Killer S7ndicate

Epoch:Chapter 62

2009-07-05T21:10:00.000-07:00

Harry's Complex. Exterior. Unmarked.

1985. 2:20 PM.

Dan watched Harry finish the last of his coffee, as he still nursed the... whatever sob-something noodles he was consuming out of a box via chopsticks. Dan took another bite of his explicitly rare roast beef on white. He chewed, thinking.

"I don't understand chopsticks," he mused. There was a moment of silence. Dan chewed.

"I don't understand you not understanding chopsticks," Harry told him, winding soba noodles around his chopsticks like an aficionado. Or, a prick, Dan couldn't decide.

"I also don't understand," Dan continued unaffected. "-the coffee noodle whatever combination you have going on over there. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"A lot," Harry answered without so much as breaking stride in his eating activities. "How I like my coffee is the least of my problems."

"You're telling me," Dan berated without any emotion whatsoever.

"I'm not the one that ordered a roast beef sandwich from a Chinese/Vietnamese grocery store. What's wrong with you?"

"Everything."

Harry laughed, nearly snorting noodles and coffee out of his nose. Dan was a bit disappointed that no such thing occurred... not that he wanted to see Harry in any form of discomfort. It just would have been funny on general principle.

"And," Dan went on. "I don't really know that this is roast beef. It could be alley cat for all I know."

"I'm pretty sure you would know," Harry chided him. "Even if your taste buds have been turbine wrecked by whiskey and cigarettes. I hear alley cat is pretty tough on the incisors, actually."

"Did Tan tell you that?"

"Tan tells me a lot of things."

"Did he tell you his kid is blind?"

Harry paused, puzzled; puzzlement wasn't a common contortion for Harry's face.

"His kid isn't blind. He gets around just fine."

"He might get around," Dan interjected. "But he is what he is, and that kid's blind."

"Yeah, and you're eating alley cat."

"I have no confirmation that I'm not eating alley cat."

Harry finished the last of his lunch, stuffed the empty box and spent chopsticks into the bag at his feet, made sure his styrofoam coffee cup was completely drained, then added it to the trash pile. He shook his head at Dan.

"Maybe I'm the one that's blind."

"I'm not discounting that possibility, Harry," Dan told him flatly.

Harry then looked out the car window, seemed distracted.

"Hey," Dan said, still working on the last half of his sandwich. "Am I boring you over here?"

"Nah," Harry replied. "I'm just... thinking."

"This wasn't that deep of a conversation, Harry."

"You'd be surprised. I dunno. I just... I been having nightmares lately."

Dan felt himself stiffen a bit, involuntarily. He'd had nightmares for most of his life. Then, the dreams had just... stopped.

"About what?," Dan asked, surprising himself. He wasn't one to open up, or to admire people that opened up; Harry was different. He was more like a revolving door than a flood gate of information. He didn't really talk too much about his adolescence, either. They had this in common.

"I dunno," Harry began. Stopped.

"Well, that sounds horrifying," Dan smart-assed. Harry was still quiet. Thinking.

"If I get shot today," Dan smirked. "Then you may as well tell me now, and let me finish my sandwich."

"Nah...," Harry smiled back towards Dan in the passenger seat. "It's not stuff I can see. It's just... black."

"Black like 'bleak', or black like... the back of your eyelids?"

"Both."

Dan shook his head. Finished the last of his sandwich, and threw the wrapper out the window. Harry ignored him. Not so much as a word about the littering.

"If you're going to be like this for the remainder of the day, then I'm telling you to get out of the car now, and I'll see you tomorrow's shift."

"Don't throw your shit out the window, it ain't right," Harry seemed to force a smile onto his face to scold Dan.

Dan flung a stack of napkins to follow his sandwich wrapper, and Harry gave him the closest thing to a look of disgust than he could remember ever having received.

"Stop moping."

"Stop littering."

"What do you care?," Dan asked. "It isn't your personal world."

"Baty would care."

"Baty's not here," Dan replied.

"I'm here."

"Well, apparently not for long with dreams like that."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe."

Dan and Harry sat in their unmarked vehicle then, in complete silence between them. City sounds were a meager stream's volume, honking prevalent at a minor distance. And they sat.

Dan decided he would wait until Harry said something else to gauge the situation.

And they sat.

Epoch:Chapter 61

2009-06-28T02:37:00.000-07:00

Harry's Complex;

Chinese/Vietnamese Grocery Store. 1985.

May 12, 1:45 PM.

Dan hadn't ever glanced purposefully at the sign outside to catch the name of the Asian store they were in... didn't really care. He was pretty sure it was called 'Chinese/Vietnamese Grocery Store.' The damn place sure did cover its bases, though; everything from toilet paper to Pho. Thankfully, it also had cigarettes; Dan had at least one pack to replace, thanks to Harry and all his 'do-gooding'. The two stood in the midst of the place - a reasonably small establishment, given that it was located at the base of a rather large apartment complex - and Harry chatted with the owner, one Tan Xiu.

Dan appreciated the fact that Tan used his real name, and not some adopted, more socially acceptable one like... Bob. Ed. Pete. But then again, what name does really sound like Tan? He looked to be in his early 30's. His parents had probably come straight from China, do-not-pass-go but Tan was as American as a Happy Meal.

Harry had this wonderful trait of pulling the life stories out of people with his presence alone, so of course he'd gotten to know Tan, his family, his fuck only knows. Dan maintained an open silence he felt presented exactly what he needed the world to know about him. Nothing.

Dan noticed a child that was presumably Tan's son toddling about near him; family business, family daycare. They lived somewhere in the complex, Dan was sure. Must be nice; wake up, roll downstairs to work. Nice if you own the business, anyway. Privacy has its own rewards, and distance greater rewards, yet. Dan had little of either benevolence currently inhabiting his life. Working with Harry for a solid forty a week wasn't the worst thing on the planet, however. If Harry was anything, he was the most honest calliope of a person Dan had yet to encounter. It wasn't the same kind of honesty Dan employed for himself;

Harry's inquisitive, altruistic approach to the world - though he did have incident appropriate shocks of anger from time to time - served him, protected most others around him. Dan was just surprised the world hadn't crashed down upon Harry's shoulders yet. No one who does good things for people gets the food put back on their plate in kind. They get the dark gouges of disappointment that comes with trusting in man's ability to brandish finer feelings like they exist. Into the accretion cycle, earth's chipper shredder with those foolish enough to even want to believe that man is capable of being... better. Dan was the first to tell anyone... People weren't worth the investment in time to get to know, grow to love, grab to hold onto. They just... weren't.

And, of course, here Harry was on minute 8 shooting the breeze. Christ. They called it take out for a reason. Because you pick it up, and you take it out. Simple things. Small things, Harry didn't get. Big things... sure. He grasped the general concept of 'big things'.

Tan's son was oddly... quiet. He was going on about his usual childlike business. But, there was something interesting about him. He wasn't fiddling with things, wasn't looking around at things. It was like the kid was simply... listening to Harry and his father talk. Since there were tons less in the mentally challenged department in Asian culture, Dan wrote that option off nearly immediately. The kid wasn't off. He was just... something.

"He's getting pretty big, now, Tan," Dan heard Harry say. Dan assumed they were speaking of the punk at their feet.

"He is. Takes after me. Big and fast."

Harry chuckled. Dan suppressed the desire to roll his eyes yet again today at Harry and his ability to schmooze.

"Your lovely wife here to help you do your job?," Harry joked. Tan smiled, shook his head though it wasn't a 'no'.

"Every day. That's what you need to look for when you settle down, red," Tan pushed Harry with a hand to his shoulder to chide him, Dan guessed. He didn't like where this yammer fest was heading.

"And what's that?," Harry responded mildly. "Cause your lovely wife is taken, case you didn't notice."

"No. Red, you need someone that will be there for you and spare you the bullshit if you forgot that you rescheduled the morning shipment of rice yesterday for today."

Harry looked at Tan for a moment.

"Should I be looking for those credentials exactly? Cause, if so... y'got a sister I can wear down?"

"Three."

"Uh-huh. Well," Harry chuckled again. "It's a start. Which one's your least favorite? I'll cut ya a break."

Dan phased out on the conversation for a moment, once again staring at the child near them. Wispy, thin black hair, typical baby attire. And... what was it? Then, Dan picked up on the 'interesting.' The child's eyes... they didn't swivel, stare or focus on anything. Dan was no Dr. Spock, so he would leave the child's ocular semantics to the experts. The kid got around fine. Appearances were just that if the results were satisfactory; no one at work cared if he was a complete alcoholic deadbeat as long as he got shit done like it was on fire and he needed to douse the flames.

This, of course, directly involved long, drawn out conversations in a Chinese/Vietnamese Grocery Store for the fuckall inconvenience and dent in his day; just standing around here was a joy. A rapture of the skies. Cigarettes. Dan reminded himself in all his eagerness to get the fuck on with his day to buy cigarettes. And maybe he would be reminding himself in twenty minute intervals as they continued to stand here being civil for civility's sake, simply because Harry had no other goddamn thing today to do other than waste his precious time. 'And Christ knows...,' Dan though idly.

'...the shitfuck least thing any of us has on this planet is time.'

Epoch:Chapter 60

2009-04-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

The young doctor looking thing that was suddenly an awkward post teenage thing of a girl flushed as Harry looked upon her; Harry had this way of looking at people. It was as if he exposed them, lifted their very layers of skin from their bodies, the skull and bone away from their brains to reveal all within. Dan still wondered at the process, and why people warmed to it, his honest interest in every last human being to walk the earth. People weren't that great. They just weren't. And yet here Harry was... once more taking an interest.

"I'm sorry I didn't see you coming," Harry said kindly as the girl still gawked at him, seemingly mystified that the hallway obstacle could form speech. "I would've prepared myself better for impact."

"Uh," the girl actually spoke. "Well...," she stammered, and Dan took another drag from his cigarette. Watched as Ms. Nerves of steel tried to form cohesive thought verbally. "I really was... going a bit too fast. But, you see... I'm needed in the E.R.."

Harry beamed as the young woman spoke in some kind of British accent, and was suddenly as prim and proper seeming as an English rose as she and his partner stood among medical files and the scuffs of thousands of patients, visitors, doctors, romantic saps. Smokers.

"I'd bet you're needed just about everywhere you go, miss," Harry squeezed her biceps again, swept the girl's brown hair out of her eye line as easily as if he'd done so a hundred times prior. Before she could respond or even question the motions, Harry was kneeling, picking up her charts, handing them back to her. She didn't respond, but then, Harry was reading her medical badge. "You really gotta watch where you're goin', Dr. Meadehurst," Harry continued easily. A doctor she was, then.

If Dan had believed in anything specific and/or Deified, he would have thus prayed to never have any contact with the girl on a professional level as to avoid complete and total annihilation through medical procedure.

"Maybe you should be the one watching," the doctor suddenly retorted with a chuckle. "I'm apparently incapable of any such thing." Harry seemed delighted at the comment.

"I'm sorry," she continued. "I really must be off now. As I said...," she paused for no apparent reason. "I'm needed." She thought. "In the E.R.," she added to her sentence as if for good measure, duplicating her earlier refrain of purposeful hallway racing.

"Can I be your next emergency?," Harry smiled at her, joking. The young doctor flushed, and her porcelain skin was nearly rose then. Her mouth drew into a warm smile, but she didn't comment.

Then, she was turning away, heading down the hallway Dan and Harry had come from at a good speed; she hadn't even acknowledged Dan, or the fact that he had been-

"You can't smoke in a hospital, Detective," Dr. Meadehurst said with surprising authority as she darted away, stride brisk. Dan didn't respond. Or stop smoking.

Harry looked on, after her, and Dan was soon staring holes into the side of his partner's head. Harry stared after the doctor until she was out of sight, then for a bit longer at the empty hallway. Still stared. Dan kept his eyes fixed to the side of Harry's face, nearly his temple specifically.

"What?," Harry finally uttered, turned to meet his eyes dead on. The ever-present, blithe humor was there, muddled with true entertainment. Dan doubted he was the source of the entertainment.

"Nothing," Dan commented. "I didn't say anything."

"You're always sayin' something," Harry smirked. "Are you gonna put out that goddamn cigarette, or am I gonna have to make you swallow it?"

"Why? You worried your new girlfriend will come back and yell at me? Make you look bad?"

"I'm pretty sure you look bad enough for the both of us, Dan. You might wanna try sleeping every once in a while. I hear it's healthy."

"I hear the mortality rate for police detectives is going up. You may have a chance with Little Miss Doctor Whatsit yet. Think they'll still consider it a blind date if they wheel you in on a gurney?"

"How'd she know you were a Detective, huh?," Harry asked, ignoring Dan's comment; Harry narrowed his eyes, mock suspicion and possessiveness there.

"God damn if I know," Dan answered honestly. "Why? Jealous?"

"Yeah. Right. Horrible amount of jealously goin' on here for ya, Dan."

The two randomly started walking again, Dan still smoking, and headed around the corner they'd originally been headed down; it was now mercifully free of obstacle.

"Is there anything else in this hospital you want to flirt with, or are we done for the day?"

"That wasn't flirting," Harry stated firmly.

"Were you flirting with Evelyn?"

"Yes. She loves it. All girls love it. It makes 'em feel special. Like they have your attention."

"Then what about that scene with Little Miss Doctor Whatsit?"

"That wasn't flirting," Harry was adamant.

"Uh-huh," Dan mused. Tossed the spent cigarette; it bounced off the left corridor wall, off the floor, rolled, still smoking. Harry didn't say anything about it. Dan smirked, chuckled.

"Then what would you call it?," Dan asked. "Pillow talk?"

"Nah," Harry shook his head as they rounded another corner.

"You going to say hi to Bernie like Evelyn wanted you to?"

"Nah," Harry shook his head again. "I told her I wasn't making no promises."

"'Don't wanna get tied down or nothin''," Dan mocked Harry in his own inflections, quoting him. Harry shook his head, this time humored, dismissive.

"I could think of some fun ways to get tied down that you may want to try," Dan continued to jab Harry. "She's the one with the lab coat and the stethoscope. I don't know what the fuck else to tell you. You shouldn't have to get yourself shot to hook up with someone who was actually flirting back with you."

"You think she was flirting back?," Harry asked. Dan smiled with vicious satisfaction, and Harry fumed without meaning the anger.

"I hate you, fucker," he told Dan without the slightest honesty.

"Uh-huh," Dan went to light up another cigarette.

Harry promptly snatched the pack from him and threw it in one, fluid motion into a garbage receptacle marked 'bio hazard'. Dan just looked at him. Reached into another pocket. Pulled out another pack, this one fresh. Began unwrapping it. Harry snorted, shook his head.

"Flirting ain't the right word, alright?," Harry continued to protest.

"Then get out a Thesaurus, Wordsworth, and tell me what the right word for that fruitless little scene was. You're sheltered and overworked, I get it, but-"

"There's a difference between flirting with somebody, and hitting on somebody," Harry began. "Then... there's... whatever just happened back there. That was different."

"Then why didn't you get her number?," Dan asked. Harry was silent. He thought. Walked beside Dan. Exhaled.

"Uh-huh," Dan said. Handed Harry a cigarette and his own lighter. Harry lit up without another word. Then the two were nearing the 'EXIT' doors. Harry took a long drag, and exhaled a tight emission of smoke from his pursed lips. He looked at Dan, considering.

"I did mention that I hate you. Right?"

"Uh-huh. But that isn't going to get any more cigarettes out of me, Romeo."

Harry laughed. Flicked ash. And the two went through the automatic hospital doors, far from the crowds of the main entrance and the emergency room.

Epoch:Chapter 59

2009-02-28T07:12:00.000-08:00

Flushing General Hospital. 1985.

10:26 A.M..

It was obvious to Dan that Harry was letting him lead the way as they traversed the seemingly endless corridors to make their escape from the confines of the hospital. Harry knew the hulking mass of illness and injury like the back of his hand, having been a part of the Baty household since the age of... 15? Something like that. No, it was later. 17. Whatever. It didn't matter. Harry was Harry. And he was just behind him. Dan fumbled with the contents of his left interior pocket. Again. Reached into his front side pocket. Fumbled. Found what he was looking for.

Then, he slowly pulled his lighter and Palls in one fistful from their hiding place. He proceeded to pull a cigarette from the pack, insert it into the left side of his mouth. Replace the pack. He was then lighting the single Pall in the midst of the hallway; he pulled smoke into his throat, his lungs in short, nearly desperate pulses. Waited. Exhaled. Shoved the lighter back into his pocket. Waited.

"Uh...," Harry was finally saying with the warmth of a smile in his tone. "Dan... I dunno if you've ever been told, but... there ain't no smoking allowed in a hospital."

Dan ignored his partner, and kept the cigarette lit. Smoked.

"Oxygen tanks," Harry continued. "Volatile substances..., you know you could blow somebody up." The humor and the unlikeliness of such an event taking place were equally apparent in Harry's tone. Dan still remained silent. Smoked as they neared the end of a particularly long hallway. "They could sue the city."

"Now, that's the best news I've heard all day," Dan finally responded.

They rounded the corner, and though Dan was in the lead, Harry somehow managed to run directly into a swiftly moving bundle of white and medical charts; usually, when a doctor assails a person, he or she has a diploma in one hand and a mound of jargon only a medical board of directors could love lining their mouth. Dan had never before witnessed an actual assault. Whatever charts the young thing had been looking over were then scattered upon the scuffed corridor floor as she let them go, so startled was she at the impact. Doctors. Such hearty individuals. But no... she was too young... she couldn't actually be a doctor.

Dan looked quietly on, still puffing smoke, as the slight little thing of a girl tried desperately to untangle herself from Harry's arms, his jacket and tie; the girl hadn't even looked up and acknowledged Harry as a person apart from a hallway obstacle; but then, the human brain doesn't function normally anymore when jam packed with pancake stacks, phonebook type wads of definitions and bodily function.

Human interaction becomes like shadow boxing when paired with too much time hitting the books and too little time being a person, acting like a person, inhabiting the same social circuit of humanity. The macro equivalent social suffering most doctors are afflicted by is replicated in similar learning environments, minus the human decay and sterilization; it can be witnessed by observing lawyers, social workers... psychologists. College students would fall to the same fate if not offset by otherworldly amounts of drugs and alcohol consumption.

This little miss Doctor Whatsit looked like she was still in college. Harry smiled at the young creature's struggle, looked down upon her. After a moment, he gently put both his hands upon her biceps - covered in lab coat as they were - and squeezed just a bit. She actually stopped, and slowly peered upward, chestnut brown hair amazingly frazzled for being straight as a poker. Her doe-brown eyes met Harry's - the calm, steady blue - and for a moment, nothing else of note occurred. Dan waited. Still waited. And nothing else was happening; the two just stared at each other. Then, Harry smiled as the girl in the lab coat that couldn't possibly be a doctor yet gawked at him.

"Hey, there Miss," he said. "What's your rush?"

Epoch:Chapter 58

2009-02-16T14:57:00.001-08:00

Flushing General Hospital. 1985.
May 12, 10:02 A.M.

"Thank you for dragging me to the hospital this morning, Harry," Dan snorted as he trudged after his partner, down the long oppressive hallway. The sallow lights made Dan's skin look an impressive shade of jaundiced, he thought. Or maybe it was the residual affects of self-sadistic alcohol consumption.

"Aw, you act like you never been here before," Harry smiled. "That's something. Usually, you roll everywhere like you own the joint."
"I hate hospitals," Dan stated flatly, uncaring in his ignorant tirade.
"I hate whiners."
"Then you better shut up while you still can... because anyone I pistol whip is going to be whining like a dog."
"Right," Harry chuckled. "I know how much you love a good pistol whip, too. But I'm gonna have to disappoint you today."
"You disappoint me every day, Harry. How would today be any different?"
Harry simply laughed, tossing his head back a bit. The action was carried out in either complete acceptance or complete disregard, Dan felt.

Then they were nearing Eve's office. It wasn't the world Harry had asked for today. It'd just been... a half an hour. Or so. Just to say 'hello'. Dan really couldn't assassinate the sentiment level, but the degrees of effort people showed for each other... it was just too much sometimes. There was time for 'hello' off the clock. But, Dan had conceded for the privilege of a change in scenery, a sabbatical from the station and its lack of coffee. Dan didn't really see the sense in the act in itself, however; it wasn't like she was his real mother or any-

Harry knocked politely upon the door of Eve's office, just below the sign that read ''Evelyn Baty, P.H.D., Head of Traumatology" on it. She was at her desk, fist full of papers; Eve turned around easily in her office chair, not completely diverting her attention from what she was doing. The wheels of the chair squeaked a bit. Nothing but luxury for the higher-ups here.

