Notes: 1: I have determined that Raphael is 24. True, he perhaps looks a bit younger than 12 (more like 10) when he was stranded on the island, but by the time he leaves he looks to be about 15 or so, and he was on the island for 3 years, at least according to my information. Don't like the way I've figured things? Tough. Deal with it. And if it's really 5 years that he was on the island (as I heard somewhere), then he must have been 10 when he was first stranded. 2: Hilda is my character too. In fact, let's say everyone is my character except any that are obviously recognizable as canon characters (in this story, canon characters would be Alister, Raphael, Valon, Miruko, Alister's and Miruko's mother, Raphael's parents and siblings, Mary the nun, and Dartz).

Chapter One

Alister prepared to be out of the hotel room as soon as morning dawned. There was no point in staying any longer than was necessary. After all, he certainly wasn't on any sort of vacation. And he had barely slept through the night. When he had finally managed to go to sleep again after the nightmare of remembering Holly's death, he had dreamed about going back home and finding everything in ruins, still unrepaired from the war's damage. In the middle of the debris where his home had once stood had been the bodies of five people—his mother, Miruko, Holly . . . and Valon and Raphael. They had all been dead. And Alister had sunk to his knees, realizing that he had nothing left in the world and no one who would care about him. Everyone who did care had been laying dead at his feet. That had been when he had woken up. After that he hadn't even tried to go back to sleep. He didn't see the point anyway, as he was waking up less refreshed than when he laid down in the first place.

He sighed, turning to glance idly in the mirror before he would go downstairs to pay the bill and leave. He saw only a sad, lonely young man of twenty staring back at him, dressed in dark jeans and a tight-fitting tank top. There was no place for him to go, so he wandered about from city to city in search of a family he wasn't sure he had. He had some money that had been saved up since he had been with Doom, which was good when he needed to travel about, but what was money to him? He cared nothing for things of monetary value.

In the mirror, he could also see the window reflected—and the storm clouds outside. Frowning, he reached for his trenchcoat and pulled it around him. He hated getting stuck in the rain. It reminded him too much of lonely days during the war. When it had rained then, blood had been washed down the broken streets and gutters. He clenched his fists tightly at the unwelcome memories. Some of the blood might have even been his mother's. He remembered when he had found out that she had been on the bus that had been bombed. The war had been so horrible, resulting in so many orphans and in so much innocent lost. It was no wonder that he had bought into the false idealism of Doom. He had hoped that he could rid the world of wars. But it was not meant to be.

With a low growl he picked up his dark duffel bag and headed out of the room, shutting the door hard behind him. He felt like he was closing the door on another failed attempt to find the place where he belonged. And when he thought of it, wasn't he really being idealistic again? Here he was, actually thinking that he could find two specific people somewhere in this extremely large nation. But for all he knew, they weren't there at all. They could have both gone back to their native lands. And even though Alister had money, he didn't think he had enough to allow himself to travel overseas to both of those lands.

Valon was from Australia. That was obvious the moment he opened his mouth to speak. Not only did he have the thick accent, but many of his expressions and idioms were indigenous to Australia alone. Sometimes he completely startled and confused Alister with some of the strange things he said. Actually, his entire open personality bewildered the silent redhead.

Raphael, on the other hand, was from France, though he spoke without any trace of an accent. Alister supposed that the long years of isolation on the island had erased any accent that he might have once had. Raphael was easy to understand, both in words and actions. At least, Alister found him easier to understand than Valon. Sometimes Raphael had confused him too, such as when he always seemed so willing to accept both Alister and Valon and considered them as more than mere associates. Alister couldn't figure out how Raphael had managed to always be so accepting.

He rubbed his eyes as he got in the elevator. He was thinking about them both again. Would it ever stop? He had the feeling that it would not, unless he could find them once more. Even if he refused to admit just how much he needed them, he knew he did. They were his only friends in this world. Right now, they were the only living people he truly cared about. Narrowing his eyes, he pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket and slowly put them on.

The streets were dark and virtually empty. Alister passed only a handful of people as he trudged along, the duffel bag hoisted over his left shoulder. Most sane people weren't out of bed yet, he thought to himself with a smirk, remembering how Valon used to make similar complaints at times when they had been forced to get up early to accomplish one thing or another for Dartz. But I guess . . . I'm not really sane. Look at this ridiculous quest I'm on.

He stopped at the corner to buy a local newspaper and then sat at an outdoor café to look it over. Every day it was the same—he would look over the daily events and try to find ones that seemed like possibilities where he might find Valon or Raphael. Then he would go about to them all, searching desperately and hopelessly. None of his attempts ever came to fruition.

