Where are you going, with your long face pulling down?

Don't hide away, like an ocean

That you can't see but you can smell

And the sound of waves crash down

There was noise in the kitchen, one floor down, rousing him from a deep sleep. He'd been sleeping more lately, the tax of staying out later, hunting, patrolling. He was not as young as he'd once been, and he felt it in his joints after waking later and later each day. Some people, maybe, weren't cut out to do this forever. Or maybe he was just being whiney. That happened on occasion. At any rate, someone was banging around the kitchen, chatting loudly.

"Prolly th'fuckin' twins..." he managed to grumble out to the darkness of his room. He rolled, landing off of the bed with a dry thump before standing and covering his nakedness in a kilt. Easy to use, just wrap it around and belt it off. Better than any fuckin' bathrobe any day of the damn week. Check the mirror, shit, bags under his eyes. He looked like hell. Dragged the massive revolver off of his dreser and checked the chamber. Loaded. Slid into the waistband of his kilt - better to be safe than sorry. Could be banishers or some shit, being retarded in the kitchen. Who knew?

He staggered out the door and for the stairs.

I am no superman.

I have no reasons for you

I am no hero, Aww that's for sure

But I do know one thing:

Is where you are is where I belong.

I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be.

They all looked up as he stumbled into the room, announcing himself with a "Th'fuck are ya'll fuckin' doin' this god damn early?" then snagged a bottle out of the air, tossed by Truth. He set it down and focused a weathered eye on Truth before saying "I fuckin' quit that shit." At that point, he surveyed the room. Truth.... Justice... the twins, like he thought. There was one more though. A girl, god damn she looked familiar. Where the fuck had he scene her before? Christ it was early. He needed to sleep more.

Now the bitch was inspecting him, like he was some kinda meat, looking him over, eye humping the shit out of him. He groaned and asked for coffee, fuck, where had he seen her before? Then she said it. She said "Ewan." Shit, none of these fucks knew his name. Not his real one. How did she know.... wait.

Where are you going? Where do you go?

Are you lookin' for answers to questions under the stars?

Well if along the way you are growin weary, you can rest with me

Until a brighter day, you're ok.

Brown hair... dark eyes... trim, but not too tall... shit. No, not fucking possible. Evie was dead, or off on her own living a blissful, happy sleeper life. She wasn't mixed up in this shit, couldn't be. That just wouldn't be right, wouldn't be fair. This whole time, he'd kept her secret, kept her safe from all the people that would want to kill him and now... wait. Maybe she wasn't... no. She was. The attainment showed him exactly what she was in merciless constance. He saw the spells woven about her, the state of her soul, the state of her waking. His own secret, hidden, estranged twin sister... all grown up and Awake.

He could barely choke out the word: "Evie?"

I am no superman.

I have no answers for you.

I am no hero, aww that's for sure.

But I do know one thing:

Where you are is where I belong.

I do know, where you go, is where I wanna be

The brother and sister hugged tightly, twelve years separated, collpasing into one another's arms, choking back tears. There were no words for the kind of reunion that two estranged twins had, after having been apart for twelve years, each one trying to protect the other from their world by their absence. The kind of reunion that meant they didn't have to hide one another anymore, that together, they could work much better, that they still had family. He refused to let go, just wrapping the ribbons of sinew that were his arms tighter and tighter about her.

A million thoughts ran through his mind. Thoughts of telling her that mom and dad were only worried for her. That Nick was bad for her, that she needed to stop smoking, stop drinking, come home and make something of herself. A million tin ironies like daggers in his own back. Now they didn't matter, he just smiled and buried his face in her shoulder to keep from crying.

She was home. It had been forever, but... now she was home.

Tell me where are you going?

Where? Let's go.

War. War never changes. The Romans waged war to gather slaves and wealth. Spain built an empire from its lust for gold and territory. Hitler shaped a battered Germany into an economic superpower. But war? War never changes.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water

His hand traced the tight teflon weave, covering the hardened ceramic plate beneath. Of all people, in all times and places, he heard Sally's voice. "Why do you wnat to be a Cleric?" followed by her patented "You got out, you don't have to do that anymore. Walk the path of Wisdom." For whatever reason, it seemed absurd. As silly as if she'd said "You know, the sky is neon green. I don't know why you think it's blue." He swallowed hard. How had it come to this? Fuck it. Don't ask that, you know damn well how. It's because you never left. Sure, you resigned, you said you were retiring. Leaving the business, tired of killing.

Truth be told? He was tired of the killing from day one. The killing wasn't the issue. It was the looking in the mirror and thinking he'd lost his way. That was the hard part. Now? Now it was easier to know. Easier to see the path in front of him. All he had to do was turn and look at the bodies littering the trail behind. Glassy eyes, staring up, dead mouths whispering to his ear. "They'd piss on us. They'd see the world sink down into the blackness, and they'd see our memory, all the things we loved and stood for, destroyed. Be our arm. Be our fist."

He nodded, swallowing again. Odd how those lumps were coming to his throat more and more frequently.

There is shadow under this red rock

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

He moved quietly, almost reverently, to the door, tracing his fingertips just barely over it as he exhaled, the chaste, anticipatory breath of a man in familair territory. This door hadn't opened in a long time. This place not walked ina long time. There was dust now on the poured-cement floor, and shadows danced in a sinister light, cast by a single bulb dangling from a chain in the ceiling of the beaten and ragged storage facility. His fingers found the dial, working out the combination on the lock even before he had the insight to think what it might be.

The vaultlike door swung open heavily, and lights came on. One row of lights along one wall, illuminating the row of guns - an old Colt SAA, a Taurus Raging Bull, a Smith and Wesson 500, a CZ-G2000... set beneath each gun, lovingly, almost obsessively, were boxes of ammunition. Not as many as used to be there, but certainly enough for one last ride. The other wall lit up a row of bladed implements. Knives ranging from standard combat knives to torture implements of the most sublimely ridiculous degree. Swords of any and every variety. Even an old fireax.

His hand reached numbly to flick on a lightswitch near the wall.

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

Aggravated Assault is only Felony 2, and the judge had some mercy in him. I only served a year, with a stiff fine, and mandatory psychiatric therapy. A year in the poke’ll do a lot to even a man out. Centers him, balances him. I had a cell mate named Vincenzo Loretto, a big mafia guy doing two consecutive life sentences for breaking faces for money. He was a good guy, though, genuinely saw why he was put in. We shared a little, I told him about my wife and how I ended up there. He told me something I’d never forget:

“Friend, it seems like you’re trying to be a cop. Problem is, you’re trying to bring down a monster, and you can never do that being a cop. A cop will follow rules, a cop will have limits. To kill a monster, you need to become a monster.”

He nodded slowly, regarding the dias in the center of the room, now lit by the light above it. To kill a monster, you need to become a monster.

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;

One must be so careful these days

It was like staring into the face of an old friend, and a hated enemy all at once. It was like feeling the hand of God in his stomach, gripping and twisting and saying "You are my divine monster. You are my fallen. Go into my broken world, and be my arm. Be my fist." The light didn't reflect at all off of the matte black teflon of the vest, painted by hand with a crude red cross, reminiscient of the crusaders of old. There were raised portions, one for each pec and one for the abs, covering the chest in three total ceramic plates, covered over by the cut-resistant teflon. Heavy duty straps laced the sides and shoulders, with military-grade metal latches. This was not the bullet-proof armor of survivalists and nut jobs. This was the I-get-shot-for-a-living armor used by police and military men.

Whisper handed it to him on the first day of work. Back when it was a cabal of stone-cold killers, ice in their veins. He'd said he would need the armor, said it'd be like his new best friend. Ewan had no idea how right Whisper was. His hand reached out, trembling, brushing aside the teflon-reinforced overcoat hanging over the crusader-vest. He brushed aside the lapel, and stroked the surface of the armor, as he might caress a lover.

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet

Eye drifted downward to see the boiled-leather gauntlets, stained a dark blood red. They poked out the sleeves of the overcoat and rested lifelessly on the crossguards of a sword. Of THE sword. It had been in the family, if the Fate visions and dreams were to be believed, since the family even existed. The Sword of St. Michael. It had tasted the blood of countless, seen most of those it had supped from hanging off of it like pieces of meat in a butcher's window. The Sword of St. Michael had drunk the lives of many. Now... it would feast again.

He sighed as he closed his eyes, kneeling before the suit of armor, before the sword, like a pilgrim at his destination of call. With outstretched hands, he reached inside... and he found what he was looking for.

That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

"Saint... you're still in me. You're still in me, and the world needs you. Everything needs you. There are monsters out there, and they're bringing the Abyss here."

Good. It's about time. I'd been getting bored with all the posturing, the talking, the bullshit. The swearing and the pissing contests. The bell tolls, Ewan, and it's time to show what men we are. Are you done being a child?

"I am done being a child."

Good. Then let's be a monster again.

"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

"Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.

   "What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?

"I never know what you are thinking. Think."

The mask hung in the light, glinting off of it. Ren had always called it his Doctor Doom mask. A polished stainless steel mask lined in red velvet, eyes narrow slits, with a single narrow slit for a mouth. Otherwise featureless. It was the sacred adornment of the Interfector, the hallmark of the man so many had come to fear and respect in Central Pennsylvania. The barest sight of it instilled terror. It was Saint. Saint was brutal. Saint was fast. Saint was effective. Saint would be again. Those trembling hands reached out, the oils smudging the pristine perfection of the mask's surface.

I think we are in rats' alley

Where the dead men lost their bones.

Those trembling pilgrim's hands reached out, removing the vest from it's home, from the place it had sat since he moved. It slid over his shoulders easily, resting on him. Those plates were heavier than he remembered, and they pressed tightly into his stomach, chest, and back. It was comforting, like being embraced by his most familiar lover. The straps tightened on him and he groaned, half in pleasure, half in pain from the slackening and aging he'd done since wearing this vest last. Soon, it rested strepped to him, like it had always been.

Next, the coat was slid on, one arm after the other, as he sighed an exquisite sigh of release, feeling the fabric, even heavier now, against him. It flapped down, dancing around his mid-calf as he pulled on the lapels, settling it on himself smartly.

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

But at my back in a cold blast I hear

The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

Cracked and leathery hands slid into their familair gauntlets, stained red to be symbolic of the blood the Interfector spilled. These were the hands of more than a man. The hands of an angel. And not a terribly nice one. Dimly, it occurred to him, that Lucifer was an angel, as well. An angel of fire and smoke, radiance and light. A burning emblem of God, selected by God, and cast down to the earth, into that Hell of existence, where he laid, sympathetic to the humans. Really, in the end, was there anything He couldn't do? If Lucifer was so awful, so anathemic, couldn't He have just removed him? He could. That was simple. The easier thing was to throw him down, cast him out, and watch what he does with it.

That was the difference. Some fallen angels made the best of things... some went the way of Lucifer and whined and bitched about it. Put your hero up a tree and throw rocks at him. That was the adage, right? Gauntleted hands buckled the heavy belt around his waist, fastening the sword in its place at his left, Smith and Wesson at his right. Hands again moved to tie the chord around his thigh to hold the hoslter in place for easier draw. Fucking cowboy.

          "On Margate Sands

          I can connect

          Nothing with nothing.

          The broken fingernails of dirty hands

          My people humble people who expect

          Nothing."

The mask lifted from its place, seating itself comfortably, coolly, against his face. Fingers deftly moved to fasten the buckle behind his head, then adjusted it. He'd had a lot more hair back then. A lot more. He stood again before a mirror, a full-bodied mirror and he gazed. Head to toe, black combat boots, reinforced overcoat, McAllister clan tartan kilt, gunbelt, sword, blackened ballistic vest with the matte red cross, stainless steel mask. Saint stood before him in the mirror, in all his stoic brutality. A hero that no one wanted to need. A hero needed all the same.

Or was it less than that? Was it duty? ("You got out. You don't have to do this.") In that instant? She was right. He didn't have to do this. He wasn't obligated. There was no force making him do this, he chose to. He chose this. He chose to strap on the armor and uniform, shoulder the guns, and march off to war again. Like every soldier in the world, every cop, every single man who left his home in the morning intent on making the world safe for at least a day. None of them had to. All of them chose to regardless. That made a big difference.

Beneath his mask, Saint smiled.

          To Carthage then I came

          Burning burning burning burning

          O Lord thou pluckest me out

          O Lord thou pluckest

          burning

The vault door swung closed bhind him with a solid connection. The latch spun and he looked back over his shoulder. Perhaps... he would never need this again. Perhaps this war was the last, and he would join his wives, his children, in Beyond. Perhaps... it would not. And if it were not... how glorious would it be, to arise triumphant from the carnage of the Abyssal worshippers, hand held high, knowing that another day would come, the sun would rise and set again. Not because it was his duty. Not because it was owed or obligated. But because he chose to ride out, to give all of himself, so that others had that chance to look out, and see the sun rise on a rband new day, to see it glint off of icicles... and to smile.

That made a big difference.

In this decayed hole among the mountains,

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel

There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.

It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree

Co co rico co co rico

In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust

Bringing rain

The black 1972 Dodge Charger rolled away from the building in the early morning light. Florida was a long ways away, and too much time had already been wasted. With a little luck... tomorrow there'd be sun.

