Taffer Notes: A short intermission kinda thing. I didn't want to take away from one of Aiden's most important moments by mixing in another POV.

Part 2

Where do you turn~

Chapter 10

Getting Stronger: Frequent Flier

Aiden, nearly ten years old, is about to die.

Thunder whips the tall, curved ceiling of the aircraft hanger. It tapers off into a dark and hungry growl that rattles the walls and echoes on when the tremors have long passed. Out past the small windows looms a black night, from where it stares back at Aiden with his chin turned up.

In the hanger sits a single, useless airplane. Not only because no one knows how to fly it, but because it's broken; he's heard adults argue about it for days now. Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over again.

So the plan sits; a broken memory of flight and a time much better.

Its surrounded by pallets and mattresses and more people than Aiden can count. You can't take a step without tripping over an adult, a soon-to-be-an-adult, or a child. Aiden thinks of himself as one of the soon-to-be-adults, even if he's often told he's wrong. Everyone is packed together tightly, which means it's very warm in here. So warm, the air goes down very thick, and Aiden fears that they might run out. Out of air, that is, because no one wants to open the windows. Especially not at night.

Aiden, nearly ten years old, is about to die when lightning strikes and brings darkness.

The hangar falls quiet. The chatter is gone. The music, too. The singing. Because often people sing and hum and they even laugh. Either way, it's all quiet now. All except the smallest of children; their voices fade slowly, one by one, as the grown-ups hush them.

It's why Aiden thinks he's not a child anymore. He knows better than to make noise. He squeezes his lips shut and stares into the dark, his small heart beating way too fast.

Flashlights come on. Their cones cut through the pitch.

Then, screams.

Aiden, no longer nearly ten years old, still was about to die.

The screams were his own this time, but that was about the only thing he could be certain of. His thoughts were sluggish creatures, too fat and large to fit his head, and he couldn't wrangle them, no matter how much he tried. Where was he?

Not in an aircraft hanger, that was for certain. Not in a train cart, either. Or in a gym, where mats had turned to beds and climbing equipment to clothing racks. No.

He was moving. Not walking, but moving. Being moved. His throat ached. His blood stung as it pumped through him. And he could barely breathe.

The ocean.

Suddenly, Aiden remembered the ocean.

White-capped waves. A white beach. A white house with a white wall and a white cat and he wondered: Did I fall into the ocean?

Were the shapes that circled him, the ones picking at him — dragging him — pulling him — sharks?

"I suggest we get out of the Bazaar," said one of the sharks. "This way."

One of Aiden's unwieldy thoughts turned over to look at him. It thought, loudly: Sharks do not speak, and shook its sluggish head.

Alright. They weren't sharks then.

A whistle followed. Close by. Not a come here whistle, but one of those whistles you did when you saw something you appreciated. "Fuck me, Fi, look. A goat—"

"—Crane."

"Shit. Yeah. Got him."

Aiden gasped for air. That same air went down harshly and he coughed, which told him he was not in the water after all. But that was about as much clarity as his thoughts allowed him. Though he did manage to open his eyes (which stung - why was the light so bright?) and watch colours and shapes drift by. Stone. Asphalt. Moss and grasses and then a plank of wood, titled at an angle.

Up.

He went up something, and there were screams.

Aiden, nearly ten years old, is about to die.

Panic sweeps through the people in the aircraft hangar. Some press left. Some press right. No one knows what way is the safest. The screams he hears aren't all human anymore.

The flashlights died already. He sees nothing. It's too dark. The black around him coils and chokes him—

Aiden, nearly six years old, does not want to die. Black smoke fills his chest. Makes his eyes sting. A tunnel— endless —stretches ahead of him, fire racing along its walls like water rippling in a pond. More of that same fire wraps around him. Burns his skin off.

"Mia!" he screams. His small lungs burn. Hands grab his arms.

The fire eats at him until it leaps into his blood.

"Yeah, yeah. Your sister, we get it. C'mon, kid. Fight. Not— ow. Not me. Jesus Christ."

"In here." A door creaked. Something cool washed over Aiden. Put the fire out. Least the one on his skin. The one inside of him, that raged on. Relentless. It'd turn him to ash soon. "Put him down."

Aiden, too young to die, doesn't want to be put down. He tears through the fire and the smoke and tries to break away from what wants to turn him to ash. But he doesn't know where he's going, what he's running to (running from) until he's back in the dark hangar. Thunder shakes the walls that he can't see. Hands slip under his shoulders. Raise him up.

Up.

"Climb," a long-ago-dead-man says. "Get into the plane."

Aiden's small fingers find the plane's wings. He climbs. Lightning flashes. It's bright— so bright —and it blinds him. But he climbs. He climbs until he's at the plane's hatch, where pale long-ago-dead-faces wait for him and hands reach for him. They want to pull him in. Save him.

