The Late General Hughes

Chapter 1: Who am I?

By Claudius

I do not own the copyright of Full Metal Alchemist, nor do I own the copyright to characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel. For the FMA readers, the major story is set during episodes 43-44.

"That's an amazing talent." Maes Hughes forced light into his words. Forgotten was the umpteenth wound to his arm; remembered was the wound to his soul. He had just made lethal attacks against two Homunculus monsters: one he stabbed in the head, the other slashed at the throat. Before this night, he hadn't killed anyone in seven years. Now he's throwing push-knives like crazy! Like riding a bicycle, Hughes humored himself, struggling against this wound. Hopefully he can spare Elysia such experiences when she grew up. That is, if he gets that info to Roy. "I hope you'll forgive me, but I've got a wife and kid waiting for me back home."

The Homunculus arose. Thanks, thought the Lieutenant Colonel. Make me feel even more a killer! Hughes intensely held his push-knife for the next attack. His rhythm suddenly stopped. His eyes no longer saw the form of Maria Ross. This shape-shifting monster had taken another shape. It was another woman, very familiar in frame and voice. Too familiar.

"You're right, Hughes," said the Homunculus morph, brandishing a gun. "Maybe this is a more fitting end."

Hughes was capable of stabbing the Homunculus before it attacked him. But the new form froze him in mind, body, and blood. His emotions screamed, working its will against him. A wall of memories and feelings blocked his actions. All because of this woman before his eyes, aiming a gun at him. He couldn't fight that, Hughes quivered at the sight. Not her!

And so, Maes Hughes let Gracia shoot him. No. Not Gracia. Hughes realized that fact as the bullet tore through his organs. Gracia was at home with Elysia, worrying about him. She wasn't this thing defacing her image. But this foul impersonator remained implanted to his mind, lingering on as he lost his strength and balance. It lingered as he thought about other things: Roy's promise to himself ("I'm going to become the Fuhrer, Maes. I'll transform how this whole country runs. It's the only way I can justify taking my next breath.")

His own promise to help Roy ("To do that, you're going to need someone who understands you and the system, and supports you from the inside. I'll work under you, stay close to the higher ups, and help push you to the top.").

Gracia waiting for her husband to return ("Just…be careful.").

Elysia asleep in her bed, believing her daddy hated her.

The thoughts ended, Hughes now realized he was on the floor. He didn't feel hitting it. His body was going numb. Blood squirted from his mouth. Still, Hughes tried to keep calm. Time to die? Well, it was borrowed time, right? The cost of Equivalent Exchange: His life would now pay for the joys given to him by his family.

Pretty stupid thinking, huh? Such contentment wore off. Hughes felt his life was incomplete. He didn't want to die! He wanted to love Gracia again, hug Elysia one more time! And he had to tell Roy…tell him…

It was getting hard to think. The end was coming. Hughes' eyes, bereft of glasses, stared into the night. Was this blurry sight supposed to make the approach of the final darkness easier? Suddenly came jolts of pain. Like heat against cold, the blast struck his dying body. The sense of feeling had made a brief comeback. He was being held. Hughes' weak sight couldn't tell his savior by face. His ears picked up a voice. It sounded like his own, but very cold. "I saw what happened. You've got a good ground for divorce, I'm afraid."

Hughes pressed for his remaining motions the shock gave him. Got to tell him. His bloody mouth broke out incoherent words. "Tell…Mustang…Wars…lies…Philosopher Stone…"

"You can tell him yourself." The response sounded optimistic, but very strange. Hughes retreated back to other thoughts. Gracia. Elysia…

Again, a strong shock of senses returned to Hughes' body. More pain. His failing mind attempted to decipher the reason. His blurred vision could only read his benefactor slurping his wounded chest as if it were ice cream. What a time…to get squeamish.

Hughes' head now got lifted by the pull of his hair. He felt a warm something trickling into his lips. It was…blood. But…

The thought was interrupted. All feeling vanished. Then all was nothing. Maes Hughes died.

The day of Maes Hughes' state funeral happened under a bright blue sky. Only one man thought it was raining. Such a prophecy was fulfilled; a storm did come once the sun had set. It rained upon the cemetery, its wet drops moistening the new grave before the tombstone marked Maes Hughes 1885-1915.