When the heart is cold, there's no hope, and we know
That I am crippled by all that you've done
Into the abyss will I run

You believed
You believed in moments not conceived
You believed in me

The wide-set tires ground up a dirt road that hadn't been traveled by a single soul in months. It was dark by the time he'd made it back to the center of Pennsylvania, prescious sleeping cargo in tact. Red afterglow from the tail lights of the 1972 Dodge Charger created a baleful gleam on trees that had just been lit white with headlights. The path was starting to get overgrown, weeds were sticking out of the middle, and branches were threatening to cover it over entirely. He didn't have time or care to get out and trim them, or clear the road, so... the muscle car from a bygone era simply ripped through them, power and acceleration making up for a lack of gardening.

Brakes gripped the wheels as a house came into view ahead, windows dark, no porch lights on. The only lights came from the moon overhead, and the dim lanterns that still lit the garden. The water graden that so badly needed work. The black car skittered around in a 90 degree snap before it came to a stop, dirt and dust settling about it in a cloud. Barely before it stopped, his boot-clad foot connected with the dirt as he moved to exit.

A passionate spirit
Uncompromise
Without us in your heart
A light in your eyes that
Ends all lies

He was moving now, quickly, toward the house. Kelly lay unconscious across his arms as he all but ran for a building he'd vacated months ago. A building he swore he'd never come back to. His mind was not engaged properly, or he may have noticed the tracks, still fresh, from a 2007 Chrysler Crossfire. He might have noticed footprints in the dirt, smaller than his own, still miraculously left. You could barely make them out, from all the rain and wind, but they were there, pressed into the mud. Right now, all that mattered was Kelly.

The man spun, dropping his shoulder as he pounded the door open, practically off its hinges. It was dark. The faint smell of mingling dragons blood and honeysuckle assaulted his nose, and he bit his lower lip hard to keep from outright crying at that moment. Boots sounded heavily as they moved up the stairs without a moments' thought, the pathways in the dark of this place known by rote memory.

Vacant, broken
Fell at the hands of
Those moments that I wouldn't see
Cause it was you who prayed for me, so
What have I done to be a son to an angel?
What have I done to be worthy?

He peeled back silk bed sheets that still smelled like She did. Rajani had bought him new sheets, and he'd never used them. Said he did, but... they didn't smell like She did. Didn't have the memorized form of her body pressed into them, a form that wouldn't come out, crafted of wrinkles and light sweat. No matter how many washings... her shape remained imprinted forever. How could he use new sheets?

Kelly was laid in the bed gently, then he began working on stripping her down. Rags and tatters given to her by the circus freaks. Blood-and-sweat-stained. His niece deserved so much better. He cut through the rags easily with a boot knife, then searched the closet for clothing.

Daylight dims leaving cold fluorescence
Difficult to see you in this light
Please forgive this selfish question, but
What am I to say to all these ghouls tonight?

Pain wracked his whole body as he shuddered and shook. He was not crying the simple little tears of resolute unhappiness. He was crying as if his soul had died forever, and he was destined to have to feel it not there for the rest of time. His body was curled up in the corner of the massive walk-in closet, he hadn't been prepared to see all of her clothes, still hanging there. Still freshly washed, still smelling like the soap she'd used. He wiped his eyes meaninglessly with one of her satin skirts that had gently dislodged itself from its home on a hanger. Tears kept coming and he just rocked back and forth, crying so hard he couldn't close his lips, breath coming in ragged gasps between sobs.

Very slowly, he managed to stand, clawing his way from the closet, cotton pajamas in hand. Kelly needed him, time to put it in the back of his mind again.

She never told a lie
Well might of told a lie
But never lived one
Didn't have a life
Didn't have a life
But surely saved one
Asleep? Oh alright
Now it's time for us to let you go

The pain from his chest was excrutiating. The taste in his mouth sour and bittersweet as he clung to the edge of the toilet like it was a life raft. He jerks and heaved again, vomiting a third time into the bowl, tears still staining his cheeks. He had not been ready. He'd never be ready. Kelly lay delicately sleeping on the bed, dressed in fresh cotton pajamas, covers tucked around her neck to keep her safe and warm. Uncle Ewan was here. Never fear. Another convulsion as he threw up for the fourth and final time. As he collapsed and laid next to the toilet, vomit clinging to his lower jaw, taste of McDonalds Breakfast and Jack Daniels littering his throat, spiced with the seasoning of a gallon of bile and stomach acid, he noticed. There was a positive pregnancy test still in the trash.

Suddenly, he had to throw up again.

We listen to the tales and romanticize
How we follow the path of the hero
Boast about the day when the rivers overrun
How we'll rise to the height of our halo
Listen to the tales as we all rationalize
Our way into the arms of the savior
Fading all the trials and the tribulations
None of us have actually been there
Not like you

Morning came rudely and quickly, though he didn't sleep a wink. Everywhere he tried to lay down, he found more to keep him awake. The master bedroom was right completely out, so he'd moved down to the guest room. Upon opening the door, he was the curtains, framing nothing at all on the wall. He thought about Solaris and Carli, gleefully drilling holes in the wall to hang the curtains, he recalled them smiling and telling him it would be okay.

This room once had a more sinister purpose, it was at one time, an Interfector's trophy room. Adorned with skulls and other mementos of kills done in the name of the Veil, a place where he'd kept reminders of all he'd done to distance himself from people and all human emotion. More importantly, he'd remembered how far he'd come since then, and how rapidly he was heading right back toward it. A few more months... maybe even weeks... of a life like he was leading, and he'd be that cold, callous, and unfeeling again. No.... he couldn't stay in Solaris' room.

Ignorant fibbers in the congregation
Gather around spewing sympathy, spare me
None of them could even hold a candle up to you
Blinded by choices hypocrites won't seek
But enough about the collective Judas
Who could deny you were the one
Who would have made it?
You'll have a piece of the divine
This little light of mine
The gift you passed on to me
I'm gonna let it shine
To guide you safely on your way
Your way home

He laid on the couch, staring at the projection screen television, remembering her laughter when she discovered his movie collection for the first time. What movie do you want to see? He'd asked her. She'd replied with how much she loved mindless meaningless action movies, so he'd put on XXX. Vin Diesel. Not a typical date movie, but... she wasn't a typical girl, was she? Even now, he could feel her arms around him, his around her as they sat on the couch watching bad action films, laughing at just being with each other. It smelled like her. It fucking smelled like her everywhere.

This was no good. Maybe the porch.

Oh, what are they gonna do
When the lights go down
Without you to guide them all to Zion?
What are they gonna do when the rivers overrun
Other than tremble incessantly?
High as a wave,
But I'll rise on up off the ground
You are the light and the way
They'll only read about
I only pray heaven knows
When to lift you out
Ten thousand days in the fire is long enough
You're going home

This place was tinged in nothing but betrayal. He could see Rajani all over the patio, before he even walked out onto it. The necklace around his neck seared like fire. Or maybe he just thought it did, before he turned around and walked back into the house. As he passed the kitchen, he could see her busying about the kitchen, humming as she cooked, light catching her blonde hair perfectly. She always loved doing things for him. He stopped to watch her as she looked up and almost seemed to notice him. That was when he felt the hand on his shoulder.

He spun to face.... himself. Standing there behind him. No. Smirking... superior.... Saint. The Other Him he'd shaken.

"Thing about alcoholism, bitch? It causes hallucinations. It's good to be back, it really is."

Oh motherfucking hell. This was all he needed.

You're the only one who can
Hold your head up high
Shake your fist at the gates saying,
I have come home now
Fetch me the spirit, the son and the father
Tell them their pillar of faith has ascended
It's time now
My time now

"....so in short, thank you. You're on the fast track to becomming me again, and it's all thanks to her dying. Wait... oh... wait. This isn't how she'd want to be remembered is it? This must be KILLING you, bitch!" Saint laughed. "Seriously, what the fuck are you doing? You don't want this. You hated this. Why are you back here? Did you really want to talk to your imaginary friend this much again? Wait... here's another quandry for you... why does your imaginary friend abuse you so much? You made me up. I could be your best friend. Why do you take my shit?"

He opened his mouth to speak, before remembering this was a hallucination and shutting it again. Really... he was onyl arguing with himself anyway.

"Right where was I? You're a good person! Stop this shit! What, now she's dead you gotta fuck everything that moves? You dumbass piece of shit, you got two women knocked up and now you're all 'poor me'? Sort your shit out. Stop putting your dick in every warm moist opening it finds. Seriously, you're making ME look bad, and that takes work."

This was too fucking much. He stood and pushed past Saint and into the kitchen. She looked up and smiled.

Give me my
Give me my wings

"Ewan... I love you. Why are you hurting the man I love?"

You are the light, the way
That they will only read about

She embraced him, crying herself. He was hysterical by now, having no idea what to do or where to turn. This was too much, this house was too much. He should have burned it and moved on, but... that would have destroyed every prescious scrap of her in it, and he couldn't have that. It was irony. The things he wanted to save the most were killing him slowly and painfully.

"No, Ewan. You are killing yourself. And you're not doing it slowly. Please. Please, for once, he's right. This isn't you. I love you. Please... please be you."

"I am me... who else.."

"No, Ewan. You're not. You're... someone else. Someone in pain, who is refusing to deal with that pain. It's killing you, Ewan. And by the time you die, you won't be the man I love. Please come back to me." She touched his cheek and he shuddered, convulsing once before he collapsed again into hysterical sobs, clingng to the leg of a chair as though it were her. He fell asleep here, sprawled on the kitchen floor, hugging a chair leg as though it were a lover, words of two hallucinations echoing throughout tortured dreams of everyone he ever loved dying.

Set as I am in my ways and my arrogance
Burden of proof tossed upon all non-believers
You were my witness, my eyes, my evidence
Judith Marie, unconditional one

Breakfast tasted like ashes sitting in his stomach. It filled him, and gave him fuel, but it tasted and felt empty. The worst part about this whole experience was that they were both right. He was so different and so changed that... he wasn't himself anymore. He was seeking comfort and solace in whatever pussy presented itself, instead of actually dealing with feeling lonely. In that single moment, he'd never felt lonlier. It hurt him that Saint had been right about something, even more that Carli had agreed with him. That was a sign that he'd seriously fucked up... and it was time to change.

For now though? He had to check on Kelly.

Daylight dims leaving cool fluorescence
Difficult to see you in this light
Please forgive this bold suggestion
Should you see your maker's face tonight
Look 'em in the eye
Look 'em in the eye and tell 'em
I never lived a lie, never took a life
But surely saved one, hallejullah
It's time for you to bring me home

I drink alone, yeah
With nobody else
I drink alone, yeah
With nobody else
You know when I drink alone
I prefer to be by myself

Sun was rising slowly in Jacksonville, he'd been on the road four hours. It was now six in the morning, and he'd not slept, not eaten, and not stopped since Cocoa Beach. The dawn lit things in shades of blue and purple, casting not-fully-lit hues across the landscape, and barely illuminating the jet black 1972 Dodge Charger. Wide racing tires and suspension gripped the road in a vice, locked together tighter than most lovers cared to get. The V8 Dodge hemi roared angrily, threatening to rip through the reinforced hood as the car nearly stood on end as it tore down the road. Those purples and blues lit the man driving, his neatly-trimmed brown goatee, hair once in a ponytail now torn free of its ties. Dark eyes glittered, narrowed in anger as he drove, one hand on the wheel, one hand on the bottle of dark amber liquid.

A shotgun lay with a massive revolver in the seat next to him, along with scattered spare ammo. The back seat... the girl. She had mousy brown hair, disheveled and messed, and she was in the rags the circus people had put her in, still. Eyes were closed as she slept a peaceful dreamless sleep, induced by Life magic and exhaustion. Kelly McAllister, Skeleton Key. Or was it Killiya somethingorother. He took a long pull from the bottle as he drove.

Every morning just before breakfast
I don't want no coffee or tea
Just me and good buddy Wiser
That's all I ever need
'Cause I drink alone, yeah
With nobody else
Yeah, you know when I drink alone
I prefer to be by myself

He saw the ringmaster talking with the kid, telling him how he'd found the kid's sister. Killiya. Something about her having had a spill from the tightrope. About not knowing who she was. Should have drilled him right then and there. He kept talking, kept going on and on. The vest hung heavy on him, he could feel the heavy ceramic plates pressing against all the important parts of him. The clowns were eyeing him like dogs that hadn't seen a fight in ages. And the dog in him was eyeing back, not having seen a fight in ages. The revolver hung in his hand, he gripped it tightly, thumbing the hammer. Oh they didn't like that.

The people were squaking in his ear, but he barely heard it. His mouth was dry, cracked as he spoke into the microphone pressing to his cheek. Then it came over. She's in the lion cage. Zohar was there first, and he made it to her right after, lifting the cannon in his hand to cover her. They started talking at once, Zohar started picking the lock, though it barely registered. If she couldn't, he'd shoot the damn thing off.

The fire started, and all hell broke loose. People were screaming and running, he lost track of the ringmaster in bending to help Zohar with Kelly's chains. They lifted her together and ran for the exit.

The other night I laid sleeping
And I woke from a terrible dream
So I caught up my pal Jack Daniel's
And his partner Jimmy Beam
And we drank alone, yeah
With nobody else
Yeah, you know when I drink alone
I prefer to be by myself

Jacksonville was in the rearview as the later events crept into his mind. He set the bottle down to light a cigarette as he drove, remembering the Sight. She was related to the kid. She was related to him. They were right, she was their daughter. That'd mean... something bad. She wasn't Kelly. She never was Kelly. But she had to be. Had to. Everything matched, everything fit. She WAS Kelly, had to be. Or was that his frantic desire to not be the last good McAllister alive? Was it his rampant need to see the family not descend into destruction and decay?

He allowed a single glance in the rearview to look at the sleeping girl. A lot of questions needed answering, which meant contacting a lot of relatives he never wanted to talk to again. Ever.

