy about waiting. He did not want to stay in this part of Tusaine any longer. He didn't feel like himself any more.

Coram and Kimmy had departed from his life. His last guiding stars had disappeared from view and even with Paxton by his side, Joren felt like he couldn't find his way. He hated stumbling around in this darkness. He loathed his mission like he loathed hell, scoundrels, and most of all, himself.

Joren parked his motorcycle at the back of the drugstore and looked up at his apartment window. His pale blue eyes saw everything around him in gray tones, like an old movie. The world was as still as death. His footsteps echoed on the concrete—the only sound in existence. Joren's breaths were silent and insignificant. Any sign of life was insignificant.

Upstairs, Joren entered his apartment and sank onto his couch. He stared at the blank wall, trying to figure out where he could have prevented this… this recent job, this mission, this life. He sat for what seemed like eternity. During the sixth hour of the day, the sun invaded his quiet meditation. He blinked his eyes when its blinding rays fell upon his face.

"Jack?"

He turned to Julia without a flicker of recognition. Frightened, she stayed rooted to the spot.

"I woke up hours ago and you had already left. I didn't hear you come in."

Her lover regarded her absently before he stood up and made his way toward the kitchenette. He spoke in a heartless monotone without facing her. "Get out and don't come back."

Julia's mouth opened in surprise. "What? Jack, no!" she objected. "Tell me what happened. What's wrong?"

"I said get out!" he bellowed in the angriest voice he had ever used on her. This time she didn't dare to respond. Overcome with fear and confusion, she could not guess what to do next. So she gathered her things as quietly as a mouse and prepared her final departure from her second home.

She wished to tell Joren how much he meant to her. It had not been like that at first, but slowly built over time. She'd never given herself to anyone like she had to him, but his lack of affection only made her feel twice as affectionate. He never physically hurt her. He even performed gentlemanly things for her, such as pull out her chair. This sudden end shocked Julia. Some part of her had always wanted these months to go on forever. But it was not meant to be.

When she was gone, Joren put down the cup of coffee he had made for himself and stared at the door. He called himself names, so many names… and none of them were anything to be proud of. He opened the refrigerator and browsed through its contents. Joren spotted a creamer that Julia had bought the day before. The sad young man normally drank his coffee black, but black was an oppressive color that day.

He took the creamer from the refrigerator and poured it into his coffee. The color changed to brown, like the color of dead leaves. Joren frowned.

~~

"Wake up, Jack. Yukishiro called me when you wouldn't pick up your damn phone. He wants to see you for lunch," Paxton said when he came through the door. He had his own key to Joren's apartment, and vice-versa.

Joren had been able to fall asleep on his couch even after the cup of coffee. He forced himself to sit up and look his mentor in the eye. "I'm getting the money from him. Should that be enough evidence to get us out of here?"

The experienced operative suddenly smiled. Then this smile ceased and he glared at his young protégé. "What did you do? That was a lot of money. If I were him, I'd want to hold onto it."

"I'll tell you later."

"No, you'll tell me now."

"The hell I will," Joren snorted and laid back down on his couch. "I'm tired, Mark. I've had a shitty night and I just want to sleep for a whole week." He closed his eyes and covered his face with his arm.

Paxton sat down on the arm of the couch. His expression softened. "Do you think I never went through the same things that you have? Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what I think anymore. I'd be better off getting a lobotomy, then spending the rest of my life in some institution, drooling on my shirt." Joren removed his arm from his face and gazed upward. "You got something to say about it?"

"Yeah, I think I do." He scratched his chin. His hand reflexively strayed to his pocket to extract a cigarette and a lighter. Joren always observed him smoking when he was about to talk for an extended amount of time. It was a filthy quirk, but as comforting as a grandfather sitting on a rocking chair and smoking a pipe.

"When I was your age," Paxton began, "I had to shoot my best friend."

"What?"

"Let me finish." He lit the cigarette and took a small drag. As he breathed out, Joren habitually fanned the smoke away and stared up at him though the smoke stung his eyes. Paxton continued. "He was six years older than me, and we were pretending to be interested in some illegal drugs that had been smuggled in from the east. Gavan, my partner, blew his cover. Before, we had gone into the mission, we had agreed to do all that it took to get the drugs and arrest this smuggler.

"So he didn't blow my cover when I feigned surprise and took the drug dealer's side. Before that old fart could shoot him—and probably shoot him in the head—I shoved him aside and shot at Gavan myself. I had meant to shoot him in the torso because I knew Gavan was wearing a lead vest.

"In all the commotion, I ended up shooting him right here." Paxton tapped a muscled part where his neck met his shoulder. "Just where the vest ended. I got the drugs and the rest of my team moved in to arrest the dealer and his thugs. But Gavan suffered a large loss of blood and his body went into shock. He went into a coma."

Joren swallowed. "A wound like that couldn't put him in a coma, could it?"

"There were other complications, but I don't want to delve into those." He shook his finger knowingly at Joren. "You remind me of myself again. That's the look, alright. Just like you shot your best friend and now he's lying in some hospital bed." Jokingly, he added, "Have you been to the hospital today?"

His younger partner stiffened. "Um, no. No, of course not."

"I know. It was just a joke."

"But that's really has nothing to do with my meeting with Enishi and my possession of the money."

"Since when did you start referring to that bastard by his first name?"

"I don't know. He started insisting on it like I had just become his brother-in-law or something. I don't know why." Joren wondered about Paxton's earlier words. "Did your friend come out of the coma?"

"He did. But he might as well have died in that coma, because he was killed in a car accident a few days later. Seems Death didn't like being cheated of his winnings and sought to take him any way he could."