Except he doesn't make it.

He is yanked back. He falls.

That's wrong.

He knows it's wrong. He's not meant to fall into the screaming, pushing, shoving mass of dying people.

He didn't.

Aiden hit the ground. The back of his head cracked against a hard surface with a sharp thud. His eyes snapped open. Air went down his throat in ragged, thorny pulls. The world remained a blurry, muddy mess, full of nonsensical colours and noise. But what frightened him— truly, deeply, frightened him —were the shadows clouding his vision. Sickly blue tendrils crawled inwards. They bled from the ever-closing ring pulling tight.

And Aiden knew.

Deep down— where the pain and memories masquerading as nightmares couldn't reach; where a frightened boy (ten, six, fifteen, anything-in-between) huddled —Aiden knew he stood at the edge of losing himself. Of losing to death pouring through his veins.

Of turning.

So he did the only thing that made sense to him: he got up. Up. He is meant to go up. To rise. To climb. To fight.

The long-ago-dead-faces inside the airplane bled together into a single one. Narrow. Scarred. A woman's face. She looked at him with wide, grey eyes under a dirt-coloured cap. He'd seen her before. But where?

Aiden's mind turned to fury.

It didn't matter where he'd seen her. All that did matter was that she stood between him and his escape from the fire eating him up; between him and his mind crumbling to rotten ash. He screamed and lunged.

An arm snapped around his neck.

"Chill. The. Fuck. Out." The arm squeezed. Hard. Then Aiden's world toppled sideways and he saw a wooden floor rush at him.

His hands caught his fall. Splinters dug into his palm. They pierced his skin as every muscle in his body chose that one moment to suddenly contract. Unable to do any more than give in, he toppled to the side. The floor tilted and stretched on to meet a wall. There, by the wall, stood a table. A man was on his knees by it. He had spiky black hair and a yellow pack slung to his side. He grabbed for a box under the table and pulled it out.

Aiden, overcome by another rush of fury, almost found the strength to scramble for the man.

Would have, too. But then a knee landed on his chest.

Aiden, still made from noting but fury, did not like that.

Not one bit.

He did not like the man who came attached to the knee, the hard stare out of light-brown eyes levelled down at him and the grim frown under it.

Getoffme! he wanted to scream.

What made it up his throat was a brittle scream.

Aiden swung an arm at the man. Tried to claw for his throat. But the man caught his wrist with one hand, his grip so tight, Aiden felt his bones grind together.

"Nah-ah," chided the man.

Aiden, pinned to the floor, kicked his feet. Arched is back. He struggled and fought until, unbidden, his thoughts caught on a memory. On recognition. Almost like his sleeves would catch on thorns as he waded through the underbrush. He knew the man, much like he'd known the woman. He recognised his voice, at any rate, something about Friend or ow— what the hell, Fi? and a bit of both.

The man did not stand between him and his crumbling mind. Neither had the woman. They were helping him.

"Hold him still," said another voice. This one was new and belonged to the man with his spiky black hair and the yellow pack.

"Please—" Aiden recognised that voice too. It was his own. "Don't let me turn."

His thoughts pulled against the nail that'd caught them. They ripped free.

Aiden, nearly six years old, grips his sister's hand tight. But it isn't tight enough. Mia, he wails as he's pulled away.

"Are you absolutely sure," the black-haired stranger asked. "This might kill him."

"Do it," snapped the man kneeling on Aiden's chest. He pulled Aiden's arms down. Slammed it into the ground. Then his eyes turned to Aiden and his voice dropped to something resembling kindness. "Good luck, kid."

Something white flashed in the corner of Aiden's eye. It was long and narrow, had a red tip, and it went right for his arm—

Aiden, nearly six years old, bites his tongue as the needles go in and the fire eats through him. It's always the same: a sharp slice of pain; a touch of ice; and then unbearable heat pumping through him as his heart labours. But it's important that he endures it, even if he doesn't remember why.

Aiden, nearly ten years old, isn't about to die anymore. The broken plane's hatch seals. He's trapped inside now, surrounded by muffled sobs and muted weeping. Outside, the screams carry on.

They will for hours.

Death claims many lives that night. But him? Him, it passes by.

Aiden, nearly six years old, is pulled from the fire. He's screaming for his sister but no one will listen.

Not even Death. Death, patient, allows him to live.

Over and over again it slides right by him.

Except for today.

Today, it found him.

Today, it looked right at him.

Taffer Notes: You know that one thing I use Fan Fiction for? The whole iTry New Things/i bit? Or generally, you know, practice? Yes, this was one of those chapters!

I wanted to play with relatively rapid back and forth between yesterdays and today. I think it worked out okay.

Oh, yeah! If you, my lovely readers, find any typos and such and wrongly placed words, please let me know. I am doing this without a proofreader/beta and it shows.