Chapter Two
Alister glared coldly at the men as they attempted to box him in. But he didn't intend to stand for that. He stood up, pushing the small, circular table back, and held tightly onto the child who had come to him for refuge. "Can I help you?" he asked frostily, anticipating their response.
"Yeah," the first one declared, watching him. Alister couldn't help but notice the pale scar on his cheek, but it didn't surprise him. People of these sorts were always getting into trouble that left scars—both physically and mentally. "You can give us the brat you're holding." He made a move forward, as if to lunge and take the child. It would be easy enough, he was certain. It didn't look like Alister would be much trouble to them. He was too skinny to be able to put up much of a fight. But underestimating him was this man's mistake.
Alister held the boy with his right hand while swinging his duffel bag harshly at both men and kicking the chair backwards at the same time, catching them off guard. While they were getting unentangled from the chair and each other, the redhead quickly disappeared around a corner and down an alley. The child, feeling certain that he would be safe now, clung to Alister's neck and watched the alley come to an end. Alister dove down the next street, highly aware of the criminals chasing him, and then leaped over a medium-sized hedge in his path, tumbling down on the other side.
"That was neat!" the boy chirped as Alister got up to run again. One of their pursuers, getting desperate, shot off a warning round of gunfire. Alister looked irritated at this. They wouldn't be able to keep firing at him; they'd be too concerned that they might hit the child. And they needed him alive. So he wasn't too worried as a bullet whistled by and hit a nearby tree.
"It won't be neat if we're caught," the redhead said grimly as chips of bark flew in all directions. He turned away so that none would go in his eyes. He didn't especially want to go blind, he thought sarcastically.
A second bullet ripped through his right shoulder without warning and he screamed in pain, momentarily letting go of the small body. But the boy still clung to him, his little arms firmly around Alister's neck. "Mister! Mister, you're hurt!" he wailed.
Alister somehow resisted the urge to clutch at the wound and kept running instead—his good arm now around the child. Swiftly he dashed around a corner and into a taxi that just so happened to be there at the curb. When he had the door shut, he leaned back against the seat and tried to catch his breath.
That had been too close. . . . And the men were naturally right behind them. Now that he was wounded, there would be less he could do if they were caught. He narrowed his eyes in irritation. I should've been paying more attention, he berated himself. But being frustrated over the past wouldn't help the present.
The child settled onto his lap again. "You're bleeding," he exclaimed in horror, tears coming to his eyes. For one so young, he only knew that weapons such as guns killed people. He couldn't yet understand that there were wounds of varying severity and that one could recover after being shot. He was certain that Alister was going to die. "You're all hurt now 'cause of me!"
Alister glanced at the cab driver, who seemed to be dozing, and then down at the innocent child. "The bullet went through me," he replied softly, knowing that the boy probably didn't understand. "That's better than if it had gotten lodged in my shoulder. In any case, I'm going to be alright." He laid his left hand on the child's head, ruffling the dark tresses. His right arm hung at his side, currently useless. He didn't want to attempt to move it at the moment for fear of irritating his shoulder.
"No!" the boy sobbed, grabbing Alister's wrist. "You're gonna die! That's what happens when you get shot—you die! You helped me and now you'll die!" And suddenly Alister no longer saw a child with turquoise eyes and black hair—he saw a gray-eyed, red-haired boy who gazed at him adoringly and who meant the world to him. He saw his brother Miruko terrified because Alister had been shot during that abominable war. That had happened after their mother had been killed and they had been all alone. He still didn't know whether it had been an accident that he had been shot then or if it had been deliberate, but it didn't really matter now.
It had been when he and Miruko were trying to go to what was left of the market to find food. They had been starving for days and finally Alister had decided that they would have to brave the fighting to get something to eat. He had told Miruko to stay behind and hide, but the child had followed him anyway, terrifed when the bombs had started going off in their neighborhood. And the entire downtown area had been transformed into a battle field. Alister hadn't realized things were that bad, but when he had seen the state of things he had known that he and Miruko couldn't remain. As he had started leading his brother off, a bullet had slammed into his chest.
Miruko had screamed, certain that it had somehow been his fault for coming along when Alister had told him to stay behind. Alister remembered reassuring his brother that he would be fine and that of course Miruko wasn't at fault, even as he had winced in pain and doubled over in agony, clutching his chest. Then he had felt consciousness slipping away from him. His last coherent thoughts had been that he couldn't leave Miruko all alone and that he had to survive somehow.
Alister recalled waking up in the home of a kind neighbor, a panicked and worried Miruko at his side. By some miracle, neither of them had been shot again and the town doctor had found them. Once he had gotten them to safety, he had managed to successfully remove the bullet before Alister had lost too much blood to be able to survive. But he still had the scar where the cruel lead had entered his body. It was very faint now, but if he looked closely he could still see it.