He traveled daily into new towns and cities in his search, every now and then stopping to ask someone if they'd seen his friends and then describe them. He only asked people that he thought might actually have had occasion to meet up with one or the other. For instance, upon seeing a motorcycle gang engaged in doing dangerous stunts, he had paused to find out if any of them had seen Valon. They hadn't. But still he didn't give up. There were so many places he hadn't checked yet. He had barely scratched the surface. Even just going to the areas where he knew Doom had been once or where they had been planning to go was taking a lot of time. It could take him several months before he would be able to look in all of those locations and see if possibly the other two were at any of them. He wasn't holding out much hope that by the end of it all he would have found his friends.

Today was beginning like any other day. Alister had no reason to believe that it would turn out any different. With a sigh and a sip of the cherry 7-Up he had purchased from a vending machine, he turned the page of the newspaper. Now he was looking at the advice column. Some poor fool was asking for help in their love life, he observed before boredly turning the page again. Well, maybe if they'd stayed out of love in the first place, they wouldn't be having a problem, Alister thought sardonically to himself. His heart was closed to romance. It seemed like a waste of time to him, and that it was only for the idealistic. And it seemed to almost always end in tragedy anyway, so what was the point? Why not sidestep it altogether and avoid the pain? Alister was tired of pain. He didn't want to do anything that could lead to more of it.

Actually, though, he realized, he already was. There was the chance that Raphael and Valon wouldn't want him back. He was taking a chance on pain already by assuming that maybe they would be looking for him and that they would care. He clenched his fist. I'm no better than the romantic fool, he thought to himself. I'm looking for friends that I'm not sure I even have.

That was when something crashed into him from the side. He let out a startled exclamation at the disturbance before looking down to see what had caused it. To his shock, a small boy was clutching at his trenchcoat in an almost frantic manner.

"What's the matter?" Alister asked, his voice instantly softening. Innocent children always gained access to the part of his heart that he normally kept closed to everyone else. Slowly he lowered his shades to look into the child's eyes, feeling that the boy deserved to completely be able to see who he was conversing with.

"I'm lost," the boy said matter-of-factly, staring at Alister with wide turquoise eyes. He blinked from behind a vast array of ruffled black hair, still clutching at Alister's coat. It seemed to the redhead that the boy acted as though he were running from something that was pursuing him. Alister wondered if that were so, and if it was, what exactly was pursuing the child.

Alister gave him a slight wry smile. "That's a coincidence," he remarked. "I'm lost too." He spoke to the child intelligently, as if he considered the boy to be on the same mental level he himself was. When he had been a child himself, what he had hated almost more than anything was when adults would speak to him in "baby talk" or tried to say that his thoughts and views were completely pointless. His mother had never treated him that way, and he made it a point to never treat children that way either.

The boy shifted weight, continuing to look up at him. He couldn't have been more than four. "I can't find my family and two awful men want to get me!" he declared, promptly climbing into Alister's lap. Despite his experience, he was still trusting and adored most people. And Alister seemed harmless to him. "Why are you lost, mister?" he asked. "I thought grown-up people didn't get lost."

Alister sighed sadly. "That," he declared, "is very much untrue. Grown-ups get lost as well. And I can't find my family either." I can't believe I just said that. But he was momentarily unconcerned with his own problems. "Tell me about these men who are after you," he requested.

The boy bit his lip. "They said that Mommy will pay a lot to get me back if they take me," he said then, still confused over the whole matter. He had just been out at the park with his au pair when the two men had appeared, hurt the woman, and had tried to take him prisoner. He had been running ever since. "And Diana got hurt. I don't know if she's even okay!"

Alister's eyes narrowed. A kidnapping for ransom? That was never a good thing. He was about to ask the child if he knew his full name and who Diana was when he felt a strong hand gripping his shoulder unpleasantly. Instantly he was on the alert as he turned, holding the boy protectively in his arms. He found himself facing two cold, stern-faced men who had muscular builds reminiscent of Raphael's. The child cried out in fear and clung to Alister frantically. And Alister suddenly had the feeling that this day was not going to be like all of the others.

Raphael entered the lobby of a fancy restaurant, lost deep in thought. He certainly didn't expect that he would find either Alister or Valon in there. Neither one would have the money or desire to come to a place such as this. And Raphael really didn't either. But he was here anyway, for old times' sake. His family had oftentimes come to restaurants just like this one to eat. Raphael didn't know exactly how he had come to pass through the revolving front door or what he would do now that he was inside, but he stayed to the side, choosing to watch the people at their tables and booths and allowing himself to indulge in memories of the past. He would go back outside in a moment, but for now he was content to remain. There was something nostalgic about it.

