"Whuh... what did you do?" Grant asked in shock as he stared at the little body on the floor, trembling. He and the boy had to be roughly the same ago.

"What was my every right," Cameron said dismissively as he licked the blood and viscera chunks off his fingers before going in for a second helping. Chewing with a smile, the eldest scion of the family enjoyed the taste of his young victim. After loudly swallowing, he grabbed and held up a portion of the small intestine, staining the living room carpet even more. "Want some?"

His youngest sibling just stood there, wide-eyed and pale.

Cameron shrugged. "More for me!" He gnashed into the digestive organ, enjoying his meal far too much. When his mouth was again unoccupied, he looked at his little brother. "Don't let anyone fool you, Grant." He tapped his forehead. "See, I get it now. Most of our kind see our way of livin' as some sorta curse but I get it." He stood up and sauntered over to his little brother, leaving his meal behind to seep into the floor's fabric. Being nearly twice his tiny sibling's height, he looked down, causing blood droplets to land on the youngest of the brood's terrified face. "Humans hate us, Grant, because they fear us. We can snap them like twigs, break their bones with a twitch, end them on a whim. So, as they revel in their inadequacies and try to keep their spot on the food chain, we have to hide away for them to feel all safe and warm. But why should we?!" His face warped into a manic grin as he leaned down to be closer to his brother's face. "We're the superior species! We're the better hunters! We're the stronger animals! If anything, they should be hiding!" He breathed deeply, excited. "But they're smart, humans. All the weapons, the numerical superiority, they got to keep first place in all of it. Smart, and stubborn. Oh, they think they've got it all figured out. That's why I love seeing the fear in their eyes. That delicious dread when I show them they're like crystal in a glass case."

Grant forced himself to look away and, with nothing short of a miracle, spoke. "Isn't that evil?"

"Evil?" The budding serial killer nearly howled. "This is not malevolence. This simply is how it is."

XXXXXXXXX

"I'll remember your face," the stranger said with the faintest hint of amusement.

Mikogami may have been a child prodigy with a lifetime of privilege and unlimited resources, but he was, after all, still a child. Instinct overtook him as he looked away, closed his eyes, and shielded his face. He waited for the pain to come.

But it did not.

He heard a whoosh. Slowly, he lowered his arms and opened his eyes. Instead of that pale mask, he found Mutsu back in front of him, looking around.

"He's gone," the Sekirei concluded.

The young Ashikabi breathed with relief. "Did he hurt you?"

"Just a small knot in my back, but I'll survive." He turned to face the young one who had Winged him. "Let's get out of here before he comes back with friends."

"Friends?"

"His ilk tend not to hunt alone. At least, not the ones who want to live to see old age."

Mikogami pondered on that before noticing something. "Your, uh, arm is bleeding, Mutsu."

The former member of the Discipline Squad glanced down. Indeed, there was a rather large rip in his sleeve and gash in his flesh. "Flesh wound. Nothing more."

XXXXXXXXX

Curiosity. That was all Scratch currently felt. But not towards the man who very likely could have killed him in a straight-up fight (he held no illusions about his strength in comparison to others of his kind). But rather, the ichor on one of his tendril's spikes. It dripped like a sink faucet onto the fire escape he had retreated to. It smelled… oddly alluring. Like a lover enticing one to come to bed.

After making a quick look-about, he peeled off the mask. With narrowed eyes, he willed the tentacle closer to him.

"Life's a journey, not a destination," he reasoned to himself. He stuck his tongue out and licked.

Had he been close to a mirror, he would have noticed how his pupils grew to nearly encompass the entirety of his eyes.

What he did notice was that his Rinkaku was changing…

XXXXXXXXX

"Here we are," Karao said, pulling up to a massive building's back entrance.

John stepped out of the taxi and looked at what was to be his and his cohorts' new dwelling. "What was this place?"

"I think it used to be a hotel," the driver said. "It's been empty for a long time. But nobody cares enough to knock it down, let alone buy it."

"Correct!" declared a new voice. Both men looked over to the door and found its owner. He was just as tall as Michael, though far more clean and refined, and his eyes shined with something John did not entirely like. "You want the tour, Mister Kramer?"