Did Death feel cheated that Joren had not died either, all those times during his short life? He examined his own thoughts and decided that thinking of Death as a person was foolish. There was no heaven, but there was death. And death was a part of the predestined path to hell. It was lunacy talking, and more proof that Joren was in need of that lobotomy. Paxton eventually went back to his own apartment, leaving instructions for Joren to report to him after he had received the money. Joren attempted to go back to sleep, but he stayed awake. He made himself another cup of coffee with cream and watched his holoscreen until it was noon.

The news mentioned nothing about a burning apartment.

~~

"So where's my money?"

Enishi Yukishiro chuckled at Joren's question, which sounded more like a demand. He deftly twirled a pen in his hand while he sat behind his massive desk. He pouted. "Why must it always be strictly business with you? I try to socialize, but you always shoot me down."

The answer was cold and rude, but Joren could care less if he offended the man now.

"I want to leave. With this money, I can retire from racing. I can invest it in something else." Joren glanced over his shoulder at the usual cronies who guarded the office. The man whom Coram had once hailed during Joren's first visit to this office showed nothing to indicate he had heard of Coram's apartment burning down. Maybe they were not great friends after all.

He turned his attention back to the white-haired man in front of him. The suit was so perfectly pressed, the tie so perfectly knotted, and the shaded spectacles so perfectly perched upon his nose that Joren couldn't stand it. Did anything bad ever happen to Enishi Yukishiro? This man was the cause of Joren's grief and he wanted to strike a pleasant conversation with Joren?

"Well?" Joren spat out like a curse.

"I can't give you the money," Enishi sighed.

Joren leaned forward. His eyes glinted with untapped anger. "Why not?"

"Because you did not do as I asked," he answered with a typical air of casualness.

"What the heck are you talking about? I killed him! You wanted me to kill him and I did!"

Enishi stood up and began pacing in a slow, practiced manner. He stopped in front of his large window, basking in the sun's warmth and gazing fondly down at the city that he practically owned. He even regarded the boats on the river with the same fondness. He held out his hands, as if he were welcoming the new day into his heart. Joren sneered distastefully at the display.

"It was clever. I won't deny that. But not clever enough," Enishi finally said. He spun on his heel and put his hands on his hips. Joren glanced around again, insecurely aware that Enishi's cronies were departing from the office. He stood up, as if the seat was crawling with ants. All at once he knew he wasn't safe here any more. Damn the money, his instincts screamed, get out of there.

"I suspected that you might not go through with it. I called the coroner's office and asked them to do a thorough check. They ended up identifying the bodies through dental records. And you won't believe what they told me." Enishi smiled.

Joren paled. "Uh…"

"Well. I don't think I have to tell you then," Enishi told him. He picked up an envelope from his desk and tossed it to Joren, who caught it by the corner like he was afraid of bio-hazardous specimens hidden inside.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to deceive you. I know now that it was wrong of me, especially since it was your… Purge," Joren lied. His eyes darted back and forth from the man to the envelope as if either might explode. He backed away toward the door.

Enishi sat down at his desk again. "I'm incredibly disappointed, Jack. But I'll give you a chance to redeem yourself. Read the envelope when you get home. If you do what it says, I shall tell you the location of the armory truck. There will not be any affiliations of my name with the truck, nor will there ever be." He paused. "You'll like this one, I think. It requires any who participate to be exiled from my influence, since I cannot afford to be associated to the plot." He cooed the next words condescendingly to him. "And you wish to leave me and my friends ever so much. So you see? You'll like this one."

Joren nodded. He slipped the envelope inside his jacket. "I sincerely apolo-"

"Cut the crap, Jack. Just go before I lose my patience. And I would hate to do that with you of all people. I had such hopes for you. All my efforts were for naught… Get out of my sight." Never had he heard such furious words from the mysterious white-haired man. Joren watched as Enishi pressed a button on his desk that caused the office doors to slide open. Joren wasted no time departing with not so much as another glance at the man who terrified him so.

Scared? A voice in his head that sounded like Coram spoke to him with disdain.

Joren smiled ruefully. I am a god-fearing man.

When he got home, he reported to Paxton and finally confessed all that had happened within the last twenty-four hours. When he was done, he lied down on the floor of his mentor's apartment and stayed there, staring at the ceiling like the depressed teenage boy that he was not.

While Paxton was hunched over the envelope and its message, Paxton spoke to Joren about the situation. He was obviously disappointed that Joren hadn't sought to confide in him earlier, but he was pleased with the turn of events.

"Pleased? You're fucking pleased? Coram and Kimmy had to sneak out of town, Pax!"

"They're safe! It is what you always wanted for them, isn't it? That they would be safe and free of this place?" He tapped the paper. "And you're this close to getting the money. All you have to do is kill the mayor."

At this, Joren looked at his mentor as if he were insane.

"Don't worry. I have a magnificent plan." He held out his hand. Joren took it. His partner pulled him up to his feet. Paxton continued, explaining his plan while the younger man stood and listened, first, in resentfulness, then, in quiet awe. While Paxton started gathering equipment for it, Joren sat down and ate dinner, watching the news a second time.

A brush fire had blazed outside Tusaine, said the anchor. Firefighters rushed to help their forest patrol counterparts. There was still no report of a burning apartment. But several bodies were found outside a bar that Joren entered once. These dead men had supposedly had a brawl, and ended up shooting until all were dead. The news program displayed their faces onscreen.

"I bought motor oil from that man," Joren remarked offhandedly.

~~

The night was cold and harsh. Joren shivered under the cover of his leather jacket. He tugged the black wool beanie over his ears to prevent even more exposure and rubbed his hands together. The gloves did little to keep his fingers warm. The blond operative waited impatiently in the bushes, crouched low to the ground. He peered through the leaves at the expensive Victorian house he was instructed to infiltrate. The whole neighborhood belonged to moneybags and eccentric tycoons. He cared very little for them. In fact, he cared very little for anyone, so there was no discrimination against classes and castes.

His pager sounded. He checked the message.

"Use the shortest route from the kitchen to the master bedroom. Mr. Mayor likes midnight snacks, and the nighttime lasers aren't in that area of the house."