Dan wondered inwardly where hard work got you at all except into a lofty, squeaky office chair. Anywhere? Somewhere. Nowhere. Wheels were suddenly a freeing concept for all work related furniture everywhere.

Harry's step-mother lowered her glasses just a bit and smiled kindly at their combined presence.

She was a full ten years younger than Harry's step dad, but the difference in age mattered little; she either kept Baty young, or he added the right amount of levity to her lifeline. She looked vitally youthful herself, the stress of the job a poor opponent against her physical beauty, her love of her work. Eve removed her glasses, and dropped another five years at least as Dan was looking at the woman. He shook his head. He had no idea how an aging Wide Eye Detective and a steadily advancing, career savvy Traumatologist made their busy lives together work.

He guessed he didn't care, because the thoughts and wonderings stopped there. Maybe there simply wasn't too much else to wonder about; beyond a lot of things that were uncertain or false in his world, it was quite obvious when things were genuine or heartfelt as brazen as such things were in Dan's opinion. Chris and Evelyn Baty were painfully obvious, almost nauseating. Dan shook his head again. It made his stomach wild to think about settling down with anyone, absolutely vile and wild. It wasn't Olivia's doing. It was simply how he felt.

The anti-amorous displays of Dan's own parents had been worthy of arena seats, a full entourage of roadies, standing ovations. He preferred small venues, standing room only.

"Harry... Dan," she smiled. "What are you doing here? You're both too busy for courtesy calls."
"I have time for a call today, Evie," Harry chuckled, plucking an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket. Dan watched as his partner leaned over, kissed Eve on the cheek, and handed it to her. "Happy birthday," he told her warmly.

Oh. Of course. Now, the request made sense. That made Eve-
"Twenty-nine. Right?," Harry smiled widely. Eve blushed, taking the cream colored, small card in her delicate hand.
"Something like that," she said. Dan rolled his eyes. Baty was pushing fifty. Harry was such a kiss ass. Eve gently pulled the envelope open, no glue seal to fight, and slid the card by an edge out of it. She opened the card, read deliberately as Harry sat on the edge of her desk. She flicked the edge of the card periodically with her right thumb. Flicked. Flicked.

Dan remained just outside the doorway; it wasn't intruding he was worried about. He had no lust for family affairs, no appreciation for the spectacle of them. People did stupid things for stupid, shallow reasons, and trite little applications of sentimental bravado were simply indoctrinated into society, commercialized to bring laud and multiple paychecks to modern retail establishments.

"You can come inside if you want to, Dan," Eve said suddenly, calmly. Dan straightened as she looked up from her card. Harry looked to his 'step mother', then tuned his attention directly to Dan. Harry raised his eye brows at him. Dan felt suddenly, inexplicably uncomfortable, not something he felt often, or let himself feel as a rule. He winced a smile. Took one full step forward, into her office.

"There," she said gently. "Not so bad, huh."
For someone only just eight years his senior, Dan couldn't get past the nearly ancient levels of grace that Eve exuded at nearly all times. He could only imagine what she was like up to her elbows in human gore, what eloquence was possible with life at a tangible viscosity, a temperature, a rhythm.
"You know Dan, Eve," Harry said easily, jumping down lightly to his feet. "He never wants to wear out his welcome."
Dan eyed Harry as if to murder him, and Harry chuckled. Eve looked into Dan's eyes, and he felt the insolence in him mute considerably. He didn't smile, but he let his features soften.

"What do you and Baty have planned for tonight?," Harry asked her. "Anything? Ten minute dinner in the cafeteria?"
"Oh, better than that," she told him, sounding the slightest bit... excited. Giddy, even.
"We're both getting off shift near midnight tonight." She leaned forward, and lowered her voice conspiratorially, as if a regular speaking tone would upset the delicate nature of upcoming events. "He's going to fix me french toast."

Then, she sat up in her chair. Exhaled. Harry beamed as she continued her thought.
"Do you have any idea how long it's been... since that man has cooked for me?"
"Well, if it makes ya feel any better...," Harry said warmly. "I don't think he's cooked for himself in about seven years. And that was because I'd been studying three days straight for finals, and I told him the only thing that would stop me was a grilled cheese on rye. We talked constellations and calc over Swiss and Killians."

Eve laughed, a lovely melodic sound emitting from her slender neck.
"I'm thinking breakfast in bed at around one tomorrow morning," she sighed.
Harry nodded his approval as Dan remained perfectly still, hoping his presence would be forgotten.

"Gotta have something for dessert," Harry retorted. "Huh, Dan?"
Dan went over minor sources of discomfort to inflict upon his partner as Harry eyeballed him with purposeful mirth, a spirit of hazing. "Besides whiskey, I mean."
"I consider whiskey more of a main course, actually," Dan heard himself joke without really putting forth the effort to do so. Harry lit up like a Christmas tree, and Dan rebuked himself for inciting the man to continue the merry making.

Instead, Harry merely directed his focus back towards Eve.
"We're gonna get rolling, Evie. I just wanted to stop in and save you from your paperwork for about thirty seconds."
"I consider that a birthday gift in itself," she said standing up, laying her card upon her desk, still out of its envelope. She gave Harry a hug, and patted him on the back. "Be sure to say 'hi' to Bernie on the way out. You know how it is."
"I think I can handle that much," Harry said. "No promises, though. I'm a free spirit. Don't wanna get tied down or nothin'."
"I know these things," she replied. "It wouldn't kill you to get out sometimes, though."
"Uh-huh."

Eve then turned to Dan, and nodded to him. "I'm glad to see you too, Dan. You look well."
"And you're a good liar for someone that's only twenty-nine," Dan said, surprising himself again. Eve seemed just as surprised, but smiled at him. Harry remained silent.

Epoch: Chapter 57

2008-11-13T12:23:00.000-08:00

May 12th, 1985. 8:15 A.M..

Dan ambled with purpose upon the worn sidewalk leading to Harry's apartment in Queens on Main Street, strode as if he owned the damn thing. For all he cared, he did own it, and everything around it; none of it was worth much just from a good glance. Harry laughed at him; Dan was certain his partner was laughing directly at him, and at no other spectacle in their current vicinity. The throes of modern decay lapped at their heels, nipped at their necks in blithe gusts of air, the brine of the street.

"What?," Dan asked with a thread of irritation cutting into his tone. He'd been up for four hours; The wear of the whiskey wasn't there yet.
"Nothin'," Harry said with mirth as he smiled. "I can't decide if it's the 'fuck you' walk that you use to get everywhere or the 'fuck you' look on your face that makes me like you so much, Dan."
Harry laughed again. Dan went to rebuke him, and Harry pushed him like a buddy would, and caused Dan to break stride slightly. He pushed him again. Laughed.

"Stop that or I'll shoot you," Dan said. "It will be self defense."
"Uh-huh," Harry chuckled, obviously amused. "It ain't my fault the damn break room coffee machine is broke."
"Yes it is," Dan said with absolutely no truth in the accusation.
"I blame Dar," Harry commented, joking. "He don't know how to make coffee."
"He 'don't know' how to do anything," Dan barked. Harry laughed again.
"Christ," he said. "You're making fun of me already and the sun's only been up for like... two seconds. Liv kick you outta her bed last night?"
"You wish," Dan answered without bitterness. Harry smirked. He'd been friends with Olivia since the two of them had been kids. Dan didn't so much as view Harry as a threat to his relationship with her. The bastard had even introduced them like the sadistic viper he was. Harry, like he knew most everything, had known the two of them would hit it off.

"And don't think I owe you anything for that woman," Dan declared. "I don't care if we're on the moon and the only coffee pot in the solar system is broken. You're getting nothing from me in compensation. I'm keeping all my moon rations to myself."
At this, Harry laughed out loud, and slapped Dan on the back.
"That's it," Dan bristled. "I'll give you a running start. I'm getting my gun out."

-&7&-

Harry's apartment was as close to a safe haven as Dan had ever allowed, beside his own Brooklyn apartment not too far away. Harry's place was also convenient to a fault. It was contained within a large complex owned by an older couple; it towered over a second hand bookstore and a Chinese/Vietnamese grocery store located at the base of the same building. Going outside wasn't even necessary if an inhabitant needed to visit either location; the bottom level of the domicile acted as the segue to both.

This was all entertaining information, but helped little when it came to present matters of caffeine deprivation; Dan stood watching Harry's coffee pot making blood clot black coffee.

"You can sit, ya know," Harry chided Dan as he entered his own kitchen. "The coffee's making itself."

"Nothing makes itself, Harry," Dan said, meaning it. Harry just shook his head.

"Suit yourself," he said. "I'll be on my fire escape smoking."

There was a low rumbling sound then; it wasn't quite a human sound. It certainly wasn't an unexpected sound, either. Harry chuckled, looking downward. His large, gray cat was at his feet, looking up at him. The feline's glance wasn't cast in search of nourishment or praise; the cat simply adored Harry. Dan didn't really understand the semantics of pet ownership. However... Harry made it seem like a staple of life itself.

"Hey, Rival," Harry addressed his cat, bent down bending his knees to do so and scratched under it's chin; the cat was immediately purring, sated. "We surprised ya by coming back here this morning, didn't we?"

The cat rubbed it's great head against Harry's hand and wrist, then again, seemed to be smiling. It seemed happy against all odds. The purring grew louder, and the white stripe upon the large cat's chin was bolder to Dan as he casually watched the morbidly sap ridden scene.

"Aw," Harry said. "That's my boy. Watching the house."

"Apartment," Dan corrected like the asshole he was. Harry chuckled again.

"Apartment," Harry repeated. Dan shook his head at his slightly older partner. Nothing ever upset Harry.

"Alright," Harry told the cat, standing up straight once more. "You keep Dan company. I'm gonna go smoke." And Harry went to do so. The damn cat actually stayed in the kitchen and sat, 'plunk' next to Dan. He looked down into the cat's great yellow eyes. It stared at him as if it was his equal. Purred. Waited, watched him. Dan glanced to the coffee pot. To the cat, to the pot, back again.

"Look," Dan said to Rival. "You can sit there. But you butt your leopard head against these pants, and no one will know where you went or why I have a new violin."

The cat still stared, unphased.

"Good," Dan said, venting his stare back at the coffee pot as it continued to fill. "I'm glad we had this talk."

There was the slight sound of laughter, muffled, from the living room area. Dan sighed, shook his head.

"I hate you, Harry," Dan raised his voice slightly. The laughter continued in spurts between what were presumably drags off a cigarette.

-&7&-

Harman's Residence. Exterior. 1993.

The Koi Pond. 2:25 A.M..

Kevin stood beside the lovely, remarkably traditional pond outside Harman's ornate homestead; Carver Wintermute was at his side. Kevin knew the man was being careful to stand directly beside him; Carver stood neither behind nor in front of him out of respect. It was unlikely the man even considered himself as a known threat to Kevin's safety... but the gesture was a gracious one; it didn't go unnoticed.

"You're that worried of what I think of you then?," Kevin chided him. Carve smiled.

"I don't worry. I'm aware of most things, though. It would be unfitting of me to be anywhere but directly at your side, Kevin. Especially considering the fact that you could probably take all the buttons off my shirt without fraying any of the threads."

"Is that a come on?," Kevin managed a joke to Carver's obvious amusement.

"I'd say it's a fair assessment," Carve retorted. "I have an associate who speaks very highly of your prowess with a knife."

Kevin raised his eyebrows at the man.

"And who might that be? Does this person claim to have known me?"

"He does," Carve smiled. "I'm sure you must get that a lot."

"Mmm," Kevin conceded as he thought. "I got around a bit in England, unfortunately."

"Was it really unfortunately?," Carve asked. Kevin relinquished a slight smile.

"In some places only," he responded. "Who is this person again?"

"Morgan Devonshire."

Kevin stiffened, actually lowered his glasses as he looked back, directly into Carve's face; Carver met his gaze easily. His eyes were warm, and even seemed tempered for such glances seeking truth, confirmations of such truth.

"Morgan?," Kevin found himself repeating, mildly in awe. "Is-? Is he here? In the states?"

"In this very state, actually," Carve told him as Kevin replaced his glasses to conceal his earnest eyes once more. "He's never far from my side... or Harry's. Tonight was a special allowance, so... he stayed back to guard Curtis' estate, keep the 'men' in check. He's third in command after Harry, and myself. He's earned it."

Kevin smiled proudly.

"Is the lad well?," Kevin asked, wondering honestly.

"He is. I'd be glad to tell him that you're the same, if you want me to."

"I do want that," Kevin said. "Thank you, Carve. I've not seen Morgan... since..."

Kevin thought.

"'88," Carver replied easily.

"Oh. He's told you, then."

"No," Carver smiled. Kevin chuckled, nodded.

"I see," he said.

"Do you?," Carve asked. Kevin turned to face him once more.

"Yes," Kevin replied. "I believe I do."

"Good. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all," Kevin answered honestly.

"Thanks."

Carver fished in his right jacket pocket retrieving a pack of clove cigarettes labeled 'Black'. He was immediately pulling one of the cloves out, replacing the pack, holding a metallic flip lighter with his left hand. He flicked his wrist effortlessly, lighting up with a distinct crackle.

"Do you want one?," Carve asked, again politely.

"No thanks," Kevin told him. "Gave smoking up with my punk days."

"If you say so," Carve poked fun. Waited.

"Oh," Kevin shrugged. "Bollux."

Carve was then taking the pack out again, offering Kevin a cigarette. Kevin nodded as he pulled a black as sin clove out of the pack, and Carve was quick to flick his lighter to flame. Again, Kevin nodded, put his right hand gently upon Carver's left as he dragged until he was satisfied with the amount of orange light glowing at the tip of the filter. Kevin fought off a shock of goosebumps as Carver smiled down upon his neck and flipped his metal lighter closed once more before putting it back in his left jacket pocket.

"Thanks," Kevin said as he exhaled smoke, flicked the cigarette to ash like a pro with his left thumb. Again, Carver smiled.

"The pleasure's mine. It's always a pleasure to have someone to smoke with."

"I don't know about that, Carve," Kevin offered.

"What don't you know?," Carve asked with a breadth of kindness Kevin wasn't prepared for. Kevin shrugged, took another drag.

"Dunno."

Then, Carve chuckled, sparking Kevin to follow suit shortly thereafter. Before Kevin could fully think of a corresponding response, Carver was using his right hand to place his own cigarette in the corner of his mouth; Carve then took hold of the shades upon Kevin's face, and blithely pulled them from the bridge of Kevin's nose, folded them, looking into Kevin's eyes.

"There," Carve told him calmly. He folded Kevin's glasses and tucked them by a rim so that they hung from his own front jacket pocket. "Do you know now?"

Kevin blinked, relishing in the lack of self consciousness he felt.

"Yes," he said quietly, exhaling relief. "Quite a feeling, really."

Carve smiled, taking another drag, and glanced downward towards the koi.

"You've known Harry a good while then," Kevin more stated than asked.

"Yes. A very good while."

"And... he's known Dan...?"

"For a much shorter time. But I could never touch the relationship the two of them have between them. Harry split through Dan's armored exterior like light travels through a keyhole in a dungeon. I don't think anyone else ever has."

"How did Harry accomplish that then?," Kevin asked, feeling the freedom from weight that came with his lack of ocular concealment.

"Harry's Harry," Carve grinned appreciatively. "That's about all I can really offer in the form of an explanation, Kevin."

Kevin nodded, took another long drag inhaling the smoke into his capacity driven lungs. He didn't so much as cough.

"That seems explanation enough from what I was able to gather," Kevin mused. "He seems to be a remarkable fellow."

"If he wasn't straight, I'd claim the man for the duration of my existence," Carver joked. Kevin glanced up, watched Carver as he went to speak again. Carver shook his head with humor.

"As it is," he said. "I'll just have to be on the lookout for a successor."

Kevin ran his left hand along the back of his neck, up and down.

"Ah," he said. "That will be a vigil, then."

"Perhaps," Carver offered. "But the word 'vigil' implies the act of waiting or hesitation."

Kevin was gazing more into Carver's motions, his mannerisms than paying attention to his own cigarette as it began to burn out. "And what's there to wait for?," Carve finished his thought.

"I don't know," Kevin said.

"Are you sure?," Carve asked. "Are you sure you don't know?"

Kevin exhaled in what was meant to be a sort of laugh. Then, Carve leaned forward, taking Kevin's chin in his left hand, tilting his face upward a bit, and he kissed him, both of their cigarettes still burning; none were present to intrude save the koi in the basin of their small pond, and they were more than likely asleep. No more words were spoken between Carver and Kevin for some time, but the silence was incredible.

Epoch: Chapter 56

2008-10-25T20:09:00.000-07:00

Harman's Residence. 1993. March 25th, 2:12 A.M..

The moderately young man strode easily into the main hallway of Harman's estate-like home. Harman smiled, approaching him and his compatriot, a man Harman already knew as ancient. Timeless; the compatriot's name was Carver Wintermute. He acted as Harry's personal protection. But the allegiance was much deeper than that, nearly pristine. It was deep, sworn friendship between them, and it showed, nearly upon their clothing. Carver would deliberately kill and die for Harrison Bloom. But that wasn't the request this early morn. Quite the opposite.

Harry's hair was a dark red, short and shorn very efficiently. He looked professional, acted professional... but with a casual ease that betrayed everything he stood for. Well. Everything that he was portraying; but the light shone through. Harry wasn't like the others. And he never would be.

Harman extended a hand to his main guest; it wasn't usually customary for a host to shake the hand of a sub associate, but just after Harry shook firmly, Harman extended a hand to Carver, as well. Carver shook, nodded with as much authority as Harry. It was no wonder Curtis had appointed Wintermute as Harry's second. Then, Harman was redirecting his gaze to the main guest in his home.

"Harry," Harman said kindly, even at the late hour. "I can only imagine your conflict, but truly... thank you for coming here."
Harry actually smiled. It was a shockingly warm smile, and transcended the experiences Harman knew of with regard to the man.

"How could I not come, huh? I just wish...," Harry paused, mused. Then he was speaking once more, the Bronx lacing his words. "I guess you know already, don't you."
Harman clasped his hands in front of him.
"I know that your very presence is a volume, former detective Bloom. A resounding low hum, like that in a buddhist temple. Have you been to one?"
Harry chuckled, and Harman couldn't help but smile, already knowing he had been.
"That's where these come from," Harry motioned to his right wrist; pale green, slender wooden beads laid upon it. Harman nodded.
"They've been blessed, I see," he said. Again, Harry smiled.
"That's what the guy in the market said. I guess I believed him."
"You were wise in doing so," Harman replied. Then, he paused. "Allow me to oust one of my best men. He's been attending to Dan."
Harry nodded, troubled mildly - more preoccupied. Then, before Harman had a chance, one of the nearest hallway doors was opening.

Kevin entered the hallway, nodded to Harman, closed the door behind him quietly. Then, he addressed Harry, Carver. Carver once more, though with little other than a gesture. Each nodded back to him, in turn.
"I was just speaking of you, Kevin," Harman gloated. "We all know you know names, reputations. And visa versa. Hmm?" Kevin nodded, with respect.
"Well," Harman continued. "Former Detective Bloom is going to take over your post for a time. Do entertain Mr. Wintermute, won't you?"
Kevin and Carver eyed each other mildly.
"Of course," Kevin said easily. There was a bit of fatigue in his tone, but it was only slightly laced. Carver looked to Harry, who... squeezed his shoulder, telling him all was well. Carver nodded, and Harry easily... took the doorknob to the green room in his hand, turning it. Then, he was ducking inside. He closed the door gently behind him.

Harman was speaking to Kevin shortly thereafter.
"I'll be in my study. Ben will be in later. Con still isn't staying awake as long as I'd like. I may have to call in higher help if all this keeps up. But if I'm needed, don't hesitate. I'm not on so high a pedestal that I can't be reached."
Kevin nodded, and Harman walked slowly away - there was no lethargy in the stride, merely thought. And soon, he was within his study.

Carver spoke to Kevin quickly thereafter, his voice low. He didn't whisper to conceal his words, he merely tempered his voice to lend an appropriate degree of calm to the vicinity.
"Do you think some fresh air would be out of the question? I can feel that Harry's safe here. And... he could use a little privacy right now. He doesn't have the benefit of such at great length."

"I don't suppose so," Kevin responded. "Must be a full time job for you, then... keeping watch of him."

