"Good night, Joe! Is Chan coming this week, Joe?"

Joey tucked the covers tighter around the adorable child looking up at him with sparkling eyes, shook his head. He had given up trying to get the kids to call him "Joey," or to call any adult they meet by their full names. According to them, shortened names were quicker and easier to remember, and speed was everything in this egalitarian environment. Joey can't argue with that.

"I don't know. But I know Chan will find you first thing he comes to visit. For now, good night, Eri." He kissed the child's forehead.

A protest echoed from behind him. "I want a good night popo too!"

"I read you your favourite fairy tale earlier, dear, just one choice a night. I'll tuck you in tomorrow, Marie." Joey replied, ruffling Marie's brown hair. He mentally patted himself on the shoulder, praising his efforts to resist the formidable pleading energy of the kids. "Good night, everyone."

A harmonious reply buzzed through the room. "Goodnight, Uncle Joe!"

He grinned proudly, looked over one more time, and then left the room. Most of the kids were asleep before Joey even closed the door.

Now, he should go back to his room to make next week's activity schedule, then also prepare to get new donations from the locals. He hoped this time they'd get new books. It would be wonderful if there were some new fairy tales, because half of their books were already well read from cover to cover, some even beyond usable. After all these tasks he might reward himself with a beer or—

Brr...

Joey reached into his pocket, pulling out the phone.

And the satisfied smile faded from his lips.

Hurriedly striding down the dark hallways, Joey Tribbiani went to grab the first aid kit and a rusty key from the top shelf of a cabinet where he usually hid everything kids shouldn't be allowed to get. He had to stand on his tiptoes to do that, stretching his whole body, rummaging blindly to reach the kit and a key next to it. He also tucked a jacket under his arm, then with steps quiet like a cat, he slipped through the deserted kitchen, to the creaky old door that led to the woods behind. He opened it slightly, only a crack. No one used this entrance, ever. Only him and the guy did.

Joey stood nervously, waiting, shifting from foot to foot. He caught himself humming a nursery rhyme the kids had learned today to calm himself. But no matter how many times he did this, Joey couldn't stop the rising panic deep in his stomach.

And frankly, how could he? He was literally waiting for a national treasure.

Joey startled at the sudden screech of brakes in the distance. He had to squint through the cracked open door in order to see an Aston Martin DB5 in the pitch black darkness. It was so badly dented that he wondered how it had made it here all the way from Missouri. It didn't even have headlights turned on.

He rushed over, leaving the first aid kit by the door, and got to the car just in time as a man threw himself out, straight into Joey's arms, sending them both flying backwards. Only thanks to Joey's strength that they didn't fall down.

"Jesus! You're just dramatic, aren't ya?"

The man grinned when Joey pulled him up to a standing position, put his arm around his shoulders and limped forward, leaning heavily on his friend. Red drops were following their footsteps on the withered grass as they slowly made their way back inside. The blood from the wound was quickly soaking the side of Joey's sweater.

The man lightly teased. "New sweater? Sorry for the mess, just write it off as a mission expense and send it to the government, they'll pay you back."

"How can you even think of that now, you idiot!" Joey bit down the rising horror and kept blabbering. It was a better alternative to a full-blown panic. The mere fact that this - greeting his wounded and bloodied friend, panicking inside and then immediately suppressing it - became almost a routine to him is alarming to Joey in itself. "Come here and I'll bandage you up. Fucker, always coming here a complete mess, worrying everyone. How am I supposed to explain this to Erica tomorrow?"

"What, Erica asked for me?"

"Only every day," Joey scoffed. "They love 'Chan' more than they do me."

The man chuckled. "Chan. Just think, if the world out there knew I'd melt just because a kid called me Chan..."

"Sit down," Joey ordered as they slipped inside, trying their hardest to not make the old wooden back door creak and wake everyone in the house.

'Chan' obediently sat down on the plastic mat, Joey quickly poured the antiseptic onto the open wound on his shoulder. After having to replace the blood-soaked floorboards so many times, Joey had learned a thing or two about patching up the injuries and cleaning the evidence afterwards. The man sighed. He hated to bother Joey every time this happened.

But there was no other way.

Joey continued, bandage stretched in his hands. "I don't think anyone would dare call you Chan, even if they know, y'know? They only know The oh so infamous 'Prince', rumored to be the only heir of the General Handbasket. The man, the myth, the nightmare? Who even is Chandler Muriel Bing? Your name is a national secret, man. And the kid's playtoy. It's something to be proud of, isn't it, when your name can scare a bunch of grown men to pee their pants?"

Chandler couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd last heard his full name in such an easy tone.

This was why he kept coming back here. To Joey. To the children.

"Well, it's not that bad." He chuckled. His shoulders were now wrapped in a nice gauge bow. "But I'd still prefer a world where everyone could comfortably call me Chan."

Joey nodded. He didn't point out the sadness in Chandler's smile. Between them, the silence spoke louder than words. The Italian man simply put the scissors and remaining gauge back into the kit, and stood up, gave a hand out.

"Someday, maybe. Now, where do we dump your car?"

Chandler's smile immediately morphed into a mischievous grin.

"The usual spot. Let's go."

—

Monica swung her legs back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. The gang crowded the practice field, chuckled at her, flashed their guns to poke at her situation, ruffled her hair when they walked past, but no one offered to take her with them. No one dared to.

She's sick to the core with the crew's attitude.