Earlier, Paxton had taught Joren how to hack into the DJPF's database from where they were and look up the blueprints for the mayor's home. The DJPF was the only 'security company' whom political officials chose to trust. Thus, the DJPF possessed any blueprints or security information that they would ever need.

"How did you get past the DJPF firewall? Can any hacker get in there?" Joren had asked like a little boy.

"Just me. And now you."

Traipsing over the lawn unseen was no difficult task. Joren was tempted to take a leisurely stroll and to set out biscuits for the Doberman Pinschers that patrolled about at wide intervals. He regained his concentration on the task at hand and approached the back kitchen door.

"Mr. Mayor should be glad I'm one of the good guys. This is too easy," he said under his breath. He removed the outer covering of the intercom above the number pad, which protruded from the wall beside the door. He clipped a small device onto a metal chip that was in plain view among the colorful wires within. The tiny screen display started to flash some numbers. Joren typed them into the number pad backwards.

The door unlocked. Joren gripped the handle and slid it open. He removed his device from the chip and replaced the cover. Then he entered, glad to be out of the midnight chill that seeped into the hollow of his bones.

Though all around him was dark, Joren could see perfectly in his mind. He moved forward without hesitation, rocking the sole of his feet from heel to toe slowly so as not to make a sound. He turned right, then left, then right again, until he came to the set of grand stairs that the mayor himself used on midnight treks to the refrigerator.

Joren had nothing against the mayor. The mayor did his best, trying to compromise with as many people as possible so there would not be an outbreak of fighting. But, it was difficult to make any serious changes in Tusaine unless Enishi Yukishiro consented. Joren had no doubt that the mayor had never dealt with the crime lord. He never knew that Enishi left alone successful projects that the mayor had initiated. Otherwise, the white-haired man sabotaged everything else.

Upstairs, Joren drew his gun from its holster and cocked it. He held it up, close by his head, ready to aim and shoot if he needed to. He silently prayed that he would have no need. The beanie on his head seemed to make his head hot now. The pack on his back was a bit heavy, as were the other utilities on his belt. Paranoia and nerves, he thought to himself. That's all it is.

~~

Enishi Yukishiro's eyes opened the very moment his COM screen began to beep. He had been daydreaming of something taken away from his life and felt irritated that someone had dared interrupt that unmentionable pleasure. One long elegant hand reached forward and touched a fingertip to the screen. His irritation ceased when he saw who had called upon him.

"My, my. I believe you're on your way to redeeming yourself, Jack."

He watched Joren fidget under his gaze.

"I've decided to let you see me kill the mayor myself. That way, you can't accuse me of not doing it. But I won't pull the trigger until you tell me where the armory truck is. I swear I won't even put my finger on the trigger," Joren told him in a challenging voice. "So what do you say to that?"

The amusement was apparent in his aquamarine eyes. "You've lost the privilege of my trust because of the last incident, but I'll indulge you. The armory truck is in this building's underground garage, right now as we speak. No one is there. You may pick it up when you're done. You won't have to come back. If they catch you, I can't have you connected to me in any way." He laughed into his raised hand, trying to hide his devious smirk. "So, come on Jack. Pull that trigger. I'd like to enjoy the show."

Joren drew another gun from his waist, one with a silencer attached to the barrel. He glared at Enishi before he walked over to the mayor's bed. The man was sleeping on his side, the back of his head the only visible part of the body. The moonlight shone through the window, casting the scene in gray and blue colors that seemed fit for Death's visit. Joren placed the barrel to the back of the man's head and quite calmly shot the man.

The head moved with the shot, and spatters of blood appeared on the pillow. The dark red color pleased Enishi. It was real. Joren walked back to the COM screen on the dresser. His sarcasm hung thick in the air like smoke. "And that ends tonight's episode of The Sick and the Twisted. Goodnight, folks."

"Goodbye, Jack. Enjoy the money. Live a fruitful life," Enishi added amiably. His voice held no malice. Joren said nothing and ended the transmission.

~~

Joren shuddered inwardly as he gazed upon the fake head he'd planted on the bed. He stripped the pillows of its covers, and the bed of its sheets. The pillows used to represent a body under the sheets were tossed onto the floor.  He picked up the head and deposited it into a black trash bag with the sheets. He would burn them downstairs in the furnace. After setting down the bag, Joren walked to the closet and slid open the wooden door. Inside, a man in his forties with thinning brown hair and a round little belly sat on the floor, bound and gagged.

"I'm sorry about this, Mr. Mayor. You'll thank me for it later." He leaned over the mayor and retrieved new bed sheets and pillow covers. "I suggest you place these on your bed and go back to sleep. And don't tell anyone that I was here. I'm a part of the DJPF Secret Service, if you want to call it that. They'll deny all knowledge of this, and will tell you that you've had a horrible nightmare."

With this, Joren grabbed the collar of the cotton pajamas and yanked the mayor up to a standing position. The bound man's eyes were wide and he was incredibly frightened, but he did not struggle. Joren removed the gag and the binds. He handed the mayor his bed sheets and bowed politely.

"Remember. This was all a bad dream."

The mayor blinked his eyes and trudged back to his bed, in trance. "I have got to stop eating that meringue pie before bed. The things that I dream of!"

Joren smirked and picked up his bag. He supposed a silly mayor was better than an incompetent one. And perhaps this one might actually get some work done when Enishi was arrested. He might even get elected another term.

~~

"Paxton, where the hell are you? Why aren't you answering?" Joren whispered fiercely. He stared at his pager. He'd paged Paxton a few minutes ago, telling him where the armory truck was. Paxton had replied that he was on his way to get the truck and drive it away before Enishi found out that the mayor was still alive.

That had been minutes ago. Paxton had not been that far away from Enishi's office building. There was no reason for Paxton not to report in again. He should have gotten into the truck and left the garage by then. Joren himself was on his motorcycle, on his way to the riverside building.

