Epilogue

A middle - aged man walked slowly through a graveyard. Leaves fluttered down to the ground around him, and he shivered, pulling his coat tighter about his tall, frail body. Sometimes he felt as if *he* was a leaf, just waiting to be blown away in the wind.

A huge old cathedral loomed up against the grey autumn sky behind him, reminding him of the hated place he had wasted most of his life trying to escape. By the time the government had finally looked into what the Center was doing, it was already far too late. All of the children had become adults, and the adults had become older and older, until they lost hope and gave up their plans of escape.

All except one - and he was the one they all said would break first. After all, he had been labeled an insane lunatic when the government got around to him, and he had tried to escape so many times that his body was covered in scars from the beatings they had forced him to endure.

He had tried to learn to let go of his hate, but he wasn't sure if he could. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

The half - dead man with thin, prematurely snow - white hair crouched before a gravestone, and reverently laid a single, lonely stone he had found, that was plain brown when you looked at it one way, but shone like the pale moon when you tilted it just slightly to the right. He did so, and as he watched the light play over the polished rock, he smiled, thinking of his companions, all of whom had been freed from the Center, for better or worse.

He ran his fingers over the engraved letters, thinking of what they could possibly mean. The stone read, 'An unidentified woman killed in a car crash. We will always think of her and be reminded that death always withholds mysteries from us.'

Below this were the dates, 'Unknown - 2010.' A chill ran up his spine; he had known who the woman was. Then his fingers traveled over the words below, the eulogy he himself had written for whom he had considered to be his best friend in the Center. He closed his eyes and sighed, sadly shaking his head, and turned back to the two men who were assigned to escort him wherever he walked, to make sure that his mental instability would not escalate out of control. He cast one last glance back over his shoulder, and then gave in to the men, who gently led him back inside the insane asylum that was next to the church, assuring him that it was far too cold outside for a man such as he to be wandering around for hours.

Behind his back, the cold wind blew through and between the graves. But it was not just the wind that moved. Another hand, a stronger hand than the other man's, also touched the wording, thinking over what the words meant. On the tombstone next to the small tribute to the unknown woman, a few verses and a message were carved:

'Here I opened wide the door -

Darkness there, and nothing more.'

Here lies Jarod, a victim of the Center.

1977 - 2010.'

The figure straightened, and gazed after the haunted man flanked by guards with a slight smiled on his weather - beaten face. He remembered what Timothy used to be like, and his heart was gladdened by the sight of him, doing so much better. He only regretted that Timothy could not journey with him - the other man had been too traumatized, and after a few dozen attempted - escapes, his drive and determination only ran out when the government placed him in an asylum.

But it was a good place - he had been watching, and he had been pretending, and he knew that they were taking good care of all of the Center kids who had been liberated only after they had been broken. He smiled to himself, stuffed his hands back into his pockets, and turned his face to the wind. His hood blew back from his face, and for the first time in many years he felt bold enough to show his face in public.

Jarod the Pretender was dead, to all knowledge. His birth records had been filed away somewhere, his SIN number had been dumped out like garbage. If anyone had been looking for him, they would only find that he was dead. He had considered completely removing the files documenting his life from existence, but he reasoned that if he did so and someone came looking for them, he might be exposed. So, for now and, he believed, for the rest of his life, he could only live in secrecy, never living in one city for too long, never taking a job for longer than a few months, or until people started asking questions, whichever came first.

And through it all, even though the small tombstone next to his could very well have been his mother's, he desperately searched for his family, even though he was almost sure that the Center had sent out operatives to kill them in their sleep long ago.

Jarod's long black overcoat drifted in the wind, and he turned to the west and the setting sun, lifting his hood up over his face and heading towards his second - hand car that he had bought cheap for about four or five thousand dollars, paid for entirely in cash.

Even as he walked, he remembered that night almost a decade ago, when he had woken up in a cold sweat in the hands of the Center. He had only been able to escape again with Sydney's help, though the old man knew he would be either fired or killed for what he was planning to do. Sydney had done it anyway, and Jarod had only learned of his apparent suicide when he had lead the government team on a one of the many Center raids.

Of course, the government had hushed up the whole thing, erasing records and denying media coverage to try and keep the image that they had absolute control over everything. As far as Jarod was considered, that was, and always had been, a load of crap. He was only lucky that the other Center kids had believed he was dead, and had told the government agents that he was indeed long gone.

He smiled a bit, and opened the car door, slamming it after he drew his long legs into the car. He inserted the keys and started the engine, zooming away through whirlwinds of leaves and mustering rain droplets. He turned the radio up, just drawing the line between loud and blasting, and hit the play button. Oddly enough, classical music with lots of percussion and string instruments assaulted his ears, not the hard rock music he had originally inserted. He adjusted his mirror at the stop sign, but he froze solid when he saw someone standing in his rearview mirror.

He shifted into park, taking his eyes off of the mirror for a split second. When he looked again, and whirled around to gaze through the window, the person was gone.

Was that...could it have been who he thought it was? Surely not...

He jumped at least a foot when Sydney tapped on the window, smiling in at him. Jarod unlocked the door and grinned, and the old man grinned back as he strapped himself in. The Pretender didn't know why he hadn't seen it before. Of course Sydney wasn't dead - he wouldn't kill himself, and he was too smart for even the likes of the Center to catch up with.

Sydney sighed, and rubbed his hands together.

"Well, Jarod, where shall we go today?"

Jarod grinned again, overjoyed to have some company, even if it was in the form of the man who had made his childhood a living hell.

"You know, I've always wanted to cross the border. You game?"

"As always, Jarod. As always."

With that, Jarod drove north, towards the Canadian border.

***

When they reached the Seattle city limits a few days later, Sydney smiled and held out an envelope to Jarod, who took it cautiously, but with the curiosity of a small child. He said, "Open it. It was left with me when you first came to the Center, along with these instructions: Only give it to him when the Sky Needle is in clear view. Look, Jarod. Look over there."

Jarod turned his gaze to the left, and saw the huge silhouette against the city light - polluted sky. He looked down at the letter, and saw his name written on the envelope in painfully familiar writing. He opened the envelope, and read the small slip of paper within.

It said, 'I've been waiting.'

When Sydney cleared his throat again, Jarod looked up, and there she was. His mother, in person. She smiled at him silently, but stayed standing where she was, giving no indication that she would rush to him and hug him senseless. She was totally unrecognizable - her hair was matted and full of grime, her clothes were patched and full of holes, and her entire body seemed to have aged. He didn't know how he knew she was his mother - he just did. But there was something too familiar about her - the way she wore the rags like a disguise, and when she swept off the dirty wig, he knew that that was exactly what it was.

His mother had disguised herself from him. For some odd reason, that cut him to the bone. But then again, maybe it was for both their safeties. After all, he reasoned that he probably would have been even more cautious about setting up a meeting, and he probably wouldn't have waited almost two decades for an answer.

He smiled at her, blew her a soft kiss, and turned his back on her, driving north towards the border, leaving her sobbing with joy in the soft red glare of his taillights.

***

~Fin.

Make of it what you will. But always, always cherish your parents. Remember that they won't be around forever. And they can actually be pretty cool, once you get to know them.

As always, this one's for you, Mom.