The softening of the ground might as well be an advantage for the strangest of happenings. The grave pile of dirt shook as if struck by a minor earthquake. The tremor amplified in intensity. The climax was reached: A hand broke out into the air, grabbing with desperation. Then a second hand ripped open from the ground. These grasps upon the dirty earth lurked to further space. And with a greater eruption came out a head. Maes Hughes.

But this man had undergone a change in death. Not of decomposition, for no mold or decay grew on the body. The skin, the eyes, the hair upon his head and jaw remained preserved, but a sinister addition marked the rest of the face. The lime eyes were now golden, the pupils tiny and inhuman. The ascent from the ground led to the loss of glasses. But the thing moved like one lacking poor sight. A new brow hung on its forehead, heavier, curved monstrously to accentuate the animal glare. The cheekbones grew like muscles. Its mouth now bore long fangs; the lips surrounding them quivered with expectation.

The change was not surface alone. There was also a new behavior, and not entirely caused by the trauma of feeling death. To the personality, emotions, and memory that made up Maes Hughes, a new alien feeling invaded and conquered. This dominating influence was a fierce characteristic: cold, cruel, savage. It craved blood. The creature walked slavishly to its fresh instincts. It refused to notice the rain, soiling the blue military uniform. The new bands commemorating Hughes' new rank as Brigadier General was something unknown to this creature's knowledge. Also ignored was its grave of escape, the muddy hole being filled and erased by the pouring rain. Only bloodlust held this creature's attention.

Walking unstopped, the beast came to metal bars blocking its way. The creature jumped over it. That this feat was made by prowess incapable of any normal human was also not a pressing thought right now. Doing it just felt right. Reaching the road, the creature suddenly shrugged. Something screamed in its unprotected sensitive ears. Its eyes located a growing bright light. Shock and confusion were its reactions. A strong force thrust the creature away. The creature hit the ground. Lying on the wet floor, pain was the following feeling. Rage became next. Its nose smelled blood. The scent got closer, as a voice sounded.

"Are you alright?"

The creature recognized the sound. Human. Full of blood.

In seconds, the creature was upon the human. Hands pressed upon the prey's neck, portraying a delicious attraction for the creature. He bore his fangs. His animal passion rising with one idea: Kill…

With such an aftermath to the body, what can one say about what happened to the spirit? The following story might be a good description of what happened, but it is so inferior to the real experience. In an illuminated environment, Maes Hughes felt everything in the bright light. He saw many things. His birth. His childhood. His education. His job. Friends. Roy. Family. Dad. Gracia. Elysia. The lives he helped. The lives he ended. Love. Fatherhood. Death. All was carefully recollected and experienced, but in a quick and accelerated fashion. He knew his present. He saw his body in a coffin. The sight of his corpse didn't trouble him. His physical form was an old shell, decayed and dead. His new existence was better, pure, immortal. All regret faded away. His time was over. Nothing wrong with that: to affirm existence is to let go, and completing his life confirmed it.

With a blink, Hughes saw a train on the countryside. On it were Edward and Alphonse Elric, and Winry Rockbell. In his new form, Maes waved to them. He didn't care if they saw him or not. He would always be with them, as he would be within everyone he loved.

Goodbye.

And then Hughes walked to a giant black gate appearing to him. Its opening was long awaited. He was at peace. The end.

The peace was corrupted. There came an attack by discomfort. The door remained shut. Rejection. Before the spirit could understand, the darkness swarmed and conquered the light. A great difference had taken shape around him. Dark instead of bright. Restrained rather than free. Dead, not alive.

What did this mean? A new knowledge and awareness conquered this level of being. The existence once known as Maes Hughes thrust into a new form, with thoughts of its own. New thoughts. Terrible thoughts…

Kill?

The creature halted itself. A distant interpretation, almost alien in its appearance, touched its savage wish. The thought merged with a coherent scene. A memory. The image of another man. His bleeding neck. Knife wound. The memory had something endearing. The dying man's living blood seeping from his neck. His death. That sight was something thrilling, interesting…not right. A killing? Yes, the creature thought, it caused that death by slicing the victim's throat open. It was…good…It was wrong. The creature experienced a rebellion to his pleasure. Consciousness was achieved. It killed…He killed…murdered a man. For the first time. But the man had to be killed. The man killed. So he killed. No choice…

There came a flash, revealing a new scene by memory. There was another man. No murderer. But he murdered him too...

