Lightning and Truth

by Saiyanchick4

Since going missing after the events of the World Marshall incident, Raiden's family has come to believe that he has abandoned them. That belief is shattered when he is found after years of isolation and captivity. The old team at Maverick along with some familiar faces aid Raiden in his recovery and search for those responsible for hunting the former members of the Devils Army.

1. Chapter 1

Authors Notes: I'm gonna be honest with you guys, I had no intention of ever letting this fiction see the light of day. I have not wrote anything in well over a decade and I'm not sure if I've lost my writing mojo or not (assuming I ever had it lol). Between losing my job because of my disability, needing surgery, and falling ill, I needed a distraction from life. Fan fictions were the perfect way to scratch that itch and provide some escapism. Normally I create stories then abandon them to die in the forgotten folders of my laptop like a wild animal sensing weakness in her young. My cousin, however, had other ideas. With the both of us being lifelong players of the Metal Gear games they encouraged me (i.e. pestered me) to post this for everyone to read as well. I've never posted on this site before so I'm sure I'll get format and tags wrong here and there, but will do my best to fix it. For anyone out there who actually enjoys my brain droppings, don't worry about me dropping this one. I fully intend to finish this fic and I'm already nearly 100,000 words deep into it. I'm also going to post over on . I will do my best to post every 2-3 weeks depending on how hard life decides to kick my butt. I have no idea what kind of response I'll get from this story, if any, but for those that do take the time to read my work I hope you will enjoy the story (of which I own absolutely nothing of. I'm just playing in Kojima's sandbox). Thank you ^-^

Lightning and truth are two things that cannot be arrested in their onward course.

-J Elizabeth Jones

Chapter One

New Zealand

The crash resounded throughout the modest little middle class house. A series of smaller crashes sounded out one right after another until only silence remained. The quiet was somehow all the more prominent due to the chaos that had shattered it. A feminine sigh of exasperation and a soft swear could be heard at the source of the commotion the next room over.

From his position lounging on the living room sofa, John slowly peered up over the edge of his phone into the kitchen. The contents of one of the upper cabinets filled with a towering stack of pot lids, tupperware containers, and various kitchen gadgets that had been used twice then stored away had finally had enough and come cascading down onto the floor. The teen watched as his mother checked her watch before sinking down to the floor with another sigh and began gathering the fallen items. Two more warped plastic lids slid loose and fell to the floor as if to add insult to injury.

John felt the momentary urge to pretend that he didn't hear anything and continue with his internet browsing, but the nagging of his conscience needled at him. With a roll of his eyes he switched off his phone and crammed it in a pocket of his cargo pants. He stood, smoothing down his black tee and blue over shirt from where they had hiked up when he had unceremoniously flung himself on the sofa to wait for his mother to finish with her morning routines and drive him to school.

At fourteen John was all arms and legs. His growth spurt had hit just in time for his freshman year and he was one of the taller boys in his class. His mother said that he would fill out soon enough but John just felt awkward and gangly as compared to his peers. He preferred slightly oversized cargo pants and tee and over shirt combo to compensate for his somewhat slender frame.

The blond teen ran his fingers through his hair to stand it back up from where it had been pressed down by the decorative pillows that had infected every sitting surface in the house. With another look at the mess in the kitchen floor John turned and glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was very nearly time for them to hit the road. Mom usually liked to wait until the last second to head out the door but this was pushing it even for her.

He had no idea what she had been up to in the kitchen but John really didn't want to be late for school yet again. Being a good son aside, he could help keep her on track. If his mother suddenly got the urge to try and organize the mess in the kitchen he might not get to school at all.

She had been doing that a lot lately, John mused as he stepped into the kitchen. Normally the house was a bastion of chaos that completely unfazed her. Coffee cups on the bookshelves. Storage totes in the bathrooms. There was a shelf in the laundry room that was dedicated to gardening items that were accumulated but never used. And that was just a small sample of the disorganized madness that was their household. But every now and then seemingly at random, Mom would decide things had to be clean and organized.

Drawers and closets were purged. Things bagged, folded, put in totes or donated. Cleaning was done starting from the attic down to scrubbing the floorboards. Many times John had tried to join her in her seemingly compulsive cleaning, but his mother would always resist his attempts to earn good child brownie points. She would be distracted and short tempered when he persisted saying things such as it was therapeutic or stress relief for her.