"Thank you for your time. Do drive safely," John spoke sincerely to Karao before turning his attention to the other one.

"Michael told me about your little… moving day."

"And just who are you?"

"Yates. Pleased to meet you." He pushed the door completely open.

XXXXXXXXX

It burned, but in a good way. And there was no beating the taste. Kazehana smiled as she polished off another helping of sake. Nothing like a depressant to chase the blues away.

She was so focused on sucking down the alcohol in front of her that she barely noticed the flashing lights and roaring music. Oh, there had been plenty of offerings for a dance, or a drink. Sometimes both. She always turned down the former, but a yes was inevitable for the latter. She felt nothing for anyone here. No warmth under her skin. No beating in her chest. No yearning in her soul.

Was this karma? Or maybe…

A shout and slam of the door pulled her and a few others from their musings. The club's newest patron walked stiffly into the chaos. He was tall, caucasian, unruly, and evidently lost. He looked around as if he had been blind up until five seconds ago. Sunglasses were on his face despite the lateness of the day. Epilepsy?

He marched like a robot towards the bar, looking at the others having a good time.

"Is he–? Dammit all…"

He continued scanning the crowd for a minute. It seemed that he gave up with a frustrated sigh. He inhaled and made to turn… but stopped. He was close enough to her that she could hear him sniff.

"Not creepy at all," she joked to herself.

He sat down next to her, not bothering to remove his eye protection.

"Not interested, Shades," she preemptively shot him down.

"You're one of them." He said, keeping his volume low.

She blinked. "Them who?"

"Sekirei." He spoke the word like it was poison on his lips.

She studied him for a moment. Thanks to the lights, and his proximity, she could see his eyes behind the tinted glasses. Sharp, focused, and unwavering. Seeing her had pulled him from his stupor.

It all made her assume she was the first one he had encountered. For a moment, she shifted her focus to something within her.

... No. She was feeling nothing. No heat, no heart pumping. He was not the one.

But how did he know what she was? It was far too early in his (she refused to say his name) Plan for that word to just be flung out. "Do you work for MBI?"

"Not on my second brother and big sisters' lives," he stated, unmoving. It was like a painting's mouth had come to life.

"So then someone blabbed," she concluded.

"It matters not. Want my advice? Get out before things get bad. Really bad."

She would have laughed at him. But he sprang up and all but ran out. "… Psycho…"

XXXXXXXXX

John turned the knob. Water fell from the faucet. He deactivated the flow.

It would do. There was enough space for them all, and all his inventions.

He walked down one of the hallways, pondering. They would have to get everything from their old hideout to this new one. The traps, their supplies, materials for more, yet-to-be-made traps, and many other things.

But they had time. Plenty of it, but not an infinite amount.

He knew he would have to contact Lawrence and inform him of the change of venue. Burner phones and fake social media accounts had certainly made anonymity easier to keep.

The old engineer took a moment to think back on how much the world had changed so quickly... and how it still was going to change in an even shorter amount of time.

He then realized that Yates was gone.

XXXXXXXXX

The noise. The sweet, sweet cacophony. That was what Yamori enjoyed most about the nights out he spent in the clubs. It was a small taste of madness. The cheering The music. The body parts colliding.

"Never a dull moment!" He shouted over the music towards his companion, Nico.

The other Ghoul laughed and pointed. "I think someone's lost!"

Yamori followed the finger. What he saw made his smile morph from entertained to baffled. "No way…"

The man who had their attention seemed to see them and carefully walked over, as if he was afraid of losing his balance.

"Scratch, in a place like this? Never thought I'd see the day!" He slapped his other companion on the back, knocking his sunglasses askew.

"Believe me, not by choice." He readjusted his tinted glasses as Yamori and Nico guided him to a table away from the dance floor.

"What the Hell are you doing here, then?" Yamori asked with a chuckle as they sat down.

"If I went to the C– my boss, or Jig– the old man like this, I would never hear the end of it."

"You look like you've been having fun tonight," Nico purred.

"Not in the slightest," Scratch rubbed his temples. "I think I got into some bad blood…"

Yamori grinned. "You scoured my stomping grounds so I could hold your hand while you come down?"

Scratch glared at him, or at least he might have. The sunglasses made it hard to be sure. "Shove it, Yakumo."