As people passed by him, some coming in and others going out, they regarded him with looks that he knew all too well. They obviously thought he was some kind of hooligan as he stood with arms crossed over a broad, muscular chest that was covered by a dark, sleeveless shirt. His purple trenchcoat flowed around him, the belts and straps going in all directions. Black pants with boots and two small, circular earrings in his left ear completed the "punk" look. None of the well-to-do people he saw in this establishment would ever dream that he had been a wealthy child once upon a time—nor could they possibly imagine the depth of his soul and that what he desired the most right now was to find two other people whom they would consider as nothing but who were the world to Raphael. They would never understand. Depressed suddenly, Raphael turned to go. He didn't belong here.

"Hey, you there! Wait a minute."

Raphael froze, hearing the voice from behind him in the dining area. As he turned around to see who was calling to him, he knew he recognized that voice. And when he picked out Hilda coming through the crowds, he found that he wasn't surprised. It had been years since he had seen her last, but still she hadn't seemed to age a day. She looked as young and vibrant as ever—and socially successful as well.

Hilda was his distant cousin—distant in more ways than one. As children they had played together, but often Hilda would wind up wanting to pretend that she was the hostess of a fancy ball and that Raphael was her faithful servant. He had always balked at that game, though he had actually sometimes liked being with her. There was another side to her, one that wasn't seen very often because Hilda's parents had already been raising their daughter at that age to want a grand social life and to expect nothing less. Raphael never really understood any of it. Though he was from a wealthy family, he had never looked down his nose at anyone who was from a lesser social class. Neither did his siblings or their parents. But most of their relations were different. Hilda and her family were prime examples.

The last time he had seen his cousin had been right after he had been rescued from the desert island. He had just turned sixteen and had started to grow extremely bitter towards all of "civilization," which, he claimed, wasn't really civilized at all. As a result of his rebellion and his heartache over his loss, he had taken to dressing in a punk sort of way that his parents most likely would have never approved of. Hilda hadn't approved either, but for a much different reason. As she had put it, it would cast a bad social light on her if anyone knew that such a "hoodlum" was her cousin. She hadn't shown any kind of happiness or relief that Raphael had returned alive. In fact, she had flatly told him that unless he stopped being so negative about life and started dressing like he belonged in a wealthy family, she wouldn't acknowledge that they even knew each other. Raphael had only been too happy to end their acquaintance.

The young woman stopped in front of him now and looked up, frowning thoughtfully. "You have to be Raphael," she remarked in her aristocratic voice. "You haven't changed much, it seems." She stepped back, her carefully styled auburn hair framing her face. "And do you remember me?"

Raphael growled. "I remember you declaring that I was no longer your relation," he retorted. Why was Hilda talking to him? He didn't understand. He gave her a searching gaze. She still had the same uppity, detached expression that she had worn the last time he had seen her, which had been eight years ago now. In her hand she held a glass of champagne and she looked for all the world like the hostess she had so often pretended to be as a child. She was three years younger than Raphael's own twenty-four years, but she tried so hard to act like she was so much older that Raphael found it almost pitiable.

"That was a long time ago," Hilda replied, setting the glass down. "Your taste in clothing hasn't improved much, but I noticed that you were here and I was hoping that you were coming to embrace your family legacy." She crossed her arms over the tight-fitting strapless gown she was wearing. Raphael frowned, not thinking that much of her taste in clothing either.

"This," the blonde man retorted, "is not my family's legacy." He gestured around at the ostentatious designs on the walls, woodwork, and pillars and at the people who were all looking at him in horror and at Hilda in awe. They probably thought she was standing up to this "criminal," he thought sarcastically. And he was certain that this would all be a waste of his time. He wanted to be on his way, not argue with someone who had disowned him as a family member.

Hilda frowned. "Your entire family was a very important part of the social scene internationally," she accused, "but you turned your back on everything they worked hard for and became a bitter hooligan after you were rescued from that island. My father offered you everything you could ever want—fame, fortune, the chance to live in a spacious mansion just like the one you had before—and you rejected all of it!"

Raphael was getting angry. He was not in the mood for this discussion to come out of the blue. What right did Hilda have to stand here and announce that he had turned his back on his family? He had loved his family with all of his heart. But Hilda's family didn't care about him. He knew that the only reason her father had offered to take him in was because he thought it would look very bad for him socially if he did not, since Raphael was his nephew. And Raphael had decided that he would rather roam the streets instead of living where he knew no one loved him. That mansion would not have been like the one that had been his home, because there had been no love within its walls. And Raphael wanted to feel cared about, not as if he was a device being used by others for their purposes.