The other day I got invited to a party
But I stayed home instead
Just me and my pal Johnny Walker
And his brothers Black and Red
And we drank alone, yeah
With nobody else
Yeah, you know when I drink alone
I prefer to be by myself

In the end, it came down to lonliness. She was all he had really, by way of family. Ifelse was his sort of daughter, and he played daddy for a lot of kids. This one was blood related. When she said "Uncle" it was real. There were pictures of them from when he was still a teenager, climbing rocks and going hiking. Pictures of her goofing off, and him laughing at it. Memories that couldn't be wrong. If she was this..... Killiya.... it meant all that was a lie. It didn't exist, or didn't happen, or happened with someone else. That's what it came down to. It came down to a piece of himself he thought had a second chance at life. A piece of himself he had to watch die all over again.

Another glance in the rearview, almost concealed by the wetness in his eyes as tears streamed freely down his cheeks. The cigarette dropped into his lap as he sobbed and sobbed, gripping the steering wheel all that much tighter. He knew life wasn't fair. He knew he wasn't destined to live happily, or have what he wanted and needed, but... this was too much. This was insult on injury. Kelly, his wife, children, wife again, child again, now Kelly again? He convulsed jerkily as he sobbed harder and harder. All he'd ever wanted was a family. A flesh and blood group of people that could say "Hello. You're one of us, we're yours." All he'd ever wanted.

He pulled over to the side. It was getting hard to see, and he needed to see. Needed to ride this fit out. The cargo in the backseat was so very prescious. No mistakes. No fuckups. She was.... hopefully.... family.

My whole family done give up on me
And it makes me feel oh so bad
The only one who will hang out with me
Is my dear old granddad
And we drink alone, yeah
With nobody else
Yeah, you know when I drink alone
I prefer to be by myself

My eyes seek reality
My fingers seek my veins
There's a dog at your back step
He must come in from the rain
I fall cause I let go
The net below has rot away
So my eyes seek reality
And my fingers seek my veins

The room was dark. It was always dark. It stank of cheap alcohol and cigarette smoke, and not in the way that a place could stink like fresh alcohol and cigarette. The kind of smell that can only build over time. The kind of stench that can only be produced by one part physicality, one part regret, and two parts given up. Smoke curled in slow trailing tendrils across the room, stemming from an ashtray near a desk. In the dim light coming through the window, it could barely be seen. The desk. The chair. The bed. A television, scattered clothes, a myriad of empty bottles. A revolver, a massive revolver sat on the bedside table next to the alarm clock. He'd just cleaned it. The revolver, not the clock.

The bottle in his hand lifted, long and slow, liquid fire scorching past his lips and down his throat, where he could feel it pool in his belly, spreading to his arms and legs. He could feel this because he was telling himself he could feel it. If the truth were to be told, he stopped actually feeling hours ago, the firey poison having numbed and dulled him into a near-defenseless stupor. Dulled brown eyes gazed across the room, boring into the wall as though it wasn't actually there. As if he was staring somewhere else entirely.

The trash fire is warm
But nowhere safe from the storm
And I can't bear to see
What I've let me be
So wicked and worn

He could see her. Down there are the bottom of every empty bottle. That's why he did it, that why he started it. By now... sure, it was a problem. Too much more, and it'd be a problem he'd never be able to stop from. But, it had gotten a hair worse than this when his first wife had died, so he had a little bit of the road left to walk before he was truly a full blown alcoholic. He could see her alabaster white skin, the color of unblemished cream, stretching before him like a soft satin expanse. White blonde hair, platinum pale, trickling over her shoulders, covering his face when they kissed, like a curtain of silk scented in honeysuckle. Eyes like twin sapphires, glimmering at him. He could see her down there, and she was beckoning. Waving.

She was talking, speaking to him in soft hues. You touched me and I died. Everything you touch dies. I loved you, and just being near you snuffed me out of existence.

So as I write to you
Of what is done and to do
Maybe you'll understand
And won't cry for this man
cause low man is due
Please forgive me

There was a call. Soft as silk, dangerous as Satan. It was coming from over on the nightstand. Over near the alarm clock.

My eyes seek reality
My fingers feel for faith
Touch clean with a dirty hand
I touch the clean to the waste

One woman was already pregnant. His kid. She was in danger already just on that fact alone. Every woman who had ever carried his seed had died, and not died well. Died violently, in a final moment of fear and pain, snuffed out long before it was time. Every single one he'd been close to. It was best to leave them alone, best to move on. Let her have the kid and never bother her again. What kind of father would he be anyway? Here, son. This is how you shoot a man to death. If he was involved with the child, it would ruin the child. Plain and simple. They'd become violent, aggressive, angry people with no coping mechanisms beyond drinking and smoking and killing things. That wasn't healthy for an adult, let alone a child.

In fact... it would be better off for that child, for that mother, if he just didn't exist anymore. Lessens the chances of him fucking up another poor kid.

So as I write to you
Of what is done and to do
Maybe you'll understand
And won't cry for this man
Cause low man is due
Please forgive me

Rajani had two kids and a life already set up. She needed to appear avaliable to do her work right, needed to be able to have that leeway, to let people think they'd get what they wanted. Maybe even give it to them once in a while. A great life with two great kids, and they'd been really kind to let him run away and play pretend for a while. But he didn't fit in there, in their million dollar house, playing daddy for two kids that he was only fucking up even worse. Essentially, playing House in order to keep from the realization that he'd never be able to have that. She smiled so nice, and put up with it so well.

Even said she wanted two more kids. His kids. Actually said she wanted that death sentence on her. Thanks but no thanks. They'd be a lot better off without him. A lot more alive.

So low the sky is all I see
All I want from you is forgive me
So you bring this poor dog in from the rain
Though he just wants right back out again

Ifelse was defending him on email lists, and screaming at people for him in person. What would come next? Put down the gun, my daddy didn't do anything wrong? Standing in front of him, between him and an angry mob? He couldn't let that happen. She still had a chance, still had a life. Her and her boy... Christ. There was even another thing. Try and step in to make sure the boy's up and up, and only fuck it up worse for them. Deny her happiness only because he didn't have it himself. Real great fucking move there. She'd do a god damn sight better without him fucking things up for her, killing off her chances at happiness, and throwing her in harm's way by his own plain self-loathing.

He reached down, picking up the object from the nightstand.

And I cry, to the alleyway
Confess all to the rain
But I lie, lie straight to the mirror
The one I've broken, to match my face

Bell never called, never talked to him. She'd done the smart thing and run for the hills as soon as possible. Paradox... hell she was getting married to another Guardian, cute as hell really. Didn't need him anymore. Lachesis had made it pretty damn clear where he stood with her, which was directly under the gun, ninety percent of the time. Didn't really enjoy being a chew toy when a late teen year old brat felt down and needed a pick-me-up. Hadn't heard from Hope in forever... hope she was okay. State College? Buncha fucks... didn't even notice I stepped down as Hierarch. Harrisburg? Bigger buncha fucks. Pixel... hadn't heard from her in over a month. Prolly scared the shit out of her, never wants to see my psycho ass again. Way to fuck up another thing, asshole.

He looked into the mirror and barely made out the Ewan-shaped blur. Things were swirling and swimming, but he could see enough to spit all over the image's face before thumbing back the hammer on the gun in his hand. He ws crying. Why was he crying?

The trash fire is warm
But nowhere safe from the storm
And I can't bear to see
What I've let me be
So wicked and worn

This really was for the best. There'd be tears and unhappiness for a few weeks until the next big crisis came along, and then no one would care anymore, and it would be for the best. Just like Fabulous, or Felix, without the fanfare, or the ability to blame other people for it. He pressed the barrel against the side of his head and lit one last cigarette with a one-handed ease that only comes from too much practice. He stared the image in the mirror right in the eyes, puffing out smoke as he spoke words that felt foreign, alien on his tongue. Words that made him cry a little harder.

"Qui custos es mei, Me tibi commissum pietate superna; Hodie illumina, custodi, rege, et guberna."

With that, his resolve firmed.

So as I write to you
Of what is done and to do
Maybe you'll understand
And won't cry for this man
Cause low man is due

Click.

Please forgive me

Click.

Please forgive me

Click.

So low the sky is all I see
All I want from you is forgive me
So you bring this poor dog in from the rain
Though he just wants right back out again

He'd forgotten to put bullets back in when he'd cleaned it. Talk about a fuckup. Easily rectified, though. He set the gun down and started toward the desk, wherein he knew he kept the fifty caliber bullets that would fill the gun. He took one step...and the alcohol chose to kick in fullest. Eyes rolled back, jaw slackened, and he passed out right there on the floor.

My eyes seek reality

In his sleep, he saw her again. He saw her hand on his gun as it sat, pressed into the side of his head. Her delicate white hand, pushing it down as she looked at him tearfully and shook her head, biting her bottom lip. She looked into his eyes, tears still rolling down her cheeks, then leaned in, hugging him tightly, whispering only one word: "No." before pushing him back gently, turning to walk away. Carli paused once, jsut before she was out of sight, to look back over her shoulder, meet his eyes, bite her lip worriedly, and then turned and walked away.

He woke the next day to see the gun laying next to him and he stood, looked at it derisively, remembering her word... and poured a new drink.

My fingers seek my veins

Post One: Two Words
Evanescence - Lose Control

You don't remember my name,
I don't really care,
Can we play the game your way?
Can I really lose control?

He was trying to think back to that time. To that week not long ago, that particular few days. That particular night. His cigarette lit the porch of the big house in Black Forest, Colorado, a sigh escaping his lips. There'd be hell to pay. Hell and everything in it. Fucking Mastigos... could be vincidctive. Had to get this shit straight, get it right. Go in double-juiced and smiling. A light breeze kicked up and he sheltered the little paper-and-tobacco stick, that little lifeline holding him to a comfortable place. A place that made sense.

What the fuck happened? HOW the fuck did it happen? There'd be hell to pay, rest assured. She'd be pissed as hell, but she needed to know. Fuck no she didn't need to know. Could always be a secret. Always and forever, just disappear a weekend or two out of the year and run off. Conceal why. Yeah. Conceal the truth from fucking Mastigos. That has a shot in heaven or hell of ever working ever. Jesus Christ... there'd be hell to pay.

Just once in my life,
I think it'd be nice,
Just to lose control, just once,
With all the pretty flowers in the dust

The ties nearly snapped against his straining, growls escaping his lips like some caged beast. His eyes were wild, more animal than person as slight beads, droplets of blood appeared at his wrists, the ties cutting in a bit. A roar escaped his lips as he pulled and pulled. She just smirked and rolled her eyes, talking to him calmly and reasonably. Saint hated this bitch. She was supposed to be scared, frightened, run, and hide and cry. This bitch was supposed to see the serpent loose, not the friendly happy piece of shit she thought was the real him... not Ewan the cute cuddly emotionally damaged teddy bear. Fucking Saint. Saint.

Instead she fucking pitied him? Pitied him!? What was this fucking shit? The bed started snapping, wood straining agaisnt his muscles. Splinters started falling before she sat next to him, soothing his forehead with her hand and words. She didn't let him throw a tantrum, she didn't stand for it. And in that instant... Saint lost his fight. As he relaxed, fell back against the bed, she descended on him, smiling warmly.

Mary had a lamb,
His eyes black as coals,
If we play very quiet, my lamb,
Mary never has to know

He stopped typing, eyes locked to the screen. Fuck. And yay. And FUCK. There would be hell to pay for this... he was in deep deep shit... but... it was good! Very good and exciting... and horrible. And through all the confusion, one thought fought to dominance in his mind.

I'm going to be a daddy.

Just once in my life,
I think it'd be nice,
Just to lose control, just once

--------------------

Post Two: Growth
VNV Nation - Joy

Have I no control, is my soul not mine?
Am I not just man, destiny defined?
Never to be ruled nor held to heel
Not heaven or hell just the land between
Am I not man, does my heart not bleed?
No lord, no God, no hate, no pity, no pain, just me
Comprehend and countermand
Synchronous guidance. I choose my way
Never to be ruled nor held to heel
No heaven or hell, just the land between

Baltimore's Inner Harbor was fairly well lit at night. A few policemen patrolled, as did a handful of security guards, this was a major tourist trap. A smallish bay with a mouth, one side guarded by the National Aquarium at Baltimore, the other by Fort McHenry. In the middle was the Maryland Science Center, and two large long buildings housing shops and restaraunts. It was in the middle of Baltimore, and so it was guarded and kept secure from the other reputation Baltimore had. Not the one for crab cakes and naval history, but the one for inner city muggings and murder. They couldn't let the tourist trap go undefended. This place was a bastion of strength and solidarity in a sea of blackness and evil.

Sally put it best, funny that, that Baltimore was home to all manner of bad things and darkness. Sleeper, Awakened, even beasties that go bump in the night, all the bad things, all the worst things... always seemed to find home in Baltimore. If you were down-on-your-luck and a bigger bad ass than anything going... if you needed a place to hide and be yourself that no one else was garanteed ever to go... you went to Baltimore.

He sat, hunched over, perched atop a post, sticking up above the side of the concrete upon which the harbor sat. Like a bird of prey he surveyed the area, ignored by the police as a vagrant in a black peacoat, smelling of cigarette smoke, herbs, and hard liquor, eagle eyes piercing into their very souls, daring them to say a thing. They knew he was not here to harm anyone, knew in their souls. They also knew better than to ask him to leave. He was above them, and yet the same. A defender on a whole different level.