The creature shook over its fearful prey. The past collided with the present, fighting their different meanings into this monster. Short-term words of thinking developed into longer perspectives. New meanings, true ideas, better insight; these essences tortured his cruel desires like hot pincers. The faces of these dead men materialized in his mind; once shadows, they grew fuller and complete to the creature's attention. He saw them looking, staring, frowning, lurking, glaring, hating…

Its ears broke with screams. The prey was not alone. Shut up! The creature growled in mind, ready to release it vocally. "Shut up!" was the first words of this new life. His hungry eyes glared at the oncoming presence. It was a mother and child. The creature was delighted. More prey. Eat them and forget…

The savage glare shattered. This mother and child resembled another pair. Snap! The moment of recognition, the sudden memory of the dead men, the conscientious thoughts were all there. All these tricks of the mind swarmed together for a final attack. The onslaught of emotion and thought enveloped the creature, swallowing him whole. Was his thirst worth enduring this pain? The creature suddenly realized that action. His thirst? The status of what that idea meant came strong, reaching awareness. It came building, growing, into a behemoth.

The creature shirked from it. He will ignore it. He will ignore it. He was better now. He didn't care! He didn't fucking care!

His mind peeked at the behemoth. All denial and ignorance shattered.

Maes Hughes snapped open his eyes in the darkness. He looked around the room to divide the reality and the dream. The separation did little help. What a nightmare! Peaceful dreams were rare in his life now. Or, he corrected, whatever this joke of his life was now. He was remembering that incident again, the only memory in this unknown blank of an existence.

Hughes got out of the bed, looking across the small room. Months ago, he would expect the brightness of morning to get him up (or Elysia). Fat chance for that now! He now lived in a small room, the type where a few steps measured the room with danger of stepping on vermin. Still, it was cheap, and he had a few weeks before the rent could be paid. A yawn later, Hughes turned on the lights. Opening the bright curtains would not be a great idea. He saw nothing on the mirror. The lack of a reflection gave him little understanding of how he looked. He supposed his jaw as clean-shaven, though rubbing his chin did reveal a few stubbles. His hair flowed a little long, colored to a dark brown. The one bang curl had vanished, replaced by long bangs that hung over his eyebrows. An earring embedded his left lobe. Even with the lack of a reflection, Hughes knew the disguise worked; no one recognized him for his old human self. To the public, Brigadier General Maes Hughes was dead.

He sat at a small table. From a bag he took out a small bottle. It contained something he got this night from the Butcher's shop. He poured its black red contents into a glass. Blood was like milk, very sticky and thick. Not to mention delicious. After a drink, he viewed the mess of papers, bearing sketches and theories. For Hughes, it was a habit as un-killable as himself. You can take the man out of the investigations department, but never the investigator out of the man. One piece of paper was a drawing of a tree bearing several branches. Names like 'Juliet Douglas', 'Morph,' and 'Sexy' labeled these branches, among others. All stemmed to one name- 'Fuhrer Bradley.' The meaning of this work brought back an awareness of danger. He dismissed it. No one bothers you when you're dead.

The humor-as-coping-mechanism was acknowledged. It felt like a joke. Still acting like you're human, Maes? His thoughts were a good indication that he was not. Black ideas ran inside his brain. He possessed the thinking that a serial killer would possess. Everyone was prey to him. Anyone he saw or met pressured within him a desire to kill, to eat. Then again, could that be a sign of humanity? He knew of a lot of people who acted that way, and they were alive and normal. But they lacked any insight about the moral nature of their beliefs. Hughes had that in spades. He knew killing a man was wrong. He had experience doing such things before he became this…freak. Those memories haunted him beyond life. So much for resting in peace! Yep, a lot of his thoughts were wrong, fastened with repulsion and guilty remorse. This conscience restrained him from actually doing the things that popped in his head. But was he truly sick of this temptation to be some monster? What if it was the rejection that really bothered him?

Time out on that one, Hughes decided. He had other things to do. He grappled on to that excuse like a life preserver. Under his condition, that was hard to do. He drank more blood. At least he was physically different than psychos. They couldn't do what he could. He was stronger than them, in body, in speed, in senses. He didn't need his glasses anymore. He can heal faster and better. He was beyond humans. Maybe he was superior to the Homunculus!

Or maybe not. Psychos or Homunculus can still walk out in sunlight. Hughes couldn't do that without becoming a hamburger. He was forced him to stay in the shadows now. Forget tanning! Psychos can see their reflections. When Hughes first saw nothing on the mirror, he thought he was a ghost. Furthermore, psychos didn't have this thirst for blood. Sure, he still enjoyed tasting food, but the nourishment was gone. Only blood could do that, and the urge to have it was undeniable.