He came back to the present now, finding that he was still holding the crying child close to him with his left arm. He wasn't certain why the boy was already so worried over him when they had only barely met, but he was touched. "Don't worry," he said softly. "I promise I'm going to be alright. People can get better after they're shot. When I was a lot younger, I was shot in the chest." If he wasn't wounded at the moment, he might have tried to show him the scar. But as it was, he didn't think that would be a good idea.
The child looked up at him in disbelief, tears standing in his turquoise eyes and more trailing down his face. This seemed too unbelievable for him. Gently Alister brushed the tears away. "I was able to get help in time," he explained. "That's why I was able to be okay." He heard a stirring sound and glanced up, seeing the cab driver rousing. All the better. We need to get out of here before we're found out. He was certain that any moment the thugs would find them and either force their way into the car or force Alister and the boy out of it.
"Then you need to get help now, too," the boy said stubbornly, frowning at him.
Alister had to smile. "I will," he reassured him. "But first, tell me your name and where you live, if you can. I need to get you home and call the police to catch the men who were chasing us or else we'll continue being in danger." His shoulder was throbbing, though he wouldn't admit it. He knew he needed to investigate the wound now and try to stop the bleeding. The last thing he needed was to do something stupid, such as pass out from blood loss. Slowly he began shrugging the trenchcoat off.
"I'm Pierre!" the boy chirped. "Pierre Martindale." He blinked at Alister, watching him carefully pull out a handkerchief and hold it over his bleeding shoulder. The sight of the blood both fascinated and sickened Pierre, as he had rarely seen any in his short life but knew that it was a sign that someone was hurt (the only other time he had seen blood was when Diana had accidentally cut herself with a knife while fixing dinner). But soon he looked away, biting his lip, and hid his face in Alister's trenchcoat.
The cab driver, who was now fully awake, stared at them in the rearview mirror. "Hey, what's going on!" he cried indignantly. "Pierre Martindale's a kidnapped kid! There's alerts all over the city about him! What are you doing with him and why are you bleeding all over my car!"
"He got hurt saving me from the mean men!" Pierre announced, looking up and frowning at the driver. "Don't you be mean to him! He doesn't deserve it!"
"I'm taking him to his home," Alister added coldly, "and the police need to be called and given descriptions of the men." He hissed in pain, touching both of the bullet holes with the tips of his fingers. He felt a slight dizziness, but tried to ward it off. The last thing Pierre needed was to see him black out. The poor child would think for sure that he had died. Somehow he had to stay awake. He had to. . . . If he could just keep himself from losing any more blood, he'd probably be able to manage it.
The cab driver didn't answer immediately. He seemed disturbed by something as he turned the key and started the engine. When Alister glanced out the back windshield, he saw what had put the man into such a panic—there was a dark car barreling towards them, complete with gunmen leaning out of the windows and their pistols pointed at the cab. It wasn't the sight Alister was hoping to see.
Raphael felt out of place in Hilda's limo. He didn't know why he'd even allowed himself to be talked into going with her at all. He supposed it was just his foolish fantasies, wanting to believe that he still had a living family member who cared about him. But why would she care now when she had rejected and abandoned him eight years before? Nothing about him had really changed since then, he didn't think.
Or had it? He was still bitter about much of humanity, and about how so many people were cruel and hateful, but still . . . there was something different, he realized. When Hilda had last seen him, there hadn't been any living human in whom he had placed his trust. Now . . . now there were two.
"What have you been doing for eight years, Raphael?" Hilda's voice broke the silence. She was slowly drinking another glass of champagne, retrieved from a private case in her limousine. She had offered some to Raphael, but he had refused, never having quite understood what made it so appealing to drink. He remembered sneaking a drink of wine at a fancy party when he had been a child. For weeks he hadn't been able to get the taste out of his mouth and out of his mind. He could still taste the bitterness in his memory if he concentrated hard enough. Since then he had avoided all alcohol like the plague. It clouded one's senses anyway, not to mention leaving frustrating hangovers the day after indulging in it. And if one became addicted, they were in for trouble. Raphael frankly couldn't see any good reason to drink any of it.
He now wondered what to say in response to Hilda's question. Oh, for most of that time I've been part of a secret organization bent on rebuilding the world by stealing people's souls. No, somehow that just didn't sound right. "A little of everything," he responded at last, crossing his arms and realizing that he was speaking coldly. But then he wasn't surprised. He and Hilda weren't bosom friends. Not that they ever had been, but they had seen quite a lot of each other when they had been children. So much was different now, for both of them.