"Something isn't right."

He reached the building in another ten minutes. He left his motorcycle outside the garage. Anything could have happened and Joren wanted to keep his bike intact for a quick getaway. He drew on Desert Eagle from its holster and entered the underground garage. The lights were dim and far apart. He ran from one shadow to the next, wondering where the armory truck could be.

His intuition told him it was a trap. Nevertheless, he had to go and see for himself. Paxton could be in danger. And only Joren could save him.

You like playing the hero, don't you? That's three times in two days that you've had the opportunity to save people's lives. You self-righteous bastard, he cursed at himself. You're here to get the evidence to take Enishi Yukishiro down. You won't kill him. You want to see him suffer in jail. You want the whole world to know what he's done in Tusaine. You want him to suffer in the public view of millions. You sick-minded bastard.

There was a bright light in the corner of the garage. There was an oil spot where a vehicle had most likely leaked recently. Joren approached the area, his gun up and poised to shoot should anyone try to get the jump on him. Joren jogged to the bright spot and looked around. There was a piece of paper on the ground. He glanced around him once more before bending to pick it up.

"He got as far as 4th Avenue. The money is yours, not his. He deserves punishment. You could come upstairs and watch, if you want."

Joren's blood ran cold.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was lifting his wrist and looking at his pager. His instincts screamed at him to go up and rescue his mentor. But the mission always came first. He left an anonymous message with the DJPF station to pick up the armory truck on 4th Avenue.

His heart pounded in his chest as he entered the elevator and rode up the few stories to Enishi's office. He gripped the handle of his gun so tight that his knuckles were white. It was a trap. He knew that. So, why in the world was he going up? Paxton could already be dead. He was probably dead.

The elevator doors opened and Joren walked out.

"Why hello, Jack. Glad you could join us."

Joren aimed his gun straight at the white-haired man before him. Enishi held his hands behind his back and smiled, showing no fear at all despite the danger that threatened him. Beside him, two men stood over Joren's mentor. Paxton was on his knees, bloodied and bruised from an attack Joren had not been present to witness.

"Mark, are you okay?"

"Mark has betrayed you, Jack," Enishi told him. He made a wide sweeping gesture. "All of it was a lie. He's never coached anyone in his life. After some persuasion, he's even admitted to lying to you when he first met you in Riversdale. Isn't that right, Mr. Delacroix? Or should I say, Mr. Nond?"

Before Joren could open his mouth to speak, Paxton was scrambling to his feet. Despite the guns trained on him, he limped toward Joren. His blond protégé steadied him with one arm and stared him in the eyes, asking with silent looks whether it was true. Their covers were blown.

Paxton sputtered and coughed as he struggled to speak. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Jack. It's true! I was going to take the money and run… Please… forgive…"

"What?" Joren asked, backing away from the older man.

Enishi laughed. "You know there's only one thing to do to those who betray you. Shoot him, Jack. Shoot him right now, in the heart. He isn't wearing any lead vest, I can assure you. In the heart, Jack. Right now. It will be painless."

Joren's own heart could have stopped beating right then and there. He stared at Paxton incredulously, lost and confused in their impossible situation. Paxton returned the gaze with a quiet and grim sort of finality. He nodded to Joren, and turned his face away from Enishi's view. The older man mouthed two words.

Do it.

No, Joren wanted to shout. Never. And yet, his hands hand minds of their own. His hands held the gun up level to Paxton's chest.

"When I was your age, I had to shoot my best friend."

"What are you waiting for, Jack?"

"Seems Death didn't like being cheated of his winnings and sought to take him any way he could."

Joren shut his eyes and his heart from the rest of the world. He breathed in deeply and exhaled all warmth he had in his heart for partners and mentors. There was nothing left to do. "You're right, Enishi. You must always kill those who would betray you."

"Purge the world of him, then," the smooth voice urged in the seductive tones of power.

He opened his eyes to the new world and pulled the trigger.

~~

He fell immediately. My aim was perfect. Of course it was perfect.

In one last attempt, my heart rebelled against the course that my mind and soul had taken. I could feel tears on my cheek, but I could not feel myself within my body. I watched like a spectator from some deep hidden region within as my hands raised again and shot the men that had beaten my mentor, my teacher.

I screamed obscenities and curses to end all curses and the lying, bleeding men before they died. Their dark red essence poured out onto the carpet and in my craze, I wondered how the stains would ever be removed. No one would mourn these pathetic cronies, these lesser beings than men. But a janitor would mourn the once pristine carpet. Yes. That was worth mourning.

My vision blurred from my salty tears. If Paxton hadn't been caught, I wouldn't have had to come up here and shoot him. It wasn't my fault. There was nothing I could do. One life could be sacrificed. It was for the greater good, so that we could bring down the world that this so-called god had built from nothing.

One life could be sacrificed, almost as I had been ready to sacrifice Coram's.

A tree could grow here. The building could burn, like everything else. They could plant trees here. They could walk dogs in a park where this building once stood. It was possible. I could make it possible.

My mind was coming apart at the seams. From the insanity I knew I had descended into, I trained my gun on the one man before me that was the cause of every pain I had felt in this city. No. Not a man. He was indeed a god, a god of corruption.

"Do it. Shoot me, Jack."

I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to.

But I wasn't worthy. And I was afraid, even though he stood in front of me, vulnerable as a mortal. My hands shook and the tears still streaked my cheeks. My heart could leap out my chest—it had been pounding so hard. But my brain, as crazy as it was, could not command my body to do what the heart desired for it to do.

And I ran.

~~

The first thing Joren saw in the morning was a rattrap with a moldy piece of cheese. He picked himself up off the floor. He had entered a building where squatters spent their time. He could hear people yelling outside in drunken, slurred voices. Yes, he knew where he was now.