So what was he then? Not a Homunculus. There was no Oborobus mark on his body. The attempts to discover the identity of this form were on the table as well. Unfortunately, few answers were gained. Research on himself proved as nil as info on the Homunculus. The libraries (the ones that survived or were restored before his untimely end, as well as the ones he could actually enter) gave no idea on what he was. He had to sneak into the places, making his research as discreet as possible. It wasn't always dull, though. On one occasion he played around with the guards, quickly moving from shadow to shadow under the fools' noses. It was fun, until the game turned into some sinister 'cat and mouse' game with deadly consequences on the guards. Hughes quit that game immediately.

Hughes saw everything was now a question. A lot of his exploits in those weeks he barely remembered. Maybe he didn't want to. Trauma. The thought of what truly happened in those days edged to the disturbing. It was not helped by his desire to meddle in such things. Doing that got him killed. Another habit he couldn't break!

Anyway, by the time he got some of his bearings back, more than a month had passed. A few hours ago this night, he overheard talk about Liore. An entire army of Amestrisian soldiers vanished in a red glow (an imagination that was not entirely horrible). It appears the Homunculus have finally gotten their Philosopher Stone! Hughes considered that deduction heavily. Maybe he could have stopped it by telling Roy. Then again, maybe not.

Hughes wondered if the Elric Brothers were there. He missed those boys. This longing for those kids soon fell to more precious people. But he could never see them again. Imagining such a meeting pulsed fear inside him, showing the inevitable image. Their surprise, their shock, his thirst…

With a snap of anger, Hughes flung the glass of blood against the wall. The entire table was upset, with its many papers scattered on the floor. In his hands, this piece of furniture was to be destroyed. But a return of common sense returned the table back to where it was, along with recriminations. "Good job, Maes," he spoke aloud to himself. "Look at you, breaking things like a kid. Elysia's more mature than you." Yeah, he agreed, but can anyone with this affliction do any better? This new life was pulling all sorts of nerves in him. Like it opened all the black parts he usually kept inside himself…most of the time.

Hughes picked up the papers, gathering them together into a pile. That bloody stain on the wall was going to be a harder problem to clean up. It looked like a murder happened here. What a way to explain it to the landlord! Hughes came close to the mark, touching it. The mark was still wet. He dipped the red fingers into his mouth. A taste. Hughes bit hard. His senses returned to frustration. How can he help not being pissed about this change? He once had everything, friends, a family, a job. What did he do to deserve this hell?

("You spoiled brat!")

Hughes flinched at this memorable line, the possible reason. But did that justify the punishment?

Maybe.

An attempt at philosophy turned in his thoughts. What a bizarre exception he was! Those weirdo Alchemists wanted life after death. He didn't. The moment he walked out of his house that fateful night, Hughes understood that he would die. The only priorities were that his family was safe and that he was able to get his information to Mustang. Even when he failed at the latter, he accepted the final fate. But things didn't turn out that way. Worse, fate led him to a different direction with this life.

This life. How funny it was, Hughes tried a dose of sarcasm. He was alone, now separated from family and friends. Now he craved blood, had psychotic tendencies, and couldn't enjoy a sunny day anymore. He didn't even know what he looked like. "I am a monster!" And what was so wrong with that? He was stronger, better than those weak humans. "Who'd want such their pathetic life? Not me!"

But no victorious laughter followed this declaration. Only desperation. Hughes couldn't stand it one minute more. He had to end it all. There was that curtained window. Open it up and it will be all over. His hands clutched the fabric, squeezing them tightly. Just spread his arms outward…

The arms remained statuesque. His palms began to sting from the light, but they remained attached to the curtain. The only movement of his body was the bending of legs. Downward Hughes knelt into the shadows, his new home. "What a coward I am. Guess I'm still a sane human after all."

Hughes searched for a remedy. He had to get out. Investigators don't do well in cramped rooms.