"I haven't heard anything about you," Hilda remarked, crossing her legs. She pulled her wrap closer around herself, realizing that she felt cold. She actually didn't like dresses such as the one she was wearing, but she had supposed that to be successful in society, she had to wear the kinds of things that most everyone else did. It was her dream to be in high society, just as her parents were, and she knew that she had pushed Raphael away because of it. But a part of her honestly regretted it now. Raphael was a good person. He hadn't deserved to be treated like dirt.
"No, I don't imagine you would have." Raphael really wasn't much in the mood for conversation. He wanted to continue looking for his friends, though he really knew it was likely hopeless. How would he possibly find them in this large country? He knew he couldn't give up. He would never give up on either of them. That wasn't his nature—to abandon his loved ones. Once Raphael considered someone part of his family, they could always count on him to be there. He had the kind of extreme loyalty that would make him a very faithful husband—if he was interested in romance, that is. But he was not. He was, however, a faithful friend.
Hilda sighed sadly, leaning back against the inside of the limo's door. "What happened to us, Raphael?" she asked. "We're not the same. I said you hadn't changed much, but really, you have. You've changed from the little boy I used to play with. And I know I've changed. Most assuredly I've changed."
"At least you admit it," Raphael grunted. What had happened to him? Well, for starters, he'd had his family ripped away from him in a storm that Dartz had created. He'd been stranded alone on an island for years, with only three cards that represented his family members as his companions. He'd come home to a world of chaos and deceit and madness and had been rejected by his childhood friend. Then he had joined Doom and had met his new family—Alister and Valon. And the man he'd idolized had betrayed them all. Again he had returned to the world of chaos, this time wanting nothing more than to locate his family again. That was what had happened to him.
"Hey," Hilda said suddenly, sitting up straight again, "something isn't right here." She frowned, finishing her champagne and setting the glass down. "This isn't the way back to Paulette's." She was only visiting in this area, she had told Raphael, and she was staying at a friend's manor. But now she was certain that they were not headed for that manor.
Raphael frowned too. Anything out of the ordinary in this situation could be a bad sign. He had the feeling that they were in for trouble.
"Carlton, where are you going?" Hilda demanded now, leaning over to look through the partition separating the front of the car from the back.
A cold metal was placed to her head and she gasped. "Carlton doesn't work here anymore," was the chilling reply. "And if you and your pretty boy cousin don't do as we say, you'll both wind up dead."
Raphael growled, instantly coming to attention. He wanted to knock the gun away from Hilda, but there was no way he could do that right now without only endangering her worse. "What is it you want?" he demanded, thinking of how these criminals were now wasting even more of his time. This was the last place he had expected to find trouble of this sort.
"You'll find out soon enough," was the gruff reply. "Just don't try anything stupid and maybe you'll make it out alive." In the next moment Raphael heard a shot fired out the window, followed by another.
"What's going on!" Hilda yelled angrily, attempting to turn around and look out the window now that the gun was no longer being pointed at her. All she could see was an arm hanging out of the window ahead, the hand firmly holding a firing gun. And she was furious that her car was being used for these nefarious purposes.
Raphael spoke dryly in reply. "If you want my honest opinion, the limousine was hijacked by these men because they're trying to either catch or kill someone. And we get to be the lucky bystanders, the witnesses to their atrocity." The witnesses who will probably be killed when this is over. Raphael was not pleased in the least. But he was going to be even less pleased when he found out later who they had been shooting at.
Valon purposefully entered the trailer where he had been boarding, making certain to be quiet so as not to attract unwanted attention. He looked around with a sigh at the sparse surroundings and began collecting his belongings together to fit into his backpack. There weren't that many. Random clothes, a portable CD player, several compact discs to go with it. . . . Of course, his infamous goggles were perched on his head. He never seemed to go anywhere without them.
With a wry smirk he recalled how he had even joined up with the biker gang to begin with. Some of them had cornered him on the road and hadn't been going to let him pass. In irritation, Valon had flown over them on his motorcycle to get by. That stunt had captured their attention and things had gone from there, especially when Sandy had came upon the scene. Somehow Valon had found himself agreeing to join with them temporarily, just until he could find his friends.
He did lots of odd things at the spur of the moment. Joining with Dartz had been another of those things, though since that had been the only way to get out of prison, he felt like perhaps it hadn't been such a wrong decision. And he had met Alister and Raphael then. . . . He wouldn't have, otherwise.
"Valon?"
The brunette started, almost dropping the red jacket he was holding. He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't even heard anyone come in. But he knew it was Sandy without even turning around. With a sad sigh he set the jacket down on the cot and turned around to face the young woman.