His motorcycle should still be in the alley where he left it. Untouched. No one would dare. Even the mad ones, even the ones who talked to pigeons knew not to touch. Motorcycles were the symbol of his elite. And they would not be touched, anywhere in the city.

All the events from the night before washed over him anew. The desperation, the confusion, and the blood. A hot searing sickness raged in his belly. Joren promptly leaned over a cardboard box and vomited. He braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes. He had expelled bile from his body, not guilt. How could he ever go back and tell Buri what had happened?

How could he explain why he was here, alive and breathing, while his partner was not?

The mission. The mission was the thing, he had once said. And it was.

He picked up his wool beanie off the floor and tugged it over his head again. If no one recognized him, perhaps he could leave this part of the city without being recognized by any of Enishi's men. They must be out looking for him. They had to be. He'd killed three men the night before, and had almost killed their god of a leader.

No, he couldn't have killed Enishi.  It was inconceivable to his followers that the white-haired god was vulnerable. Enishi had let him get away as an act of mercy. That was all. That was all they would believe.

"Sleep well?"

Joren spun around, his hand immediately drawing his gun and aiming it at the speaker. The words were so trippingly pronounced on a tongue that spoke in such superior ways. What was that voice doing here? What was the owner of that voice doing here?

"How… how…"

"Honestly. Shut your gaping mouth. You resemble a fish," Enishi Yukishiro chastised. His appearance was perfection. His gray suit was neatly pressed, and his halo of hair so elegantly tossed about his head. Joren looked away, overcome by the sight of his doom-bringer.

His courage slowly built, and the residue of the last night's fear faded. "You snake-eyed—"

"Snakes are wonderful creatures, Joren. Don't insult them so. They take many forms. Just as you had."

My name. He said my real name.

Joren cocked the gun. "How did you know? How could you… Did Paxton tell you?" His voice cracked. "Were you messing with my head? You bastard! You knew…?"

Enishi was unfazed by the threat yet again and Joren knew that he would not be able to shoot him. So, the blond operative lowered his gun. It hung limply from his curled fingers.

"I've known for a long time now," the white-haired man confessed with a fond smile. "Very long."

"I don't believe you. You lie."

"You knew it, too. You knew that I knew."

"You lie!"

Joren drew his gun again. His hand shook as he aimed at Enishi's head. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. But he already knew that he would miss. And when he opened his eyes, Enishi was regarding the bullet hole in the wall with great passivity. He sighed in resignation and spoke to the confused blond man again.

"Think. Think back, really hard," Enishi urged him. And Joren did.

Every meeting he had ever had with this self-proclaimed deity was recalled. Joren couldn't find anything. He could see his mistake. Where did he slip up? Had he slipped up?

"There's an interesting quality about you, Mr. Stone. Peculiar, but interesting."

A cold feeling like icy fingers squeezed his insides. He lifted his gaze to the man in front of him. The other man stood there so calmly. He could have been waiting for his wife to exit the ladies room; the quality of Enishi's tranquility was ridiculously great. Joren involuntarily took a step back. It was safe to say that he had never been more thoroughly terrified in his entire life.

"You knew," he choked. "You knew who I was the whole time." His heart pounded heavily in his chest. "You spoke my real name, and not even Paxton noticed. I… I didn't notice." He shook his head. "But you couldn't know! We covered up our tracks…"

Enishi made a cooing sound like he was hushing a dove. "Aww… I know. You're scared. It's alright."

Joren backed away some more, until he collided with the wall. "No!"

"Gods see and know all, Joren. You knew this. Your heart did. Your brain was too busy seeking distractions from the pain for your heart to get it through to your head. That's all."

He trembled like a little boy again. "Are you going to kill me now?"

"No. I couldn't kill someone of my own kind."

He ceased his trembling and sneered at the older man. "I'm no god," he corrected bitterly. "Not any Jackal, and not any Anubis."

The superior being before him considered Joren's claim with thoughtful pacing. The seconds ticked by and Joren's anxiety increased with every breath he took. Enishi finally stood still and inclined his head to the younger man. "If you wish to keep it as that, then so be it. Now go back home, where you really belong, Joren. You are dismissed from my world. Jack Winston is dead to me. And so are you."

With a nod of his head and a wave of his hand, Enishi Yukishiro departed from Joren's life. He stepped over the trash that bums scattered about, because everything was beneath him. His footsteps were silent, as if he was made of feathers and forced no weight on the rotten floorboards that creaked under Joren's own weight.

After all the pain that had been inflicted upon him… after the even more significant loss of innocence and feeling, Joren still couldn't believe it. He could not conceive it. Enishi had set him free. The tormentor was gone, back to his clouds above his city. And he would not think of Joren anymore. Because Joren was dead to him.

Joren was dead to himself.

~~

Present time:

Joren had left his apartment in the midst of his remembering. He did not know why. He had started walking and walking and walking. His feet knew where to go because his heart, so neglected and spurned since then, instructed them where to go. It was very late into the afternoon, almost dusk. But Joren did not care. He kept walking and walking and walking.

His wandering took him back to Coram's apartment. Half of the building was discolored, from the use of a different brick built where the apartment had burned. No trees were planted anywhere on the block. But a man was walking a dog. He was a poor man, Joren could tell. There were patches on his jacket and dirt on his hands. The dog was skinny and its ribs showed.

Joren found a bench and sat, facing the building. He sat and thought of his friend and wondered if the man was well, if the girl was well, or if the man still limped.

"Maybe he does."

He closed his eyes and hung his head. He wished he'd given Coram his real name. He wished he'd told Coram everything about himself. Not to burden Coram with his problems, but in the hope that Coram might know Joren as well as Joren had known him. He'd known about Rispah, and about Kimmy. He'd known about Coram's passion to race and his kind loyal heart.

And Coram knew nothing about him.