John thought this was bullshit however as he knew his mothers version of stress relief was to bathe for seemingly hours and eat ungodly amounts of ice cream. He chalked it up to menopause or whatever women did at her age but he always secretly hated it when the house was clean and organized. It was neat. Orderly. It was like it was before.

John didn't like thinking of the before. That time was over.

Rose looked up from where she knelt gathering the items in her arms. "Oh, John. Could you please help me find several bowls with matching lids? I'll need them to get some food packed for you." She stood setting her load on the already cluttered counter. She straightened her blouse out and tucked a lock of dark hair behind one ear where it promptly slipped free once more.

"I can just pick up lunch at school Mom. It's starting to get kinda late anyway." He knelt down regardless and begin picking the rest of the kitchenware up, setting aside the least warped of the plastic lids and their bowls.

"Its too late to pack you lunch today anyway honey." She looked at her watch again and then outside the window at the brightening sky. "The morning got away from me. They're slippery like that." She shot him a smile. Her attempt at levity was undercut by the air of frazzled distraction that practically radiated from her.

"What do you need them for then?" Save for three sets he had placed aside, John crammed the rest of the plastic dishes back in the cabinet to reform the foundations of the tower once more.

"I'm only going to have a short time during my lunch break to run back here and make you something for dinner. The more I have prepped now the easier it will be on me later."

"Dinner?" Johns expression was carefully neutral, but the one word question was wound tight. He picked up two pot lids that had managed to roll away from the mess all the while waiting for the loaded answer.

"Yes." Rose said absently. Or it was a careful act of casualness? She turned away from him and began pulling various ingredients from the cabinets. "Unfortunately I'm going to have to work rather late this evening and I wanted..."

"I'll order takeout." He set the lids on the counter and promptly left the room. His mother made a sound of protest but John was already scooping up his bag by the sofa and briskly heading for the front door. It was only when he was outside and reaching for the handle of the car door did he realized that the car keys were still in the mug in the entryway desk. John was left standing next to the dingy white car feeling equal parts frustrated and hurt. To look busy when his mother left the house, John browsed through his phone without taking any of the words or images in.

This was the fourth time this week Mom had to work late. Sometimes John wondered if she really thought he was that stupid or if she was lying to herself too.

It all started about a year or so ago. Before then his mother had been...well like him honestly. They were happy enough he supposed but in a soft subdued way. They were always waiting for the front door to open and the person missing from their lives to walk back in.

But he never did. Dad never came back.

He would never say anything to her but John could hear his mother cry sometimes in the night. He wasn't too proud to admit that he did too. They missed him, like a piece carved out of them that wasn't enough to kill but still hurt like hell every day. Even after several years the hurt was still there, not quite scarred enough to escape the pain. Even on good days there was a storm cloud hovering above the two remaining members of their little family, blocking out the light and happiness that could have been.

But then things started to change.

Subtly at first. So subtly that for the longest time John was completely oblivious, so caught up in his own moodiness to notice. But eventually notice he did. While always a little absentminded, his mother began to become downright distracted. She never showed him any less attention, but John could tell that Mom was always just half present. She acted normal enough but looking closer you could tell that her thoughts focused intently on something he was not privy too.

One day the teen noticed that his mother's wistful gazing out the windows while she had her evening tea had morphed into something else. John didn't have the words for it but it was almost as if life were returning where before she had been on autopilot. All this he could have brushed off as his imagination, but then the phone calls started.

One night John had thought his mother was long in bed and had snuck out to raid the fridge to fuel his three in the morning game-a-thon. He had been nearly all the way down the stairs when he froze as he realized that the living room was occupied. The living room lights were off and Mom was talking in hushed tones rather animatedly on her phone. Rose had noticed John the same time he had noticed her and had abruptly ended the call.

"Who are you talking to so late at night?" He had asked, equal parts curious and hoping to deflect from the fact that he was up far beyond his bed time. No dice.

"I think the better question is what are you doing up so late at night? And on a school night no less. Wait...you have a test tomorrow. John!"

Up the stairs he had scurried in a flash. John was grateful that he had not gotten grounded but the whole event had left an odd taste in his mouth. John did indeed fail that test and had not asked who she had been talking to for fear of a retroactive grounding. Several more times over the next few months he had heard her get up in the night to go talk in the living room, but he never could make out what was being discussed or with who. His curiosity and suspicions only grew.