Sandy dropped her helmet in the doorway and came in further. "You're leaving, aren't you?" she frowned, fingering the backpack. "Is it because of something Michael said?" She knew her beau could be intimidating, but she didn't think Valon would be the type to be affected by his words. He seemed different than most people, and similar to Sandy herself—independent and wanting to be free. And yet there was another part of him that was insecure and sad. She had seen this late at night when she tried to comfort him after one of his dreams.
Valon watched her and then sighed, shaking his head. "Not really," he replied slowly. "It just seems . . . it seems like I'm not doin' much good here. I haven't been able to find any trace of my chums . . . and since I've been here, things have been kinda strained between you and your boyfriend." He smiled ruefully. "I don't wanna be comin' between the two of you or anything like that." The last thing Valon wanted was to be a third wheel. He had already been unwanted for most of his life. He was tired of getting into situations where it would be better if he wasn't around.
"But you haven't been," Sandy objected. She crossed her arms, looking at the Australian who had captured her heart without even trying. She knew Valon didn't return her feelings the way she wished he did, and she knew it was likely for the best, but that didn't make things any easier. She didn't want him to go.
"I'm not stupid, Sandy," Valon said quietly, zipping up the backpack and looking into her eyes. "I know how you feel about me. And I know that's not gonna do any good for you and Michael." He sighed, leaning against the wall. "I can't return your feelings, and I need to find my chums, so . . . it's better if I just leave. I just kinda feel like nothin's getting accomplished while I'm here." And it's like I don't belong. I know I don't. . . . Not here. His place was with Alister and Raphael, as strange as it sounded to him to be admitting it. This biker gang didn't care about him and he really didn't care much about any of them, save for Sandy. But with Alister and Raphael, he had a bit more of an assurance that he was wanted.
"I guess I can't change your mind, then, can I?" Sandy asked with a wry half-smile. She'd known he would leave someday, but she hadn't quite considered that it would be before he found these friends he was looking for. And she didn't entirely understand why he needed to look for them anyway or what had caused them to be separated. It didn't make much sense to her. What had caused them to get lost from each other? She had the feeling that it had something to do with whatever he hadn't wanted to tell her earlier, about his "organization." But she didn't want to pry. If Valon had the desire to tell her, he would.
"'Fraid not," Valon told her gently. He cared about Sandy as a friend and didn't want to hurt her. That was the last thing he wanted. He knew he had to leave, for both their sakes. He needed to try looking more in the cities for Alister and Raphael. There wasn't much hope that they would be wandering through this area, unless . . . unless they were maybe looking for him. Was it possible? Valon kept thinking that perhaps they were and then changing his mind again. How could it really be that he was cared about now—and enough that his two Doom associates would spend times trying to locate him? It was hard for him to even comprehend.
Sandy smiled sadly. "Well . . . will you at least stay until after our performance tonight?" she asked, her voice hopeful. "I wanted you to watch me. . . ." Slowly she reached out, taking his hand.
Valon relented, laying his hand over hers. She had been practicing for so long and so hard, even adding Valon's own stunts to her performance in honor of him. So he would stay long enough to see her moment of glory. "Alright," he said aloud, but he couldn't stop the nagging feeling that something was going to go very wrong. . . .
Sandy's performance was last. The show had so far gone on smoothly and the bikers were well-liked. Sandy was no exception. As she did her expert twists and turns the spectators clapped resoundingly and whistled. But Valon found no great satisfaction in the audience's applause. He realized all the more that he didn't really want to be on display—nor did he like it. He did these sorts of things to survive and because he enjoyed it, not to perform for people like a cheap carnival worker. Funny, he thought to himself, now I know why Alister never wanted to show me how he can throw his voice around.
This was the first time Valon had actually joined in with their act. He knew it would be the last time as well. He could only hope that he would soon find his home, where he belonged, with Alister and Raphael. It was strange, how he realized that such was all that he wanted. If they would take him back, then he would be happy.
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't consciously realize what was happening around him until he suddenly saw Sandy soar through the air on her motorcycle. He came to attention, remembering how he himself had executed such a move many times before, and then discovered with horror that something was wrong. Instead of landing upright, the motorcycle tilted violently to the side while still in the air, sending Sandy flying off in the opposite direction to crash down like a broken doll. The crowd stood up in alarm and Valon's eyes widened in stunned shock.
"Sandy!" he yelled, finding himself running to her aid. Then he was abruptly shoved away by Michael, who gave him such a look of hatred that the Australian actually felt a chill go up his spine. The look had clearly said, If she's dead, you'll suffer for it.