An hour later, Hughes was traveling around the city in a car. It was the only possession from an alternate identity. When he was alive, his investigations sometimes had him go undercover to better gain information from the seedier side of the city. Because the knowledge of this guise was his alone, it wasn't dissolved with his death. But new responsibilities as family man and Lieutenant Colonel led to this guise being neglected. The car suffered from that ill use, with a lot of rust. Rather than fixing this problem, the owner added black paint to the windows, save for a small line before the front windshield. In this vehicle, Hughes drove down to the usual lane where he could go blindfolded. He was fully dressed. By coincidence, Gracia had donated his wardrobe to a shelter on the same day he came looking for clothes. He was able to recover much of his clothing, although he could never wear them the old way again. His collar was buttoned, wrapped with a tie. His tails were tucked in, with his coat closed. Black, horn-rimmed glasses covered his eyes.

The car passed by people on the street. Their presence gave him confusion. He had mixed reviews over his new perspective for humanity. Hughes knew he was different, maybe better than them. And the fact they all possessed blood made the food label plainly noted (though he never bit a human being…in memory at least). But he couldn't bring himself to label humans as some inferior insect. Killing an ant was no problem to him. Killing a human was. His conscience made humans too valuable to eat, even though he rarely associated with them anymore.

On the destined block, he saw a figure near the street. Elysia. The child rode her tricycle recklessly on the sidewalk. Hughes parked the car nearby. Through a small crack on the barely opened side window, the driver provided himself a view. A glow shone into his black room. Whether it was from this sunny day, or from the girl, Hughes made no distinction. He gazed somberly at the child. Once upon a time, he treasured that child more than his life. Now? How could he love something so small, so ill-behaved, so…so completely adorable? Any negative views toward humanity, already checkered, were even weaker whenever Hughes thought about someone dear to his past self. And he still loved his daughter. What things he could do to her…

Maes cringed with an ill sensation. Every time something positive happened, it led to something that felt right, but was so wrong. He did love Elysia. He would sacrifice his life (again) for her. But a different tone was added to this affection. It was possessive, controlling, sick. Hughes had encountered many cases of abusive fathers who felt their love for children demanded cruelty and perversion. They thought the best way to show this love was to kill their child. With this parallel, Hughes clenched the resolve to stay away even more. But that didn't change the fact that he loved Elysia. His heart (figuratively speaking) wouldn't be this wretched if he didn't.

"Excuse me?"

Maes' ears picked up those female words. He looked back into the crack. Elysia had bumped into a group of three girls and a man. All were dressed in shirts and pants, but Hughes could easily make the distinction of gender. One girl was a child barely fifteen. Next to her was a older, bigger girl. She was not thin, but calling her fat was inaccurate (if really tempting). Her somber face carried intelligence. But the eldest...Hughes' eyes fell on her. This young woman's face and short hair combined to give her a resemblance of a younger, tanner Gracia. That resemblance trembled him. There was a man with them. The discretion of a hat failed to hide this man's long chin, big lips and…scaly green skin?

The pseudo-Gracia charged after Elysia and her tricycle, her friends following. "Forgetting the 'excuse me' part, kiddo?"

Elysia's face grew stauncher. She kicked her tricycle foot pedals. The woman grabbed the steering handles. "I take that as a 'No" right?"

"Cordelia…" said the middle girl

"Leggo, old lady!" Elysia cried.

The words froze this doppelganger, presumably named Cordelia. She was pissed. "Okay, it's Mommie Dearest time, you little…"

"Hold it!" the youngest grabbed her elder's shoulder, even thought she appeared to be agreeing with the child. This girl knelt to Elysia. "It's okay. What's your name, kid?"

But Elysia said nothing. Instead she looked at the small photograph on the axle of her steering handle. The teenager continued with another question. "Is that you and your dad?"

Elysia hung her head. Maes did likewise. As if empathic, his heart tore with his daughter's on the subject.

"Leave me alone!" Elysia screamed. She hit the pedals again. Suddenly, Cordelia collapsed. Grabbing her head, her face and body writhed and contorted in agony. The sight was attractive to Maes' sympathy. He grabbed the door handle. The hand stopped. As he looked out, the woman had stopped writhing. She slowly rose again, clutching her forehead.

The rounder girl woman questioned her. "Was that-"

"Yes," the older woman interrupted with a tired reply. They all looked around, wondering if this scene got any witnesses. They didn't see him.

Elysia charged off her tricycle. Her angry face had changed to a crying expression of sadness. "I'm sorry!"

Hughes grabbed the door handle.

"Oh no, no, no," The youngest apologized nervously. "Cordelia just fell. Clumsiness is her specialty."