Wintermute actually grinned, with some character, even. Panache.

"It's mostly that I have to keep up with him. You must encounter similar challenges here."

"Yes, you're correct in noticing."

Kevin hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Thinking. Nodding.
"I don't find a problem with a stroll nightside, Carver," he said, British accent prevalent. "It's mild out... And I dare say I could use the air myself."
"We've come at a good time then. And it's Carve," Wintermute corrected blithely. "Please. Call me Carve."
Again, Kevin nodded, and he walked towards the exterior, his charge only shortly behind him.

-&7&-

Harry walked into the calmly lit room slowly; his eyes didn't leave the figure contained in the bed towards the left of the entrance. He ignored the oxygen, the sounds of breath, acknowledged it only in its hope, the brilliance of life as it still remained. Harry noticed the chair just to the side of the bed and made his way towards it; he sat in it easily, his eyes still drawn towards their initial source. Dan was unconscious, breathed slowly in and out; an oxygen mask encompassed his features, the back of his head was bandaged. Harry looked then, towards his EKG monitor; Dan's vitals were... dim. Weak.

Harman knew healers the world over; Harry had heard of several, himself. Not mental healers - empaths - like Carver. But true healers. Yet... Harman hadn't called them to Dan's aid. He had called... Miles. If there was a wrong here, it was abstract. There were agreements between both Harman and Curtis that Harry knew nothing of. His only necessary knowledge was... that Dan was hurt. And... that there had been allowances that made seeing him possible. What more was important? Not a whole lot in Harry's mind. Harman had made sure Curtis was away before calling. Miles was a good kid; he wouldn't tell. He'd gotten the news to Carver straight away.

Harry watched Dan as he rested for quite a while before moving at all. Then, he reached out, and squeezed his former partner's arm in friendship, concern. Maybe just to make sure... Dan was real. Harry hadn't seen him since... everyone else had told him Dan was dead. And he'd protested against it. And they'd just seen it as shock. Baty had known; he'd realized it just after Harry had quit the job. That had been...? Four years ago. A little less? A little more? It was hard to remember. Time was painful, incandescent. Moving to experience in its quiet moments. This was one of those moments. Usually, Dan had been the one stationed at his side in Harry's own bouts with injury; Harry had willingly taken severe damage and pain in Dan's stead more than one time. Dan had his own ways of returning the favor. Staying in constant vigil of Harry... had been one of them.

"Hey," Harry whispered, smiling the word into warmth. "It's been a while, huh? I guess you've been busy." Harry chuckled quietly. "Guess I've been busy, too. Doubt you've kept up with my news forecast, though. Can't help but keep up with yours."

Dan still breathed deeply, contained in his inner void as Harry spoke to him. Harry smiled again, maybe in quiet wage against stress this time.

"I missed you, you know. Well, maybe ya don't. Guess I didn't help, last time we saw each other. I was just sore is all. Can't blame me, can ya? It's not every day a man loses the partner in crime he was meant to have, huh? I mean...," Harry stopped, looked down, at Dan's wrist, his gun hand, relaxed. "I guess 'crime' was the wrong word... but I don't think it is now, right? I, uh... I don't do the same things for the same reasons no more, Dan. I ain't sorry. But... well... for a lot of things and a lot of people... I sure am. You... I understand where you were coming from. On my end? I got... so much... to atone for. So much... I'm proud of. Guess I don't even really understand it. Maybe I shouldn't have to. I'm just... gonna sit with you for a while, alright? And if you don't say anything... that's alright. You don't have to say anything. I can do all the talking."

There was the sound of the oxygen, the sound of Dan breathing. And Harry was sated. He squeezed Dan's arm again. And he watched, as suddenly, Dan breathed easier than he had been before.

Epoch: Chapter 55

2008-10-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

There were sounds; there were always sounds. Now, they were collecting in a small pool, far away. They were so far in the backdrop, they weren't even accessible. Not yet. The shadows coated him; silhouettes of movements, motions, events. They helped ease his awareness, coax it out of its stagnant corridor, the crux of it.

Nothing made sense, but it didn't need to. Not now.

The safety was obvious. It was a critical mass at the base of Con's skull, warm, palpable. He was safe. That was all that needed to be known. He was safe.

Then, Con was hearing his own breath; it was a sharp, deep inhalation. It meant... waking up? Had he been asleep? Unconscious? Dead?

No. Not that. Not dead. There was too much pain. And the breath continued; it summoned in the loud pangs of bone brightness, sharp aches in his sides, midsection. His head. His... head.

Why was he waking up? Why was it necessary? Someone was speaking to him. That was it. What... was the voice saying? He couldn't tell. No. It wasn't just... one voice. It was two. They were sympathetic in tone, reacting to each other. What were they saying? There was silence again. Peace. Glorious, sacred peace, like waves, ebb tide. It was a soft solitude, very frail - opaque. Consciousness was trying to hide itself, blissfully content in its shell. But it was failing in earnest; Con's curiosity got the better of him. He recognized the most prevalent voice then;

Harman?

Then, Con realized his eyes were open. No - one of them; his left eye felt glued shut. Maybe it was no longer in his head, jettisoned like a doll's eye, pulled out, strings hanging ragged. Was there something over it? Fabric... a bandage. That was it. He blinked his right eye. Thankfully, light wasn't a direct equation.

Harman was speaking to him; Con was only slightly surprised he was aware, following what was transpiring. The fare wasn't complex, thankfully. Con's perception crystalized, solidified. There was suddenly focus from a blight of providence. Dancing, heated senses warmed the 'visual'/aural.

"There now. I was beginning to worry, Con."

Con nodded absently. Felt disoriented... and like he'd recently fallen off of a building. He didn't remember; it hurt to think. There were flashes of... stairs... photos.

"Don't force it son," Harman continued gently. "It'll come."

Con offered another nod. He felt someone else in the room, someone young - 20's, male. He had scrubs on, Con was sure of it.

"Con," Harman said. "This is Ben."

The young man came closer - didn't really smile; he seemed bothered. But, he did nod curtly.

"He's my lifeline in medical emergencies," Harman continued.

Con winced his eyes shut. The bones in his face sent flares of agony into his skull with the pressure and he gasped. After a second of pain addled hesitation, Con reopened his eyes.

"Hi," he told Ben.

Then, thee was some degree of humor on 'Ben's' face. Harman exhaled, shook his head. He looked to Ben.

"Lifeline's a strong word, Harman," Ben said calmly.

Con swallowed; he was actually surprised to find himself speaking.

"I don't... get how my dad knocking me to kingdom come... constitutes... a medical..."

Con stopped. Blinked. Inhaled short bursts of nauseating head pain. And... remembered.

The floor... the table... the gun.

"Oh," Con stated. "My dad."

Ben folded his arms. Harman cocked his head just a bit.

"How do you feel about it today, son?," he asked easily. Quietly.

Con shrugged. One, short shrug. He wished immediately that he hadn't, as his back sparked. He didn't know how he felt. Except... numb. Hurt. Tired. So tired. He was probably in shock.

"I don't feel anything," Con answered honestly.

"That happens sometimes," Harman replied. "You shouldn't try to think about it right now, alright? Feelings run their course."

Con nodded, confused about everything, sure about nothing, save that his entire world had just changed in a heartbeat... a gunshot.

"Am I going to jail?," Con asked seriously, with as much volume as he could manage - not much, at all. Harman smiled kindly... a spark of humor there. He glanced at Ben again, then back.

"You're going to rest," Harman said. "What's there to go to jail for?"

Con's head hurt.

"I...," he started, dumbly, he felt. "Harman, I..."

"Your father," Harman said. "Has taken an extended leave. Obviously... very extended."

Con remained silent - and not just because it felt utterly wonderful to do so. Concentrating was impossible... but he tried to listen.

"I have ruthless friends, Con," Harman offered, a smile in his tone. "Friends who help me at the drop of a hat. When I need certain kinds of things... handled in a delicate and diplomatic fashion. Your father... was one of those... things. Do you understand what I mean?"

Con understood. He didn't believe that he understood... but he did, and nodded accordingly, sparks in his crown.

"My only regret," Harman went on. "Is kicking the damn door in. I could have easily picked the lock. Useless bravado is what that was."

"Why...?," Con found himself asking. "Why did you... help me, Harman? I mean... all... that..."

"Because you're worth saving, Con," was the reply. "And well worth my interest. You've earned my interference, as well."

"That's a good word for it," Ben chimed in cynically. Harman shot a mock-warning glance at Ben, who smirked. Con felt his own eyelids suddenly gain two tons, still tried to deep them open; he needed to know... what the hell was going to happen to him. He had little hope for logical explanations now.

"Don't fight sleep," Harman soothed. "There's no need to strain against what your body requires. You're safe here."

"Where-?"

The question snagged in Con's throat, as if it had been clubbed. He had no more strength to speak. Con felt Harman smile knowingly as he relented, letting sleep clutch at him.

"You're in my home, of course," Harman's voice was a reassuring buoy to him. Con closed his eyes, endured the same squeezes of pressure and torment from doing so. It didn't last long; he was falling asleep before he could count. But he did hear Harman say something else as he drifted.

"Welcome."

Con knew he nodded in response, couldn't articulate how hard, or if it registered at all. Then, there was the lack of pain he knew was sleep. The void was a relief, in no small measure.

Epoch: Chapter 54

2008-09-18T21:39:00.000-07:00

Harman was still kneeling as he had been; he'd been purposefully frozen, waiting calmly in place for the last fifteen minutes; beside Dan. Over him. Dan was still, nearly stiff. Bleeding less profusely from the skull than he had been. The striking, glossy red upon the onyx stone was beautiful. Chilling.

Dan's breaths were shallow, growing more shallow as the moments progressed. But still, Harman didn't move; he didn't even breathe as if he meant to aid him. He merely... watched him. He kept an easy vigil as Dan was peaceful. Back to pitch. Mind to pitch. Quiet.

Harman put an open right palm to Dan's crown, pushed his black hair out of his eye line. Dan remained still, completely blacked out by injury. But Harman noted his resilience in his continued breath sounds. A lesser soul would have simply let things go. Understood the lack of pride and process that is death. But no... not Dan.

His head rested easily to the side, almost valiantly... and Harman watched him with direct ease as he continued smoothing out his jet black hair, making his disheveled demeanor as whole as possible now; the boy had made the evening more than worth while. He'd actually made it... entertaining. Fun. Annette had to know this would occur as a direct result of her dalliances. And that it wasn't something he could just continue to let stand without some degree of reprimand.

However she had always come... and gone. Without the slightest effort, the slightest obvious thought toward this subject on her part. That was a large part of her overall charm, really; to Dan as well, most likely - her ability to make unreasonable threat reasonable. Tolerable. Enjoyable. But trifles of the flesh rarely made the absolute difference in combat. Dan hated him for his own reasons, for taking and keeping his freedom from him.

It was reasonable hatred; Harman understood it. He knew of the past association Dan had retained with Annette, and doubted Dan had gone out of his way to instigate a relationship with her merely to spite him. It was a bonus, of course, Harman was sure. Dan was such a temperamental creature. So much fun to toy with. Unfortunately... broken toys were boring. Regrettable... and especially now.

Harman didn't bear hatred for Dan. It was just awfully fun to tear at his little puppet strings. Addictive fun. But shearing the strings altogether was never the intended goal. Not without thoughts of re-stitching them. And teaching Dan... was an impossible summit to be reached as Harman fathomed it.

There was very little doubt as to who the victor was in this instance but there was always the aspect of home team advantage; in the comfort exterior of his own 'home', how could Harman ever be expected to lose? Yet what could he possibly gain from rending the senses from a strong willed party while a boy lay injured, nearly dying, within his own walls? Harman felt the slightest, accidental stickiness of the plasma he'd encountered while stroking Dan's crown. And it all began to fall down.

Very slowly... very steadily. Down.

Harman cared little for direction that wasn't his own, however. Harman rubbed his fingers together where the blood had touched them, feeling unencumbered by the stain.

"Tais-toi, Dan," he said quietly. "It's 'tais-toi'."

"Harman," a voice called gently to him from a distance behind him. Behind them. Harman didn't need to look up from his current source of attention; there was no need. The voice was and had always been incredibly distinct.

"Harman," Kevin said again, approaching. "I don't mean to intrude, I just thought you'd like to know... the lad's breathing is better."

There was a slight pause.

"Thank you, Kevin," Harman responded easily. "That is welcome news. The hour is dark, I'm afraid. Mostly by my choosing, of course. But there may yet be light audible with your aid."

"Is all well?," Kevin asked, his voice sounding at a closer proximity than before. "What is it drawing your atten-?"

Kevin stopped speaking suddenly. And Harman felt him stop walking sharply. There were moments without sound after that. Then... Kevin was in stride once more. Soon, he was kneeling at Dan's left side. Kevin took a moment to assess the scene, and Harman studied the young man's face as he seemed deeply affected, uncertain. He still wore his nearly opaque shades, though it was quite dim out, even with the glowing discharge of the nearby torches.

Kevin's senses were incredibly keen. But, they were subject to self doubt every so often.

"Harman," he said, finally, pressing fingers gingerly to Dan's neck, feeling his pulse carefully. "Why would you do such a thing at a time like this?"

"I need explain nothing to you, Kevin," Harman answered without harshness. "And I assure you this wasn't one-sided. He may smoke like a chimney, and drink like one of our scaled compatriots in that pond there... but Dan talks a fine game... and he gives as good as he-"

"Will he die?," Kevin politely interrupted with a deeply garroted thread of concern in his voice.

"What has Dan possibly done to earn such loyalty from you, son?," Harman questioned. "I realize your character is flawless...," Harman smiled. "But he's hardly your type."

"This has nothing to do with me, or my type," Kevin reasoned. "Now, does it?"

Harman's smile deepened.

"I doubt it."

Kevin ran a hand through his hair, shook his head.

"If it's a good tussle you want," he said. "Then I could do a might better than your downed - and obviously out ranked - opponent. I doubt the lad has ever had a proper shot against you. Was he sober this time?"

"Delightfully so," Harman replied. "You should have seen the brilliance. Such a shame, really."

"What. That he can't possibly win, or that you can't possibly lose?"

"Kevin. Your will and wit truly is marvel. It will take you far in the future. Now... do you believe you'll be able to manage getting Dan into the house without further injury, or should I summon Coyote?"

Kevin seemed indignant for a shadow of a second, and Harman chuckled lightly - not so much that it was scandalous.

"You needn't bother," Kevin frowned. "But... have you spoken with Ben?"

"He's due back in the early A.M.. There's no need to trouble him further at the moment."

Kevin nodded. Swallowed.

"His pupils are already blown wide open, son. There wouldn't be any saving him if Ben could teleport to our sides presently. We'll simply have to dress the injury site... and hope Dan cares enough about killing me to return to us."

"If that's the only thing you're counting on to pull him back," Kevin said with a degree of sadness. "I worry for him, Harman."

"You underestimate his love of hatred, then."

"And you his deep resentment of existence."

"Touche'," Harman replied. Kevin didn't seem to be paying attention any longer - he was addressing Dan's substantial head injury. Harman grinned proudly.

"I know," Kevin told him, nearly scolding. "You didn't need to go this far to put him down. Why the pith?"

Harman didn't answer. He was perhaps wondering the same thing, himself. But then... maybe the answer was just a little too obvious. Harman stared down into Dan's face as it continued to grow incredibly pale.

"Oh, Harman," Kevin nearly whispered. "This wasn't about the girl."

"That's quite enough, Kevin," was the response. "Lest you find yourself beside him."

The reply wasn't a threat, and Kevin actually looked down his glasses at the older man, to which Harman chuckled again.

"I want to dress the wound before moving him," Kevin said. "He's already going into shock. Do you want me to place him in the green room?"

"Of course. And, do whatever you see fit. I trust your judgement, son."

"And I yours," Kevin said. "Mostly."

Harman let the comment go, without rebuke. Kevin was looking to him again, then.

"Will you stay with him, then? While I fetch the bandages?"

"Yes," Harman answered surprisingly. "I'd like to marvel at my handiwork for a bit longer."

Kevin frowned again; he seemed deeply perturbed by the connotation. Harman shook his head in wonder.

"Be swift, Kevin. I assure you when next I speak to Aramis, there will be only dire praise in your mentioning. But please make haste."

Kevin nodded. Looked to Dan once more, and rose, heading quickly back towards the house.

As Harman listened to the back door open and close shortly thereafter, he studied Dan's face carefully, marveling.

"You inspire so much in people, Dan," he told the young man as he lay unconscious. "I don't think you can even imagine. And... not just in horrors. You actually... inspire people. Harry... would be so pleased at your resolve. And... you have no idea how close he is, do you? Or maybe... you can sense it. He's less than ten miles away. It's too bad you refuse to listen, or one of us might have gotten the chance to tell you. If you're strong enough... maybe there's still time... before..."

Harman stopped. There would be time. Just enough. And then, it would be gone as all other things. Most other things. Harman stroked Dan's crown again.

"You're going to rest, Dan. And then, you're going to see what you're made of. Because what comes next... is difficult."

And Harman waited for Kevin to return with the bandages.

Epoch: Chapter 53

2008-09-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

Dan spat at Harman's feet, took his jacket off, tossed it over the onyx bench he'd used to correct his shoulder.

"OK, big man on campus," he told Harman. "Let's go ahead and make this interesting. I'm sure you need some entertainment after your moral dilemmas today. Here I am wondering if I can torch those fish in that pond while they swim, and you're fresh off your high horse. Is that shining armor you strap across your barnacled back heavy or is it just for show?"

"I don't know what you mean, Dan," Harman said, intentionally goading him.

"I'll bet you don't," Dan replied. "Bet it felt good saving that little runt, didn't it?"

"I know you spoke with the boy, Dan," Harman grinned. "Don't distance yourself so far from him. You'd be surprised how much the two of you have in common."

"I have a lot in common with a decent amount of the population, I'm sure," Dan commented in retaliation. "Like having been beaten to a bloody, ragged pulp. And when he meets his Maker tonight, I don't think the distance factor is going to be on the table any more, will it?"

"He won't be meeting any Maker that isn't me," Harman said, very self assured. "And that's a poor example of distance making in general for you, isn't it? Have you any idea how close you are to it at all times?"

"It," Dan laughed, picturing some 50's horror movie. "It. That's quite a title for that state, huh?

You just keep that little threat to yourself, Father Flannegan. I hope that you choke."

"Are you drunk?," Harman asked without taunting.

"Wouldn't you like that," Dan said, bending his knees slightly.

Harman then darted forward, spun at Dan; to his credit, Dan rotated his ribcage and grabbed Harman's forearm, pulling him sharply past him. He then rotated himself completely, shoved Harman as violently as Harman had shoved him just moments before, pushed him away from him, beside the pond.

Harman turned immediately back to face him... and grinned.

"This is going to be a good bout for once, isn't it, Dan?," he asked. Dan could see by the man's stance he was preparing his next attack.

"If you say so. You're the only one that cares."

Harman quickly approached, jabbed a thumb towards Dan's collar bone; it was blocked, diverted into the air. Just as quickly, Harman smashed Dan across his throat so hard, he thought he would black out instantly. He saw dark, dark spots as he instinctively used a triad of pressure points upon his own neck to divert the blood back towards awareness. It worked nearly immediately, and Harman seemed pleased as Dan cracked a stout elbow into his zyphoid.

He moved backward, laughed; then he was grabbing Dan by the wrist, jamming Dan's right arm up into his shoulder, where it had recently been dislocated. Dan shrieked angrily, involuntarily, and took the opportunity to punch Harman squarely across the jaw with a solidly driven left hook. It felt exquisitely good in peer to his new agony. Harman let go, not because he was reeling; he swept forward once more, popped Dan's right knee in place with his left, and pushed Dan as hard - it seemed - as he could.

Dan flew back, landed hard on the concrete, knocking most of the wind out of him. His head spun from striking the ground, but it hadn't really hurt. His arm was fine - only momentarily stunned. He suddenly wished however, laying sprawled, that he'd let Curtis teach him the back handspring he'd always laughed at him about while he was deterring him from smoking. Not having that particular move to call upon, Dan rolled, just in time to avoid a nice jagged heel to his sternum, and did something he could manage; he leapt to his feet, probably impressing the hell out of the old man, and spun a leg out low to the ground. He tagged Harman at the heels, and actually tripped him off of his feet.