That just made the sadist laugh. "All these years and you finally make a stupid move."

"It'll be my last," Scratch promised.

The Ghoul in the white suit kept on wearing his amused expression. "So. What's got your system all messed up?"

"Got hungry. One of us. Must have been sick or something."

Yamori's grin vanished. There was something that irritated him more than anything when it came to Scratch: his tendency to convincingly lie.

The two were different in countless ways, but that was their biggest crossroad. Yamori saw little point in lying, while Scratch spun tales of deceit constantly.

It made it rather frustratingly hard to know when he was telling the truth or twisting it.

"Is that so?"

Scratch responded only with a loud, wet hacking fit.

XXXXXXXXX

The water was enough. Just right to wake him up a little more.

With a simple thought, a single tentacle sprouted from his back and curled in front of him. Back to normal.

Temporary. Like a high.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He recognized the face, given that it had been his since birth. And yet… he could not quite place the person.

"How many names do you have?" asked what had to be someone with his voice. It could not have been him. His lips were not moving. "Can you even remember your real name?"

Of course he could. Spencer Foyet.

Wait…

No…

What was it?

Ah, yes.

"Just as well. A faker like you, spending your time with those… things. You surround yourself with monsters, big and small. Always have. Probably always will."

A hard truth. But still the truth. And it made him feel rotten, alone, and almost hopeless.

He blinked and saw something move in the mirror's background.

XXXXXXXXX

"So. Do you like it?" Michael asked as he helped himself to coffee.

With a nod, John paused from his breakfast. "Spacious. Secluded. Functional. How did you know of this place?"

The tall man scoffed. "My kind needs to be able to hide. And knowing the best spots to vanish means you live longer."

John saw the logic in that. "Exactly how many of your… acquaintances have followed you into this operation?"

A laugh. A very dry, very mirthful laugh escaped Michael's throat. "You think that's how it happened? I'm not the one at the top of that totem pole. I'm just the one who'll gladly do as you say without fuss."

"And just why is that?" John never passed up an opportunity to prod someone's mind.

"I've been taking orders all my life, Johnny. Why stop now?"

John blinked and remained silent. It was a rather good question. One that needed answering eventually. "And just who is holding your leash, then?"

"Careful, Kramer. Don't make certain people want your head on their wall."

XXXXXXXXXXX

"I gotta be honest, I'm a little offended," Yamori said, smelling machine lubricant on Scratch. "All these of you whisking yourself away to holes in walls, and you just instantly shack up with two freaks you've never met?"

Scratch laughed out loud and licked his own lips. "What? Jealous? Learn to live with it, Hockey Boy."

Yamori leaned down and over to get a look at the title. His English was far from perfect but he managed to get by. "Screw It, Let's Do It? Weird title."

"If he can go from squatting in slums to being rich enough to never care about tomorrow, he can call his work whatever he wants."

His oldest friend gave a noncommittal but understanding grunt as he picked up the other two novels Michael had been occupying his thoughts with. "The Art of the Deal and How To Read People Like A Book. What are you up to, Scratch?"

"What, you think I wanna do... whatever the fuck I find myself doing now forever? I have dreams, Yamori. Goals to be sought."

"And just what is that dream?"

"Doesn't matter. Right now, it's just an out-of-reach fantasy."

That made him laugh. "Don't be such a downer." He reached over to a small table next to the couch. "This'll cheer you up. I got you a little something, Michael." With a smile most would have run away from, he presented his old friend with a box.

His friend glanced at him. Yamori understood the hesitation. They were nowhere near any special holiday and the anniversary of Scratch's first breath was in Autumn. After an impromptu staring contest, he put down the book and reached for the box.

He opened it without gusto and stared down at the gift, his face completely blank. "You cannot be serious."

Yamori smirked. "What, you don't like it? It's high time you got a new, proper mask."

"Yeah, proper." He rolled his eyes before picking up and inspecting the thing that would conceal his identity. "What did you do, walk into a costume shop?"

XXXXXXXXX

He licked his lips again. He noticed that he was doing that inordinately often today. He tried forcing himself to focus on the words printed on the page, but he kept thinking back to that blood. That alien blood that made him feel like he had gone to another planet...