Once he had casually, though quietly, went to fetch a drink in the middle of the night (on a Saturday, no tests in the way this time), and had managed to surprise her mid-conversation.

"Who's that Mom? It's the middle of the night."

Rose had nearly jumped off the couch. She had been so engrossed in what the person on the other end of the line had been saying that she hadn't heard him softly pad up behind her. "John!" She had exclaimed, putting both hands over her heart (or hiding her screen). "Don't scare me like that! That silent ninja walking thing you do. You're as bad as your father."

John had frowned and Mom had backpedaled away quickly from the sore subject. Instead of answering him straight away, she had turned back to her phone. "I need to call you back later." The call was ended abruptly and she then turned to him. "One of my clients is having a bit of difficulty with a situation. They are out of country and didn't take time zones into account. Did you need something honey?"

"Just curious." He had answered, still bittered. Neither of them had talked any further for fear of having to address the topic that the both of them would never touch.

After that there were no more midnight phone calls. Instead she began working late. Later and later. More and more often. At first John had been quietly gleeful. Takeout was a treat compared to typical meals of the household and John could order whatever he wanted. The novelty of flavorful heart clogging food and late night gaming had quickly worn off over the following weeks.

With each lonely meal the large house seemed to shrink in on him. The empty space smothered him with its abundance. On his more moody and resentful days, John felt like he had gone from one parent to none. Still somewhat the 'outsider' at his school, John didn't have any mates close enough that he could invite over or go crash at their place when the loneliness threatened to crush him. And despite the late nights and the heavier workload his mother claimed to be suffering from, she certainly seemed to be in stronger spirits than she had been in years. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard her cry in the night.

John wasn't stupid, he knew what was going on.

He made an effort not to look up from his phone as the front door of the house opened then closed. Mom finally came to the car, purse slung loosely over one shoulder and a frown spread across her features. John tried to look as engaged in his news feed as a fourteen year old could manage. Once he heard the lock disengage, he fished around with his free hand to open the door, eyes never leaving the screen. John tossed his bag in the floorboard between his feet and fastened his seat belt. Beside him, he heard her settle in as well.

There was a long pause of silence where there should have been a car starting. He could feel her eyes on him and knew she wanted to talk about his little outburst. John didn't want to talk about it. John steadfastly continued to scroll. Perhaps if he ignored the issue long enough it would all just go away. The worst part was, on some deep down level, he couldn't blame his mother. He didn't want her to be unhappy, but this just felt wrong. John was beyond bitter at being abandoned...but Dad was still Dad.

Instead of addressing the tension that was building to an unbearable pressure, Rose just sighed and started the ignition. Instead of being relieved that the subject had been held off for a little while longer, John found it near unbearable that his mother was going to pretend that nothing was going on. Again.

They had only been a few miles out before he finally cracked. "When were you planning on telling me Mom?" John asked abruptly, unable to catch the words before they burst out of him. "Or were you hoping that I wouldn't notice?"

"John, what?" She asked with a barely perceptible start, apparently having been deep in thought. "Notice what honey?"

"I'm not stupid Mom." He lowered his phone into his lap, tired of the facade. "I watch Tv. I stay on the internet. I know what the deal is whenever someone hides phone calls and is always staying late at the office. And I know you're pretty Mom."

She shot a shocked look at him then turned her gaze back to the road. Her mouth opened in reply but she struggled with what to say. John didn't give her a chance to find the words.

"Look, if you're seeing someone just tell me." John sighed as he leaned against his window, heedless of the suburban scenery and traffic around them. All the fight that had been building up in him earlier had drained out as quickly as it had sprung up.

Rose looked between him and the road repeatedly, equal parts dismayed and offended. "John I am not seeing anyone." She said sternly. "You very well know that some of my clients are in different time zones and with current events over in the Middle East..."

"I know he's not coming back either."

Whatever she had to say died off before it could be spoken. The two rode in silence as the captive words that neither of them had dared to speak were finally set free. John regretted bringing up the subject at all. Saying those words had broke a seal of denial. It was as if saying it finally made it real. He didn't want it to be real but John was too old to believe in comforting lies any longer.

"John I..."