Unfortunately, the bastard hit the ground shoulder first, and rolled nearly immediately upright. Dan laughed, entertained. Seeing Harman - who looked to be in his forties - jet about like a teenaged warrior was simply marvelous entertainment. Dan coughed, caught his breath by concentrating a certain way to regain his lung power; Curtis had taught him some of his tricks, the damn sooth. Fucking cock tease of prowess.

"Am I amusing to you, Dan? Or are you simply delirious from all that hot air being knocked out of your blackened lungs?"

Dan saw ash-lit fire like pahoehoe, crust congealed lava beneath his opponent's skin. He'd actually managed to anger Harman. Dan laughed again, this time thoroughly amused. He brought a hand up and waved Harman on, didn't say another word. His adversary seemed to steam further, making Dan's entire week. He wondered if he'd be conscious for any of the remainder of it. Or even to brag to the stupid Brit. He usually haunted his way out here after him at night, probably to make sure he wasn't trying to drown himself in the Koi pond.

Harman ran for him, spun, kicked Dan at the left knee joint; Dan buckled forward, onto his knees, and barely felt the impact as a swift blow to his jaw followed. Dan jabbed a thumb out as hard as he could manage, into Harman's side, punched immediately afterward; Harman stiffened, and Dan used Harman's arms to yank backwards. He pulled him directly forward, over him; Dan hit his back and flung Harman over him, with a heel to his midsection. Again, Dan heard the man roll with the impact even as he was hitting the ground, but Dan was already up and standing as Harman was.

"Think I'm not making fun of you, Dan?," Harman laughed, himself. "We both know you're no match for the likes of the lowliest combatant... let alone me. I'm just passing the time. Ben's long gone, unfortunately for you. I suppose I can get him to look you over after he's done with Con's follow-up exam."

"I'm telling you," Dan said. "That kid's toast. If it isn't tonight, it'll be at some point soon. You would have been doing him a favor if you'd let him bleed to death or die of shock. What the fuck is your problem?! Got a crush on the kid? I mean... I know you like them young - you are pretty tight with Curtis - but I thought you were into women. The wiles of a micro, managed, Asian phenom shouldn't be anything less than a two bit fluff piece to you. You have some P.R. agent I'm unaware of to keep track of your 'egg' timer for you? Need more diversity in this counter culture of yours?!"

Harman fumed as he stood. The connotation was dire even without direct subject matter, direct accusations, confessions.

"Don't start the pettiness session with me, Dan." Harman was suddenly indignant again. "I won't have it."

"You'll have it and you'll love it!," Dan barked. What would you have instead, huh?! A broken neck in place of your broken pride when all this goes wrong?! A massacre's worth of broken necks?! You go right ahead and belittle me. Put yourself in your own sanctimonious station. But you aren't the wisdom that you think you are! I understand the cruelty of this earth, why it doesn't work when you think the light is the bright warmth you should follow! You follow that warmth, you burn your image permanently into the sunset! I should know! No one rides free and clear of the fallout. Fucking no one!"

Harman grinned.

"Are you referring to Harry this time, or to your deceased younger brother?"

"Harman, don't fucking dare go there," Dan bit viciously, meaning it. "You paint yourself into this grand piece of art, then you get out your crayons! Don't take pot shots at me, it just makes you look old and tired. You know the score, already. You're making a four track recording out of a symphony."

Harman merely smiled, ignoring Dan completely.

"If it's your desire to burn all bridges-" he continued speaking, not a hint of anger in his voice. The Principle was back. "-Burn everyone out that ever meant anything to you... then I suppose that's a reasonable enough goal. No need to dole out Christmas cards. You obviously don't have to worry about leveling your sibling any longer. If you want to rid yourself of Harrison, however... he's not the type to go down easily. You know that already, if only from that instance he was struck by that car. Saving... your life, wasn't it?"

Dan was mute with the alarming shocks of anger coursing through him; breaking, popping hot lights burned his brain, blinded him. He stood, frozen by the rage as if it were an anvil liquified into his blood, cooling solid as Harman continued to speak.

"Think he regrets that bravery now? How long was he in that coma? Two weeks? Longer? Quite the tenacious young man Harry was then... and still is, of course." Then, Harman laughed, feigning his own entertainment for show.

"Do you remember that horrid run in he had with his brother in '87? Oh... of course you do. You helped find Harry after his abduction, didn't you? I'm surprised you cared enough to do even that. He was in quite a state after that encounter as well, wasn't he? How many times in his life has Harrison been comatose again? Two? Three? Think that a strange coincidence, or... hmm. Maybe it was just the initial head trauma that caused the sensitivity to adverse physical states in the sense of awareness. Funny how people work sometimes, isn't it?" Harman didn't wait for a proper response, though Dan had one for him.

"Ah, yes. I've had quite a few discussions with Charlie over the years. He's an incredibly gifted mind, unsurprisingly, given his family line. Moriarity to Harry's Holmes. He isn't as mad as everyone supposes he is, however. Merely... spirited in aspects of the moral dilemma."

Harman stretched. Exhaled.

"He and Harry get along pretty well now, somehow."

Dan eyed Harman. He didn't know if he believed that part... but it wasn't a usual thing for the old man to lie, even to flaunt a point.

"I suppose it makes sense to some degree, you know, Dan. Harry has few people from the past in his life currently. Even bad past is still familiar. I'm shocked you didn't run into Harry's older brother while working for Curtis. But, then... you got away from New York lickety split at that time, didn't you? Hmm... Come to render it in my mind... I'd think you would have gone out of your way to run into him, maybe even literally. Didn't Charlie kill your-?"

"You know he did," Dan uttered, surprised at the chill, the deadness in his tone. "You know how he did it. You probably know why, too."

"Ah. Of course I do. To make you stronger. Right?"

Dan suddenly sickened, feeling old pangs in his stomach lining twitch to the surface.

"Now," Harman continued with assuredness, Dan thought. "Do you believe that if Harry could withstand the impact of that car, those five days of the worst tortures imaginable with Charlie as his entertainer, his protagonist du jour... beside the other notable, nearly historic pains he survived with flying colors... if Harry could withstand all that and still come back swinging... then do you suppose that he could stand a few spare rounds... with me? Because if you feel you'd rather him be out of the picture... to aid you in your own emotional distancing with elements of your past... I'd be happy to oblige. I think - from what I've heard of late - the battle would be that of legend. In fact - I would even permit you to watch if you desired."

Harman grinned, glowing full moons for eyes. Dan's stomach turned like it was a rotisserie chicken.

"What do you say, Dan? You want me to take Harry out for you? Because... we both know... you can't possibly give a damn about whether he's still alive or not. But I know for a fact that you give a damn about yourself. And that if he's not around... you can just drink about it. There will be no more conflict about whether or not you should bother even speaking to him. Not like you'll have the opportunity, will you? And it's not like... he'd want you to. Would he? Why... I'm sure he hates you just as much as you hate yourself. Wonderfully ironic turn of events hey?"

"You have no idea how Harry works, do you?," Dan asked, again involuntarily, as if he was being controlled. "He doesn't work on a level creatures like you and me can divine. You want to discuss this subject, then fine. He didn't even hate his own father, and he put a rod iron bar through his skull! Harry's not like you and me! He doesn't quantify that shit!"

"I'm sure it must have seemed that way," Harman smiled a thin sliver of a smile. "And he no doubt gave you the impression that he revered you for the bulk of your interactions. After all... for someone to push you out of the way of a moving vehicle... that would imply a general concern for your well being, wouldn't it. You must have put TNT under that bridge between the two of you to set him off so badly. Of course, after sharing a scotch on the rocks with Charlie - well, scotch on the rocks and a dry martini, you ascertain which was who's - I suppose it's true."

"You suppose what is true?," Dan heard himself ask, very disconnected.

"That he regrets having ever having known you, Dan."

"Charlie told you that."

Harman then grinned. And Dan realized he had taken the bait without having meant to. It didn't matter. Harman could bait him all night long. The bastard had no idea what he was talking about. He hadn't been there, despite all his other-worldly tricks. Dan hadn't spent longer than two weeks at his former partner's side while he'd been in a dark, injury drenched coma because Harry was just like everyone else. Harry was goddamned Harry. And he wasn't like everyone else. He wasn't like Harman. He wasn't like him. Didn't hate others like him.

"No, Dan," Harman chuckled. "Charlie didn't have to tell me that. You see... Harry is a smart man. Smart men learn. They learn to change, to develop, to hate. And do you know what smart men hate the most? Dan? They hate to be used, and for all they're worth. They grow to despise the sources of their own abuse, their falls from grace. And... do you know who caused Harry's fall from grace? Hmmm?"

There was a slight pause.

"It was you. And now? Harry... has changed to fit the scene. He's a completely different man than the light filled one you knew; you drove that light, that warmth right out of him. He's cold. Alarmingly so. And... that once just, righteous man is now just as vicious a viper as you ever were. Quite a feat you've accomplished Dan. Such a difficult victory easily achieved from the sidelines. Tell me... was your brother so easily influenced, or was it simply sad luck that got him shot to death?"

Dan rushed at Harman without thought, without anything close to rage or anger; it was a pure twinge of insanity that had driven him into the rapid physical movement.

Without further provocation, Dan found a firm grasp around his throat; he jabbed efficiently, repeatedly, at Harman's arms, his torso, tore at pressure points, but he couldn't free himself from the vise suddenly locking his windpipe into inaction. Dan was then viciously driven backwards - thrown onto his spine, against the stone.

Dan attempted to gasp in protest, but his throat was inoperable; he couldn't breathe in, even hoping to press his thoughts across his windpipe, out towards Harman. Dan forced his vision upward - and the sting of air upon his widened, unblinking eyes made Harman's image incredibly clear. Dan clutched Harman's wrist as it was a crush upon his own larynx, and gripped with both hands in a morbid, useless attempt at fighting what was happening.

"Dan," Harman said viciously. "Do you ever think you'll find success in your battles?"

He yanked Dan harshly forward, letting him sit up straight for just a moment in physical rhetoric. Then... Harman was letting go, making air suddenly rush back into Dan's lungs reactivating his brain in his skull. Dan released his vise grip on Harman's iron strong arms, and shoved them forcefully back from him; this seemed to entertain Harman more than anything.

"I don't think battles have anything to do with success!," Dan finally choked, feeling his face flushed and beet red with strain, his eyes cracked. "They're waged to stir up the masses and make men like you rich! How's that working for you, huh?!"

"You believe I do this for the money, Dan?," Harman asked him. "Do you really?"

"I think you do 'this' - whatever 'this' is - for the kind of pay off that has nothing to do with money! That's what I think!"

Harman chuckled easily, and placed a firm hand down upon Dan's crown. The motion was carried out in nearly a fatherly, loving manner; Harman then rammed Dan back downward, hard; Harman bashed Dan's head down so harshly upon the onyx stones surrounding the Koi, Dan didn't even feel it. He suddenly forgot what he'd been raging against. Had it been important? He doubted it had been; physical conflicts with the old man rarely had their substance quotas met.

"Dan..?," Harman said his name. "Do you ever think you'll find success in your battles against... me? Or, are you just seeking anything that makes this kind of peace... possible?"

Dan went to speak, then... realized it wasn't possible, either because he wasn't sure how to at the moment... or... because he physically couldn't. A wave of nausea collapsed his resolve back inwards, towards his chest.

"This instance vexes me greatly, Dan," Harman said. "It really does. You were so exceptional tonight. It almost seems... a shame to best you."

Dan didn't say anything; he wasn't sure why he felt the need to. It didn't matter. There was a sigh, then. Another dull force was prevalent in the base of Dan's skull, or at least what he perceived as such. Then there was nothing.

Then, there was nothing.

Ra Ra Riot - Ghost Under Rocks

2008-09-05T06:17:00.001-07:00

Stop hiding, and get out from under it.

Epoch: Chapter 52

2008-09-03T22:52:00.000-07:00

Harman was already around him, grabbed his right arm so that it locked behind his back. And Dan actually laughed as Harman yanked it cleanly out of the socket. The old man let his arm go, let it hang loosely, pain a brilliant, electrified conduit at the base of Dan's shoulder. Dan immediately launched himself at one of the nearby onyx benches; he smashed the limb violently, back into place upon the back of the sitting apparatus. He gorged himself upon the physical, the feeling of being alive that surfaced in the sharp, gouging stabs in his arm. It was just the kick start for battle he'd needed.

Dan shook off the shock, the lapse of perfect approach for that of a reeling combatant. It was an appropriate state for him to be in. In the next instant, he dove back in Harman's direction. Things were much cleaner then, between them. Blow, after quick blow, Harman blocked him. But, the two were sizing each other up for this exchange; Dan, for whether the crone would take him outright, dump him into the pond and drown him - Harman probably for whether Dan was seriously fighting using all his actual skill... or drunk.

But, this wasn't anything to do with drinking. This was everything to do with Harman going too fucking far. He knew what buttons to jab, had his own reasons to jab any button necessary to get him beaten to a pulp. Fucking someone's 'woman' did that to someone; planted motive in their very bed, their very arms. One squeeze, and motives were moot. But, Dan was ready - relaxed enough from this afternoon to destroy and be properly destroyed without regret. He smiled into the old man's face as he jabbed a pressure point just under his ribcage, spun his thumb so that it locked the point into place and hurt.

Harman grinned with the intentional malice, and spun into, then out of it - he jabbed with his own thumb to correct the pinning of the point. Dan wasn't deterred. He heightened his efforts.

Harman planted his feet, then - shoved Dan back hard, a full foot.

"How interesting do you want to make this, Dan?," he said, chuckling. "Should it be the standard knock down drag out...? Or would you prefer a bloody nose - a broken crown - to go with that?"

"Your choice, Methuselah," Dan spat. Then he was smiling.

"Alright," Harman said. He actually straightened his collar. Stretched his neck. "Well, I hope you're satisfied with the experimental."

"Break out your chemistry set, you son of a bitch," Dan stabbed, verbally.

Harman only... smiled.

Epoch: Chapter 51

2008-08-27T20:11:00.001-07:00

10:45 PM Harman's Residence. Koi Pond.

Dan paced back and forth, unable to relax into his normal routine of haunting the house. The slate and volcanic rock framing and making up the entirety of the broad pond were as pitch perfect as the lining of his lungs, Dan was certain. He lit another Pall and continued pacing.

"What?," he asked the fish as they bobbed and weaved aquatic cartwheels anxiously at his feet. He flicked ashes out onto the air with his right thumb, watched them spiral into nothingness and thin night. The rod iron torches were lit, and everything was calm. Serene. Dan wondered if he was waiting for an actual response from the fish as they continued roiling about as if in a waterfall tumble. He shook his head. Took another drag.

"Spring air too much for you, or is it me?"

"It's not you, Dan."

Then, Dan grinned, not turning around. He blew the remainder of the smoke in his lungs out. The fish were then deadly still. Harman had that effect on things. Making them incised, brilliantly fired up with unrest. Then making them very, very still. Red, still, stiff, coagulated blood like wax. Frozen warm. Still.

Dan felt his heart kick in his chest with eagerness, adrenaline. He'd felt it coming for a while. As the old man remained silent behind him, he knew 'it' was about to be 'now'. He smiled, took another deep drag. Undid his tie a bit. Exhaled.

"You want me to finish this first?," he asked flipping his hand over and back, cigarette vised between fingers. "Or are you ready to go, now? Did you want to give a sermon as an appetizer?"

Harman didn't speak. Dan heard the familiar sound of him clasping his hands behind his back.

"How about as an amuse bouche?," Harman purred. "I think that's more your speed, Dan."

Harman strolled back and forth in Dan's ears as Dan stared into the clear darkness at his feet. His nostrils were alight with smoke and dampness upon stone. He had every reason to feel alive as he waited for Harman to go on. Dan gauged the old man, let him reside behind him, unwatched. Dan didn't need to face Harman to know where he was. The man's mere presence was indescribable. Dense. No wonder the damn fish were flipping fins to get away from him.

But they couldn't know; there was no getting away from him. What did walls and stone matter?

"Are you going to pretend you know what that means?," Harman was snide. "Or must I preempt the sermon with a lesson in culture?"

"I can pretend I know what 'ferme la bouche' means." Dan flicked a thumb to his cigarette once more.

"'Ferme ta gueule', is a more accurate phrase, Dan," Harman still corrected him even though he was aware Dan didn't care if he was right or wrong half the time, and especially in front of him.

"How do you say 'I'm going to put this cigarette out in your eye socket' in the French?," Dan asked brazenly, still smoked. Dan would have been able to feel the tight smirk upon Harman's face from the next state.

"Is the kid dead?," Dan seemed to make up for his prior statement. "He looked like a fucking train hit him."

"About two flights of stairs, actually," Harman responded. He was in Dan's view then. He was peering into the pond, as well. The sound of moving water was calming, serene, surreal against the overt threat that Harman represented. "I'm sure," the man went on. "He only felt most of the injuries as his father pummeled him. The shock must have been great approximately quarter of the way through. He's still unconscious."

"Lucky," Dan commented.

Harman raised his eyebrows at him in what looked remarkably like humor.

"Yes," he replied surprisingly. "Oblivion has its rewards. Wouldn't you say, Dan?"

"I'd say that and a few other choice words, Harman," Dan replied.

"Thinking about Harry again?," Harman pushed with an innocent audacity that make Dan want to instantly blow his head off of his shoulders. Dan felt the anger radiating heat off of his very skin he was so immediately hot about the question. He didn't respond, save in the blood in his cheeks. At this, Harman chuckled. He always knew which buttons, how hard to depress them. He knew exactly how much force it took to wrench them from the keyboard. Dan felt his eyes as cold marbles in his head against the numbing blood warmth in his temples.

"Well, you should be," Harman went on. "I'd say he has done much to surpass you lately. Or haven't you been keeping in touch."

Dan closed his hand around his lit and dwindling cigarette, let the ashes burn him, burn out, suddenly smothered with calloused skin. He breathed evenly, blinked like his eye lids were covered with thick, drying paint a layer too strong. He didn't reply. He gazed into the water.

"Hmm. I guess not," Harman continued goading him, raking his cold, forked tongue over Dan like the vicious monster he was. "Oh, but Dan... you really should hear Curtis talk about him. Harry was quite the busy bee back in the Big Apple, recently. Quite the ladder climber. Of course with Lieutenant Baty stepping up as the Commissioner last fall... it wasn't really all that surprising. Well, perhaps the means of ascension, was a bit of a shock. Even I'll admit to that much," Harman spoke as if discussing golf scores. "But little else. If Curtis had his eye on you in your more innocent throes of youth, it surprises me not that he's been keeping a firm palm to Harry's throat to check for a pulse. What Curtis doesn't expect from his New Yorkers."

Dan's blood was ringing in his ears, he was so livid. He could barely follow what Harman was saying anymore. Did it have anything to do with what... Anne had been talking about? Anything? Could he press her about it later? He doubted he would have to press; she'd been trying to-

"How many lives would you say you have, Dan?," Harman asked, suddenly. He was looking at him, Dan could feel it. He didn't 'look' back. He didn't answer. "Hmm," Harman said, seeming disappointed as display. He began walking back towards the house, once more behind Dan.

"Well," he offered, and Dan heard him shrug over-dramatically. "No matter."

The old man was suddenly very coy-sounding, collected. Dan could tell the bastard's hands were still clasped behind his back.

"I was only curious," he said. "Because if you have the myriad cat's lives you do... my wonder is..."

Dan dropped the remnants of his squeezed Pall Mall so that it fell alongside the pond, just at the edge. He oddly thought he should have tossed it into the pond as fish edibles. Harman's tone was then warming.

"...how many lives does Harry have to spend? Care to wager?"

At this, Dan didn't even remember lunging towards Harman; there existed no thought in the motion, just fluidity. And cold, cold... rage.

Epoch: Chapter 50

2008-08-20T19:04:00.000-07:00

4:10 PM The Mustang.

Annette was staring at him, as they remained in the back of her mustang. She'd been doing so for the last five minutes, at least; Dan never minded the affection of the eyes. He had no overall expectations for how long someone would evacuate their senses on his appearance, either. There was really nothing to ponder. He wanted his outward profile to cut those around him; the way he carried himself, the way his eyes met other people's eyes. There wasn't to be a long drawn out process, merely adrenaline, deterrence. But Annette kept up her staring. They were simply similar individuals. Murderers. Sociopaths. Or, so Dan wanted to believe. He was certain he felt far too much anger to be any such wonderful thing. And Annie felt far too much while they fucked to substantiate unfeeling.