So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why am I lone and why do I feel that
I carry a sword through a battlefield?
So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why do I fight and why do I feel that
I carry a sword, that I carry a sword?

It had to be three in the morning, his eyes locked intently at the water. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he hadn't seen a cop or guard in hours, but the front was concerned with the slight deviations in the ripples near the surface. It was like something was in there, waiting. Stalking. Hunting him. He moved slowly, standing up, still perched atop the post. His hand moved slowly into his coat, a smirk on his lips as he called upon his ring to summon his sword...

Then it happened.

Or rather, nothing happened. His eyes widened slightly as he realized his ring was not there. As that realization, as that helplessness set in, the surface of the water exploded, showering droplets of the Chesapeake Bay in all directions, splattering buildings and concrete walks with water. A creature of pure roiling darkness rose before him, arms expanding and retracting at random, form constantly shifting. A maw of teeth grew from it and it roared in triumph, standing well over two stories tall. Slowly, Saint turned to look behind him and saw it. A security guard, standing in front of a lost mother and child, cringing in fear.

No thought. No time to think. Fuck it. Throw yourself away, protect the sleepers, let the Guardians cover this shit up. At least the sleepers will live. He kicked off, leaping from his perch directly at the creature. In desperation, he imagined his sword, brought it immediately to the front of his mind. He imagined the feeling of holding it, he called out to it, stretching his hand as though it would reach through infinity to the blade.... and he swung it, screaming in the High Speech: "Per marre! Per terras!"

Like the path to heaven or the road to hell
Our choice is our own consequences bind
We are the kings of wisdom, the fools as well
We are the gods to many, we are humble men
We who build great works just to break them down
We who make our rules so we never fail

The creature ripped open once. Twice. Four times. Saint did not land. Dimly, he knew his sword had materialized in his hand as though the ring had been there. He realized this only dimly, because the front was again concerned with something else; his fingers were moving, grasping the rosary at his neck as he chanted loudly in high speech. Wings made of pure white light extended from his back, dark blue eyes glowed like three points of light burned into his head. Scrawlings in high speech worked their way over his skin and everything went warm as he hovered in mid air, right next to the creature's face.

It roared and moved in, biting, closing it's whole mouth around him and engulfing him. He exploded through the back of the creature's head, light still bruning at the edges of the now-gaping wound. The beast rounded on him, swinging and clawing, biting wildly trying to catch the little darting and floating insect. Each assault was met by the Sword of St. Michael, sending back several pieces of whatever appendage tried to hit him. His chanting grew louder and louder, the sword beginning to glow with a white light as he cast. For a solid hour he stood, floating in mid-air ritually casting before the air crackled and erupted with raw energy and power.

Light exploded around him, creating the very sun within the tiny harbor.

Bits of darkness went roiling and spinning as they vaporized into nothingness...

and somewhere, the Obrimos... the Angel... touched down, smiling kindly at the marveling faces of the grateful innocents. The world... would make sense. The world would be put right. He would see to it, or he would die in the process.

So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why am I lone and why do I feel that
I carry a sword through a battlefield?
So why do I love when I still feel pain?
When does it end, when is my work done?
Why do I fight and why do I feel that
I carry a sword, that I carry a sword through a battlefield?

There was a person touching him. Brown eyes snapped open and reeled around to take the man in. He was wearing a police uniform, touching him with a gentle hand, shaking him. Ewan smiled weakly and looked up at the officer.

"Buddy, you can't sleep here... I'm sorry."

"Oh shit... yeah I'm sorry. I guess I zoned out a little and passed out. Little too much partying, yeah?"

"Hey it's no problem. Just... let me walk you to the rail station, get you home?"

"Naw, I can find it myself. Thanks for waking me."

The angel stood and checked his hand. The ring was there, but he didn't need it. He knew how to do its tricks without it. He understood a lot more now, and he saw where a person as powerful as he now was could fit in this world. It was the same place he always fit, with bigger enemies. The thin red fucking line. That was comforting. So comforting, he fell asleep again on the light rail home.... and again in his hotel room.

He hadn't slept that much in months.

When does it end, when is my work done?
Why do I fight and why do I feel that
I carry a sword, that I carry a sword through a battlefield?

The room is cold,
and has been like this for several months.
If I close my eyes,
I can visualise everything in it,
right down, right down to the broken handle on the third drawer down
of the dressing table.
And the world outside this room,
has also assumed a familiar shape,
the same events shuffeled in a slightly different order each day.
Just like a modern shopping centre.

It had been raining often the past few days. The heat and humidity had subsided a bit, leaving a cold that chilled you to the bone and cut like a knife and a thousand other cliches. Still too hot to put on a jacket, though. Which was a predicament Saint did not notice. He stood on the balcony of his hotel room, watching the people scurry about the Hunt Valley Town Square shopping center. Shit was all kinds of fucked up these days. Ever since the Colorado Early August. Yeah. That was a good way of putting it. Because who knew what the fuck its name was. He'd forgiven Rajani, he'd nodded, smiled, made up with her. He was fucking happy.

Then why had he done that? Fuck! Damn cigarettes. It always hurt when you forgot they were burning in your fingers. He hadn't even wanted to fuck her. That was a new experience in the last few months. Why did he take her to dinner? And not even a fancy dinner. Sushi in a shitty little place outside a movie theatre, followed by some fucking Gaiman-based flick. He was fucking cracking up again.

And it's so cold - yeah it's so cold.
It's so cold yeah, it's so cold.
What is this feeling called love.
Why me, why you, why here, why now.
It doesn't make no sense no.
It's not convenient no.
It doesn't fit my plans no.
It's something I don't understand oh.
F.E.E.L.I.N.G. C.A. double L.E.D. L.O.V.E.
Oh what is this thing that is happening to me.

The dinner had been nice, and they'd eaten and laughed, and there was nothign inherently sexual. It was... pure. He even put out his smoke for her when she bitched. Apparently, all of the West Coast was a nonsmoking area.She smiled and she laughed and she had big eyes and red hair. She giggled and blushed, and he had a hard time finding words. He floundered in places and caught things in his throat before they could come out. He needed a fucking grip.

What about Rajani? You know... the woman you're involved with? Won't she be a tad upset? No. She told me to go out and fuck more people. Get more experience. So why didn't you fuck her? Because! God damnit, man! Get a grip on your shit, women aren't holes. Shut up. I'm driving. You're not getting random sex or drugs or violence anymore. You're shrivelling up and dying forever.

And as I'm standing across this room,
I feel as if my whole life has been leading to this one moment.
And as I touch your shoulder tonight,
this room has become the centre of the entire universe.
So what do I do? I've got a slightly sick feeling in my stomach,
like I'm standing on top of a very high building, oh yeah.
All the stuff they tell you about in the movies,
but this isn't chocolate boxes and roses.
It's dirtier than that,
like some small animal that only comes out at night.
And I see flashes of the shape of your breasts,
and the curve of your belly,
and I may have to sit down and catch my breath.

Hope dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption
Winding in and winding out
The shine of it has caught my eye

Silence. Pure, unadulterated silence. No chastizing voice in his head, no "let me drive" no... nothing. No voice saying "you're better than this" and no voice saying "you're worse." His eyes opened slowly, he stood from his kneeling position and walked. Already crews were working to restore the town to order, the streets of Colorado Springs full of debris and in places, blood. People had been moved off to the hospital, rogue trigger-happy cops had been rounded up... all was well. This is what was called aftermath. Why was that? Because when you do math, it made your head into a horriffic maelstrom of chaos, and finally, when you were done, it was just jelly. After Math. He hated math.

He remembered the glare Rajani had given him. He had remembered her spoiled and childish tantrum in the midst of the chaos and fear that comprised so much of the weekend. He remembered losing himself to anger, reaching out, and gripping her with the unseen hand of Forces, holding her in place to keep her from storming out into the night infected by god knew what.

"This is over," he'd said calmly, levelly. "Yes. It is." she'd responded.

Vindicated
I am selfish
I am wrong
I am right
I swear I'm right
Swear I knew it all along
And I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself

The ritual had been designed from the start, to summon the Goetic spirits that had been influencing them, had been sewing destruction and vice through the whole of Colorado. The pagans and the Thyrsus, and the others all danced around, chanting, building magic, building the call to those things that had been attacking and possessing, and eating off parts of them, leaving the mages and sleepers alike sapped, weaker, and base creatures.

He looked slowly around the room, kneeling, sword drawn and held before him, his position in front of the woman who had done nothing but throw tantrums and flare her temper. Sometimes it was so hard to love people. His eyes raked across each person, Sky Hunter... Tome... Marv... Adrastos... Rajani... Lachesis... Ebony... Indigo... all of them. Some were praying, some staring forward expectantly, some stoic... he saw the girl's lips moving, probably Latin. Imperceptable unless you were really studying. Rajani just sneered at it, expecting nothing, expecting no help.

Slowly... very slowly did his hand dip to the pocket of the black woolen peacoat... fingertips eagerly brushing against a long forgotten metal object...

So clear
Like the diamond in your ring
Cut to mirror your intention
Oversized and overwhelmed
The shine of which has caught my eye
And rendered me
So isolated, so motivated
I am certain now that I am

"Your Smoke impression is getting better."

Words like that stung. They were backhanded. On the surface, it meant he was frustrated and swearing. Deeper... it meant she thought he was losing his grip. Giving up, and giving in to being a monster. It meant... he wasn't in control of himself. He was becomming not more than the gun tucked into his waistband.

There was a flash, as a new memory invaded this one... so many created this weekend... so many good... so many ugly.

The flash was muzzle flare as the S&W 500 roared loudly in the warehouse's second-floor office. They'd been near-shouting at each other. A man who had been held captive in a Time and Space bubble had been released... had seen too much and heard too much, and had started to run. Saint had been up in a split fraction of a second, gun out, butt swinging down to the base of the man's head. One single fierce blow and the man when sprawling head over heels, skittering to the floor and laying slumped against the door. Rajani glared as she slipped into the unconscious man's mind.

"What the fuck did you do that for!? Now he's brain-damaged! He's useless, we can't get anything!"

"He was going to run, he's a liability!"

"You fucking idiot, now he's retarded! He's useless!"

"FINE!"

Brings us up to the present. Muzzle flare, thunderous roar of the monster handgun. Blood spattered out in every imaginable direction as the man twicthed slightly and went still. Her eyes flew wide, horrified and she just stared as he looked right into her eyes, having shot the man completely out of hand, hadn't even aimed. Just waved his hand and squeazed the trigger.

"You SHOT! Him! You KILLED him! Why the fuck did you shoot him!?"

He replaced the gun calmly and coolly. Funny how an outburst like that steadied his nerves these days. So you know what your sin is? "Because he's retarded."

So turn
up the corners of your lips
Part them and feel my finger tips
Trace the moment fall forever

Tome was standing in a group. It included Lachesis. No time for that shit. Raj was almost down to nothing. Nothing but fucking greed and gluttony left in her. I want I want I want, who gives a fuck about you? Right... well he'd save her if it meant he had to sunder the gates of Hell. That was his job, his purpose. He'd save fucking everyoe. Every damn one. "You want to know how to end this? Watch this shit."

Slowly he approached, eased in gently, wending his way between two people Right next to Lachesis, you sick fuck directly across from Tome. Conversation died slowly as the other man glared at him. Saint's hand raised and slowly plunged toward Tome as words came out. Words from deep inside him in the small corner of brightness and goodness left in Saint.

"Tome, I'm sorry. Really, truly, and seriously sorry for anything and everything I've ever done to you or your Consilium. Every insult was inapproopriate, and I've been out of line. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me, if not... I understand."

Silence. Lachesis' jaw dropped, others exchanged nervous glances, as if to say "who was this person? is this really Saint? is he possessed like Indigo?" but no sound broke. Tome paused, eyeing Saint as if expecting a surprise right hook to land on his jaw but... he clenched Saint's hand and shook it, nodding.

"Forgiven..."

Yeah. Suck on that shit, Pride. Who else can we apologize to...

Deep within him... Saint.... ROARED.

Defense is paper thin
Just one touch and I'll be in
Too deep now to ever swim against the current
So let me slip away

His hand drew from the pocket of that woolen coat slowly, numbly. More apologies. A chain dangled between his fingers as a crucifix swung heavily from it and almost by instinct, his free hand dipped, touching one of the small golden orbs making up the necklace, feathering against it as the words to the prayer came out before he could stop them. They were followed by something new. Something that happened only in his mind.

"I'm sorry. That wasn't fair of me. People... people die. And sometimes they just do. Sometimes..." He glanced back at Rajani, glaring at the group and nodded, going back to prayer. "Sometimes bad things just happen. And there's nothing anyone can do to stop them. We... can't save everyone. But we can save ourselves. I've been using hatred of you as a crutch to nurse a festered infected wound in me, and it's not fair to you. And here we are again... standing... outside a circle where some demons are about to appear... and... if I die with you thinking I hate you, I'll be pretty pissed. Truth is... I just hated me for being weak. Truth is... I made me weak on purpose. So I wouldn't... be strong enough to fail. Well... shit. Here they come. Hope you're with me, if not... this is gonna go a lot quicker than planned..."

He stood, sword in hand as the spirits appeared. The blade of St. Michael lifted, tip pointing directly at the Spirit of Pride.

"You're mine, motherfucker."

And I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well
I am seeing in me now the things you swore you saw yourself

"You're not a bad person, Ewan." Lachesis smiled at him.

"No. No I'm not. Neither are you, none of us are. We all have good and bad, we saw that this week. We're all just people. Kinda stupid for me to expect to be more, isn't it?"

"Yeah it is."