It was odd to think of people that he would never meet again. They breezed in and out of his life, yet he could still feel Julia's hands on his back, kneading his tired muscles and whispering sweet things to him as if she loved him. He could feel the warmth of Coram's first and last grateful and friendly embrace. The shyness of Kimmy's blush.

He opened his eyes and sat up. A woman was standing in front of him. He frowned.

"I thought it was you," the woman murmured. Before Joren knew what it was going on, she had dropped her groceries and fell to the ground on her knees in front of him, clasping his hands. He was too sluggish to move. "Jack! You've come back!"

The coincidence was beyond his understanding. He stared at the stranger in front of him, so ardently holding his callous hands in her dove-soft ones. He pulled away, confused and suspicious. She resembled a struck puppy dog when he did this.

"Who are you?"

"What are you talking about? It's me! Julia!"

His gaze softened. It was all coming back to him now. With hesitant hands, he reached forward and felt the soft strawberry blond waves that had once brushed against his chest while he slept. She leaned into his touch. Yes, her cheek was still that soft and smooth. He breathed out slowly, his lips forming forbidden words that he did not say aloud.

An ache formed in his chest that he could not explain. He dropped his hands and balled them up into fists again.

"Jack?"

"Julia," he whispered. He regained his senses and asked her to sit down with him. She gathered up her groceries, a blush on her face, and seated herself beside him. Then they began the painstaking process of re-acquaintance. Joren could not help himself. So fresh from his remembering, it was all he could do to keep himself from going to pieces. If Julia had survived, then Coram and Kimmy must have survived as well. It was his only hope.

"So," he said awkwardly. They could have been two people talking at a high school reunion. "How have you been?"

"Fine, just fine. I'm, uh, a waitress a few blocks from here. It's not as dirty and grimy as you think." She bit her lip. "And you?"

"Fine."

"Oh. Okay." She appeared as if she wanted to ask him something, something she might have asked him before. An intimate question. Would he answer her this time, or shut her out? Julia tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and decided to brave the storm. "Why did you leave? I went back to your place a few days later and you were gone. I was so worried about you."

He swallowed, though his throat was dry. "I'd warned you not to come back."

"Jack! Please don't start this again. I don't have to tell you how I felt. You knew. You just pretended not to know."

'You knew.' Joren hated those words. Those words had been his mantra in the face of the crushing tiger that was Enishi Yukishiro.

"Why did you come back?" he asked.

"I told you—"

"Bullshit, Julia. There's more to it, isn't there? I can see it in your eyes." He steeled his heart from her prying fingers. She wouldn't get him again. She was supposed to be departed from his life forever, just like his other 'friends.' How could she come back and expect everything to be as they'd left it? He would not allow it. He could not afford to.

Because if he did, there was a great chance he might not survive the pain again.

Julia looked down at her lap. A drop of moisture fell onto her skirt. Joren looked away. He did not need that guilt right then. He had enough guilt to last him a lifetime. Hers was the icing to the cake.

"Why?" he repeated, returning his accusing gaze to her angelic downturned face.

Her eyes met his with reluctance. Her lip quivered as she spoke.

"I was pregnant."

The three words were like a hot knife stabbing into his chest. Joren clenched his fists. Sensing his shock and discomfort, Julia began to ramble and get the words out before he could get up and walk away, as she feared he would do.

"I knew the smart thing was to get an abortion, but I didn't even have the money for that! I didn't want to get rid of him. He was the only thing I had left of you… so… so I kept him," she cried, her tears pouring down her cheeks. "I lived with my sister and she helped me get back on my feet and get a job. I was so scared all the time. I prayed that you would come back and we could settle down." She reached for his hands, and he was too numb to snatch them away. "I thought you could escape from whatever was driving you away, and we could just forget about it all. We could raise him together. Maybe if you'd been there, I would have been strong enough and he wouldn't have been born with that defect."

"Defect?" He spoke for the first time during her long-winded and lamentable story.

"Something was wrong with his blood. The doctors had no idea what it was. They said they could do some research and get him better but they needed money for the treatment and research…"

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "What happened?!"

She was sobbing now. If he'd any compassion left for her, he might have tried to calm her down, but all of it was channeled into a sudden rage he never knew existed before. He was angry and zealous for a son he'd had for almost five years and didn't even know existed until a few moments ago. 

"I knew you wouldn't have wanted me to ask him for money, but he was the only one I could ask. He was so kind when I told him that the baby was yours.  He took care of me and looked after me. I'm not lying! I swear, Jack, you'd think differently about him if you knew—"

The knife that she had unwittingly stabbed in his heart twisted and wrenched another cry from him.

"No. Oh God, please tell me you didn't go to Yukishiro."

"He helped me! And he talked to these other new doctors for me. And…"

"Then what? What happened to my son?" he demanded, squeezing her shoulders even tighter. She wiped her tears from her face and gulped nervously. Her crying caused her to sputter and breathe unevenly as she continued telling him.

"These new doctors came and said they would take him to a research facility where they could help him. I didn't want to be separated from him, but they said that there was no room for me. They… they s-said that I should work really hard at building a home that I could bring him back t-to…" At this point, she broke into new sobs and the groceries fell once again from the bench when her elbow knocked them from her lap.

Joren released her from his grip. He held his head in his hands. "And then what?"

She sniffled and tried to take deep breaths to calm herself. It was a few more moments before she continued. The world around them seemed to stand still. The sun, in respect for their tragedy, had stopped itself at dusk, so that the orange sky stayed and they would have light until the end of her true tale.

"I tried calling the number they gave me, but it was out of service. And I tried writing… and… and the postmaster said it didn't exist. I told Mr. Yukishiro, and he was so mad, Jack. He was downright pissed, Jack… He'd been tricked, too! We both thought that they were going to help my baby, but they lied to us! They took him away and they never came back!"