Dan secretly blamed Harry for his abilities to feel, to read people. Before, Dan had simply wanted to block out the sun, mottle the presence of others until blindness occurred; social ineptitude. Professional paralysis. But Harry had just kept on being Harry.

That was the disease about him; he had been this eternal protagonist optimist. Someone who had always made power out of weaknesses. Spotlights out of brilliant dim spots of humanity. Harry had been the one to give cups of coffee to the drunks in lock up, and his jacket to the hookers they'd brought in shivering. Dan had simply watched him, wondering. He'd watched, as a bit part player, wondering when the act would be up, when Harry would take the jacket off, kick the chairs out from under them. But the animosity, the violence had never occurred.

Harry had gotten incredible results... with his grace. His generosity. Dan had never fully understood the warmth of the coffee, his partner's jacket over the shoulders of those tricks, but he had observed the results; they'd been as scorching as any fiery retort he himself had given. And Harry had never even chided him for his own brand of fierceness, his interactions with human beings, in general. He'd simply patted him on the back, and gone on about his business.

Dan's bitterest interludes with alcohol involved thoughts of his ex partner. Probably... ex friend. Dan would never think of Harry as someone he wouldn't call 'friend', or at least 'less than foe' personally, he simply believed... after all he'd done to compromise Harry's trust... perhaps all that was left between them now was the anger. It was the anger Dan had always harbored for everything around him, and the same anger that Harry had never really understood, though he'd seen so much of it, felt so much pain from the hot red light of anger.

Dan shook his head, tried to kill the thoughts. They never died when he thought it was time they should. Still, Annie was staring at him, nearly affectionately now.

"Dan?," she asked kindly, passion still warming the tone in her voice. "If you had the chance... would you speak to Harry again?"

Dan actually thought before getting cross with the woman laying across his chest; they were more intimately draped upon each other than he cared to separate from this instant, though within sparse moments, he would have to do just that to meet with the principal.

"Why do you ask?," Dan returned the question.

"Why not? I feel the issue is a current one. You both know Wintermute, after all. Don't you?" She asked the question feigning innocence. In reply, Dan couldn't help but display some disdain.

"I said I know him. I know you heard me say it. What does that have to do with my partner besides the obvious? Sure, Harry knows him too, but I don't see the relevance through all the beer and the bullshit, Annie. Association isn't in its purest sense where the two of them are concerned, is it? Huh? Where's the 'because'?"

Annette stiffened just a bit.

"The 'because' is here; he's in the same state as you, Dan."

"Yeah. Carver is," Dan said. "And Carve already knows all about where I am, I'm sure. He's not an average person. You have to know that, if you know what you already do, Annie."

Anne went to speak again. She stopped herself, without recourse or reason. Dan waited for her to continue, but she never did.

"Look," he said with surprising ease for his current position. "If I had the chance. If it was an honest chance - something I'd never be able to plan, obviously - I'd talk to Harry. I don't know what the hell I'd say... but I'd speak to him. Alright?"

"It's not like he's dead, Dan," Annette offered. "In fact, for Christ's sake, he's-"

"I think that's plenty on your part, Annie," Dan said, in defense. Anne kept her silence in between his comments. That made him wonder in some respect, but... not enough to keep him back. "I know you've heard at least some of my drunken rambles, but I don't know why you seem to care. What else is Corrigan telling you, huh? That I think ice is a waste of science? That I think... water is wasted ice? What else besides that, huh? I've got about five minutes left here with you right now. Is there anything else you want to let out before I stretch my legs on the asphalt of this parking lot?"

"Just this...," Anne said. She stroked his hair, pulled his face towards hers - she held his chin near hers for a moment before she kissed him. She kissed him hard when she did. As she pulled from him, Dan looked into her eyes and wondered aloud at the woman.

"The kinetics of heat aren't relevant to me, Annie," Dan laughed. He pushed her backbone toward the seatbelt she was laying atop. Again. She exhaled.

"I have them figured," he said easily. " I know how heat works."

Annette seemed to force a smile upon her face.

"I know you think you do," she answered. "I feel your heat in my spine as we bone each other. It's the heat some partners will never get to feel. Yet, you keep talking about your 'ex' as if-"

Dan pushed harder, downwards, against the leather seat. It was at first angrily. Then, Annette was smiling into his face roguishly. He pushed again, rocking slightly. Rocked, relishing in the act, itself.

His effective passion was obvious in Anne's slender, rose cheeked face. The rose was kept between them for additional moments of mechanics. Velvet arrangement.

"You need to go," she said without meaning it. She had to mean it to some degree, but Dan smirked.

"Who's going and who's coming? You realize I'm going to get killed tonight? Fucking me or me fucking being late isn't going to change the situation."

Anne smiled.

"Then, look me in the eyes and fuck me well for another few minutes. Just... don't make me bring this up to the old man as a drama point. He isn't going to kill you. And I'm not going to break when you push me down."

Dan pressed her harder into the seats, felt like he wanted to roll his eyes as he chided her position on everything, felt her position upon everything. This was a sweet song. One that didn't belong to any of the every day horrible moments. It would resurface in a darker pitch tonight, however. Dan felt it without fail; he would be a smear or he would be an example. Neither eventual was a threat now. His present position was too good, and Dan felt too far gone. Harman was always trying to catch him... Catch him up, catch him down. Would there be battles, or simply harsh words in the after hours? Would there be the usual broken ribs, without broken spirit? Harman was always trying to break him. But he couldn't. And he wouldn't, ever. Maybe he would figure that out one day. Perhaps a broken spirit wasn't the overall goal. Dan doubted he had a spirit left to break; that had no doubt leaked out of his body with his life that day on the basketball court.

"Dan," Annette yanked his collar. "Stop it. Look at me. Fuck me. Don't let your thoughts rob you of your few joys in life."

Dan managed to smirk down into Anne's face.

"Somebody's not working hard enough if you think I'm being robbed," he said. She jabbed a thumb into his ribs, and it hurt more than he was prepared for. It was a vibrant turn on between them. He kissed her hard, feeling her hair on his forehead, her breath upon his neck. It was nice.

-&7&-

6: 51 PM Harman's Residence.

It had been a sedate evening... boring, actually. Dan was smoking outside now, near the Koi pond. He'd wished his earlier objective hadn't been such an easy one, really. But, at least... the bastard was out of the way. It had been a simple request. It had been a simple goal, reached.

"Kill Cuttey."

The details were forgettable. But it had been such a gratifying task. Dan exhaled Pall Mall smoke out, onto the water. The Koi didn't even seem perturbed any longer. He smiled.

-&7&-

7:17 PM

Coyote walked down the main path haphazardly, though it was smooth as silk, perfectly crafted; incredibly, Harman walked just behind him. He seemed to be monitoring Con himself, though he had instructed Coyote to do such. It wasn't a knock against him professionally, simply additional support. Harman had called Kevin ahead of time, but all precaution was necessary. The boy was still unconscious, with disturbing connotations. He hadn't so much moved that Coyote had felt. Injury was a great badge to be worn among the Smiths, Dan, of course, bearing the most badges. This was a different matter, though. Con wasn't yet one of them. His injuries were catastrophic, nonetheless. Had he been blown away during boot camp? Had his hazing killed him? No. That couldn't be the case. Not even Harman would plan that.

Suddenly, Kevin appeared outright.

He was walking beside him, at his pace. Coyote tried not to seem alarmed. The Brit had been perfect in his stealth, however.

"Hey, Kev," Coyote smiled.

Kevin shook his head.

"Can't sneak up on you, can I?," he smiled, speaking in his quieted British accent.

"You're joking, aren't you, Kev?," Coyote offered calmly.

"Not really. You had me a full two seconds before I thought you did, Coyot'."

Coyote smiled, still carrying the sparse weight of the small boy in his arms. Kevin looked slightly down in the darkness of the spring evening, upon his armload. He grimaced.

"Oh, dear," he shook his white-blonde head, before looking towards Harman as he trailed after them. Harman didn't respond immediately.

"He's so small. I was hoping, after the description Harman gave me of his distress... that the lad would be... of a slightly larger constitution." The pair still walked, Con in arms, Harman trailing slightly behind them.

"Constitution," Harman uttered finally. "Doesn't win much these days, Kevin," he said. Kevin nodded strongly, in response. Then, he held the door for Coyote and Harman as they walked inside.

-&7&-

Dan heard the commotion from his room. Wondered if he should wander out from his allotment of whiskey, his thoughts. Shrugged. 'Why not?'

Poking his head out, he immediately saw Coyote. He was carrying a kid... he was carrying... that kid. He could hardly believe it. In fact... he supposed for the first few moments that it was a drunken mental state flaring up.

"Harman," Kevin voiced suddenly then. "Is this...? This is the lad you've been speaking of. Isn't it?"

"Yes, Kevin," the old man offered. "That it is."

"Hey," Dan said as the group passed. "That's the pip-squeak from the school." He forced a smirk onto his face to aim at Harman then. "You handling detention here now?"

"Dan," Harman started menacingly.

"What happened exactly?," Kevin asked, seeming to put himself between Dan and the crone, in Dan's opinion. "Looks like he's hurt bad." Harman just shook his head.

"I asked the boy to report to the gymnasium this evening. He didn't show."

"So, you beat him up?"

Harman exhaled before Dan could laugh, himself.

"Kevin, please," he said. "I've had a long day. Usually, a no-show is just that or a nice, yellow-livered 'no thank you'. This wasn't that. And I knew it. When I got to his house, I found him nearly beaten to a pulp at the hands of his father."

"Harman," Kevin continued as the group walked down the hall. "Where's his father now?"

"He's dead," Harman answered flatly.

"You killed the boy's father?," Kevin responded with honest surprise.

"No," Harman responded outright. "The boy did that."

There was silence then. Surprise. Dan eyed the kid as the group proceeded down the hallway; he thought about their interaction earlier this afternoon.

"Kevin," the old man was saying then, as Coyote quietly moved. "Help me until Ben arrives. He shouldn't be too far behind us."

Kevin nodded, and followed Harman towards his study. The study was Harman's office; there was a couch there, and a fireplace. Harman would easily be able to watch the kid there, monitor him. Well... Ben would be here soon. He'd do all the monitoring himself.

Kevin looked back, towards Dan before entering the room, and Dan glared at him until he nodded, ducked inside after Harman and Coyote.

Dan stayed in his own doorway. He knew he'd had a feeling about that kid. He'd been right, too; it hadn't been a good feeling.

Massive Attack - Protection

2008-08-15T20:29:00.001-07:00

Who Are You Trying To Protect?

Muse - Time is running out

2008-08-15T18:59:00.001-07:00

Feeling buried lately?

Muse- Hysteria

2008-08-15T18:36:00.005-07:00

What do you really want to remember?

muse- new born

2008-08-15T18:36:00.003-07:00

Do you feel like being born again? Or maybe just... having a rebirth? Both are valid. It's up to you to decide which you need.

Epoch: Chapter 49

2008-08-07T22:16:00.001-07:00

4PM

-The Mustang.

Annette and Dan hadn't spoken for nearly ten minutes. There hadn't been a lot of other activity on either of their parts, besides, surprisingly. They just laid next to each other in the back of the Mustang. It was actually what Dan had always heard referred to as 'nice'. Obviously it couldn't last forever, but it was what it was. And, it was 'nice'.

"Dan?," Annette finally said, in a low tone. "I want to ask you a question. But, I think I need permission for the subject."

"Is it about Harry?," Dan asked without missing a beat. Most everyone Dan had interacted with for longer than two instances knew... if issues regarding Dan's partner were going to be broached, permission was absolutely mandatory. Period. Unless you were Harman; then, war began. The subject was off limits to the crone. Dan waited.

"It's not directly about Harry, Dan. But... there's something I think you should know. I need to bring certain things up to get to that information on on your behalf."

Dan smiled, actually feeling relaxed.

"That's pretty cryptic for you. Look. I haven't spoken to Harry since '88 - reasonably so - I don't think he cares if I'm alive or not, which is smart on his part. 'Falling out' is light for what we had. Very light."

"You are such a self centered asshole," Annette chided him. Somehow, they could be froward with one another - though the conversations between them would sound absolutely vile to any party listening in. It was always nice to have an honest word, and honest ear. An honest-

"Why is that now?," Dan mocked. "Wasn't four times enough for you? Or do you usually have a score board posted for how many times you get off during an auto fuck session."

"Do yourself a favor, and take the pith out of your voice when you talk about us fucking,"

Anne said with alarming emotion. Dan sat up just a bit, though they were still laying in each others' arms, by all accounts. Neither had taken a battle stance. There was a bit of a silence.

"Why am I a self centered asshole, now?," Dan asked quietly.

"Did you keep in touch with anyone in Curtis' New York Syndicate? Ever?"

"Why should I have? I stuck to this lovely State. The City of Hendrix. I wanted to get away. I didn't want to send postcards. And now, there isn't much point. I did business with several people for Curtis in his New York Syndicate, but I graduated instantaneously to Curtis' Seattle mecca. Most go to one, and then the other, depending on their loca-"

Dan stopped.

"That's why you're going to New York."

"Dan-"

"I should have seen it. What. Is this a sympathy fuck?"

"Shut up," she chided him. "Since when have I ever sympathy fucked?"

"What do you call your relationship with the old man again?," Dan asked her.

"Job placement," she retorted.

"I'm sure placement is a problem in that respect. What's your point again? Curtis usually prefers young bucks and young fu-"

"Don't be crude. I know it's hard."

"Fine. 'Difficult' would have been a better word to use. But... I would think if Curtis is involved... you'd just roll back down the street. At least, you could say 'hi' to Corrigan."

"I only have one brother left, I call him all the time, Dan. That's... kind of the point, here."

"You said 'hi' for me? He was an upstart the last time I saw him. He's not much older."

Annette ignored his comment; she didn't seem offended. Dan remembered how he'd first met the young woman at the age of twenty, not far from here. She'd been working for Harman for a year at that point - as a secretary. She had also been working for Curtis, had lived under his organization's roof. Annette and both her younger brothers had found employ within the confines of Curtis' empire. The small band had been orphans, recruited. Curtis had friends at Child Services, with the State. Government ties. Big ones. The man always had fresh faced recruits he could take advantage of, tutor. What the man had seen in him... he'd never really understand.

Harman took full advantage of Annette's incendiary skills only as necessary, far less than warranted, but Dan supposed that what part of the agreement of her working at the school; her original boss apparently... had work for her now in the Big Apple. And... she had always wanted to go to the city Dan had grown up in; to NYU to pursue her Masters. Money wasn't a problem. And it was nice to have educated employees if they were daft. She was very daft; Dan could attest to that much, after five years time. On and off.

"Corrigan has been telling me some things lately. About the people they just transferred from New York Cit-"

"I don't want to hear about that," Dan was nearly vicious. "What can I do with that information? Huh? What?"

"Dan," Annette tried again.

"No. Corri was one of the few kids I liked. You... were one of the few kids I liked. But after what happened to Lee-"

"It wasn't your fault or Harry's, Dan. I told you that. Every time it comes up I tell you that."

"Well, he always... blamed me, in the back of his mind, though we got along well enough. Given the fact I was banging you and all."

"Who was banging whom, mister?," Annette tried to joke, though her tone wasn't in it.

Dan didn't seem to hear her. "-I'm sure he'd blame Harry, if he knew him."

Annette looked away.

"You don't know that," she offered with surprising warmth. "I wouldn't have hated him, if I'd met him."

"Yeah? Well, I don't think it's possible for any woman to hate Harry. You aren't the fit of emotional wreckage Corrigan is.

"He's not a wreckage, Dan. He just doesn't know where to put his young anger. It's nothing I can tell him. Nothing anyone else can teach him."

"Harry could teach him," Dan remarked offhandedly. "He can teach anyone where to put their anger. How... futile it is... to redirect it. Harry can teach anyone anything."

"Dan, you... told me. How Harry was. Maybe I just never believed it for myself. Well, I believe it now."

"What the hell's changed? I'm sure he's still the Detective he always was. No one could best him there. And... maybe... he finally has his ideals in check. I'm sure I ironed them right out of him. It's how he should have seen things from the beginning. No one can think people are good things that deserve good things, and get by without blowing their own hearts out, in the end. With his back story... I don't know how he ever kept that vision. But, well... he always had Baty. Chris Baty," Dan informed her.

"I know who he is," she said.

"How?," Dan thought. He may have mentioned.

"Dan, he's the Police Commissioner of New York. I know who he is."

Dan swallowed. He looked into Annette's eyes, and she may have seen something horrifying, like confusion for a split second in his own from her reaction. Dan wasn't sure; she looked worried.

"You didn't know," she stated. Watched him. "You really didn't know."

"I know now," Dan covered up his shock. He wasn't surprised. He just... felt ill, suddenly. "When did that happen?," he asked.

"Last fall. It... wasn't on the news for that long. Maybe you were out that night. I know you have a thing for CNN."

"Never mind," Dan said sharply. "I don't need you letting me in on how much I've missed. I'm not surprised at all. He was a shoe in years ago. Harry... must be pretty proud. What happened? Anything big?"

He watched Annette as if he was blase' about the entire affair, but... was trying to read her efficiently; she blinked several times, her think lashes batting at him.

"The usual 'big'. Crowd pleasing stuff. I don't know which example of 'big' to point out first, really. You... didn't miss much. Really."

"Swell. Must have been sweeps week."

Dan waited for her to say something snide. She didn't. He waited for her to say anything. She didn't.

"What is it, Anne?," Dan asked her critically. "You really want to broach this N.Y. B.S. with me right now? Well, come on. What does Corri think he knows? How sick New York is becoming? So sick it has to give up its dregs to this mountain side city? Huh? What's the difference between scraping sky and mountain between business associates, right?"

"Dan, stop," she said without pleading. "I know you think you have bad blood between you and Corrigan, but-"

"I don't 'think'. Time doesn't heal that kind of wound - and especially if it's burned in anger that hot. He's a hot head, and it's going to bite him one day. I should know. It's not every day you see some fifteen year-old get shot in the-"

Dan stopped himself. Eyed her. "That's what happens to kids around people like me. Alright? They get jaded. Or they die. You're not the only one to lose a brother, Annette. I don't need to hear about the 'associates' from New York. Glad some low lifes graduated. Thrilled."

"You know Carver Wintermute, don't you, Dan."

Dan hesitated. Of course, he knew Carve. And... he knew he had been involved in a lot of underhanded stuff. Business. None of the Wide Eyes had cared. Good information was good information. On his part, it had probably been two-sided, but... none of them had ever asked. He hadn't done any of it for profit that showed; he'd been a bartender - and one of them until he'd retired in '86. After Tyler... All the shady stuff... it was more for interest's sake, on his part. Carver wasn't your average person. He had, however, mentioned Curtis in passing. For cases. Several cases. Dan had always assumed it was because of his penchant for being 'psychic'. Mostly empathic. Apparently, that hadn't been it at all. Dan recognized the fact Anne took his silence as a 'yes', that he knew Carver.

"He," she said idly. "Was part of the N.Y.C. graduating class. Still think this is about low lifes?"

"I told you, Anne," Dan told her stubbornly. "I don't care about any of that. What does any of that have to do with me? Huh? Think I get around much besides for killing people? For being one of Harman's personal body guards? Do you think about that when you're on his desk?"

"I think about my career when I'm on his desk. I think about you... when I'm with you. What better compliment can I give?"

"Why did you bring up Harry? Huh?," he asked. You haven't said anything about him, besides referencing what happened to Lee."

"Every time I bring my siblings up I have to bring up Harry. That's obvious, isn't it?"

"That's not why you brought him up."

"You won't let me finish a sentence... and you don't want to know, Dan. You don't want to know."

Dan was eyeing her voraciously, then.

"What happened to Harry?," he asked cooly. Annette exhaled, nearly seeming annoyed.

"Nothing happened to him. He's fine. He's better than fine, actually."

"Cop stuff, I know. Well, you don't have to tell me any more about that."

"Dan, god damn it," she said. She shook her head, resigning. "You are such a self centered ass-hole."

At this, Dan actually smiled.

"Thank you."

He thought. Old things were in mind. Old, red things.

"Harry wouldn't remember most any of what happened to Lee, from what I saw."

There was a pause.

"Are you sure?," Anne smirked. Dan... simply stared at her.

"You know... Harry took three in the back... protecting him."

Annette paled. She didn't say anything.

"What. You heard otherwise from the boys? Heard we came out... guns a blaz-"

"Miles told me. Harry told him everything, Dan."

"What's 'everything' to you?," he asked with sudden warmth. She looked into his eyes.