Like hope
dangles on a string
Like slow spinning redemption...

I must've dreamed a thousand dreams
Been haunted by a million screams

There was a young mocha-colored girl walking into the alley next to Katet with him. She'd just told him she needed to talk to him, all those months ago. Year? Was it a year? She led him into the alley, unafraid of the man with the reputation, unafraid to ask what she'd meant to ask him. She was pretty, no denying it. Not as pretty as the girl waiting back inside for him, but Abby Winter wouldn't see a damn thing she wanted in him, that was for sure. Her big eyes stared up at him, gemstones sparkling on her skin. He looked her over head to toe and shrugged.

"So what can I dof or you?"

"I want to join the Guardians."

It was as if the world paused, everything slowing, and dimming into shades of gray, except for Paradox. She smiled at him, leaning in suggestively as a creamy brown hand touched his chest. "And I want you." There was a flash, white and hot, and...

Now did you read the news today
They say the dangers gone away
But I can see the fires still alight
They're burning into the night.

The bed sheets on the king sized bed in the single-bed room in the Hunt Valley Mariott were practically torn in two. Legs thrashed violently, flinging them from the bed as he sat up, drenched, soaking in sweat. The pillow had been flung across the room and he gasped for air, looking around wildly, in a panic. Slowly... carefully... he stod, shakily walking to the mirror. What he saw was...

He looked like hell. Hadn't shaven in well over a week. Eyes were sunken a bit, face drawn and haggard. His hair was a wreck, mostly owed to the sweat-based nightmare. A hand drifted up slowly to wipe the sweat from his brow. It didn't work. Now you're thinking about what? Shoving it into another one of Daddy Saint's kids? Ram it in the the hilt and prove your superiority? Or is it about wanting to feel loved? You're pathetic. No, it really wasn't about that. It was about taboos. Bad things. Pushing limits, and riding the edge. He shouldn't do something, so he wanted to do it, that simple. And... if the little voice in his head hadn't noticed... he was winning. It was about willpower, and overcoming being the animal he felt he was.

He needed a drink.

Theres too many men
Too many people
Making too many problems
And not much love to go round
Cant you see
This is a land of confusion.

Sleep again took him.

He was standing in his old home in State College, up on the mountain. Standing on the big stone patio overlooking the valley, little twinkling lights flickering beneath them. She stood there, her confessional pouring out like water from a vase. She was seeing a boy, a nice boy, even if he did like the Eagles. Fucking Philly. Decent people didn't wear that shit. Anyhow... she looked him in the eye, and then came the atom bomb.

"You know, I wanted to be with you."

Yeah. He should have expected it, but why didn't he? Why was he hearing that so god damn much anymore? Somehow it must have become trendy in the wake of his wife's death to decide you were in desperate love with Saint. Saint was a killer, a mercenary, a bodyguard. A body count as long as his dick, a cigarette in his lips, and an attitude that said "Cancer can fucking TRY that shit..." of course they fell for him. He was every high school girl's wet dream. An untouchable bad ass in a leather jacket, thrusting his middle finger at any rule that stood in his way.

Fuck. Play dumb. People expect you to be dumb.

"Be with me?"

There was a flash and they were standing, pressed against each other, his arms wrapped around her. He wasn't driving anymore, the little voice saying "Fuck her. She's begging you to..." was. He fought it back, it was getting easier and easier to do these days. Apparently familiarity with an enemy brought with it an ease to combat it. And then there was... something he could not possibly consider. The dark haired woman, with the obsidian eyes. She had gained an unshakable foothold.

Was that what this was about? Trying to shake her? No. This was about making sure Dox stays with the nice Eagles fan, and making sure she doesn't throw away happiness for a sordid fuck that would mean nothing in the morning. He let her go, and... both of them knew exactly what was not going to happen that night. Ever. Ever.

Ooh superman where are you now
When everythings gone wrong somehow
The men of steel, the men of power
Are losing control by the hour.

The sun shone in the window and he walked out, taking breakfast on the balcony. It overlooked the Hunt Valley Town Square, a small outdoor mall and public park, right next to the light rail station. Led into Baltimore. Shitty fucking city, but Hunt Valley was gorgeous. The sun hit him and he sat down, considering the dreams and events of the previous night. He'd won a battle here. A firm and decisive one. A man is not his impulses, he is what controls them, and Dox was a good girl. A young girl with all of life ahead of her, and Dom was good for her. He'd need to keep an eye on that. Make sure things went well.

Maybe someday... if he tried hard enough... someone he loved would get something other than the shaft. Since Bell had thrown her life away marrying Go... Dox seemed most likely for that position. He should have them over for a picnic again. Make sure the kid knew he was important in Dox's life. In the lives of her family...

Yeah... family.

But theres not much love to go round
Tell me why, this is a land of confusion.

Shut up and let me drive. I can handle this shit.

I'm using life
It's true, I don't mind if you leave
You're fated, I'm always relieved
I hope you understood the words unsaid
So many rooms inside my head... (too many different places)
Sometimes I'm dying to be dead… (too many lovely faces)
It's like a poison to me…

He sat, staring across the desk at Cybil Fenstemacher. Or was it Scarecrow? Who knew now? What was the point of a shadowname if everyone and their mother already knew your real one. Like Lachesis... fucking WHY? Well... not to be done for it now. It was therapy time, yay. His eyes met hers with practiced penitence, a sadness he'd learned to a rote form. The "please let me die, I'm a bad bad man" look. Sometimes he meant it. Most often he meant it, that's how he could use it now. The good parts of him had receded into himself. She had asked what was wrong, why was he seeking therapy. Well, you dumb bitch, maybe because he wasn't happy. Maybe because despite all the bubblegum and sunshine in his life, he still knows that deep down inside... I'm still here. He knows that he needs every ounce of him to make a decision for him, and that includes me.

"I feel angry. All the time."

"What makes you feel angry? Anything in particular?"

"Women." Liar "And myself." Give a little... she's smart, but not that smart. "I hate me."

I ain't what you see
I'm too scared to be
Won't you set me free?
Leave it all to be

"How are you doing with what happened to Smoke? You'd said he was a friend of yours?"

I want to burn Washington DC to the ground and see the look in the dead eyes of every motherfucker there.

"I understand why what happened had to happen, and... he did some stupid shit. It's for the best."

"How do you mean? He has the chance to rehabilitate."

"Well it was a fuckin' setup, wasn't it? He's not coming back. He makes them uncomfortable, and they wanted a place to put him. Now... kill him, and they're just as bad as he is, and they know it. They'd see him in them ever day they wake up. Can't have that shit, can we? Can't let him go, because then they'd have to see him, and deal with a fuckin' billion dumbass Libertines screaming for blood. So you stick him in a hole, and give it a stipulation that you know will never happen. Then people look at you and say 'oh how wise, you're benevolent, giving him a chance!' and they don't look past to the fact that it's no fucking chance at all."

"That's... a pretty well-developed theory."

He sat back, lighting a cigarette smugly as he crossed his legs. Of course it is, bitch. It's the truth.

I, I, I, I won't pretend
I'm not scared to death of being left alone
My love for you is still unknown
I'm getting closer and I use my while
I crack the liars smile… (I won't just live my life to die)
I'm getting high from being vile… (there is no use to ask me why)
It's like a poison to me…

She kept rattling on about his dead wife. Not Carli, but Marideth. You can't let her go, she said. Something about setting up funds in her name, making her live forever. Some bullshit like that, he was nodding and smiling on autopilot. Occasionally a "oh that makes sense!" Yeah... he amused himself idly, torturing himself with the badness in him, finding no end to the duality of himself. He saw the innocent, sweet redhead, smiling happily, bouncing around the computer gaming office, talking excitedly to him.

Then he saw her bent over that desk, screaming for him. Only barely did he contain the shudder... or was it a shiver? What do you want? You can have it, just blame it on me, and they'll "fix" you again... he maintained the smile easily. Now he as fighting back. Holding hands, walking along a beach, smiling and laughing. Pure, innocent, wholesum fun. A good time with a girl that didn't revolve around sex or violence. Is that really you? Or does ANOTHER one have to die to prove that you've got it perfect where you are? Let me enjoy this. She's pure.

Yeah, purely fucking HOT... ENOUGH!

He smiled, forcing himself to shove the darkness back into the tiny recesses of his brain. Saint needed to go back in his cage now. And just like that... he was. Perhaps there was hope for this. Perhaps...

Rajani.

He melted.

(I see you drowning in my eyes)
I crack the liars smile…(I won't just live my life to die)
I'm getting high from being vile…(There's no use to ask me why)
It's like a poison to me…

He was shaking her hand and smiling, thanking her. He'd had a cup of tea and some baklava, and now was the best part of therapy. The going home and pretending he would be all better with just a few more months of this. Just a few more months and he'd be sorted out. But for now... all he had were his friends, and they were few and far between. She probably had the kids outside, this time of day, probably lounging at the pool. Nothing beat cold water on a hot day. Cooking out for one of your few remaining bastions of sanity.

And afterwards... who knew. Maybe he should call Isabel. They hadn't talked in a long time. What would you talk about? She's only for when you need help. I always need help. No man walks alone.

I ain't what you see
I'm too scared to be
Won't you set me free?
Leave it all to be

Threw you the obvious
And you flew with it on your back
A name in your recollection
Down among a million same

It was distantly frightening to him that whiskey no longer stung and burned on its way down. Perhaps the transfer from social drinker to professional had almost completed into solid alcoholic. A side effect of having lived off of the Wild Turkey Diet since Carli had died. Seems whenever he was left to fend on his own, whenever someone else wasn't present to cook and feed him real food... sustenance was gained from a bottle of Jim. Or Jack. Or Wild Turkey, or other, less namebrand substances. Tonight was no exception. Why should it be? She'd come to State College, to the city she thought he still called home (and what city DID he call home anymore?)... they drove to his house. Not the house she thought of as his, but the house he knew was his.

She'd been disappointed. Angry. Hateful of him, and the reasons for his illness. At least the little pixie couldn't see him now, here, in the depths of the hell he owned. (Better to Reign...) She couldn't see him try so hard to destroy himself. Liquor... smokes... a gun tucked into his waistband... ten years ago. Hell, six years ago, he'd have never even imagined owning a gun, let alone sitting in the only seedy bar in Hunt Valley, strapped, and working on getting so much more than drunk.

He looked up, motioning to the eighteen or nineteen year old girl working the counter. She had black hair, kinda cute in a gawkish and girl-next-doory way... she had green eyes. Deep, dark, please-fall-into-me green eyes.

Difficult not to feel a little bit
Disappointed and passed over
When I look right through,
See you naked but oblivious

A cigarette was the only light in the hotel room. Its embers burned dimly, casting no real shadows as much as banishing a scant few from the immediate foot radius around it. He laid bare chested in the dim nothingness of four in the morning Maryland. The little bartender moaned softly, rolling over in her sleep to paw uneasily at the man next to her. This was getting to be a habit he needed to break. Seek solace, strength (weakness), in another person. Even if only five minutes. Forgive me father, for I can't stop sinning. Over and over and over.

Things wouldn't stop rolling over in his head. Maybe he'd have one of his Mastigos friends (her...) wipe him of this night. And the last. And the last. So on and on... be a new guy. Remember nothing. That was... so very very tempting. But evil. Most evil things were tempting. His thoughts flew back over everything, and in that instant... he drifted. It was hard to tell when dreams came, when imaginations came, or when it was a capital-D Dream. This was the latter.

But I threw you the obvious
Just to see if there's more behind the
Eyes of a fallen angel,
Eyes of a tragedy

His wife came down the stairs, carrying the newborn baby, her green eyes shining brightly. They'd decided to name her Cynthia... after his wife. She walked to him in the early morning light of the kitchen and he smiled, standing to walk to them. The baby had dark hair already, and her mother's big green eyes. She'd grow up to be a real looker, that kid, and he couldn't wait to be a damn good father to her. Cynthia the Elder simply smiled, offering to hand the child over to her father, and he accepted willingly.

The scene cracked, as if it had been painted on glass. Slowly, pieces started falling out, tumbling off into oblivion as the words "Life.... but not for you..." echoed through nonexistence. As the scene cleared to a blank blackness, he saw a single man standing there. His first instinct was to reach out and throttle Elias savagely... but as the man before him smiled... it was not Elias. It was not even a Mastigos. Saint stood before himself, grinning.

"It's not him. I'm who sabotages everything you do. And I do it because if I let you get close to them, they'll die. Be happy she's happy. Let all of them go, and walk on alone. It's for the best."

Here I am expecting just a little bit
Too much from the wounded
But I see, see through it all
See through, see you

Saint's head shook lightly, waking himself up a scant fifteen minutes after the dream began. He looked at the girl next to him. The girl who was decidedly not who he'd wanted her to be, the girl who was decidedly not one single person he'd like her to be, and he stood, sliding his jeans on. Boots followed, proceeded by his shirt, and he threw a jacket over his shoulder, replacing his gun in its resting place in his belt. Taking one last look at the girl-next-door, he almost snarled, slamming the door behind himself. Maybe it was best he wander.

'Cause I threw you the obvious
To see what occurs behind the
Eyes of a fallen angel,
Eyes of a tragedy

Oh well, oh well
Apparently nothing,
Apparently nothing at all

OOC Note: This is a dream sequence. Please don't kill my PC :-P

Pain, without love
Pain, I can't get enough
Pain, I like it rough
'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all

The boy stood before him, eyes glittering with not but hatred and rage. He was a skinny thing, gangly at best, and stood in the clearing not far from Saint's own house, hands firm. For all he could see, the boy remained by nothing but sheer determination to kill Saint. That was admirable, he thought, in a morbid kind of way. Admirable, but stupid. You kick a lion enough times in its face, it bites. This was one time too many. Solaris kept glaring.