And then Gracia came into Hughes' view. She was given his special eye as well. Different images mixed with his mind, along with many mixed emotions. The climax of these memories was Gracia holding a gun. "You're right, Hughes. Maybe this is a more fitting end." A grimace cracked upon Hughes' face. Betrayal smoldered inside him. He stamped that memory ruefully. He knew it wasn't really her, but the cruel facts remained. He continued his watch. Elysia had burst into tears, running to her mother. "I didn' mean it, mommy!" She cried hysterically on her mother's stomach. "I didn' mean it..."

The mother believed in her daughter's innocence. Hughes did too. His hand remained affixed to the handle. But all he did was see Gracia trying to find a better understanding through the three girls. "What happened?"

"I fell," this Cordelia mumbled. "I'll be…okay." Quickly, she bent to a position of suffering. Almost on purpose.

"Oh, sorry," The mother spoke kindly, coming toward the ailing. "Come to my house."

"Really? You're so kind!" Cordelia grinned as she stumbled to the woman. Hughes scoffed. The other women could win acting awards for this deception.

Gracia then spotted the man with them. A little apprehension lit her face.

The man took off his hat, revealing horns. "Oh, worry not. It's makeup. I'm in a play."

Gracia calmed in her stare. She and Elysia than returned to the house, with the group following them.

With hesitance, Maes rolled the window back up. Those strangers had become interesting.

His car parked farther, Hughes saw the group leave his old house. To his good luck, the girls headed toward him. The distance gave their words no protection from his keen ears.

"So what was the premonition?" Spoke the rounder girl.

Cordelia was cool in her answer. "I saw Elysia's daddy. He had a grrr face."

Hughes tensed to that information. A grrr face? Did she mean what he thought she meant? This curiosity had borne fruit. His foot touched the gas pedal steadily. He followed the group. Fortunately, the farther the group left the house, the freer their words became.

"A grrr face?"

"Demon eyes, heavy brow, fangs. What do you think?" Cordelia demanded some real understanding, as if her friends knew but were unable to put two-and-two together.

Hughes became enlightened. They were describing him! The words were fulfilling, yet discomforting. A painfully true description, if his fingers did good judging.

"Calm down," said the youngest. "If Mr. Hughes is a vampire, then we gotta think about his family."

The rest of that sentence fell silent to Hughes ears. Only the label took control of his attention. Vampyre. He attempted to absorb more information.

"It's up to us to take care of daddy."

The object of their talk was alert to that plan. A temptation to treat this as some war excited him a lot. "Really?" Hughes spoke with cockiness to the group's intentions.

"Now wait a minute!" The rounder girl urged some thinking over this plan to kick ass. "I see we're missing a few important people, like your boss?"

"Employee," corrected Cordelia. "And we didn't need him a few times. Or a slayer."

The youngest one stopped in her walk, as if someone knocked her in the stomach.

"It's okay, little britches." The green one consoled with a pat on the back. "Cordelia needs a foot in the mouth."

"Yeah, sorry," Cordelia turned to her hurt victim. "You should see the Manolo Blahniks I swallowed the other day."

The girl swallowed the hurt with a brighter face. "We can still kick ass, for Buffy."

"You're not a slayer, Dawn," the rounder girl urged some warning.

"I was made from one."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Look, you saw that mother and kid. You don't want to see them made into vamp food?"

The rounder girl patted the younger affectionately. "Look, I didn't say I won't help. But we gotta think of the 'careful' part."

"Don't worry, we'll be. Just wait 'till that vamp gets a load of us!" Cordelia expected some cheers, but the gang remained silent. They were silent for a little too long.

Cordelia moved closely to the rounder girl. "So, Tara, can you do that pencil trick like Willow?"

The rounder girl, presumably Tara, shook her head.

"Allow me," said the green-skinned man.

As Hughes continued his voyeur study of their words, he sensed a small sound pierce his ears. It grew shriller, hiding the voices from his hearing. It grew to an irritating crescendo.

And then he saw the group glare straight at him. Suddenly, the dark windows shattered! Broken glass revealed searing light shining upon the driver. The burning pain! Hughes swung the wheel to make a complete U-turn, away from the sun's direction. Reaching an alley away from public view, Hughes patted his singed arm. Agony proved a strong fuel for anger. Any doubt of a wild goose chase was gone. This group knew about him, and what he is.

Okey-dokey, Hughes calmed to the future. He wanted answers. They wanted a fight. Guess who's getting their wish?

To be continued.

Next time: the past of the group's appearance to this world revealed, and their future with Hughes!