"Are we still talking about the same thing?," her voice was quiet. Still, really.

"What difference does it make?," Dan asked her seriously.

It was then, that Annette reached over, and grabbed another beer.

"One for the road?," she asked.

"If you make me a promise," Dan said.

"What do you care about promises?"

"I care about this one."

Annette watched him.

"You get as far away from the old man as you can. You understand me?"

Annette put the Killians down. And she kissed him. She kept kissing him.

Epoch: Chapter 48

2008-08-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

5:13 P.M. Greenspring Residence.

The front door of the Greenspring family home was then opening. There had been no unlatching necessary by the entering party; ironically, he could have cracked the thing fully bolted from thirty paces.

"Coyote."

Harman addressed his Syndicate member quietly, and soon, Coyote was approaching him. Rounding the corner, the younger, dark featured man stopped short; he was staring upon Con without another word. Coyote looked around cautiously, then met Harman's gaze.

"It's alright, Coyote. There's no more threat here. Just... an injured boy, and a world of planning to be done."

Harman had his phone to his ear. Waited. Waited. Hung it up. Fumed.

Coyote nodded, absently, tucked his gun away. He strode past Harman, and knelt beside the couch, next to Con's inert form. Coyote actually... put a hand upon the boy's head. Watched his still form with concern. Harman studied the two as they interacted - one-sided as the interaction was. Then, Coyote was looking to Harman again.

"Is his pops the dead man in the dining room, Harman?"

"The one and only."

"He did this to him?"

"Yes. Of course, the last laugh belonged in no small way... to the boy. He shot the man clear, clean dead."

Coyote looked Con over once more, contemplating the situation; it was an odd one to take in. Coyote had taken in worse in his childhood, however. He'd achieved a great deal of his reputation during such.

"He shot his pops?," Coyote inquired, marveled sadly. "This little guy?"

"Look at his wrists, Coyote."

Coyote did so; with seasoned, articulate hands - the hands of a marauding home invader, a master infiltrator - he gripped the boy's small wrists, turned them over one after the other. They were bruised, not from being grabbed by another person, but by concussion; munitions percussion.

"What is this world coming to, Harman?," Coyote asked with surprising dignity, poise.

"When I encounter that truth," Harman replied, addressing his phone, lowering it for another moment. "I'll let you know. For some of us, it came to an end today."

Coyote nodded, thinking. He still stared at Con, blacked out from pain, injury.

"How badly is he hurt?," Coyote asked, concern flaring again. Harman observed Coyote's immediate fascination with Con, and thought, mulling certain things over in his head.

"It's hard to ascertain from merely glancing," he answered. "Though his bruises...," Harman paused for a moment. Exhaled. "His facial injury is ghastly. I hope he won't lose his left eye. That would only compound his adjustment."

"The... injury," Coyote began. "Did you-? Is that why the bandana's over his eyes?"

Harman smiled.

"No, actually. That's how he always wears it."

Coyote half smirked. Went to say something. Thought.

"[That doesn't make any sense. How does he see]?"

"He doesn't. Not like you and I do, anyway. Comprende' ?"

"[Sure]. Not... really. Harman... He's blind? And... his pops-?"

"His father had substantial issues involving character. I assure you, he had his own form of blindness concerning his 'son'. Turning a blind eye can be an inherited trait, obviously, but... well... it's a complicated matter."

"I can 'see' that. I just want to know why the hell-?"

"Coyote, please," Harman interrupted with a stroke of fresh grace. "I'll explain in full later. But just between you, me... and the boy's subconscious... he's a wonder of nature. I've had my eye on him for ages. No pun intended. Now, unfortunately... this is how it begins."

Coyote nodded. Thought. Then, he actually... slid the bandanna off of Con's head. He absently straightened Con's hair as he held the gray material. Again, Harman noticed the gesture - took precious time to do so. Coyote observed the horrible bruising. The blood. Sadness sat then, once more, upon his features. He frowned. Thought. Looked in the direction of the dining room.

"He looks Asian," Coyote observed. "He's adopted?"

"No, his father knocked the white right off the rice," Harman made fun.

"Fucking God, that's not funny, Harman." Coyote ran a hand through his black hair - back, then front. "Have some respect for the poor kid."

"I have a great deal of respect for anyone who can withstand the ridicule of ignorance for time unaccounted... and still have the strength to defend what is dearest to him. Taking the life from his adopted son was at the top of Wallace Greenspring's list of paternal indignities, apparently. Taking that... or his freedom. His ability to do what he loves the most. To run. To fly upon the ground. Depriving a child of their kneecaps isn't quite the same 'time-out' as anything else. It's for keeps. Fucking hypocrite soldier. What was the man thinking?"

"Maybe he was thinking a drink or seven was a good idea," Coyote offered. Harman looked over to the mantle. There was a half empty bottle of Bourbon. Harman shook his head dismissively.

"Alcohol wasn't the cause of his downfall. Most every man drinks. It's the time and amount that remains the telling part."

Coyote nodded, agreeing in a way. Then, he was moving Harman's cloak from atop the boy.

With respect, Coyote raised Con's shirt slightly, revealing amazingly dark bruises. Coyote shook his head, marveling. Lowered and straightened the boy's t-shirt.

"He could have internal bleeding." Coyote looked directly at Harman. "He could die, Harman."

At this, Harman chuckled.

"Not with the spirit on that boy," he said with pride. "It would take a small army to finish him, I'd wager."

"Is Ben coming here?"

"Oh, Lord no - But if he doesn't get back to me soon, I'll wrap his stethoscope around his pretty young head, I hope he realizes. However, when he does get back to me, I'll have him meet us at the house."

"The house? You mean-?

"Coyote, please. Why am I here? Why was Con meeting me at the gym? Really."

"Con?," Coyote asked, not really misunderstanding the reference.

"Oh, yes," Harman waved his phone towards Con's inert form. "Sorry I forgot the formalities of

introductions being that he's stone cold unconscious."

"Harman," Coyote seemed slightly annoyed.

Harman waved his arm dismissively, sighed before going on.

"I can only imagine none of the neighbors were home when the shooting occurred, or cops would be swarming all over the premises. That's my hope, anyhow. Nobody wants to involve themselves anymore, you know."

"[The boy needs first aid, Harman]," Coyote said in Spanish, the flex of concern returning to his throat.

"Well, that's obvious."

"[What are your intentions?]"

"I think you know goddamn well what my intentions are, Coyote. Now, if you wouldn't mind carrying the boy when the time is right, I have phone calls to make while awaiting the grace of the young intern. If the child is to survive this experience, and avoid induction into the system, we have to work quickly. Prying eyes will only be kept at bay for so long in a rural setting."

Coyote nodded. He carefully sat beside Con, and put a hand securely upon his shoulder. Almost as if... he knew him. As if he cared about him. Harman smiled.

"Thank you, Coyote. Make him as comfortable as you can. We'll be on the move as soon as things are in motion, here. I hope you understand."

"More than you may realize," Coyote answered. Harman nodded.

He was then dialing.

Epoch:Chapter 47

2008-07-26T01:36:00.000-07:00

3:45 P.M. Greenspring Residence.

Con had been home for possibly... twenty minutes. It had been quiet. Nice. The silence had actually reminded him... of finer days. The late afternoons where his 'mother' would be making dinner - something vegetarian, wonderful. The weather, when it had been cool, and deliciously light upon skin, upon the muscle memory of all those in it.

Now, the somberness came more often. Dinner was anything quick. Nothing prepared. It could have its charm, however. Toast was wonderful; it brought back mornings - the ones where time could be taken in idle preparation along with one's breakfast. Toast was speedy, yet brazen revelry. And... after the scorching had taken place - after the moderately fresh wheat had been starched with heated iron.. the rest was just routine. Silence.

Con always bore this horrid sense of loneliness; this incising in his guts that reminded him of his own childhood loss - his rejection. The feelings that had nothing to do with his adoption, and everything to do with his parents' relationship with one another.

Con had always considered his mom just that; his actual mom. Lynn Gray Greenspring would forever remain one remembered as his maternal historic. The one who had taught him most everything that had been worth a damn. Con's 'father'? Well, that was a bit different now; since Con's adopted mother had decided to end her own life, the training wheels of abuse had come directly off.

That didn't mean, however... that they didn't continue spinning, cutting him.

He would remember the yelling, sometimes, the raised voices that would originate from downstairs. From their bedroom, down the hall, when it was late. The sound of voices being raised had yet to be horrifying, and Con had never been afraid of such. They had come often, once upon a time. Now, it was the silence of the night that was absolute when his father was away. Not scary, but loud. Devoid. One day Con would be around others like him. The actions, the willingness would be there. It was there, in some small way, at school now. He wasn't shunned by his peers, he had never allowed such to be possible. He demanded respect, and got it. He was well-liked, even.

Maybe his father had missed the memo. Con had no idea why he wouldn't just leave, abandon him. Go away. Dump him in the system's lap. Dump him on some curb, somewhere. Con didn't want that, but... it would probably be safer. Things weren't that bad when his father was away, though. When he wasn't? Well. There was merely the gray. The gray and the red. The abstract, and the painful.

The direct ignoring until it was time to rip open the wounds, lay Con out because of something trivial that had set his father off. His mother had been the one to absorb the brunt of it. Now that she was gone, though it hadn't really happened yet... even after a year... there would be no shock absorber. There would only be horror. Con doubted he would be able to take much of the abuse at all; but, his temper... was fierce. And it made pain very still once the fury began. Maybe it would give him a chance to get away. Although... for some reason... Con never really wanted to get away. He wanted to fight. He wanted the... attention? It was sad, but... Con didn't spend too much time figuring himself out. That's what therapy would be for someday, he guessed.

That's what happened to kids like him. Adopted, abused ones. The physical abuse personally, on his part hadn't been that severe, yet. A smack across the face here, a pin there. A push into the wall, a shove, just for being there. The main abuse had been merely observing his parents... tear each other apart. His mother had been training to be a cop, after all. She had been able to defend herself, give as good as she'd gotten.

It had been like foreplay between the two. Very passionate, as well. They hadn't involved him in it, but hadn't hidden it from him, either. It had been a part of their lives. The two had enjoyed it, on some level - Con had even heard it in their heart beats. The jerk of excitement. The elevation.

There hadn't been a note. Con still had no idea why his mother had ended herself. But, there didn't need to be a reason. She was gone. And now, Con had to deal with the asshole. Con couldn't be angry with his mother, somehow. He simply missed her. He missed her a lot. Maybe the feelings about it would come back one day. But, Con truly doubted it. There was a hole in his heart now, where the emotion about it should be, and there was a hole in the world. A big, fucking hole. Now, that was poetic.

Con tried to fight the inner alarm he was feeling. It was just because of everything that had happened. What was going to happen later at the gym, though Con felt more interest in that than anything. The afternoon this day had been insanity incarnate; Mr. Reed, the track, those kids, the stranger... the principal. All the 'crazy' had hit at once, pinpointed by some mystical dart on some cosmic calendar.

After he'd gotten home, Con had headed - with relief - up to his room; he hadn't even felt the need for the television - the numbing of his senses on technology's behalf. Cable wouldn't and couldn't be his guardian today; too much had been said. There would be no other aid, externally. Well... not with electricity in mind.

There needed to be one more familiar thing. Just... one more. And Con retrieved it from beneath his bed. The album. The photo album his mother had given to him of their family 'memories'. The ones he remembered because she'd 'shown' him which ones were which - and which ones had the labels upon them. The indented ones he could 'see', run his fingers along. They were all there. The relief hit Con, then... it was like the temperature changed suddenly... just to assuage him. It was an incredible sensation. Fall and Spring, muddled together.

Con ran his fingers - without having to - along the labels upon the pictures of not his own youth... but that of his adopted mother. Her childhood, her young adulthood. The times she and his adopted father had spent together before... they'd gotten married. The times in college, apart from it. His 'father' had always wanted to be a soldier. He'd succeeded. Had his mother gotten what she'd wanted from life? Maybe she had. Maybe that's why she had done it. Because she'd been satisfied. Con doubted it.

Con hadn't been able to pick up on how miserable she'd been, though it should have been obvious. And.. his father still remained. Con knew not the person his mother had, though she'd told him stories of better times. He only knew... the parent whose muscle memories had always flexed in disapproval. In anger. In nothing that even felt like... acceptance. Love. Con was sure the man hated him more than he'd ever-

Then, the weight was on the stairs. The percussion of anger was there. Repeating in a simile, a terrific tirade of sick, off-shot foot falls. Con was instantly nauseous, didn't fight it. Didn't move. Didn't want to brandish a bat for a second time today. He knew it is his guts; the stakes were higher this evening. The weaponry would be upped substantially. His father always carried the gun, as if to taunt the world.

He was licensed to have it, but... he didn't carry it to protect anything anymore. He was bitter about everything. What did he want? What the hell else could he want but to wreck anything good, disturb the few instances of peace. Con thought for an instant of pushing the angry fucker down the stairs, running full force into him before he knew what was happening. Ramming into him as hard as he could; but it was just a thought, and no actions sparked in Con's body. He wasn't a killer. As much as he wanted to smash his father's face in when he'd yell at him. As degrading as it felt to be dismissed as if he was nothing. No one. He was someone. He was just tired of it. But, here it came.

"Con?," the familiar voice was there suddenly, cutting through Con's thoughts. Con was suddenly shocked upright in his deep, darkened fit of stress. Con hadn't really thought about it until it was far too late; the album. His father went through the roof whenever the mere existence of his mother was mentioned. Con didn't want to broach the subject with him. But, it was already too late when his father's voice had sounded against the door frame to his room. Con got the sick feeling in his gut again.

"Con? You need to-", Con's father, Wallace Greenspring poked his head into his room two seconds before Con could have possibly moved the picture album. The man saw the thing immediately; Con hadn't taken the album wrongly - his mother had always let him hold it in his room. However... from the 'look' of awe - shock - upon his father's face, the communication of permission hadn't ever been broadcasted between his parents.

It was a shame, really. A big one.

3:50 P.M.

-The Mustang.

Dan and Annette laid in the back of her mustang easily, words still for a blaring moment between them. Dan was never pressed to leave the woman with words of either politeness or romance. But silence was rarely a gift he would give, either. That would leave questions of thought. And it wasn't like he ever... thought about her.

Annette nudged him, ran a slender hand along Dan's sleeve.

"I've been the one breaking all the silences today, you know. You could make a girl feel like she's interesting." Dan exhaled.

"I thought you liked breaking things," he said. She laughed delicately, in her throat.

"This is true. You got me, there. That makes us similar in more than one respect, I guess."

"I'm not as into breaking things as shooting things, Annie," Dan admonished. "Although, I'm good at both."

"You're good at breaking hearts," Anne toyed with him.

"I'm not the one leaving," Dan answered before he could stop himself. Anne turned over slightly, chin upon his collar. She looked at Dan earnestly.

"Is that remorse I hear in your voice, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

Dan smiled. Then the coating of silence was back up between them.

3:50 PM

-Greenspring Residence.

Con was surprised the initial impact against the staircase didn't hurt. But, as he rolled, over and over - only hearing the smashing of his arms, his hip, his legs against the hard wood - the wind was pummeled steadily out of him. Fourteen steps from the middle of the landing to the very top, and he'd only come into actual contact with six, so great was the force with which his father had thrown him down the stairs. The ten year old didn't waste his time being surprised. He wasn't, really.

The wind was knocked out of Con completely, as he actually hit the landing, itself; he had rolled with the impact upon the stairs, as if trained to do so but it did little good when he actually hit the bottom. He lay, stunned, and probably bruised horribly, all down his legs.

Con heard his father's approach, as he calmly descended the staircase to reach their mid-way point, but Con couldn't pull himself up. Speak. Move. Nothing worked. Then, it didn't matter anymore, as his father yanked him by the back scruff of his shirt; the man viciously yanked, and walked, dragging Con the remainder of the four steps into the main hallway of the house. Each step carried with it a broken vocalization, then Con couldn't help but gasp as his temple struck the hardwood floor. The dragging continued just a bit further, ominous silence upon his father's part. Then, there was another gasp Con heard escape from himself;

his father nearly flung him upright, against the hallway wall. The paintings upon it rattled violently. Con knew them all, 'felt' every frozen stroke of paint. They were all his mother's. Nothing of hers could help him now.

"Who told you," Con's father began angrily, pinning him. "You could be anywhere near those photographs? Huh?"

"Mom did!," Con answered honestly, biting out the reply desperately. "Alright? She gave me permiss-!"

Everything went 'black' as Con's father presumably slammed his head back against the wall, and let him go. Con's next aware thought was of being on the ground. Being stood over; it was a horrible feeling, frustrating. He couldn't have been out for more than a second; his father was completing his sentence.

"Don't speak about her," he said, affected.

"Why, because that makes her exist?"

"Shut your mouth! Don't speak about her, and don't use her as an excuse for the things you do. I'm not raising a coward!"

Anger struck Con's ribcage with a fury; he was surprised at the sudden rage, but not completely, given the circumstances.

"You're not raising me, at all! Who's the coward now, huh?!"

"Don't talk to me like that, Con!," his father spat as he yanked Con by the shirt again, knelt at his side, but didn't help him up. "If you showed me a little more respect, I wouldn't have to be so harsh with you. Your mother and I should have been the biggest example possible of what a lack of respect does to a relationship. Didn't you learn anything from us?!"

"My, God - did I learn something! I learned so much from you, it hurts! Just like my head! Just like these bruises!"

"Don't get melodramatic on me, Con! Don't even!" Con strained against his father's grip, but got no where. Suddenly, his father let him go, stood, hands upon his hips. "Your excuses, and your pathetic ten-year-old psychobabble won't do anything to win my quarter, kiddo!," he said, facing away from him, shaking his head as if disappointed. The anger sparked in Con again at the motion.

"I've wasted about as much time on you as I'm willing to, today," his father continued, sounding more irritated than angry then. He exhaled, considering. Relenting. "Just, stay the hell away from those photos, and we'll call it even. Alright?"

"No, it's not alright!," Con yelled at his father from his compromised position. "It's fucking obvious you aren't my real father - you never listen! I told you mom gave me permission to 'look' at that book, and I'm not just going to listen to you because you're a preoccupied coward with your signature on my-!"

Wallace Greenspring spun on his left heel, and kicked Con so hard, he was airborne for a full second before crashing back to the ground; Con coughed raggedly, then again. He wasn't sorry he'd replied.

"I'm sorry," Con's father was kneeling, leaning over him again as he gasped for breath, felt his ribs ache. "Unlike you... I'm a trifle hard of hearing. Now...," Con's father gripped him by the shirt as if he was someone he didn't know, Con felt. "What did you call me?"

"Oh," Con responded, croaking. "I'm sorry... I'll speak... up. I called you a preoccupied... coward!"

The lack of thought that followed, along with the alarming jaw pain, was clearly a punch across the mouth. Con didn't waste his time being upset about it. If anything, he was relieved by how close the pain made him feel to his mother; he was experiencing what she had. Every day. But, he was also bleary as hell.

"What, now?," Con heard the coolness in his father's voice from what felt like a world away. "You called me what?"

The response came from Con as if he had no personal regard for his own life.

"I called you a coward!"

The second punch wasn't so much painful as it was a lack of sensation. He couldn't think to speak, couldn't remember what he'd been saying - doing - for moments. He didn't think his nose was broken. But... his left eye felt like it was ripped in two beneath his bandanna. It was... sticking to it. No, it was the blood sticking to it. It had to be. Con wondered if he'd lose the eye completely. It was a comedic concept, really. Con tried to laugh, noticed his father was speaking again.

"What was that?"

Con was responding, but the words made no sense. He writhed slowly, upon the wooden floor, trying to make himself aware of his position, the muscles in his body. Nothing worked. He could make out the smugness of his father's voice.

"That's what I thought."

Con's father was walking away, leaving him there upon his back to recover, or... remain, blacked out. Con realized dimly that he was easy to move, easy to deal with, to make go away. But, he wouldn't just go away. And he wouldn't just shut up.

"Coward."

Con's father stopped in the hallway for only a moment. Grew rigid. Then, he was coming back at full stride, yanking Con by the shirt. Dragging him again, with more force this time, though it was hard to believe that possible despite the popping sounds Con's ribs were making.

Con snapped back to full awareness with frightful pain in his back and shoulders as his father slammed him incredibly hard upon the empty dining room table. The second shock came when there was the muzzle of a gun in his face; his father's gun. Con grew stiff with horror, grabbed at his father's wrist as he held him, pushed him down.