Joren forced himself to withhold his tears. It had been mere minutes since he'd first heard the words that proclaimed him a father. All the passion and love for that child that should have existed those five years was bursting from his heart and he didn't know how to handle the sudden rush of emotion. He stood up shakily and muttered in a likewise unstable voice.

"I have to go."

"No! Oh, please, Jack. Please, don't go again!" she cried and grasped his hand.

"I'll… I'll talk to you again. Leave me your number," he said, to calm her hysteria. She obeyed and fervently sought for a pen in her purse. She found a scrap of paper and wrote the number down. He took the paper from her and placed it in his pocket.

He started to leave.

"Wait! Oh, Jack, don't you even want to know his name?"

Joren stopped and turned around. He stared at her, wondering how many nights his former lover had wept without him and without their son. He forced out his words. "What was it?"

She sniffled again, and wiped her eyes. "It's Coram Vincent." She laughed pathetically and shrugged her fragile shoulders. "I, uh, found out that your friend Coram had left town, too. So I figured he was with you, and that if our baby was named Coram, he might be better connected with you than I could ever be."

"My son's name…"

"Coram Vincent Winston. Yes. He's your son."

~~

The Northwatch Knights were losing. With every Out they received, Dom groaned in misery. He would be short fifty Nobles at the end of the game. He made a mental note never to bet on anything ever again. Or perhaps next time, he ought to get advice from that friend of Cleon's. Faleron, yes, that was his name. Faleron was a great gambler. He'd done everything. He could help Dom with this.

His doorbell rang. Domitan Masbolle decided not to watch the rest of the game and turned off his holo-screen. There was no sense in torturing himself. So, he rose from his couch and approached the door, yawning and rubbing the back of his stiff neck. He looked through the peephole and stepped back when he identified the visitor.

"Joren?" he gasped. He opened the door. The other distraught man stood at the doorway, afraid to enter. "What's up?"

"Can we talk?" his visitor asked in a hoarse, unfamiliar voice.

Dom recognized the strange solemnity in Joren's expression and posture. He stepped aside, gesturing for his unlikely friend to come in. Joren went in, but stopped a few short steps away. He didn't feel apt to move all that much, and just stood like a forlorn man who'd lost everything in mere seconds.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Dom replied. It had been years since Joren had shown him any semblance of friendship. "So what did you want to talk about?"

Joren licked his chapped lips. He was sickly pale and his brilliant sky blue eyes were dull and dim.

"Do you remember when I came back about five years ago? Back from that mission?"

It would be impossible for Dom not to remember. Joren had been the most withdrawn and responsive than he'd ever seen the younger blond man. Joren had reported to Buri right away and told her that the money was recovered, but the mission had altogether failed. Paxton had been killed and there was no definite evidence that Yukishiro was the culprit of a million of Tusaine's crimes. There had been evidence. Paxton had tapes of Enishi talking, but they were destroyed when Paxton was captured.

Joren avoided all human contact for days on end. He eventually requested work outside of Tusaine, out in the suburbs or the towns. From then on, he had rarely come back into Tusaine, and barely spent enough time with the Rider's Own to familiarize himself with its new members that joined as the years went by. Dom had never asked him what had happened on that first mission. He had been afraid of what Joren might do or say.

But it appeared as if he might hear the story after all. The two men sat down on the couch and another confession began.

~~

Keladry walked down the hall, wondering if Lerant and Yuki were in. She wanted to borrow a book that both members were said to have. Moments before, the first class female officer had arrived at her partner's door, as he had earlier requested. She was angry to discover that he was not home at all.

"Oh well. He was the one who wanted me to come back. Doesn't matter to me," she said to herself.

She was two doors down from Lerant's apartment when she overheard a familiar voice.

"I never wanted any of it. All I had wanted to do was abort the damn mission and leave there before I lost my soul."

Keladry frowned. She retraced her steps and, a little nosily and shamefully, pressed her ear up against the door from which the voice was coming from. She recognized the speaker as her cold partner, but there was nothing in his voice that communicated 'cold' at all. Why was he in Dom's apartment? What was he talking about?

Lose his soul? She concentrated on hearing his hushed voice.

"But I couldn't leave… and… and I had to kill him, Dom! There wasn't any other option! I had to kill Paxton. The man treated me like a son, sometimes. Sometimes, he pissed me off, but he always treated me like I would one day go on to greater things." A pause. "I had no choice. The mission was key," he insisted, more to himself than to his listener. "I was given orders and so was he."

She gulped nervously. Kel didn't like where this was leading, but it frightened her already.

"It's okay. I'm sure you wouldn't have done it if that other bastard hadn't been pressuring you," Dom assured. Keladry silently thanked Dom for being comforting and sympathetic when she could not. Maybe if she'd returned earlier, he would be speaking to her, and not Dom.

Why couldn't he have waited for her? He'd found her good enough to tease and trick but not good enough to talk to? She felt a little pang of jealousy, knowing that even Dom was closer to her partner than she was. But there was no time to be jealous when Joren was teetering on the edge. Someone had to save him from himself, and if she couldn't do it, then it didn't matter as long as he was saved.

"There's more."

"You've told me plenty, Joren. What else could possibly have happened?"

"I… I ran into her today. I promised to talk to her again, not because I really want to, but I should."

"Why should you? You're not obligated to. You ended that years ago."

Here, Keladry perceived the sound of a muffled cry. She held her breath.

"Yes, I ended that. But something else began after that."

"You're confusing me. What began?"

"I have a son."

A son? Keladry's eyes widened. She covered her own mouth with both hands to keep from yelping aloud. A son? Joren had a son? The idea was so shocking that she almost didn't catch the next stream of rushed words that spilled forth from Joren's mouth.