"What'd you say, boy? This is your last chance to opt out and take the smart road."

The response was unexpected. The boys screwed-up fist swung fast, connecting to the bigger man's jaw solidly. Saint took a step back, laughing as blood ran from his lip. Good answer. Admirable. But stupid.

You're sick of feeling numb
You're not the only one
I'll take you by the hand
And I'll show you a world that you can understand
This life is filled with hurt
When happiness doesn't work
Trust me and take my hand
When the lights go out you will understand

Carli smiled at him softly, tears in her eyes as she threw herself at him, hugging tightly. He'd just finished telling her he'd love Sol like his own son. That he DID love Solaris like his own son, and nothing they could do in Omaha would keep him from Sol. They'd break through anything and everything to get him back and keep him safe and sound. She buried her face in his chest, crying happily as his hand stroked through her hair. They danced that night, aboard the cruise ship, a mere week after they'd married. A week, and he was ready to love the boy. Ready to be a family, to be a father. He'd be a damn good father.

Pain, without love
Pain, I can't get enough
Pain, I like it rough
'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all

The fist connected with the boy's jaw, and he did not take a step back. He flew. Spindly arms went wagging at his sides as his whole body twisted mid-air, anding hard on the ground a few feet away. Saint wasted no time in closing, his steel-toed boot connecting hard to the boy's side. Twice. There were yelps not quite unlike those made by kicked animals. Two hands descended to grasp Sol by the throat as he hefted the boy, throwing him again like a rag doll.

Sol landed hard again, but dragged himself to his feet. He was still alive, and that in itself was amazing. As Saint closed again, Sol met him, placing a miraculously well-aimed kick to the freight train's groin. Saint yelped and staggered, and as he doubled over, the massive Smith and Wesson 500 fell to the dirt with a dull thud. The boy wasted no time in diving for it, bringing it to bear and firing a shot, a single loud roar.

Anger and agony
Are better than misery
Trust me I've got a plan
When the lights go off you will understand

The bullet tore through Saint's chest easily, the force dragging a few healthy chunks of meat with it. Blood spattered across the ground, and in the dead silence following the gunshot... a single sound could be heard.

Saint was laughing.

I know (I know I know I know I know)
That you're wounded
You know (You know you know you know you know)
That I'm here to save you
You know (You know you know you know you know)
I'm always here for you
I know (I know I know I know I know)
That you'll thank me later

"You don't fucking get it, do you!?" Saint grasped the boy by the neck again, lifting him off his feet as the gun fell tot he ground again. "You needed a daddy, there I was. You needed a saviour, I was there. You needed a guardian, I was that, too. Now you need a bad guy? Well surprise, junior. I'm whatever you want me to be." He wound back and threw the boy. There was a sickening crunch as Solaris hit a nearby tree and then the ground.

"You killed mom! You killed her!"

The foot came down again, this time on the boy's face. Blood shot across the ground as he screamed. More laughter filled the clearing.

"You're going to kill me, too, for finding out about it! You're a monster! You don't love me! You didn't love her!"

"Again, junior... I don't feel a god damn thing."

Pain, without love
Pain, can't get enough
Pain, I like it rough
'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all

Saint walked away from the clearing, covered in his own blood. Solaris had managed to hit his jaw, break his nose, and shoot him, amidst a myriad of blows and punches, but enough was enough. The boy would learn, and the boy would not die. Never die. Hurt, yes. Hurt a fuck load, but never die. Just like dad.

Sol crawled to his knees, bloodied and svaged. His arm hung limp, someone would need to see to it, his body all but destroyed in the onslaught, and the only thing he could wonder was why it hurt so god damn much, everywhere. Even in places he didn't know he had. He also wondered how Saint could shrug off a bullet wound, or a broken nose with such ease but... he already knew.

I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all

In this farewell
There’s no blood
There’s no alibi
‘Cause I’ve drawn regret
From the truth
Of a thousand lies

So let mercy come
And wash away
What I’ve done

It was dark and claustrophobically cold. The sound had all died, no more crying, or screaming, or moaning. No more ringing in his ears, the gunshots faded into nothingness and he laid there. Sprawled across the floor. Dimly, he was aware that the back of his head was wet... and a little sticky. His breath came in ragged gasps, and it was slowing. God bless the darkness for obscuring his sight. He didn't want to see anymore. The quiet only told him one thing. Everyone was dead. They'd left the house, content in everyone being dead. Keri... Jessi... Meri... dead. No more crying, no more sniffling. No more breathing, nothing. Dead fucking quiet.

It occurred to him that he should be crying, but... no tears would come. Only more darkness. The darkness was now shades of black, dimming, swirling, and fading. The last thought that passed through his head before he died was "I think my shoulders are wet..."

I'll face myself
To cross out what i’ve become
Erase myself
And let go of what i’ve done

The girl on the couch before him shuddered, withdrawing from him. She looked horrified, reviled, as though she'd run into the mother of all speedbumps. Her head shook slightly, green eyes wide as she just stared. Yeah... that wasn't what you were expecting, were you? You figured you'd zip into my head and figure my shit out. Like what, like some great hero coming to my rescue? Heroes aren't real, little girl. Never were. Dead men don't have futures. No destiny, no nothing. And this one's been walking around well over five years after he died. What can you possibly say to that?

Her shocked expression said all her words couldn't.

Put to rest
What you thought of me
While I clean this slate
With the hands of uncertainty

She followed the threads in his mind, the chains that led to darker places. All the surface feelings. How did he put it to her? I'm angry, all the time. There's a constant level of anger, and I cant concentrate on anything else. Just anger. Hatred. All the time. He felt her walk down each path. Why do you hate Bell? She lied to me. She doesn't love unconditionally, she loves when it's convenient. Why do you hate Me? You never told me how you felt, never made it plain what I could have had. Why do you hate Elias? He has the world, he has everything. He has happy.

None of these are reasons you hate those people, are they? She asked. She was right. He couldn't prepare before she asked "what's the reason you hate, then?" and she dived deeper. Seeking the depths of him. She was searching for the big evil bit... what's the real thing you hate? She wasn't ready for that either, was she?

No one is ever really prepared to realize that their friend's big secret evil, the thing he hates most in the world, the one thing he'd seek to remove from the face of the earth... is himself.

For what I’ve done
I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
I’m forgiving what I’ve done

She'd balked at that. How could you? With all the people that love you, how do you hate yourself that much? It was simple, wasn't it? Everything that followed him was badness. Evil. He was certainly trying to make it up to the world, but didn't that involve stopping? It involved not committing, not slowing down, and certainly not loving anything. Things that he loved died and went away. He couldn't risk that. But he was risking it daily, wasn't he? God life was a paradox... don't love, love, don't love... have a fucking drink. The little girl will get tired and frustrated soon and then she'd leave you too. Just like she always does. Indulge her superhero need a while, let her think she can help... and then die a little when she gives up on you.

What I’ve done
Forgiving what I’ve done

An angel limped along the ground, wings broken in the middle. They flapped pathetically against the ground, getting no lift as he crawled hand over hand. His face dragged in the dirt, as his legs flailed uselessly to try and stand. At random intervals, his head would lift, he'd almost stand... and then he'd fall again. After a long time of this... he stopped. The angel lay there, broken and useless, and as the sun rose again... he'd start moving once more. Angels don't die. They just keep moving.

Yeah a hundred thousand people are doing the song thing again, and I do so love it... so...

Drop me a comment with your character and a song, and I'll write a scene featuring that character and Saint, inspired by that song. Dig? Awesome.

OOC: Again, apologies for stealing from The Gunslinger. READ IT, PEOPLE!

It's not easy having yourself a good time
Greasing up those bets and betters
Watching out they don't four-letter
Fuck and kiss you both at the same time
Smells-like something I've forgotten
Curled up died and now it's rotten

"The Hanged Man. Yet here, in conjunction with nothing else, it symbolizes Strength, not Death. You, gunslinger, are the Hanged Man."

Simple enough. God prophesy was hard work. Why did he bother doing it? And what was the Stephen King bullshit? His life was not a Dark Tower allegory.

"The Sailor. Note the clear brow, the hairless cheeks, the wounded eyes. He drowns, gunslinger, and no one throws out a line."

His girls. They smiled and giggled, and all of them hurt. So deeply did they hurt. Lachesis would smile and giggle and feign vapidness in public, and in private... like a viper. Get too close to what she hid, and she'd bite as fast and hard as she could, leaving gallons of venom deep in your veins. And what did you do? Always come back and beg, and scrape, and try and appease... but what did you appease? Her sense of self-worth? Her need to feel really honestly appreciated and loved? Or her ego, and her satisfaction in having another toy? And Bell... "I'll always love you, Daddy Ewan! No matter what!" yet... where was she now? Off in Los Angeles getting used by injection. What for? For to feel loved and needed. For to catch a rope thrown from a slaver ship, rather than accept the swim to a stoic lonely boat with a broken sailor aboard it. Ifelse... for all her posturing, for all her independence, really only needed that one thing no one would give her. Kelly was the only one getting what she needed from him, and only barely by that. She was strong, but not half as strong as she let on. Paradox, too... she'd practically thrown herself at him in a rabid bid for any kind of attention at all. He'd failed them all, and he'd keep failing them.

"The Prisoner. A trifle upsetting, isn't he?"

A man sat in a lonely cell, locked away in god-knew-where. Probably sitting stone-faced and resolved, or screaming profanity at the top of his lungs, guns far from reach, guards atop him constantly. Couldn't save him either, could you? You're batting a thousand. What's your life worth?

"The Lady of Shadows. Does she look two faced to you, gunslinger? She is."

He knew who that was. Knew damn well, and he should NOT be trusting her so... yet... that was his weakness, wasn't it? Women.

"Death. Yet not for you."

The tires screached, the side of the tiny Crossfire crumpled like a piece of tinfoil, he thought for a brief instant, he could hear her scream as the red pickup truck slammed into her, killing her instantly. Death... but never for you.

"The Tower. Here is the Tower."

A family... love... peace? Never to be yours. An unattainable goal.

"The Seventh Card is Life. But not for you."

I'm not a gangster tonight
Don't want to be a bad guy
I'm just a loner baby
And now you're gotten in my way

"Shut the fuck up, all of you. One thing I learned from State College. If you have a problem, fucking stop with the bickering and fucking bullshit, and solve it. You want to tear each other the fuck apart? Do it fucking after."

The room went silent, and all looked at him, who had remained silent to that point... they all nodded in wonder, as if the single most profound statement ever uttered had just issued forth.

The Guardians all nodded, the Arrows smiled and almost applauded, and the Ladder said "Right, good idea! I like this guy, let's get to work!"

It's a bitch convincing people to like you
If I stop now call me a quitter
If lies were cats you'd be a litter
Pleasing everyone isn't like you
Dancing jigs until I'm crippled
Slug ten drinks I won't get pickled

The Acamoth roared as it slid across existence like a massive inky black spider. Saint ran after it, nimbus flared, wings spread behind him as his sword swung. The creature screamed and turned on him.

"Yeah you see me now, don't you! Come on!"

The two met, swinging and screaming, pieces of darkness fell around him like rain as he hacked and hacked. At the end of this day, one would stand, and one would fall...

I've got to hand it to you
You've played by all the same rules
It takes the truth to fool me
And now you've made me angry

The forest rose around him as he walked quietly. He saw everything. Everything he'd ever done, everything he'd ever not done. All futures, all possibilities. Each tree, each leaf, was another path to take, and none of them led to his goal. None of them held a family in his grasp. Surely, the highest branches rose far above him, with tantilizing views of every woman he'd ever known and loved, every single one, beckoning. And none of them in reach. He kept walking.

Oh I could throw you in the lake
Or feed you poisoned birthday cake
I wont deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone
Oh I could bury you alive
But you might crawl out with a knife
And kill me when I'm sleeping
That's why

His sword lifted over his head slowly. Deliberately. There was a flash, and remembrance brought him back to a new place... a place born of the death of an Acamoth, and of the realization that life... could only ever be what you made it. People would come and go, live, and die, and you would too. Some day... we all died. It wasn't important. What was important was how they lived...

There was a field. The grass was knee-high and waving in a gentlebreeze and the sun was shining. It was very warm, and he could see formiles over the ocean and beyond. In the very far distance... he couldsee the spires of Atlantis raising from the water, to his right, a farwalk off, he could see the massive white tower to which he had walkedon the journey to reclaim his Awakening. He was naked, save for theClan McAllister kilt wrapped around him, the sword was driven into theearth and stood perpendicular to the ground, swaying in the breeze likethe grass. A voice came from it...

"It does not matter if it istrue. It does not matter if things have gone before and your soul hasjourneyed this place before. What matters is now. What matters ispresent."

"It matters if I have a goal to meet."

"Youwill meet that goal in time, if indeed there is one. If there is a pathyou must walk, you are walking it now. Rest easy in that. Lift me up indefense, lift me up in protection of the things you love. I will notfail you."

"What of Destiny? Of Fate? Of... finding meaning in these dreams?"

"Youfind it fine, Ewan. You find it fine. Destiny and fate are as real asanything else in this world. They are forces with which men and womencarve their own paths, or have their paths carved by circumstance. Whatdoes it matter what name is given? Is Catholicism the right way? Itdoes not matter. Know what is right in your heart. Know what is good inyour heart, and act with it. You already understand more of this worldthan you believe. Now go and write that understanding into the world."