"Look," he said finally, "this isn't the place to be having this conversation. In fact, let's not have it at all. I have better things to do with my time." He looked at Hilda coldly. "I'm sorry that you feel that way about me, but you've never been willing to listen to my side of things. And instead of explaining, I'd rather get back to what I was doing. I'm sure you'd rather get back to your associates. They'll be wondering why you're talking to the riff-raff." He moved to walk around her and out the door. She made no move to stop him.

When he was outside again, he leaned against the wall of the building and looked up at the clouded skies. A storm was on its way. But it seemed appropriate to him—a storm to go along with the clouded and frustrated feelings in his heart.

He sighed, crossing his arms. One of the main reasons he had been so disgusted with civilization when he had been rescued was that so many people were selfish and greedy. He hadn't really observed it well enough when he was younger, but now he could see it clearly. So often they were motivated by their own purposes and not because they wanted to do anything to help other people. It was no wonder there was so much crime and so many murders being committed, Raphael often thought to himself. Frankly, he still didn't think that civilization was all that it was cracked up to be. He would be content just to stay away from most all of it, with his surrogate family as his only companions. If he ever found them again. . . .

"Raphael?"

He started and turned to look. To his amazement, Hilda was standing there, her mink wrap hastily thrown around her bare shoulders and sincerity in her eyes. She reached out, gently touching his arm.

"Let's give each other a second chance, alright?" she said softly. "After all, we are cousins. We used to play together all the time when we were younger." She paused, struggling with the words she wanted to say. "I want to understand, Raphael," she said at last. "Please . . . give me the benefit of a doubt and try to explain your feelings to me." And for a split second, Raphael saw in her again the child that he had once enjoyed being around. He hadn't wanted things to change between the two of them when they had been such close childhood friends, but it had. It was foolish, he thought later, but a slight hope was kindled in his heart at this moment. Maybe Hilda would be different. Maybe there was still a part of that child within her. But that still didn't mean that Raphael would instantly open his heart to her.

"It would take a while for me to be able to trust you again," he said finally. "You rejected me when what I needed most was for someone to truly and honestly care about me." He straightened up, clenching his fists. It had hurt when she had pushed him away eight years ago. It had hurt more than he ever thought it would. But she had been his last hope then, when he knew his parents and siblings had been killed and he had visited their graves. He had thought maybe, possibly, his cousin would still care about him. But she hadn't.

Hilda looked down. "I know," she said quietly. "I'm sorry, Raphael. We used to be good friends. I shouldn't have treated you the way I did."

Raphael grunted. "Well . . . that's a start," he said, half sarcastically.

Valon crossed his arms, leaning against his yellow motorcycle as he watched Sandy practicing her stunts out on the course that all of the bikers used. He had just been practicing before Sandy had taken her turn, and now as he observed, he could see that Sandy seemed to be trying to imitate some of his moves. He frowned slightly, not certain what to think about that. Even he acknowledged that some of the stunts he did were quite dangerous. It had taken him a lot of practice to be able to do them properly. But he shrugged to himself, deciding that Sandy would be able to handle it. She had been here for several years, after all, and she hadn't gotten into an accident yet.

A sharp footfall behind the Australian alerted him that someone else—most likely Michael, Sandy's beau—was approaching. But he didn't bother to turn and see. If Michael or whoever it was wanted to talk, he was more than welcome to begin the conversation. Valon wasn't in the mood to do so. He was brooding, which he found himself doing a lot more of these days than he had for a long time.

"She's doing your stunts. Did you notice?"

The voice was cold and rough. Valon recognized it as Michael's. "Yeah," he said, sitting on his motorcycle now, "I noticed."

"She thinks the sun rises and sets on you." Michael threw a toothpick into the dust, looking disgusted. "But I don't see what's so special. You wouldn't even be here if you had those precious friends you're trying to find."

Valon grunted. "Oh, I dunno about that, mate," he retorted, leaning on the handlebars. Maybe Alister and Raphael wouldn't want him around, just as their imaginary counterparts in his nightmares didn't. Maybe he should just stay here to save himself from being rejected again. But still, something in his heart told him that he wanted to find them and that he shouldn't give up hope. And yet he argued that it was impossible to give up something that he had never possessed. There was not much point in having hope, he thought. It wasn't something one could depend on. He could only depend on himself. Hope was a crutch, a crystal crutch that usually shattered, the shards digging deep into the victim's heart.

Michael crossed his arms, looking at Valon darkly. "You're a strange one. Sometimes you act like you couldn't care less about anyone or anything. But yet you claim you're on a quest to find two of your friends. And then there's your whole personality. Sometimes you're so friendly I can't believe it. Other times you act cold and distant, like you are now."