"I… I had no idea… She didn't tell me she was pregnant before I left. Damn it! It doesn't fucking matter any more, because he's gone and those men took him away and Julia… not even that bastard with the white hair knows where my son is… if he's still alive. Don't you see, Dom? That's why I can't handle it any more." Another sob was muffled. "There could be a kid out there, cold and alone, just like I was… feeling betrayed because he doesn't know who his father is and… and he could be starving… and he could be thinking that I don't give a rat's ass about him…"

"Shh… it's okay. But, Joren, do you care? You've just found out today… and I don't know. I've never been a father, and my own wasn't that great an example… but… do you care even though you just… found out?"

Keladry could hear someone moving around. Dom was probably pacing nervously around the room while Joren was sunken on the couch in his own tragedy.

"I guess I do. I mean, I always wanted to be like my father. And if that means being a good father in return, I guess I always wanted that, too. After all that I've done, I know I'm not worthy of it. But if there was something I could do to… to… oh, anything at all—I guess, I would want to find him and give him a better life than I had."

There was a long silence. Then Joren spoke again.

"There's nothing I can do. He's gone and I'm never going to find him. I might as well keep what little sanity I have and forget—"

"No," Dom interrupted. "Don't do that. Dead or alive, neglected or loved—he's your son. You created life." He chuckled. "Damn it all, Joren, you ever wonder how many people wish they could create life like that? Don't forget about him. Just remember him."

There was more talking after that, but it was more hushed than before. Keladry stood up and backed away from the door. She didn't know what to think. After all this time, thinking of Joren as a man whose reasons to shut out world seemed so petty and unreasonable, she suddenly saw that he had in fact, all the right he could possess to shut out everything. He deserved to be left alone in his misery. After all that she heard, she wondered if anyone should ever try to bring him out of his misery, or if it was possible.

Because she had become engulfed by her bewildered thoughts, she had not the mind to walk away before the door to Dom's apartment opened, and Joren stepped out. The door slid shut behind him. And he saw her.

Keladry stared at him, wide eyed like a doe caught in headlights.

"Hi."

Joren did not appear as if he were even breathing. After a long agonizing moment, he spoke. "How much did you hear?"

"Nothing!" she replied instantly.

"Don't lie to me, Mindelan! How much did you fucking hear?!" he bellowed. She almost jumped back in shock. After hearing him cry, she couldn't have imagined that he could burn so hot so quickly. Keladry glanced around her, wondering if anyone else heard, or chose to hear.

An interruption would not be so bad right then.

Anything but this wild creature in front of her with blood on his hands and grief in his crumbling stone heart.  Keladry gulped. It crossed her mind that she could run like a jackrabbit to the end of the hall, but knowing Joren, he would hunt her down like a dog and tear her to pieces if she tried.

She knew she was the better fighter when it came to unarmed combat. But Joren Stone was unstable, and utterly capable of killing her with his bare hands if he wanted to. Kel stared him straight in his eyes because she was unable to look anywhere else. In the corner of her vision, she spotted the familiar stitching on the inside of his collar. Oh, yes. He could be a jackal. Jackals were feisty and dangerous things when they were cornered.

But Joren wasn't cornered. He was anything but.

"I won't tell anyone. I promise. I don't care. I won't even try to remember it."

"You don't try to not remember it. You just remember," he spat. "Your mind decides for you, whether your heart likes it or not."

Another cautious step backward. "Oh. Well, then, I won't ever say a word."

"Do you think you have a right to pity me? I don't want any of your damn pity."

She faltered. "Pity? Pity you? I could never pity you, Stone. I hate you. You know that. Just as much as you hate me. You hate me, remember?"

He turned away, his fury subsiding. Keladry breathed a sigh of relief. She relaxed her leg muscles, which had tensed when the notion to run had entered her head.

"His name is Coram Vincent Winston. If your damn mind has to remember him, at least know his name," Joren commanded quietly. He walked away without another word.

Keladry stared after him. She was still speechless minutes after he was gone. The many shocks he put in her system with his teasing kisses were nothing compared to this emotional roller coaster that he had thrown her on. Part of her wished to run after him and demand that he tell her everything. She wanted to know, so she could be the one comforting him instead of Dom. The other part of her never wanted to see him again. Seeing him made her miserable, not because he tormented her endlessly, but because his misery became her misery.

Dom's door opened. The Rider looked down the hall to where Joren had left. The blond operative was probably in his room now. But whether he shed tears or seethed in rage was beyond either of the witnesses left behind.

"I know you don't hate him. I don't either. It's hard to when you sense his heart."

She blinked. "So you think he has one?"

"You heard him. His whole life to him is like a big sick joke. Any heart he does have is… caged. Trapped."

"Trapped," she intoned.

"Yeah. Trapped."

~~

Author:

My head hurts.

I hate my English teacher for instilling in me this whole new sense of deeper meaning in words and phrases. Because it causes my head to hurt as I type them.

But I suppose that it was the best style I could have used to finally tell the whole story that is Joren Stone. I plan to lighten the season's tone by the next episode. Too much darkness was never good for the digestion, don't you agree?

This was the first episode where I chose not to recycle Tamora Pierce character names, except for a few like Coram and Noack. In fact, Julia is a borrowed anime character, just as Enishi was. She is from Cowboy Bebop, and if you want a picture of her, or her story (as it is in the anime, not MY story) then please feel free to e-mail me. My e-mail was listed at the beginning, if you wanted it.

I hope you enjoyed this episode on at least some significant level if you weren't the little least moved by it. I don't expect everyone who reads this to get the many layers of meanings and emotions that I tried to communicate. Describing every single emotion I want to inspire doesn't necessarily inspire them. Sometimes you've got to lay it down simple. And then it just happens.

Tell me what you think in your review, no matter what your reaction has turned out to be.

IMPORTANT! Theme song from Coram's POV looking at Joren is definitely Deftones' "Change (house of flies)"! I insist you go back and read their club scenes while listening to that song! Download it, buy it on CD, do whatever! It's THE song for THAT MOMENT! :D

-Sulia Serafine © 2002