I can't decide
Whether you should live or die
Oh, you'll probably go to heaven
Please don't hang your head and cry
No wonder why
My heart feels dead inside
It's cold and hard and petrified
Lock the doors and close the blinds
We're going for a ride

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that leave us breathless."

DISCLAIMER: Not smut. Just letting everyone know I apologize in advance for blatant and outright theft of writing device from Stephen King. Read the Dark Tower! Now!

There was a black leather bag. She used to go to it when she didn't think he was looking. When she didn't think he'd be awake, or when she didn't think he'd wake to try and find her. She'd kept it hidden... somewhere around.... here. Right here in fact. And there it was... hidden in the closet at the very bottom, in the very back. So unassuming, so... small. As if it were completely innocent. It was not, however, an innocent bag at all. It managed all sorts of tainted little evils. All sorts. He wondered dimly what would happen when the bag ran empty and he didn't know anyone that sold what would replace the contents. Perhaps Emrys would. But then he'd have to let people know what he did, what he'd been doing. And he couldn't have that.

His hand dipped in, finding the old familiar pieces of what she'd used to give him when he needed to See.

Shuffle.

All of existence was like a house of cards, that a single person stood atop. His whole lifetime was spent atop this stack, this precariously built little pile of cards, all leaning on one another with no real support but for the random whims of chance. He was born (the cards shuddered but held) he grew up (another flutter) he graduated (swaying... holding) he went to college. Was married. Had children. Grew old.... the cards fell. He fell with them, through blackness and darkness, into death and beyond. The cards fell and shifted, moving out and over and up and down and tumbling into a

Shuffle.

The knife slid deeper as the man beneath it twitched, body shuddering heavily. There was a gasping as Saint's face came into view, a leering, grinning gargoyle of a man. He leaned down toward the other man's trembling cheek, whispering evilly and venomously into the man's ear "did you really imagine you could keep me from somethign I wanted, even in the slightest?" The man gasped and moaned again, gurgling up blood in response. A red glove lifted to shove him backwards off the knife.

Elias hit the ground, convulsing as he slowly bled to death. A pack of cards fell from his pocket, and Saint tilted his head oddly. Cards were chance. Fate. Elias was a Mastigos... but he was fixated on them. They spread across the floor, filling it, the cards were almost up to his knees now, flooding. They began dancing, zipping through the air as they began to

Shuffle.

Two children ran down the stairs, a boy and a girl each with dark hair. They had their mother's bright blue eyes, though and he stood, smiling to them. The boy eleven, the girl nine. Daddy! They cried, throwing themselves at him and he smiled brightly, hugging them. He was the happiest man alive, and these were the best children ever to live. Absolute love radiated through the room as they laughed together.

Their mother stepped in. An angel. An absolute angel, Banu in all her glory. Hair full and flowing, that shining platinum blonde. No other single woman on earth or heaven could ever compare to her. Ever. She smiled as though her teeth were pearls, and a voice, lyrical, floated toward him "Jimmy says hi. The kids had a great time, they behaved very well. You should really go visit them, Richmond hasn't been the same since Scry died."

He smiled to her, but there was something off... something about how she talked about Jimmy. Something about how she was alive... something lost in the

Shuffle.

Gunshots ran out as he felt the white hot fire rip through him. He'd been shot before, but not this many times. Bell approached him, gun in hand as she brought the muzzle down on his face. Knees buckled as he fell to the ground with a hard thump that he'd heard a million times before. She was crying. Why was she crying? Why was she shooting him? The gun levelled again, this time... not at his chest. It trembled. Quivered in her tiny hand, eyes firmed by hate, pain, anguish. He tried to get a view of his surroundings, but he saw all he needed to see. There on the floor next to his own head... was Go's.

He didn't hear the gunshot that made everything dark. Couldn't hear it over the

Shuffle.

Blood oozed out over his hands as he rammed the blade deeper. Bell slumped forward over it, moving closer to him, his eyes filled with malice. Purpose. Go fell backwards as Saint pulled back the blade and wiped it clean, having skewered them both on it. Spitted them like kabobs, then left them to fall and smatter into a pool of their own mingling bloods. He walked away as Bell's lifeless hands grasped a tarot deck and began to

Shuffle.

Banu was laughing and smiling and...

Shuffle.

His wife came down the stairs, carrying the newborn baby, her green eyes shining brightly. They'd decided to name her Cynthia... after his w

Shuffle.

Two perfect children sat perfectly still as he lay on the ground bleeding from the throat, gagging. The boy looked at him, speaking in a cold dispassionate voice.

"Did you think you were our father? She brought you to be our lamb, Ewan. Isn't this what you taught me?"

A dying hand reached for one more card... just one more dropped out of a

Shuffle.

Elias...

Shuffle.

Bell...

Shuffle.

Go...

Shuffle.

Lachesis...

Shuffle.

Banu...

Shuffle.

The sun shone warm over the pool. The place was rich. The kind of rich you only read about in books or saw late at night on E!. So peaceful, so calm. He could see himself fitting in here, finding a place. Being what? Some sick fucking servant the rest of your life? The path of the cleric was hard. Defending other people was a selfless act, the act of a servant. One could not lead and serve another. One could only lead and serve the same. What was the term? A man cannot have two masters?

Perhaps being Hierarch was a bad thing. It meant he could not devote the proper time to his chosen wards. It meant he'd have to divide attentions from helping them, and that was a serious risk. That was a hole in security. You can be a good hierarch and serve your Consilium, or you can be a good defender. Which is it?

No... no choice really. No more cards to pick up. Nothing left to do but

Deal.

His eyes snapped open and he gasped hard, grabbing the nearest bottle of water as he chugged it. He chased it with another, gasping, desperate. He hated this part, always did. Peyote's a hell of a drug...

The chain made a slight click, then danced, clinking against the lightbulb that now lit in the ceiling. Concrete walls, adorned only in rust stains, iron stains, and calcium buildup, pitted and pockmarked... formed the cube of a room. A rusty drain was set into the middle of the room, and the only light came from the single bobbing bulb in the ceiling, flickering and wavering in the dingy nonuse of a life it had. The rest of the little townhouse on Farmstead Lane had electricity just fine. It was as if this room in particular knew how sordid it was to be.

How to describe the carnage lining the walls? For it was not carnage, it was ordered. Every single little piece of it, meticulously cared-for and laid out. Hung with care for the day it would be needed. In the old days, Whisper had grinning sloppily when describing "The Bunker." It was a prized accomplishment of a group of Guardians long since sundered and departed. One look in here, and Yael would have an orgasm. Along the sides of each wall hung guns. Rifles, assault rifles, submachine guns, pistols, all in scores. Every imaginable type or kind hung here, and likely without permit or lisence.

Tables sat beneath the guns against the wall. On the tables were blades. Knives, axes, swords... whatever you could imagine. From the practical combat ready blades to the decorative ones meant to intimidate more than anything. As he walked, he moved a hand over them, fingertips grazing the hilts nostalgiacly. A brief smile tugged at his lips when he remembered Whisper's voice... "And Saint's too much of a fucking MANLY man to use guns... so these are all for him. We were going to let him keep them where his dick should be, but then we just got tables..."

"Stand in awe, and sin not: commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still." Psalms 4:4.

At the back, it still stood. Over a year since he'd worn it in full. Like walking into the Bat Cave Or the Goblin's lair... you saw Spiderman... Shut up. It stood in a large glass case in the back, shatterproof, with a keypad. A long reinforced black coat hung around a frame, draped over a black matte ballistic vest. There was writing in silver on the vest, Atlantean runework for Bible verses. The frame held a perfect, flawless, emotionless steel mask. It had been polished to a mirror shine, and kept impeccably clean of blood, dust, and dirt. Fingertips traced the surface of the glass slowly... deliberately... as if remembering a happier time with a wilder lover.

Wonder shone in his eyes.

(Saint) I can't kill kids. I won't.
(Algyz_Kyziz) So what?

Hands clenched as the stretched into the hardened boiled-leather gauntlets stained a dark crimson. Bell had not seen these gloves. These were the gloves of war, not the gloves of a night's patrol on the street. Those gauntlets donned by a man riding into wave after wave of scelesti cultist. Toe to toe, blade to blade. Blood flying recklessly, splattering against that same pristine steel mask.

They unclenched, moving next to black cloth. The straps went up over his shoulders and clasped. The sides clased closed around his midsection, and the knight again wore his breastplate. The cuirass of a man who had walked hand in hand with death, and come out the other side, night after night. The gauntleted fingers moved unconsciously over the scrawlings, lips moving with them as he silently read the words.

A flourish and the coat slid on. He could feel the paldrons heavy on his shoulders, the reinforcements and padding meant to give him just that little bit extra. It fell to his ankle, it always had. Easily hid all the host of tools and equipment meant to go inside - and it was meant to go inside this coat. Pockets, sheathes, holsters, all sewn intot he lining expertly. Lovingly.

"And if the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!" Matthew 6:23

The mask slid into place as it had a hundred times before. The vision of the Interfector. Saint. The dark angel himself reborn in a night of fire, passion, and relentless frustration. Eyes hardened beneath black lenses, blocking them from view as the gauntlets moved once more... toward the tables.

Ex ungue leonem. (From his claw, one can tell a lion)

The coat swept the floor as he walked, packing all the toys, all the equipment, everything into its proper case or box. The work of a whole cabal reduced to one single night of packing hastily. The lease was up tomorrow, and he did not intend to renew it. Hell... he may not even keep the Castle McAllister. A change of pace, a change of scene. A new place, a new way to die. That's what all this was, right? Filler? A way to kill time before the inevitable? Why'd you leave in the first place, because you couldn't kill kids? Faggot.

"Sois mon frere ou je te tue." (Be my brother, or I will kill you.) - Sebastian Roch Nicolas Chamfort

Boxes. Crates. Metal cubes marked "US Military." All loaded into the back of a humvee. The mask was off, hanging at his waist now, but his face... was all the mask he needed right now. Impassive. Cold. The girl had toyed with him too hard. He had been in control. He was supposed to have been in charge. HE... should have told HER that... Shut the fuck up. A new city would be a good start. No hierarch. No fucking bullshit. No memories of two dead wives, three dead kids, scores of dead friends, hell a dead fucking PET... no memories of a snow-covered balcony, and none of a rainsoaked bridge. He'd wash clean the life he led and keep moving.

He always kept moving.

Keys tumbled, jingling, through the darkness. The landlord caught them and nodded, and for an instant... for that barest second... they connected. The warrior, the lonely angel you're laying it on thick, asshole. For fuck's sake! No really, you LOVE this tragic loner hero bullshit, don't you? Why didn' you just fuck her? THE TWO LOCKED EYES AND CONNECTED... and in that instant, the landlord understood. He understood all the strange noises, all the wierd lights... he understood that night after night of people coming and going at three in the morning on school nights... he understood that those people weren't hurting tennents. Weren't disturbing the peace. They were keeping it. They were protecting him, and his own. And this place was that much safer for it, and when that second passed, and the humvee was pulling away onto Farmstead Lane... the landlord permitted a tear to fall, at the lonely thought...

Who will protect us now?

I get knocked down.
But I get up again.
You're never gonna keep me down.

The proud are purged by carrying giant stones on their backs, unable to stand upstraight. This teaches the sinner that prideputs weight on the soul and it is better to throw it off.

The lustful are purged by burning in an immense wall of flames. All of those who committed sexual sins are purified by the fire.

Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?

Eighty seven degree sun beat down on the makeshift gravel parking lot, strewn in haphazardly amidst the cattle farms and cornfields surrounding the "airport" in Central Pennsylvania. It was scorching and humid, the river not terribly far off, adding to the horrific humidity. God damn Forces air conditioning being all... hubrisy and shit. But god damnit if it didn't make things a shitload more comfortable, and God did damn a lot of things anyway. So fuck Him. He waited, standing comfortably in an expensive black on black Oxford suit and tie, hair tied back neatly, arms folded over themselves as he leaned against the Porsche 911.

In a flash it hit him, body against the black surace of the expensive car...

"Ewan fights Saint’s hold, but the older man is too much for him by along shot and tears begin to stream down his face. As he cries, helooks up at Scry and sobs that he’s sorry that he won’t grow up to be abusinessman – that he grows up to be the devil, and that he’s sorry hisgrown up self is going to hurt her like he’s hurt everyone else, butthat he can’t make himself stop."

He almost shuddered... almost. Instead... a smile spread across his face as the young girl approached. Flawless. Perfectly cut pants, worn just the right way, a tailored shirt showing all the right things... big green eyes accented... maybe today would be a good day afterall.

Come on, now.
I hear youre feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.

Marsala was nice. Expensive, but not unaffordable, and the wine was good. Good Indian food was hard to come by, count the small blessings. They made idle chit chat across the table, and the girl smiled here and there, or frowned in yet other places. She was playing him, pur and simple. Digging for information, prodding for signs, cues. Why did I come here? She meant to say. But couldn't say. Pride got in the way of that like Pride got in the way of his saying "Let me throw you over this table right here and now." He'd not show her that weakness. Not yet.

Simply put, she was frightened. All of us were, at one point, especially now. We've all changed. Not often for the better. Winter turned murderer out of nesecity, not that he blamed her. It was the right thing to do. (Who, then, will pay for Ice's death? They know. They're waiting. You're the next Fabulous.) A light shake of his head and he smiled again. It all came down to fear. Ewan please don't hurt me, you've hurt me before... will you hurt me again?

There was a simple answer.

Yes.

Relax.
I need some information first.
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?