He tuned his mother out. Reaching for his bag, John fished out his ear buds and selected the first song on his play list and closed his eyes. It didn't matter what the genre was, as long as it drowned out any further words that didn't need to be spoken. The classic rock washed over him and John let himself be carried away by the music.

His mother didn't try and engage with him for the rest of the trip to school. It was a brittle relief, and all John wished for was to get to school and out of the oppressive atmosphere of the car. He was glad that she would be gone late this evening as he didn't want to face her tonight after her late 'work'.

The teenager turned up the volume to near painful levels in a vain attempt to drown out his thoughts. He hoped that wherever his father was, that he was fucking happy. Happy with himself for leaving them both behind. John didn't care anymore.

-0-0-0-

Rose watched mournfully as John stalked his way across the schools parking lot. She didn't expect it but it was still a stab to the heart when he did not turn and give her a wave like he always did before passing beyond the bushes lining the entrance way. Rose watched several moments longer just in case her boy had a change of heart and doubled back to give her a quick wave despite their...discussion. He did not, and she was not surprised in the slightest though that did nothing to ease the clinch in her heart.

Rose sat back in her seat, holding tightly to the steering wheel as if it could provide her the support she so desperately needed right now. The clock on the dash ticked a minute away. Then another. And another. Still Rose was not ready to leave just yet and face the day. She wanted to run in after John, tell him everything, embrace him although she knew that he would probably push her away right now. It was more than just teenage moodiness that was plaguing the boy, and she knew that hugs from his mother would fix nothing.

It had hurt to watch him become sullen and withdrawn as the years crept by. As he grew, her son looked so much more and more like his father every day. To see John wear the same morose expression on his face that Jack often did whenever he thought she wasn't looking was almost enough to break her heart.

Briefly resting her head against the top of the steering wheel, Rose took deliberate slow breaths to help push things down and away. There was no time left to linger here and stew in her thoughts any longer. Someone was expecting her after all. With one last longing look towards the school, Rose put the car in gear and drove away.

The morning traffic was as unforgiving as usual. The haste and desperation of the late commuters was present in every jerk of the wheel and honk of the horn. Normally Rose would almost gleefully participate in the event. It was a race against the clock, a race to get ones coffee and make it to your desk before the boss could slap you with a reprimand for being late again. It was all the thrill seeking that she participated in nowadays. Today however, her heart was not in it. She was on a different time table than they were. And while the other commuters still had hopes of beating the clock, Rose knew that her time was already up.

It had been easy to delude herself back at home. To pretend that as long as she ignored the brightening of the sky and the time ticking away on her watch, that everything could be put off a little longer. It had always drove Jack crazy the way she would procrastinate with everything. It was not intentional other than the times when he was being particularly obstinate and she had done it out of pettiness. Today, however, it had been straight up denial. The excuse about making dinner. Her deliberately knocking the dishes out of the cabinet onto the floor. It was all to delay their departure a few minutes longer. She had wanted to spend as much time at home with John as she possibly could before dropping him off at school.

Before saying goodbye for what might very well be the last time.

The exit that she normally took to get to her office was quickly coming up on the right. The commuters heading that way shuffled themselves accordingly but Rose did not join them. She watched her exit come up, arrive, then fade off in the distance in her rear view mirror. It was also in the mirror that she caught a glimpse of the one other vehicle on the road that did not seem to be in any particular hurry to get to their destination. Rose wondered what had took them so long to make a move. It was rude to keep a lady waiting.

Black paint job, darkened windows. 'Classic. Subtle.' she thought sardonically. Whether the individual she planned on meeting with was in that vehicle or if it was just a messenger, she did not know. Things were playing out exactly as anticipated regardless of who was in that car. No matter of who she would be meeting with, she was prepared with her best accessories.

Rose reached into her purse, the cold steel of the gun reassuring her with its presence. A Sig Sauer, full metal rounds. Not that she suspected that it would do any good against the vehicle itself, the windows were most likely bullet-proof. The occupants would be a different story. She pulled the gun out and set it on her lap at the ready. Next, she pulled the phone out, tossing the now useless purse into the back seat.

The remaining two commuters that drove along the road with them shifted lanes in preparation for the exit coming up in a mile. After those cars departed it would be time for the little rendezvous between her and her tail without the chance of bystanders getting caught up in the crossfire.