"Who's the coward now, Con? Huh?"

Con didn't dare respond. He didn't want to know what it felt like to get shot in the face if he could avoid it. His dad was probably just jerking his chain. Con would just... shut the hell up. Hoped it wasn't too late to do that. Then, he knew for a fact that it was too late to be neutral.

"I asked you a question!," Con's father rebuked. He cocked the trigger, then. Con didn't know what to say, he tried to calm himself. Swallowed. Exhaled. But he didn't know what to say. He was panicking.

"You're the one who lives... to run? Don't you?," his father asked him. Con felt a cold sweat form upon his skin - probably from the physical shock of injury. But, he listened - a captive audience. "Don't you?!"

His father yanked at his shirt, hard, and Con couldn't help but reply.

"Yes! Yes, I do!"

"Well," his father still had the gun in his face. "I'd like to see you run..." Con's father flipped the gun around so that the butt of it was above his knees. "With two shattered knee caps."

"Dad!," Con shrieked at the connotation, sick with fear, knowing his father could do everything he was alluding to. And more. He flipped the gun again, pointed it in his face.

"Don't you goddamn move." Con felt his father's heart actually flex in his chest. He couldn't tell whether it was in sadness or the same disappointment that he'd always displayed in his presence. Then, it was obvious, as he spoke again, and his voice wavered.

"Who put it in your little skull that you can actually run for a living... and succeed?"

"Does it matter?," Con breathed his question carefully. "Does it? There's a big difference between running for a living... and running away, dad. I'm not running away!"

"You're not going to be running anywhere, anymore. Are you?" Con couldn't breathe. Couldn't believe what was happening. "Are you?!"

His father raised the butt of the gun quickly, to strike what Con perceived as the fateful, shattering blow. But, at the apex of his father's raised arm, just before the gun came down, Con bucked with all his conscious thought and kicked his father full layout in the face.

The man reeled back, as Con landed flat, rolled off the edge, crashed onto the floor. Con rolled again as he heard his father clamoring against the wall; the boy reached up to the items his mother had duct taped to the belly of the living room table in case of the worst; one .38 and one clip.

Con had the metal in his hands then. He ripped the tape off the clip with an incisor, grabbed it, slapped it down atop the other tape - the tape on the .38. He absently struck the clip upon the floor - like the stranger had told him it was idiotic not to do. Con jammed the clip in the gun, cocked, pointed - holding with both hands, as he felt his father aiming downward, finger on the trigger. Finger squeezing upon the trigger. And Con fired once, upward. Through the table. The blast was deafening - for him, more than that; it was like getting struck in the head again.

The force of the kickback pushed him hard onto his back. His wrists stung and itched. Con heaved breath in and out as he listened for sound. There was nothing. His head spun with the blows he'd taken... but he gripped the gun as tightly as he could... stung with the sound of gunfire... and pushed with great difficulty out from under the table.

Con stood stiffly, then nearly atrophied; his father was standing directly in front of him. He towered above him only a few feet away. And he had a gunshot through his heart. What Con assumed... was his heart. He seemed... alright. Quiet. But alright. He was still holding his gun... but it was down. Con didn't think of speaking or shooting again. It was then that Con's father... smiled at him.

For probably the first time ever that Con could remember. He beamed - though dimly - with pride. For the first and last time, Con's father was proud of him; Con realized this as his father's heart stopped. And the man fell dead, still grasping his weapon, as if it was glued to him.

Con couldn't grasp... what he'd just done. He couldn't get himself to let go of the gun. The cops would come in and shoot him... but his death grip would not cease. Con tried to walk... somewhere. Just... away... But, he staggered. Bumped into the wall. Then, he felt his knees against the rug; his knees that were not shattered, would never be shattered at the whim of a now very dead man.

Con knew his muscles were knotted. It was the same stiffness ushered in by a day of running without properly cooling down. As in, not cooling down at all. His muscles continued to knot. And Con waited, dizzy and pain laden for the cops to come and shoot him. He waited... and absently... flicked the safety on the gun.

5:15 PM. Coburn Elementary. Gymnasium.

Harman stood in the gym as he had been for the past twenty minutes; with trepidation. He paced, hands behind his back. This wouldn't do. Not at all. But... Harman was certain he hadn't read the boy wrong. Con would have simply told him - based upon his character - that he wasn't interested. No... something wasn't right. Harman was using the speed dial upon his cell phone, then. Jabbing the # 3. He stood for a moment. Two rings, actually.

"Yes. I need you at the gymnasium as soon as you can get here."

Pause.

"Something like that, yes. But, I think something has gone awry, in the matter."

Pause.

"No, I wouldn't ask you to do that. If anyone's going to end the Hellion, it will be me, later this evening. It won't so much be ending, though, as it will be incapacitating."

Pause.

"No. No. And... I don't think it's wise on your part to poke fun in such an instance. Now, are you on your way, or must I entice Kevin into-?"

Pause.

"Well, fine. I'll see you shortly."

And Harman pushed the 'off' button with a thumb, pushed the phone back into a pocket. He was dialing again, then.

"Yes. Are you good with addresses?"

Pause.

"No, that wasn't a joke. And this isn't a test. Jot this address down in your brain box, I need to mobilize this instant. Meet me there as soon as you're able, I need to go now. Are you ready?"

Pause.

"Don't make me shoot you today, please. I really haven't the patience for the rhetoric that would be involved in that entire thought proc-."

Pause.

"Yes, I'm rambling. I'm the boss, I can do that. No, you cannot watch me beat Dan up this evening. The only audience for that will be a nice 1896 Chablis. That's wine. Oh, it was no problem. Now, shut the fuck up."

Harman uttered the boy's address quickly. He didn't repeat it, and as soon as the words had escaped his throat, he hung the phone up once more. Assassins had no need for writing instruments. Only the need for listening; that, Con had down pat. Something else, though... was going on this evening. And this... Harman would be getting to the bottom of.

5:40 PM. Greenspring Residence.

Harman had arrived at the address first, as he knew he would, given his location. He could more than handle himself in the meantime. He stood upon the large front porch; Harman was about to ring the bell... when the feeling struck him. That... exhilarating feeling of bloodshed. He pulled his .40 from his black cloak... held it... and stood firmly, head down. Then, he spun, kicking the door in; it flailed open, staggered back towards him. Then, Harman entered - and, eyes forward, neatly closed the door behind him.

He immediately saw Con's father. He was obviously dead, and beautifully so; one bullet, controlled bleeding. Efficiency. Then, Harman... was moving. Within a few strides, he found the boy, huddled. Quiet.

Harman stood calmly, waited for a split second, eying the boy. He wasn't alarmed to see him clutching a .38 caliber weapon. The thing that brought the most surprise was this; the child actually spoke first.

"Harman...," he said with difficulty, some daze. "I... shot my dad." There was a pause, weighted. Necessary. Con's tone was literally stripped of emotion, a sure sign of shock, given the scene.

"I killed my dad."

"I see that, son," Harman replied, easily.

Harman calmly, gingerly, knelt next to Con... and put a hand upon the still duct taped gun in his tight grasp. He easily pulled it from him, looked at it.

"You put the safety on," Harman mused. Con nodded. The older man smiled, amused, though the place and time required some care.

"Good boy. Guns... are dangerous things. I see... your father has one in his hand."

Con nodded again. Cringed.

"He tried to hurt you?"

"He...," Con began, numbly. "...My... legs. He... said...," Con took a deep, labored breath in, gasped suddenly, in pain. He contorted a bit, pushed back against the wall he leaned against. It was difficult to watch, even for the seasoned 'Principal'.

"Take your time, son," Harman offered, though time was definitely a pertinent issue.

Con nodded, gasped again, deeply affected by his apparent injuries.

"He...," Con spoke, sounding every bit like the boy he was for the first time Harman had witnessed. "He said... he'd break my knee caps...Harman. And he... was telling the truth. He... squeezed on the trigger. He...," Con stopped for a few moments, seemed dazed. Faint.

"Easy," Harman advised. He gently put a hand on Con's shoulder; even the light touch made Con shudder with a bright shock of pain. Harman took his hand off immediately, but Con nodded again, slightly. Appreciatively. Harman wore his wizened smile once more, weakly upon the surface of his features. Had to force it onto his face, to some degree.

"He had the gun right in... my face. I thought... no. I knew," Con's voice sunk to a whisper. "He... he was going to-" Con stopped. Shuddered. The pain spiked again, and he groaned, unable to control the vocalization, Harman supposed. Con wasn't the type to utter grievances. He was clammy. The strength was bleeding out of his voice by the syllable.

"I know, son. The evidence is before me. Is the pain severe?"

Con refrained from answering this time, didn't respond. Harman didn't wait for a reply; he pocketed the gun, immediately.

"Are you hurt?," Harman asked, concerned, though he already had a firm idea of what the answer would be. Con shrugged once absently, in a 'jerk'. He looked dazed. Didn't raise his head. Harman watched him for another moment.

"Show me your face, son," Harman told the boy. Con didn't hesitate for even a second. He was instantly tugging at the tie in his bandanna - but jumped, gasping. He stopped for a second... then continued, despite obvious pain.

"Here, stop," Harman ordered. Con did so - Did whatever Harman asked him to do, as if hypnotized. He was severely shell-shocked from what had just occurred... and it showed; Harman easily helped Con slide the bandanna off, though it stuck just a little. He wasn't disappointed.

Con's left eye was swollen shut.. and his face on nearly that entire side... was purple and black. Bloody. Harman shook his head. It was now physically obvious if nothing else was, despite their talk, why Con had shot his father. Besides the gun still clenched in the dead man's hand, the connotation of irreversible violence was troubling, disturbing. Con seemed unconcerned. Blinked his one eye.

"That's a nice shiner," Harman offered kindly, meaning it. He paused, clasped his hands, still holding the bandanna. "Do you want this back on?"

Con nodded once, numbly. "Alright," Harman replied. "But you should give that eye some air when you're up to it."

Con nodded.

Harman very easily slid the bandanna back over Con's face. Con exhaled, relieved.

"You don't take that off too often, do you?," Harman asked, still looking the boy over. Con shook his head. Harman smiled, putting himself fully between Con and his father's freshly deceased body, as if to shield him - as if he could.

"Can you walk?," Harman asked him quietly.

"Yeah," Con spoke again, unexpectedly. He cringed, crying out as he flexed to stand. Harman stood up - back a bit - watched the boy knot his brow and lock his teeth as he strained to his feet; Con's knees nearly buckled with the exertion, his body battered and sore.

"Let me help you, son," Harman found himself saying honestly. Con straightened his back, staggered forward a step or two.

"I don't.. need help, Harm-"

The boy collapsed with a last, slight groan, thought unfinished; the vocalization had sounded more like the chirp of a bird than a human outcry. Harman caught him easily. Con's head dropped limply back as he held him. The boy stirred slightly, unconscious, or remarkably close to it. Harman took a good breath in, let a good breath out.

"No," he said matter-of-factly as he picked Con up in a graceful sweep of a motion. "Of course not. Forgive me."

Harman walked towards the foyer, Con's small form nearly swallowed in the black cloak he wore.

"It was insulting of me to have even suggested."

He spoke to Con as he still stirred, less than half conscious. And Harman strode into the living room. He laid Con very carefully upon the couch, used his cloak as a cover; there were phone calls to be made. At least three. Perhaps four for good measure. But one thing was certain in his mind as Harman watched the violence-torn boy lay injured; he would be taking Con out of this house.. and it would be like clockwork.

Epoch: Chapter 46

2008-07-16T18:26:00.000-07:00

1:56 PM, March 14th, 1993. Coburn Elementary. Lot C.

Dan was still coming off of the high he'd absorbed from Annette in her delicate yet forceful throes. Hell. He was still coming down from his own revelations of the flesh; passion was a short-lived entity, one never to be cast aside as a useless instrument. Dan relished in the spent cartridges of a glory too seldom offered, too seldom felt. Annette knew how to goad him into it, how to goad such out of him. He would miss the hell out of her. But he would never admit it.

They sat, splitting a beer between them; it was a brand Dan didn't care to notice at the moment. The taste of beer was relative at this point, of course. And it was nothing Dan disputed when offered, or when compensated for, in full. The seatbelt was still wrapped around his neck. The only thing that would have made this more wonderful - besides the satisfying friction marks upon his throat - was if they'd actually fucked in Harman's relic of an Oldsmobile. No such luck.

However, the condensation had yet to dissipate from the windows in Annie's vintage red, yet somehow modest '67 Mustang. And that was reward enough. Speech seemed a lackadaisical concept between the two of them, and unnecessary. However, it always seemed to occur within at least the halfway-six pack mark. Anne offered the bottle to Dan; he simply smirked. She drank again; Dan knew she realized he was watching her crane her neck to do so. Anne never minded when he watched. Then, the commercial break was up... among other things.

"You worried...," Annette began, very relaxed. "That the blues are going to bust us for making a spectacle of the school parking lot? This place has been a bulls eye for police work today."

"It's a bulls eye, period," Dan answered, breathing out like it felt good - which it did. Amazingly so. "And no cops come around here. Not without a pay off."

"I'll kill them quickly, if they do," Anne continued, meaning it. "You can help me hide the bodies."

"I don't kill cops for crossing my path," Dan smiled. Anne went to question him, slightly confused, but Dan kissed her upon her full lips; there was little he couldn't find attractive about the woman, even the curiosity was alluring. There was also the wonderful lack of longevity, the skill level, the understanding between the two that killing was the ultimate high - nothing either 0f them would be able to touch between them. It definitely took the pressure off. At the same time, it made the pleasure tenfold. Dan broke their kiss.

"The old man can clean up most any mess. Leave it to him."

"Will he kill you for this?," Anne asked, suddenly, bottle neck in her slim left hand; she smoothed Dan's hair out of his eyes with her right.

"I hope so," Dan answered honestly.

"Is that what your goal is?," Anne asked semi-seriously. "Really? Besides...?"

She preened over her half naked self, and Dan watched, without hesitation. She still held her beer bottle.

"No," Dan answered. "Laying a beautiful woman is its own reward, lady. Don't get me started on Harman, or I may get Lake 'Flacid' on you. I know you don't want that."

"I never get that, Dan. I think you count on yourself that way, don't you? Feel alive?"

Dan smiled. He did feel alive; the part of 'alive' that was the best part. The section without a mind. Strings. The two laid in silence for moments after that - docile, mute, voracious moments of intermission that fell between them easily. Then, Annette was stripping the silence away, once more. Stretching.

"The thought of you re-breaking your own ribs against my backbone makes me nuts whenever it flexes in my mind." Dan smirked proudly, letting her go on. "Few lovers are as selfless, but then... it wasn't about that, was it?" Annette looked more upon him, then at him then. She brushed his hair away from his temple, where it promptly returned. She did so again.

Dan watched her wrist as it moved, incredibly strong as it was with the wear of concussion. Munition blasts.

"I'll bet you love the idea of Harman throwing me through walls for show," he chided. "Do you know what it sounds like to hear your own ribs break apart? Knowing you, with your sadistic tendencies, you'd probably fuck him to death right then and there."

"Do you remember hitting the wall?," she asked sweetly. Dan thought. Watched her wrist.

"Until the fourth time."

"Which time did your ribs break?," Annette asked with modestly put on interest - she ran a hand down the seatbelt, cut, ready for any action save protection. Dan thought again.

"The first time. That fucker knows what he wants ten years before he's after you. And when he wants certain things to hurt at certain times?" Dan paused. "He doesn't waste his precious time." Dan watched her try to cover the left corner of her mouth raising in a smile.

Dan pulled slightly upon the seatbelt, getting her attention.

"If I tell you what happened just before I blacked out, will you get off right here and now?"

She laughed, delightfully.

"Will you think less of me if I say, 'too late'?" Dan smiled, approving.

"Yes," he replied. "If all I have to do to get you off is tell stories, then I think I understand your relationship with the human story of the world." She bumped his chin with the beer bottle, just hard enough to clack his teeth, and Dan actually laughed, satisfied with the reaction.

"What happened?," she inquired suddenly.

"Huh?," Dan asked honestly.

"What happened? Just before?"

"Jesus, Anne. That's not f-"

"I want to know," she said, and Dan realized she was being serious. Not cruel, but serious. Dan didn't really want to tell her. But... he found himself speaking, carrying the truth in his throat.

"I got my gun under his chin." Anne sat up just a bit. Not much. But, at this proximity, breaths were footfalls. She said nothing. Listened.

"And," Dan continued, hearing the slightest twinge of disbelief in the words, though he was straining against vocalizing such. "I just fucking blacked out. I don't even remember hitting the ground. It wasn't like a drunk black out. Where you don't remember exactly when it happens. I remember. He gave me my gun back after Ben or Kevin or whoever the fuck he paid or didn't pay wrapped me up. He must have taken it. But... I don't know when. I had freedom. And I lost it by one second. Probably less. Thinking about it now... I was so angry, I couldn't see straight anyway."

"Not about me," Anne made certain.

"No," Dan said without being a prick. He exhaled as Anne listened, interested. "I don't know why I hate him anymore, half the time. The other half... it doesn't matter. One fucking second. God damn me."

"You're already damned. And... you don't know that," Anne said honestly. "Harman never wages wars he can't win, and his battles are qualified by merit. He probably would have lived to put one between your eyes, and have a cup of tea while his brains re-knitted themselves. Don't... base your freedom upon one second."

Dan didn't know why, but he let her take the sting out of his thoughts. The sex had also been refreshingly numbing. Lidocaine through his bones. He took a deep breath. The ribs still hurt with a lot of activity. The breakage hadn't been severe, surprisingly. More precision on Harman's part. He could have broken him in half if he'd wanted to;

alas dead things grew old very quickly... and took forever to do what you wanted them to for hire. Anne stroked at his chest through his mostly unbuttoned shirt, seemingly reading his thoughts. He looked in her eyes again; she blinked easily, didn't watch him like he was prey as she often would, and as he would let her until he was ready.

"It took longer than a second to heal these lung holders, girly," Dan told her with whatever bravado he could stomach.

"You're better now, though. Aren't you?" The warmth of concern illuminated Anne's voice in a nearly foreign way, and Dan smiled again.

"You don't have to fake warmth for me, Anne. Friction makes the only heat we need between us. You're a sociopath, and we both know it. Even if it's only in 'bed'." Anne thought. Brushed his hair again. Again.

"Well, you can't blame me for wanting to mean it. Right?" Dan smiled again, letting her smooth out his hair. She took a long swig of beer. Swallowed it loudly, on purpose. Dan pulled away from her, playing in spite of himself.

"You seem to like those brats. Is that just a lie, too?"

"No, I just don't have to worry about fuck buddy positions with them."

"Well, that's a wonderful group of images, Anne. Thanks for that." Dan snorted, dismissively.

"What about that blind one?" Dan stared at Annette's beer. Then, lower.

"What about him?," she asked. "Jesus, I'm into blindfolds and cigarettes at the same time, but he's just a little too young for-"

"-Stop," Dan cringed with the snap of an overactive imagination, too many days spent within the same four wall, the same empty bottle. "Just stop," he warned once more.

"Afraid of the competition?,"Annette goaded him, making fun of his facial expression with a hand. Dan grabbed at her hand, pushed it gently away. It wasn't a harsh movement; She hadn't meant the last question, and Dan didn't take the question as an insult. They could be assholes to each other all day, all night long, and it didn't matter. They were like minds. They were definitely like bodies.

"Women aren't into shorties," Dan quipped. "Now what about him? What's the old man want with him?"

"You know what he wants, Dan," Annette nearly scolded.

"With that kid. That...kid. He barely comes up to my waist, and Harman wants him for-"

"You talked with the little guy, Dan. Probably more than I ever have. What do you think about him?" Dan looked critically at the woman as they lay in the backseat of her vintage car.

"Nothing. That's why I asked you."

"I think," Annette made fun of him. "There are plenty of literary analogies I could use here about sizes of things, book covers and tortoises. But, I won't do that to you."

"Thanks. Forget I said anything." Annette pushed closer to him, put her eyes nearly on top of his, looked at him without blinking for as long as she could. Extremely long, a trained skill for a marksman.

"When are you going to bang that cute little recluse Harman recruited in '91? Is she too quiet for you? Hmm? Too green? Or maybe her hair's too short for you to pull. Hmm?"

Dan actually smiled, remarkably settled in the back seat of the Mustang, as Annie swigged heavily upon her... Killians, he noticed. Killians Red. He let her questions sit unanswered for a moment as his endorphins continued to swim in his nasal passages, his hips. Then, Annette was smirking, blouse in the front seat; she pushed into Dan's collar bone playfully, in search of a response. He was lax to provide her with one.