Valon shrugged. He didn't really like Michael, so he didn't see much reason to be open and friendly around him. But Sandy, on the other hand, was a kind, gentle person and a good listener, so Valon often talked with her. Valon had a feeling that this was what Michael was referring to—and that he didn't like it.

"Let's just get one thing straight, Aussie," Michael said icily. "I know Sandy likes you, but she's my girl. And if anything happens to her, I'm going to hold you responsible for it." He nodded to where Sandy was finishing her practice with a combination of a stunt she'd created and one that Valon often used. "You won't like it if that happens."

"I also don't like being threatened," Valon retorted.

As Sandy removed her helmet and came over, both men stopped talking and looked up. Sandy blinked at them, sensing that they had been discussing something of a serious nature. "What's going on?" she asked, looking from one to the other. "What were you two talking about?"

Michael gave her a quick kiss as he walked by. "Just men's stuff," he replied.

Sandy frowned, watching him go. "Was he telling you to make sure I don't do something dangerous?" she asked Valon, crossing her arms. She felt that Michael was too overprotective of her. When they were both part of a motorcycle stunt gang, of course they'd be doing dangerous things. And it wasn't lost on her that he had a jealous streak. She knew that if he thought Valon was encouraging her crush, he would make life a living Hades for the Australian.

"Something like that," Valon told her with a light shrug. He didn't see any need to tell her all the details. He certainly wasn't encouraging her in anything. If she got hurt, Valon wouldn't feel as though it was his fault. He would be distressed, however. Sandy was a good friend and he liked her, though he didn't have any romantic feelings for her.

Sandy sighed, shaking her head. "If he didn't want his girlfriend doing dangerous things, he shouldn't have hooked up with one who likes the same things he does," she remarked, inviting herself to sit on Valon's motorcycle with him. She leaned on his shoulder slightly, placing her hands on it and looking up at him after resting her chin on the backs of her hands.

"I noticed you kinda copied some of my stunts," Valon said after a moment of silence. He was letting Sandy lean against him, as they had already established that they were only friends and that there could never be anything else between them. Sandy was already taken and so was Valon, in a way. Mai had his heart, though he knew she didn't love him in the same way. It was a vicious cycle, really. He loved Mai, Sandy seemed to have a crush on him, and Michael loved Sandy—or at least, considered her "his." None of them could really seem to be able to have the person they each wanted.

"Yeah," Sandy admitted. "Well, I mean . . . you have the best stunts, so I figured, why not? I try to add my own twists and all, but I guess it's pretty obvious that I got the original from you." She paused. "Where did you learn to do that kind of stuff anyway, Valon?"

Valon sighed, remembering Doom. Every one of the Orichalcos soldiers had been granted a motorcycle. Most of them became adept at doing strange and dangerous feats in the course of their assignments. He, Alister, and Raphael often had flown their motorcycles out of the cargo hold of their airplane and down onto the island where the Doom headquarters was. Valon had always enjoyed the exercise, and sometimes had tried to get the other two bikers to race him to the temple, but they had never humored him.

"Valon?"

He was startled out of his thoughts, recalling the question at hand. He hadn't told Sandy anything about Doom, and he really didn't want to, so at last he simply said that he had learned from an organization that he had been with. There was no need for Sandy to know about Doom or what its purposes had been.

Sandy nodded slowly, but looked understandably puzzled. "What kind of organization?" she asked. "There aren't very many that would teach stuff like we do."

Valon shook his head, standing up. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said quietly, walking off into the cover of the grove of trees that was nearby. Sandy frowned in confusion, watching him go but making no move to stop him.

When the Australian was certain that he was alone, he laid down in the grass and stared up at the leafy foliage that mostly blocked out the cloudy sky. It was all so puzzling, he decided—Doom, and what it had brought about. He might never have met Alister or Raphael if Dartz hadn't decided that they would be perfect soldiers for him. But they had all had those who were special to them whom Dartz had taken away. Idly Valon wondered if Dartz had realized that his soldiers would wind up forming a close bond with each other. Probably not. And he probably would've been ticked if he'd realized. Heck, I didn't even realize it myself . . . until I found that I didn't have either of them with me. He felt more lonely without them than he had ever imagined he would.

And it didn't seem to be doing any good to be with the stunt artists while he was searching. Maybe, Valon thought, it was time to leave them and move on. It would be better for Sandy, certainly. She wouldn't have to worry about Michael getting jealous or about having Valon around when she knew she couldn't have him. And Valon decided it would be better for him as well. Slowly he sat up, determination in his blue eyes.