Not that she particularly cared at the moment, Rose mused with uncharacteristic coldness. Collateral damage would be avoided of course wherever possible. It was not in her nature to be violent, but there was a grim reassurance in knowing that if the driver of the black vehicle were engaged in a firefight with her, then they were not at the school. If she were the one in danger, then that meant John was safe. Borderline suicidal perhaps but Rose didn't care. John was worth more to her than any other life out here, including her own. Her morality took a backseat to being a mother.

There was one last thing that had to be taken care of first before the confrontation: the missing member of the family. Her Jack. While he might currently be beyond her reach, she knew who could help. If she failed here then she knew that they would pick up where she left off and take care of both of her boys in her stead.

Rose put her phone up on the dash mounted holder and hit call on the pre-programed number. While it rung she discreetly took up the gun, holding the wheel somewhat unsteadily with her left hand. An expression of grim resolve settled over her features. Gone was the warm maternal woman that most people knew her as. In her place was a stranger capable of masterful manipulation and cold blooded choices. Right before the person on the other end of the line picked up, Rose hoped desperately that no matter what happened to her, that her boys would be ok.

-0-0-0-

Gunfire tore through the aircraft without resistance. Smoke began to pour out of the damaged engines and a death spiral started with no hope of recovery. Lower and lower the aircraft spiraled with the ground rushing up to meet it. The airplane crashed into the ground sending great jets of fire and smoke billowing out from where it had impacted.

'Game Over' rolled across the screen in its stylized font and the cheery jingle that accompanied it could only be described as mocking. John drew his arm back, intending on launching his phone to the pillows on the other side of the sofa but managed to contain his temper. He brought his phone back to his lap and flipped the game off. With the same finger extended, the teen sourly exited out of the cheaply made mobile game.

With an irritated sigh, John settled back onto the pillows on the sofa where he had been waiting for the past several hours. Empty styrofoam containers sat on the coffee table, the saucy remnants of his noodles long cooled and congealed. A glance at his phone told him that it was nearly midnight. He looked over at the front door hoping to see headlights lighting up the glass. With her little 'late nights', Mom was often gone well after dark, but this was a little late even for her. A gnawing worry that she was gone because of what he had said that morning settled in his stomach.

For what seemed like the dozenth time that night John opened up his messenger app.

-When did you say you were going to be back tonight? Do I need to order you something for dinner too?- 6:32pm

-Chinese ok?- 6:40pm

-I put yours in the fridge- 7:28pm

-Is everything ok at work?-9:56pm

-Mom I'm sorry for what I said earlier. Can you please answer me back? I'm getting worried.-10:45pm

-Mom call me please.- 11:37pm

They had all been received but not one of his messages had been opened. John stared at the screen, willing the notification that she had seen them to pop up. He chewed at a fingernail, it and the others now jagged with his stress chewing of the past several hours.

John's thumb hovered over the phone icon. He had already called her, several times in fact. At first he had hesitated in calling when the hour grew late and her food long cold in the refrigerator. There was the nagging suspicion that he really was right and his mom was having an affair with somebody at her office. The last thing he had wanted to do was dial her and possible hear any hint of...that. The anger had made him sullenly delay.

The teenage boy had made sure to 'accidentally' spill some of his noodles on the coffee table, his soda on the sofa. Petty, perhaps, but John hadn't really cared. All his little vengeance had accomplished was sharpening his irritation and getting his trousers wet on the bottom when he had carelessly sat on the spill. He had forgone homework in favor of playing games on his phone, and in a fit of bitterness towards his other missing parent, John had put on the most violent 80's movies he could think of. His father had hoarded dvd's and vhs tapes of all genres and languages but for some reason had always refused to watch the action classics.

The movies had played and takeout and junk food alike had been consumed. Time rolled on enough to where spite turned to worry and John had yielded and made the call. It had rung for several moments and had gone to voice mail. As had the one after that. And the one after that.

He made to press the call button again when a commotion jarred him out of his worry. Glancing over at the television, Schwarzenegger and his commandos were unleashing hell upon the thing that was hunting them in the jungle. John grabbed at the remote and turned the volume down then turned back to his phone. He nearly tossed it in surprise when the text notification chimed.

John squinted at the number. It was from no one that he recognized. Like with all unknown numbers he felt the impulse to ignore it. 'But what if its Mom?' Why a text and not a call, he didn't know or care. Quickly the message was opened.