"What," she began. "Wasn't the beer enough of a preview for tonight? Got an iced 750 of Jack for you. I believe there are several options for foreplay allotted under such meager conditions."

She pushed him again, and it was all the restraint within Dan that held him against pushing her into the leather seats once more, muting her intelligent, silk voice with force. Frustrated romance.

"Oh," Annette smirked, then - bottle pressed to her lips in another tight swig. "I know. She's not legal, yet." At this, Dan laughed, with surprising ease. Annette then went out of her way to press her lips against his neck, his collar bone. Dan exhaled.

"Since when has being legal mattered to me, Anne?," Dan asked her, relishing in her contact.

She pulled upon the seat belt still around his neck, and he smiled. His Adam's apple was just out of range of the press; a labor of love on her part, Dan guessed. He let her hold the beer bottle. The endorphins kicked him again. Again.

"It matters, in certain... areas," Annette said coyly. "And certainly to you."

"Name one of those... 'areas'," Dan suddenly wrapped his arms around her, pinned her in her own back seat. "And I'll eat this seat belt."

"Don't tease me," she replied, responding. "Or are you actually talking about the-?"

Dan kissed Annette forcefully, distracting her, as she held her nearly empty Killians Red. She held it gracefully, without spilling. There was no more talk between the two.

For at least another hour and forty-five minutes. The beer - solitary as it had been - made its way towards a sheathed, slow, flat death in its six pack holster. It had probably enjoyed the show.

-&7&-

4:25 PM. Coburn Elementary. Principle's Office.

Harman folded his hands. Unfolded them. Folded them. Waited. All papers that had been needful of grading had been marked and scored appropriately. It was all thanks to a dash of foresight, and a stock ton of knowledge of how Dan operated; sporadically, as someone would with nothing to gain, all to lose on a perpetual basis.

Yet, Harman awaited his Ace 'Hellion'. His presence was imminent, the task? Probably unexpected, even by Dan's standards. But, not necessarily. This was a variable, approachable by few; the killers' kind. Those inclined to kill because of payment, oath. Blood. Harman found it all quite entertaining, when directly applied to-

Then, Dan was walking in the door. He looked sharper than he had to him in ages. That was the only tell. Nothing else. He would address such things later. Whatever kept Annette... happy. No woman of artillery was easily sated. It was more a mind game with her, anyway, than anything else. Harman knew that much... for certain.

Dan stood before him - very tall, very ready for whatever it was Harman was ready to dish out. The Hellion didn't so much as smile. He waited. Their eyes locked. That was where Harman always knew he had Dan for certain; in the pit of his eyes. And he had him, easily, at this juncture.

"You're late," Harman mentioned with no particular pith.

Dan didn't say a thing. He merely eyeballed Harman... and waited.

"Really, Dan. The silent treatment doesn't befit you. I assure you, I could have done so much worse than broken a couple ribs during our last spat in retaliation of that insolence you call swagger. You're healed now, aren't you?"

Still, Dan was a shock of cold rage before him. Harman couldn't help but be amused. Dan didn't care how long he waited, how long he was stared upon by anyone. But the bite of his irises ran absolutely, tyrannically unchecked. He went on.

"It's been more than a month. I'll give you your inch now, but I will require you to speak to me, at some point. We wouldn't want to reverse curve balls between us, now... would we? I tell you, Dan... I can find some questions and some required answers that will bring words into your throat right quick. Lest you wear much more than broken ribs, bruises and the bite of hatred in your eyes as you stay mute. Oh. Well... I guess that last part never changes. Does it?"

Harman grinned. Thought for certain he felt heat in his brain from the intensity of the look Dan was laying into his eye line. It was empowering to have someone hate him so very much. The sensation was wonderful.

It was also amusing beyond words; Harman always let the little game of silence when Dan baited him with it go on for as long as he could manage without properly wasting the whole of his day on selfish enjoyment. He had things to prepare for this evening, so unfortunately, the game would have to go on later tonight.

The older man beamed. He wasn't angry; anger wasn't a part of this equation. However... right was right, and Harman would have his moment with Dan - probably very late indeed - on the sensitive subject of Annette's... departure. He needed Dan's motor skill now, however. This was going to seem more like a reward than anything else, unfortunately. Harman would have to disperse the mixed signals later as well.

Harman took into account that Dan wouldn't rightly care while was putting the Hellion's head through a wall... but... etiquette was etiquette. Harman's main plan was trying to keep Dan conscious until he was done with him... and before Dan got his fingers upon his formidable gun. The last time had been pure luck, and Harman acknowledged such. Dan... The poor, young bastard had dropped like the stone that killed Stephen. This time, Harman wouldn't be so careless. He simply couldn't afford to be. Not for something as petty as over-confidence.

Harman gazed down his folded hands at Dan, as the younger man remained at the ready.

"Kill Cuttey for me," Harman said, easily, without any advertisements. He followed the statement up with complete and utter silence. Glowed with the offer, knowing Dan would consider such a leech upon his line. And the anticipation came, easily. Stayed. Dan would never smile in front of Harman, unless in jest, or a cruel jeer - but his eyes came very close to joy upon this request.

"Consider it a proper 'send off'... for Anne," Harman said; he mentioned Annette's name with the force of a modest piston. Dan seemed oblivious to the threat contained therein. The callousness wouldn't save him his comeuppance, of course. Dan must have known such, really.

He didn't even ask 'how'. Or 'why'. He simply nodded. Then, he was turning, and walking out Harman's office door. Closing it with a smart click behind him; Harman had no idea how he'd kept Annette's smell off of him. But then, Harman supposed... blatant, self serving manipulation was a strong suit of Dan's. And the skills of deep cover. Flaunting his blatant wins over his overlord would glean little reward. Dan did what offered him the most benefit - within his allowances.

Harman, in turn... allowed Dan access to whatever activities would grant him the most domination over his charge. Dan had it coming, in Annie's case. However... there would yet be things... to distract Harman away from a complete 'lesson' for Dan over the next few weeks. Probably longer, if things went as well as possible.

Would Dan admit to the possibility of a ten year old 'blind' boy saving his life as a matter of diversion? Probably not. Was it the truth? Hmmm. Wasn't it. Tonight's display would only be a preview. A daft one.

-&7&-

3:45 PM. Greenspring Residence.

Con felt his father half-way up the stairs, certain he hadn't started any arguments. Nothing had been left in the kitchen, at the table, nothing had been left anywhere in the house that could possibly have started a war this afternoon. But, then - based upon the footsteps, the weight, the force - war was happening. Con gave up, readied himself, wondered whether or not this would be the time he would be killed. Shot. Use his weapons. He could have prepared, grabbed for his bat or his knife... but he didn't. Con's curiosity was simply too great.

'What will he do now? He isn't even a drunk. What can he do? Teach me a lesson? Does he even know about today? Does he even care? Huh. Does it even matter anymore? Does he have spies at the sch-?'

Then, Con's father was bursting through Con's door; Con didn't bother to lock it anymore. Three times worth of smashed locks had been plenty to teach him they were useless tools. There was no keeping him out anymore.

Wallace Greenspring was standing in the mouth of his doorway then - brown hair, angry eyes; dry, cracked with stress. And Con knew - somehow - though the beatings had been bad before, that this would be the worst one. Somehow, he didn't feel fear in the moment. That had to change; that always... changed. Then it was happening; Con didn't even bother bracing himself.

Epoch: Chapter 45

2008-07-11T00:14:00.000-07:00

Con sat. Principle Deltahead was before him, silent, contemplative in his leather office chair. The principle was folding and unfolding his hands. He remained stoic, watching him. Con was sure his fate was sealed, regardless of what the stranger had told him. But even knowing that Principle D was about to personally strip him of all the freedom he had, Con remained hopeful. Somehow, the two - separated as they were by station - remained civil.

The principal spoke then, calmly. He seemed... amused? Con doubted it. It was simply... a reaction to his accomplishment. His size. However...

-&7&-

"Con," Harman addressed the student now residing in his office. "What possessed you to take a baseball bat to those boys? I realize they more than possibly had it coming, but...," the older man punctuated the thought with a sigh before continuing. "For God's sake. Is your freedom of no merit to you?"

-&7&-

Con waited to see if the principle would go on; he did no such thing, waiting for him to make the next move. After a moment, Con finally relented, not completely unsure he wasn't damning himself in his response.

"'Swing hard, swing fast' was always a staple saying in my household," Con replied, answering the principle's question. "I'm pretty sure it's on my dad's family crest. Freedom is a secondary notion, I guess."

"Your adopted father's Scottish?," Principle Deltahead asked easily.

"And Cherokee," Con answered. "And German. Pick a flavor. I guess that's what they did... when they adopted me. I don't know."

"You had a close relationship with your adopted mother, did you not?"

Con hadn't expected the question, and he hesitated, if only for a moment.

"Yes," he answered honestly. "I think she understood me better than anyone else, actually."

"That sounds to me like a relief, Con," the principle commented calmly.

"I guess. It isn't a relief now. I can't even sleep at night. Not... without having nightmares."

"About?," principle D asked, with a lining of innocence, curiosity.

"Jump ropes," Con responded. "Blood. Yelling. Death. My dad thinks I"m a science project, and that... I snapped. Not even... because of that, or... because of today," Con chuckled. "Christ, I'm a piece of work, huh? And... what will he think? Huh? What's he even going to do? He already believes that I need therapy. What do you think about that? You must agree by proxy."

The principle actually seemed humored; Con traced the kind smile upon his face, incredulously.

"I think therapy - while warranted in your case, with your desire - unnecessary," he offered.

"That's funny," Con said. "My dad is famous for making the unnecessary reality. It's... only a matter of time until I turn out like... McMurphy from 'One flew over the cuckoo's nest.' Who knew Nurse Ratched was actually a six' one military terror? Not me."

"Well, at least he isn't the 'Chief'," Principle D offered unexpectedly. Con smiled, acknowledging the reference to his analogy. "Your father's a charmer, isn't he?," the principle asked, observing. "One who often gets what he wants? He seems to be quite famous among his peers from what I hear."

"He must be," Con answered. "How else can you punch someone in the face and make her stay with you? 'Til shiner do us part? Yeah. Isn't it romantic?" Con thought of his parents fighting each other. Verbally. Physically. It had been a 'sight'.

"It isn't, Con. But... allegiance is a trick, marital or non," the 'old man' commented.

"Yeah," Con said, in reply. "And tricks are for kids, aren't they? What does that mean to me? What does any of this mean to me?"

"It means you do what you must to survive the daily humdrum, Con. And obviously... you excel in such, but, really...," the principle paused - dramatically, Con thought.

"How is it you remain safe every day?," he asked. Con answered simply.

"Oh, the same way most people remain safe, I guess." Con paused in a not so dramatic fashion. "I sleep with a bat by my bed and a knife under my mattress." The boy then smiled. "You?"

-&7&-

Harman grinned, acknowledging the ten year old's strength of character, even considering all he'd endured throughout the day.

"I realize I'm better than most who've approached me, threatening my safety, as I continue to live. How long do you believe it will be before you move to heavier artillery?"

"I don't know," Con answered honestly. "He's the one with the gun. Multiple guns. It's only a question of time. My 'mom' couldn't take it anymore, I guess. That's not her fault, though. That's his. I can take it all the way, if I have to, but... I don't want to. I want to have a life."

"That's admirable," Harman offered. "Admirable, but... dangerous."

"I guess," Con said in response. "You should review your curriculum, though. Math is dangerous. Guns are just... puff pieces for CNN. I wonder how long it'll be before they're laying sawed offs in boxes of Cracker Jacks as prizes. You must feel like the king of the world with society lining its pockets in guts and garters and people like my father adopting instead of procreating. Wow. What an example. Where's Reagan when I need my example of the American family?"

At this, Harman laughed. He was beyond delighted. This boy was a wunderkind. He had the grasp of society unfettered by age, by politics and mass. He was an SNL skit of perspective, however more valid - just as accepted by society. He could gain access anywhere, and Harman knew such by simply looking at the boy, speaking to him. The decision was all but made.

"We tried to contact your father regarding your fight today," Harman said easily - apart from his own thoughts - gauging the young student before him. There wasn't as much of a response as he'd anticipated.

"He doesn't care," Con replied. "You shouldn't bother trying to talk to him at all... and that's not just a cop out because I don't want to get in trouble. He does what he does. All he needs is a reason to go off on me. He always finds one, whether I'm a straight 'A' student or not. Well...," Con smirked then. "I did get that 'B' in math. Oops."

Harman smiled warmly at the humor in the boy. He smiled, meaning it, trying to put Con at ease, despite the circumstances.

"He works, I presume?"

"Yeah," Con replied. "Kind of. He writes for military journals. Magazines. He's retired army."

"I realize," Harman admonished. "Honorable... or dishonorable?," he asked, seeming to know the answer already.

"Oh," Con replied. "As honorable as it gets. Gulf War. Mobile unit got tackled by Iraqis. He took most of them down but got drilled real good in the process. They sent him home. Boy, were we happy."

"I'm sure," Harman answered. "So... the beatings always occurred?"

Con 'eyed' him carefully, with fire, trepidation.

"The beatings your mother endured," Harman corrected himself.

"On and off," Con answered, detached. "Goddamned war hero. Sure. The beatings were the worst last year... obviously."

There was a silence.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Con," Harman offered.

"Thank you. I still have your card. I 'read' it... a few times. That was nice of you. Even...," Con paused. "I know you're the principle and all. You have things you need to do."

"It was no trouble, Con," Harman responded, "And no one makes me do anything."

Con nodded.

"No. It was nice. That's obviously trouble for most people. Thank you."

Harman nodded, meaning, "you're welcome." Then, after a moment, he was continuing.

"If your father just... home all of the time?," he asked.

"...No," Con chuckled. "He speaks at military bases all over the country. He's gone for weeks, sometimes. It gives me some time to get some rest. Study... Run. Sleep."

"You feed and clothe yourself?," Harman seemed surprised. But it was obvious to him that the boy wondered whether or not his innocence on the subject was a 'put on'.

"It's not brain surgery," Con chided, cynically.

"And your schoolyard post for Masters Train and Clip? Is that of a more surgical nature? Or is that simply child's play?"

Con paused. Hesitated.

"I'm pretty sure you're making me sterile right now," Con said finally. Harman chuckled, amused.

"You're not in trouble for that business," Harman clarified. "I assume you know... how it's possible for drug dealers to navigate my schoolyard without direct reprimand aside from quality through better chemistry."

"I suppose I do," Con answered. "And... they're pretty small time by standards. Neither of them packs heat, yet. Just... switchblades. Butterflies. Really stupid, ineffectual shit for show. Um... stuff. Ineffectual stuff. Sorry. But sure, why not make all the money you can? Schoolbooks have to come from somewhere, right? Why tell everybody how dishonesty buys an honest education? And, anyway... if drugs were distributed like alcohol, there wouldn't be so much of the stuff killing people. I know so many kids that smoke dope, I'm beginning to feel like I'm the only one that doesn't."

Pause.

"I'm just going to stop now before I'm shot on sight," Con said calmly, probably meaning it.

Harman just shook his head, actually enjoying the exchange.

"Peer pressure not too much for you?," he asked - not trying to goad the boy, necessarily.

"Oh, my friends don't make me do anything I don't want to... they know I'm a slave to the track. And Train and Clip... all I want from them is to be left alone, and for them to not push to kids I like. All they want from me is coverage. Having me as an eye witness in any court case against them in juvie would be a show, I guarantee it. In other news - getting back to the original subject - I don't want to be cracked out for the hundred yard dash. Or... other games we get into that aren't Super Nintendo or Genesis... where you run. Tag. Touch football. Lookout, tell me if a teacher's around. You know."

Harman grinned, nearly devilishly, he felt.

"Your love of running is inspiring," Harman continued without missing a beat.

"It's my favorite thing," Con answered, undaunted. "I'm gonna run in the Olympics one day. And not those Special Olympics. The real ones."

"The 'Special Olympics' are real, Con," Harman answered.

"Sure. But... I know how people are. And the 'Special Olympics' aren't for me. It's not that I care, but... I'm just as good a runner as anyone who can see. That doesn't make me 'special'. Some of those kids - you know - they have real problems. You know?"

"I do. I understand your gifts, Con. And they have little to do with being 'Special'. You know this already, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Con answered. "What else do you need to know?"

Harman smiled.

"Your father isn't out of town now, is he?," Harman asked.

"No such luck," Con answered. "I hope he doesn't check his messages today."

"We didn't leave any," Harman answered.

"Good," Con seemed relieved. "I really don't care what he tries to pull on me. Just as long as he doesn't box my ears... I'll be fine." Harman sat up in his seat. Flexed his neck.

"I doubt the loss of your ears would put pins in your abilities, Con," he said. "Or do you doubt such?"

"I wouldn't like to find out, actually," Con answered in that way children would; fearlessly, unflinchingly.

"I see," Harman answered.

"I don't," Con quipped. He didn't really mean the comment, and Harman wasn't phased.

"You do so much more than 'see', son." Harman smiled. "I think that fact is lost on most everyone but the more important parties, I'll let you know."

Con seemed to consider things. He 'watched' Harman, nodded after a moment of contemplation. It wasn't necessarily in agreement.

"I have a question for you, son," Harman offered.

Con thought.

"Okay," he said. "Go ahead."

"Con... would you... be interested in some... after school programs?"

"Oh," Con offered. "Is this the part where... I'm in trouble?" Con smiled, finally seeming the kid that he was - not disrespectful.

"No," Harman answered. "And none of the parents of those boys are pressing charges."

"Is it because I'm 'blind'?," Con asked, with emotion; the question also bore dismissal, disgust. Con waited after posing the inquiry, very invested in the answer.

"No," Harman answered honestly. "It's because their sons are cowards, if you must know. Nothing even close to what you are. Adults love to press charges when it's warranted, however... not when it's obvious their offspring runs off with their cocks in their hands." Con smiled then. He hadn't been expecting the levity of the response, the candor or the humor in it. The compliment on his behalf either, Harman was sure. Then, Harman continued, knowing the boy was listening to him.

"None of their injuries will kill them or impair them for long... unfortunately."

Con smirked, playing along.

" 'Hey, mom. Dad. I got my ass handed to me by a blind kid. I'm going All Varsity.'"

Harman laughed. Tried not to. He collected himself as Con 'looked' on.

"These 'programs'... are intended to better equip certain students with the tools they need to... over achieve in what they excel in doing."

"Bash other kids' heads in?," Con wondered with some degree of self disappointment.

"Not at all. Being the best of the best, actually. What people need... to progress."

Con seemed to feel a little better then. He nodded, contemplating.

"Will I get to run?," Con asked unexpectedly.

"If you want," Harman answered, meaning it.

"'K. I'm in," Con answered. Harman smiled wisely. He was amused.

"If you're still interested... after you let it sink in for a bit... meet me in the gymnasium this evening at 5 P.M.."

"Alright," Con answered. "Sounds fair. I don't have any plans for tonight, anyway."

Con smirked, observing Harman.

"Is there anything else you enjoy besides running?," Harman asked easily.

"Listening to music," Con answered without hesitation.

"Headphones?"

"Not always," Con replied. "Not unless I want my dad to leave me alone. Playing Rage against the machine in my room usually causes a political debate he can't back up. He thinks the idea of 'arming the homeless' is mindless idealistic bullshit. I think he's a fascist."

Harman smiled. "I see. Tom Morello isn't to his liking."

Con sat up just a bit more. Smiled.

"I guess not," the boy admitted, seeming impressed.

Do you play any instruments?," Harman asked then.

"No. But, I want to learn how to play bass one day. The bass parts are my favorite."

Con thought.

"This isn't a music program, is it?," he asked doubtfully.

"...No," Harman answered.

"Huh. Well... I don't care. I'll be there. Okay?"

"Okay, Con," Harman offered. "5 P.M.?"

"5 P.M.," Con replied. Then, he smiled.

Harman nodded. Then again. "So, now you do what they told you?," he asked, quoting.

Con paused for less than a second.

"I won't do what you tell me," he said, in a diligent answer. "But I won't say, 'fuck you', either."

The boy was amused beyond words. "That would just be me asking for trouble, wouldn't it? And giving you a hard time for knowing your music."

Harman grinned.

And he dismissed the middle schooler, allowing him to exit without so much as a reprimand. Detention... simply wasn't for him. Harman had far better planned. Far better.