He'd said.... something. Something that disarmed her. Or made her act disarmed. This was a dance, and he revelled in it. Lies, pushing the right buttons... it was all so intense. One false move, and you gain an enemy forever. One right move, and you get everything you want handed to you. She knew it. He knew it. Why deny it? Because denying it made it more fun. Made it invigorating. She stood and asked to be taken back to his home, and he nodded, leading her back to the car.

There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what youre sayin.
When I was a child I had a fever.
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I got that feeling once again.
I cant explain, you would not understand.
This is not how I am.
I have become comfortably numb.

A small victory on the bridge. Not what you wanted, but you'll take it? You disgust me. Not that fucking faggot again. Shut up. We drove on your road long enough to make me fucking puke in the deepest bowels of your poor lovedrenched brain. Now we do things my way. We take what we want, and we get it. And how dare you, or anyone else stand in my way? Have we not earned the right to anything we desire. DON'T answer. We have.

His lips drank from hers deeper and deeper, eyes almost black. It did occur to him that she'd led him to this, with all the posturing and the primping. It did occur to him that he was being played like an exquisite million dollar violin, but did that really matter? It led him to the same result he'd wanted from the start. And as was taught to him... the end... well it justifies a lot, doesn't it? His cheek brushed against hers, lips barely touching her ear as he spoke pretty, venomous words, meant to incite her, drive her shame and her pride in a single breath. It worked. Or she wanted him to think it worked. In the end, the result was the same. It didn't matter.

He got what he wanted from her.

Can you stand up?
I do believe its working. good.
Thatll keep you going for the show.
Come on its time to go.

"I want to sleep in your bed tonight."

"What of your fiance? Do you really think he'd approve?"

Keep pushing. Almost there.

There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what youre sayin.

His arms tightened around the sleeping woman (girl. She's a girl.) as he inhaled deeply. Her honey-scent mingling with the jasmine of the bedsheets, mingling with his own strong, powerful dragonsblood. The smell was practically holy. He inhaled deeply over and over again, breathing it in and out again against her sleeping neck. The road here... was treacherous. Still is. But terribly fun, and it would continue to be so. He let her have her victory in thinking she led him, thinking she'd planned this out, and he'd have his victory in getting what he wanted from square one. Two people happy, two people having what they wanted.

Now that's a good fucking business deal.

When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse,
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.

She was the apportioner, deciding how much time for life was to beallowed for each person or being. She measured the thread of life withher rod. She is also said to choose a person's destiny after a threadwas measured.

How many times must I sit here and tell you goodbye
How many times must I sit all alone and cry
How many times must I ask mercy on me
How many times must I beg to be free

The gym bag hit the bench with the dull thud of expensive fabric compacted into a small space they were never meant to inhabit. The ironing would be hell to pay, not that he cared. He'd paid hell enough, and he'd pay it more before his time had run. Which may be sooner rather than later. When a man dances in fire, eventually, he starts to burn. Whether it would be Deckland in his idiocy getting lucky. Whether it would be someone deciding he was following the Lie and needed to be removed. Whether it would be Elias for daring to bat an eyelash at his property. It didn't really matter in the end. Dead was dead. Period.

He walked out into the room with the other couples. All stretching, or chatting idly in movement clothes, the instructor politely waiting for them to settle and calm before beginning. Ewan stood quietly, in the same place he'd been standing the past few weeks. Right with the other singles. The lonely sad people who did not come with a partner, who'd have to pair up with whatever scraps they could find twisting in the lonely winds of chance.

"Let's make a promise we'll go out and do something, just us, once a week." she'd said, so long ago. So very long ago now.

"Like what?" he'd asked curiously. "We'll go dancing once a week. Every Thursday." she replied. Every Thursday. Well... here we were. Another Thursday come, and hopefully, it'd go again just as quickly.

Well I'm looking for answers
Looking for answers and nobody knows
Well I'm looking for answers
Looking for answers and nobody knows
Well I'm looking for answers from above not from below

Sol's room was just how he'd left it. A mess, but organized in the same motion. Sol'd known where everything was, and it all centered, focused, on the computer he'd bought the boy. A bed to one side, covers askew. His gaze shifted, seeing the curtains framing the small doorway-shaped bit of wall that... was just wall. No door, nothing. His eyes lowered.

"Hey I've gotta go, Banu has the drill now!" Sol had typed excitedly.

"Drill!? Fucking what drill!? What the hell are you two doing!?" he'd screamed, nearly flying down the stairs. He'd almost collided with banu as she stood in the room taking measurements and adjusting a curtain rod.

"Oh! Hello honey!"

A smile cracked on his lips. She had been such a wonderful woman, so full of life and excitement. He almost laughed when thinking back to the day they made the "door to anywhere." Almost. Rarely did he laugh anymore. Rarer did he smile.

How many times must I learn to live
How many times must I learn to love to give
How many times must I get down on my knees to pray
How many times must I pray for you to stay

He'd not been back to church. Not since the funeral service, not since his final discussion with God. Since then... the two hadn't spoken to one another, for better or worse. His student, Compatioo, had told him that God will always be silent and leave you alone if you ask him to. But the minute you turn back around to see him again, he'll welcome you with open arms. The question was not "will God have me back" the question was "will I have him?" Ewan had seen so many horrible things in this world... it was getting hard to see if He still cared. So many bad people doing so much good in the world... so many evil actions stopping more evil actions. It was as if God just didn't give a shit anymore.

"I want to help you find him again." she'd told him. When they met... he'd been in the midst of another crisis... she wanted to help him find the voice again. The feeling of right, that he was doing good and loved by the Everything. She'd honestly tried to help him, and honestly succeeded. He could still hear her thick Norwegian accent echoing loudly above everyone else's in the church, belting out hymns and prayers whole-heartedly. She'd told everyone she was Catholic... she wasn't. Not by a long shot. But there she had been, still, right by his side, screaming out the lyrics poorly like a champ.

It was hard not to see and feel God in those days. Now... it was hard not to feel His apathy.

Lord I love you in so many ways
Lord I love you each and every day
Now is the time when I must ask you why
Why must we live and why must we die

Knees hit the soft earth before the small headstone. All her favorite plants grew around it, and it sat on a small island in the pond beside his house. It was peaceful, calm, quiet. She had loved the spot. Now... it was fitting she be here forever. A trembling hand reached out to touch the face of the headstone, almost in shame. Rough and leathery fingertips traced over its surface a moment before he shuddered, his whole body convulsing as he curled up in the soft earth, shaking in tears all over again.

Well I'm looking for answers
Looking for answers and nobody knows
Said I'm looking for answers
Looking for answers and nobody knows
Well I'm looking for answers from above
and from below

Don't fret precious I'm here,
step away from the window
and go back to sleep

Ifelse

The little girl trembled in his arms, shook. She sobbed, soaking an expensive silk shirt in the tears of absolute and complete sadness. A father's rejection, his mistrust, still lingering there in her little eyes, miring her emotions with the sewage of a broken childhood. His arms tightened instinctively, one hand smoothing her hair as he cooed softly to her, the trite and meaningless "It'll be okay. Everything's fine." Slowly, gently his hand guided her head to his shoulder, stroking her hair over and over. He felt the little body next to him shudder, convulse. This was emotion, this was how he cried on Isabel, this was the never-saw and the never-tell crying.

She sniffled once, and looked up at him. She wasn't a child, but she was. Seventeen was a nowhere age. Not sixteen... not eighteen. Driving, but not adult. Seventeen had been hard as a normal kid, with a good family. A loving father and a doting mother... this girl had enough trouble to last a whole lifetime, and here she was, holding it up like a champion. Holding it up better than he himself could. And through it all... he couldn't help but think it's okay... daddy's here.

Lay your head down child
I won't let the boogeymen come
Count their bodies like sheep
To the rhythm of the war drums
Pay no mind to the rabble
Pay no mind to the rabble
Head down, go to sleep
To the rhythm of the war drums

Eyes locked to the wall as the girl trembled in his arms. This was cabal. This was family. The Father caring for one of the children. She kept looking at him, as if checking to see if he were still there, seeing if he'd left her yet, though clearly... clearly he hadn't. His arms were there, tighter than ever, locked in a vice-like embrace that couldn't be broken if the Abyss itself ripped wide between them. She sniffled and looked up again, her shaking starting to subside slowly.

"I want to kill him."

"So kill him."

She stopped and looked at him. Looked him in the eyes, as if trying to figure out if this was another obscure lesson, or joke. He had an odd sense of humor, this surrogate father, and if this was his idea of a joke... but it wasn't. He meant it. Said calmly, coolly, as if he were speaking about the weather. So kill him. That's what the cabal did, right? Evil men, getting theirs. All bad guys, now all dead bad guys. She smiled at him appreciatively.

"Thank you... I..."

"No need. How about you go put on The Prophesy and I make popcorn? I could go for some fuckin' Walken right now."

She smiled wide at the mention of her favorite movie and bounced off for the living room.

Pay no mind what other voices say
They don't care about you, like I do, (like I do)
Safe from pain,
and Truth,
and choice,
and other poison devils,
See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do.

"Emotion is just as vital to combat as is rote precision and technique."

She smirked at him. Apparently she thought she knew better. Such was the folly of youth. Half his age and she had it all figured out, right? She'd fought how many Banishers? Seers? Pylons? Scelesti? Liches? Acamoth Cults... none. Combat was a living art, a breathing thing you had to feel before you could master. If you didn't feel that flow, feel that life in you, a part of you, then you'd fail. You'd slip, and your technique wouldn't be fluid enough. That was today's lesson. Get angry.

"It seems to me I beat you when you got mad..."

"Your father doesn't love you."

That did it. The switch flipped on, and if those were real swords, not dulled practice blades, he'd be in very very deep shit. Arms moved in a flurry, pushing them aside, but only barely. The little girl roared at him, blades coming in faster and faster, two at a time. Judo wasn't enough. Aikido wasn't enough... he dived out of the way and still she came, blades crashing into his side, his arms, legs, neck. She thrust, pegging him in the chest, nearly winding him.

"Good! GOOD! Let it out! Ride it! FEEL it!"

One blade snagged, his hands blocking it as the other smacked into his wrist, roars of pain rising from him. He howled and hit the floor, rolling back to his feet as she still came. GOD he loved her tenacity! Maybe here was a student worthy of teaching. Someone who understood, who could feel, who could carry on. Fathers want to preserve a legacy, she'd said. So did Ewan McAllister. Just... perhaps a legacy of a different sort.

Just stay with me,
safe and ignorant, go,
back to sleep, go
back to sleep

Paradox

She smiled. She'd asked if she could bring her new boyfriend over to meet him, and he'd nodded but... not tonight. Tonight there was business. She smiled again and nodded, such a good kid. So concerned with other people, and never herself. It killed him inside to see it. Pretty young kid like that, no family... nothing... he thought back, remembering the omlette he made for her, and how she'd never had an omlette before. How she'd smiled eating it, and told him how good it was...

Perhaps this world has some good worth saving.

I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and all your demons
I'll be the one to protect you from
A will to survive and a voice of reason
I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and your choices son
They're one and the same
I must isolate you
Isolate and save you from yourself

Bell Dandi

Brown eyes scanned the email, rage building with every word. Dear everyone. This is what Go told me to forward. This is how Go is going to get me killed. For politics, for agendas. For pettiness. For Egeus, for a fallen rapist. He had his hooks in her, no doubt. And now it was obvious to everyone, not just him. He saw the call go out against the Guild, and in that, he saw Go with one hand on a burning flag, and one hand around his daughter's throat. He squeazed his hand and her mouth opened, spewing his rhetoric.

Arms moved, twisted in the dim light as he threw the laptop, swept it from the top of the desk, crashing it to the floor. A roar of anger escaped him as he saw guns, Smoke, Janus, Isabel, all emptying clips into Bell's twisting contorting body. Blonde hair whisped out as her head jerked in a different direction from her body, bullets tearing new holes, bursting out the back of the lithe little girl. Blood expelled from her body, forcibly smattering against a nearby surface as she gurgled "But I love him, daddy Ewan..."

He doesn't love you, little girl. He's using you.

Swayin' to the rhythm of the new world order and
Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums
The boogeymen are coming
The boogeymen are coming
Keep your head down, go to sleep
To the rhythm of the war drums

A new scene. Gloved hands raised guns, and there was screaming. Bell's screaming. For a brief moment, he winced, not wanting to see it all over again, but somehow... somehow he knew he had to look. (It'll be over quickly...) That's when he realized it. One fo the gloves was red. It was a familiar glove... his vision panned out as if watching it on film. There hs stood alongside Smoke, and Janus, and Isabel, gun raised, clenched tight in his red leather glove. Bell's screaming continued...

"I'm sorry, Bell. You'll hate me. You'll try to kill me. But I can't let him do this to you."

All of them started firing, pulling the triggers over and over, unloading bullet after bullet. There'd be a reckoning for this. Not like the mess after Fab, but still. People would be upset. The scene turned, to move so the view faced from behind the shooters, instead of in front of them... and Go was twitching, dancing as bullets ripped through his body before it collapsed to the ground, limp. Blood pooled unceremoniously beneath him, and Bale... no.... Saint... said no prayer, made no offering. He turns, and walked away as Bell ran after, screaming, threatening, shouting. She'd kill him. She'd have blood and fire... but she'd be safe. The Guild wouldn't kill her for being Go's accomplice... she'd live. That's what mattered.

Stay with me
Safe and ignorant
Just stay with me
I'll hold you and protect you from the other ones,
The evil ones, don't love you son,
Go back to sleep.