-Robin Hood's band of merry men have been called back to Sherwood forest. Your presence is greatly wished Little John.-

He stared at the text for several long moments. 'Ok...that's kinda freaky,' the boy thought. His tension and worry that had been growing over the past few hours started to morph into something more sinister. Slowly rising up, John peered over the edge of the couch. The front door was still closed, lock in place. He scanned about, trying to move as little as possible in case there was someone watching from the darkened windows.

The minuets ticked by and there were no further texts, no sounds from around and outside of the house, nothing to be seen from his vantage point of the sofa. He was tempted to dismiss the odd message as a prank from one of his friends. He had a movie to tend to and a missing mother to fret about, John had neither the patience nor inclination to message back and see just which one of his classmates was being a dick hole. Tossing his phone back on his lap, John settled back down to watch his movie and wait.

The movie played on, but his heart was no longer in it. Watching one of the commandos wait on the fallen tree turned bridge drawing his own blood in anticipation of a fight against an opponent that he could not see brought back the unbidden (and unwelcome) memory of one of his fathers lessons.

They had been running along one of the parks near their house. It had been mildly overcast that day but still hot as hell. John recalled that he had been sweating in his tank top and shorts. It had only made sense that people were shooting his father odd looks with his sweat pants and jacket with the hood pulled up. They usually gave him even more looks when he walked with his face showing more openly. It was old news to John and he had paid the sidelong looks even less attention than his father did. He didn't recall how the conversation started, but he remembered the lesson all the same.

"You always hear people speak of paranoia like it's a thing to be rid of, like it's a bad thing. I think they are deliberately crippling themselves because they feel uncomfortable." His father had said rather cryptically as they slowed to a walk so John could catch his breath. He didn't look at John as he said this, eyes always scanning in that restless way he did in public.

"So it's a bad thing that people don't want to suffer from paranoia?" John had asked incredulously. His father had given him one of his crooked smiles.

"You think it's suffering?"

"Well...yeah. Yeah?"

"I suppose the same thing applies to pain as well?" The older man asked. The question was obviously loaded with pitfalls but John failed to see where they all lie. So he had barreled onward and hoped he didn't trip up too much with his answer and look stupid while doing it.

"Isn't pain suffering? Like, by its very definition? Why wouldn't people want to avoid it?"

"So the thing keeping your hand off of the hot stove any longer than it already was is a bad thing to be done away with?" John had conceded to the point with a chuckle and a defeated wave of his hands.

"Ok, so what about paranoia? What's so great about that?"

His father didn't answer right away. He nodded towards the trail that ran some yards away from where they were walking. A blond woman with a tightly done up ponytail and tight sporty outfit jogged along it. Her eyes never stopped roving around her surroundings, including towards them several times. Her vigilance reminded John of his father.

"Shes paranoid to stay safe." John answered his own question. "If shes not paying attention to what's around her she could get into trouble."

"Dead on." His father approved, tugging down the hood that was trying to slip off. "Most people can't accept that we don't live in this Utopia, that our world can be ugly and dangerous sometimes. Whenever others remind them of this fact, or when that voice in the back of their mind starts piping up, they smother it. Dismiss it by calling it paranoia, calling themselves overly sensitive. It's actually your gut instincts saying 'Hey, this could be bad'. That gut instinct is actually millions of years worth of experience at keeping alive passed down to us from our ancestors. Now I'm not saying be constantly on alert and strung out..."

"But you are." John protested cheekily. Other than an odd tug at the corner of his mouth, his version of a frown, his father did not rise to the bait.

"What I am saying is that voice will speak up when it thinks something is wrong. Don't brush it off as paranoia, it's your gut feeling after all. Listen to it."

The rest of their run had been unmemorable. Just an average moment set aside just for the both of them to enjoy and bond over. John still went on runs. Alone. And what enjoyment he did have for the activity was replaced with spite and the small part of him that he could not quite squish despite himself that said that he didn't want to be out of practice when his father finally came home.

It had been three years and he still hadn't yet manage to snuff out that small voice. That lesson though had stuck with him, and had even gotten him out of a few scraps before they had even began when the older teens decided they wanted to start trouble.