Fifteen minutes ago, the system alerted her brother was coming back, so her lesson with Gandalf was cut short almost at the very beginning. "Ain't risking being kicked out of the cool kids gang, little lady," the sniper said. They still treated her like a small child, even at the ripe old age of 23. She's beyond smart, nailed all the academic certifications required, and made her way to the top of the cuisine chain all in five years. No doubt she'd be helpful with all the fighting and the strategy and the mysterious late night roundtable planning. No one would doubt a chef. On the other hand, an inactive "paleontologist" screamed suspiciously. But instead, she's forced to be 'brother's little lady'.

And right on time, there he was, the pain in her ass. Chin up, chest puffed, a history book opened in his hands, looking way more serious than anyone ever should be. Strutted behind was an extremely, extremely bloody Treeger, two others hoisted him up - just barely.

Show off. And also, a disaster to clean that floor properly. Monica winced at the thought.

"Ross!" She called.

Ross glanced at her. His stance relaxed, shoulders loosen a little at his sister's voice, a smile tugging on his lips. He mindlessly handed the book to the guy closest to him, and walked to Monica. "Hey you. Whatcha doing here, no work today?"

"Day off. It's been a while since I last trained my shooting skills, so, you know-"

Immediately, Ross grunted. Again, the same endless argument that only fires up more and more each time they meet. Glaring at the field - everyone immediately made themselves look busy, barely disguising their eavesdropping by pretending to practice - he scoffed. "Don't do unnecessary things, Mon. Learning about those things will only do more harm than good."

"So you founded this whole IHG thing, and it doesn't 'do more harm than good', but me learning stuff does?" Monica was dumbfounded. "A man is literally bleeding to death right there!"

"I'm okay!" muttered Treeger.

"Oh this is not the time, man. And please, head to the medical assistant."

Monica huffed, watched the injured walk away. "What the hell had even happened to him to be that badly bled? Isn't he your best hand-to-hand fighter?"

"He encountered The Prince."

The whole room quieted down in an instant. Monica paled visibly. Even as an outsider, the name rang familiarly and dangerously like an alarm bell.

Whispered in the hallways of their lair, circled dark red on the diagram, studied extensively by everyone, The Prince was on their trail like a hound and the biggest threat to Ross' big plan. He was the reason she wanted to be in IHG. Or, alternatively, have Ross abandon this whole thing. Because if not, eventually, The Prince - and the government by extension - will come after them, and she will be no help to the massacre.

Monica hopped off the chair and followed Ross toward the office center. "Where? Was it near here?"

"No. Treeger was about to raid an ammunition factory when he got busted by Prince and his team. Luckily he got out, stabbing the bastard on the shoulder, three rookies died while protecting him."

"Three?! How can you even be this-"

"What?" Ross turned around, stopped abruptly on his track. "Be what? Carefree? Buoyant? Breezy? What is it?"

"No I just-"

"Because I'm not. But I'm aware that death is a possibility. Death is always a possibility. See, this is why I can't let you get into this misery, Mon. You're so... I won't let you be like me. Or mom, or dad."

"Then what else should I do? Stand back and watch you die? Like mom and dad?!"

The shouts hit the walls and echoed through the empty hallways. Monica loved Ross, she really did. After all, they had only each other in the whole wide world. But every time they met, it would either start or end in an argument. One of them would bring their dead parents up to make a point, even though knowing it would tear their hearts apart. Monica couldn't fucking understand why.

She started to tear up. Ross stopped altogether. Transparency is not a thing in their relationship. For safety reasons, IHG's activities were kept completely secret from Monica, who only learned about them when the riots were televised, or when a loose-lipped member tipped her off. In return, Monica also did not let Ross know what was happening in her personal life. To be honest, she didn't need to. If Ross wanted to know, he could send bodyguards or spies to follow her, it was that simple.

But gosh, she hated living like this. She didn't need him to bring her world peace, or sacrifice himself to protect her. She just wanted Ross to live close to her hence they could have meals together often, or, to be in the gang so they could be shoulder to shoulder under the bullets. She wanted to be "the Gellers" with him, dead or alive. It didn't matter.

But apparently, it mattered to Ross.

She never won this argument against him for a reason.

Taking a step forward, Ross embraced her tightly. She wanted to push him away and growled "this is not the end" and did it until he understood, yet Monica melted in his warmth. She sniffled against his shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and wrapped her arms around his broad back. He's always too tall and too far away for her small self. A kiss landed on her hair.

She knew. She knew why he had to do this, and never let her in.

"I'm so sorry, Monica." whispered Ross. "There's no other way."

"I know."

"I've already phoned Phoebe. Go home."

Monica looked up at him, hopeful. "Will you come with me? Drop by to have a meal. Just that."

Ross smiled sadly. "I'm sorry."

Monica sighed. Knowing there's nothing she could do to change his mind, Monica nodded. With a reluctant push, she removed herself from his hug. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing to do, especially when she didn't even know if he would be alive the next moment. Therefore they never said their farewell.

A little tradition of the Gellers.

"Well, I'll send your hello to Pheebs then. Stay safe, brother. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

"I'm afraid then there would be very few things left to do, Ms. Monica Baum. Stay safe around the stoves!"

Monica huffed. Throwing one last look at Ross, she headed towards the exit, trying to stop the sniffing. It'd be a shame to walk on the street with running mascara, what would people even think of her?

Thankfully, true to Ross' words, a crappy taxi had arrived just by the time Monica came outside.

Phoebe Buffay - an extraordinary woman she was, dressed with the giant bag and a fur coat Phoebe swore she hated - slammed the brake, poked her head out cheerfully. "Need a ride, pretty sad thing?"

Monica jumped into the passenger seat.

The taxi sped away.

The Prince, Monica mentally noted. She'd have to take a closer notice toward the guy. The man, the myth, the nightmare, they said. Only a cruel, cruel enemy, a target to take out to her.