That lesson was now sounding its alarms well and clear across his mind. And true to its name, a gut feeling, Johns own insides started to feel like they were twisting with dread. A quick gnaw at his thumbnail later and Johns legs moved to get up seemingly at their own volition. He shoved his phone down in the back pocket of his cargo pants carefully, as if jarring it too much would cause another disturbing text to pop up. He approached the tv to turn it completely off, peering over his shoulder as he did so. Picking up one of his mother's abandoned coffee cups on the nearest available surface, John carried it with him to use as a crude bludgeon if need be as he quietly padded from the room.

Living room, kitchen, laundry room...everything seemed to be in order. All doors were locked. Every window fastened with no hints of anything lurking beyond the dark glass. The ground floor was secure and John was beginning to feel the prickling of foolishness. Leave it to the absent paranoid man to fill John with paranoia in his stead. John almost turned away from the stairwell and back to his movie out of pained spite, but a whisper in the back of his mind stopped him. 'It's your gut feeling after all.' John sighed in resignation at the logic. His worry was his own, and had nothing to do with Dad. The teen flicked on the light and made his way up the stairs.

The hurt feelings were carried away in the darkness of the upper story of the house. Straining his eyes and ears against any hint of malice in the darkness, John fumbled at the wall to his right where he knew the light switch would be. The hall lights banished his worries as everything was revealed to be in order. Certainly feeling foolish now, John turned towards his room on the left, intending to get out of his soda stained clothes and into something a little less sticky while he was already up here.

He had hardly turned on the light and stepped into his room before his phone sounded its cheery notification tone again. 'Mom' his mind immediately jumped to, then the suspicion that it was the weird texter popped up again. Two different flavors of anxiety swirled within him as he opened the text.

-So you are home. I see you-

John was so startled that he dropped the old coffee cup sending the slightly moldy liquid spattering across his beige carpet. He hit the carpet next, crouching down away from sight of the window. He eyed the lights he had turned on. John couldn't see out but anyone could see in. The whispering worry that had urged him up the stairs was now screaming at him.

Keeping the rest of him as low as he could, John reached up and switched off the light for his room. The bright light of the hall felt like a spotlight now. Deciding that it was better to be half seen for a brief moment and then disappear into the darkness, John bolted up from his crouch and lunged for the hall switch.

The hall was soon bathed in darkness save for the low light of his phone but it did little to bring him comfort. Turning back to the device in hand, John selected his mother on the contact list and dialed. Even though he couldn't be seen through the windows any longer John stayed as low as he could as he made his way down the hall away from the stairwell.

"C'mon Mom. Pick up." John whispered as he reached the last room in the hall. Soft yellow light spilled out from underneath the door as it always had for as long as his family had lived in this house. In his stealthy trip down the hall John had failed to realize that there was no dial tone on his phone. Glancing down at it sent true fear down his spine.

The screen blinked in and out. When it did manage to display anything, it was riddled with static and lines. He put it to his ear and listened desperately, hoping that the audio still went through. All he managed to hear was a banging sound coming from down stairs. Someone was trying to break in and he had no way to call for help. John now had an inkling of what the commandos felt like when they were being hunted by the unknown.

Reaching up, John grasped at the doorknob and twisted. It was not locked. Not once in their time here could he remember it ever being locked. But locking the door was exactly what he did after he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The locked room provided a small sense of security but it also left John feeling like he was doing something that he shouldn't.

'Dad's room.' The boy thought, a ray of melancholy shining through the darkness of his fear. It had been so long since he had last set foot in here. Years. Years since his father was last here to occupy it. There was truly not much to look at. His father had never been one for clutter. Or decoration. Or anything personal really. Other than a HF sword mounted on the wall opposite of the bed and two pictures of the three of them together there was not much to look at. The sparsity was almost sterile, impersonal. It was only those few items and the small lamp sitting on a stand by the bed in the entire room.

Perhaps due to wishful thinking of his mother, the simple yellow bedside lamp remained on all these years, casting its comforting yellow glow to every corner of the room. John couldn't recall ever seeing the lamp off even when it had been occupied. During his late night trips to the bathroom he could still see the light peering out from underneath the far room door.

Once over breakfast John had asked his father how could he possibly sleep with a light on all the time. It was the first time he could recall seeing Dad at a loss for how to respond. After a few moments of weighing his words, John eventually got the answer 'I just prefer to have it on. That's all.' A frown and a small shake of his mother's head in the background caused John to drop the subject and made him too timid to ever bring it up ever again.

John briefly debated on turning it off to better hide himself. He decided against it as whoever was trying to break in probably already knew where he was hiding anyway. Besides, he was like his mother in the fact that he could not find the heart within himself to turn it off either. A sound of glass crashing downstairs pulled him from his memories. It wasn't the lamp in the room he was here for after all. It was the gun safe.

Darting around the bed, John yanked open the closet door. Brushing aside a contradictory mix of sweats and suits hanging up and scooting aside several boxes full of DVD's revealed the gun safe in the back. John reached for the dial but froze as soon as his fingers brushed up against the cold grooves of the metal.

He couldn't remember the combination.

'Your mother thinks you're a little too young for this but I would rather you know it and not need it than need it and not know it. Besides, I know someone your age can handle firearms just fine. Remember, this is only for emergencies and if your mother or I are not around. Am I clear on that? Just fire it exactly how I showed you that time we went camping. Oh...and don't tell your mother I taught you how to shoot on that trip either…'

The memory trailed off but the number remained elusive still. Normally he was excellent at remembering codes and the like, a side effect of being a gamer. John tugged at it on the slim chance that it might be unlocked. No dice. The heavy block of metal didn't budge in the slightest. John gave the dial an experimental turn hoping that it would jog his memory.

"I'm sure it started with thirty..." John muttered setting the dial accordingly. For the first time in ages he had the thought untainted by hurt and bitterness: 'I wish Dad were here.' The teen froze when the sound of footsteps on the stairs reached his ears. Very heavy footsteps.

"John?" A male voice called out from the entrance of the hall and panic washed over the boy. The man didn't sound like he was from New Zealand, but placing the accent was not on John's list of priorities at the moment. With one last tug at the stubbornly shut gun case, John scurried backwards out of the closet. He made a lunge for the sword mounted on the wall just as the doorknob jiggled in place.

Even though John had not practiced with a sword in years ('three years'), the katana felt at home in his hands as his muscles remembered the lessons and the countless hours spent play sparring with Dad in their back yard.

"I know that you are in there John." The singsong voice taunted, the door handle jiggled again. "I've been..."

John didn't know what else to do. He was cornered. He'd seen enough tv to know when his phone was being jammed. This man knew who he was and was after him specifically. He panicked.

With as much force as his fourteen year old frame could muster, John thrust the sword towards the door in the rough location that he thought the intruder might be lurking.

The high tech sword cut through the door as easily as if it were made of paper. There was a cry from the opposite side of the door. From surprise or pain, John didn't know nor did he care. Fight or flight mode had kicked in and there was no place left for him to run.

John pulled the sword back, nearly stumbling with the extra force he put into the action. He saw a smear of red near the tip of the blade. Courage bolstered, he yelled "Get out! I'm not fucking playing!" He hoped that he kept any tremor out of his voice. No...instead he hoped that his surprise attack worked and there was no intruder left to hide any fear from.

His hopes were quickly dashed as a low chuckle sounded out from the other side of the door. "My my, the little one is feisty. Now I wonder where he gets it from?" The foreign man taunted, seemingly actually amused with the situation.

Anger briefly overrode fear. With a war cry he lunged and thrust the sword through the door once more. There was no exclamation of pain this time however but there was an odd sound of metal clicking against metal. Suddenly fearful that he had missed his shot and the intruder was now pulling out a gun, John tried to withdraw only to find the sword fixed fast. He reflexively tugged at it again only to be yanked forward as the blade was pulled forward from the other side of the door.

John could not arrest his forward momentum enough to keep from colliding with the door. He careened off of it and stumbled trying to regain his footing. One heel caught the corner of the bedside table sending the lamp crashing to the door and plunging the room into darkness.

The door opened, lock broken as if it had been made of cardboard rather than metal. John could not make out the face of the man in the shadows, nor did he bother with trying. He acted without thinking. The teen rushed forward, trying to slip by and make a break for the stairs. For a second John thought he had almost made it through. His slim frame was enough to easily slip between the man and the doorway. From the brief brush against him as he darted past, the man felt more like steel than flesh. The hope that he could get away was dashed as arms wrapped about him from behind. John could break that grip no more than he could break iron.

There was no running left to be had.

There was still plenty of fight left in him though. And John refused to be dragged off easily into the night. Even though as he fought, struggled, and bit at his abductor, John wished that he could fool himself into thinking he had a chance.