Imprint - 35. Ch. 7 Part III

III

The sky here was grey. Like a perpetually cloudy day, always threatening rain, the sun not visible, brightening the sky from behind its blockade. Strife said it was always like this.

There were two children traveling the same road as them (walking, everyone was walking, Canaan had never in his life seen so few cars), their parents were further ahead and they would chase each other down the path again and again with sticks they were pretending were swords, only so far away before turning and going back again. Almost normal, like any children he might've seen in Brighton, albeit speaking a language he didn't recognize. They both had tails, covered in velvet like fur the same black as on their heads.

It might've been more shocking if he hadn't spent the last two months fucking an elf. There was far less of that than he might've expected, most of what he saw were just people, the occasional odd hair color, the occasional odd bit of anatomy, but nothing that drastic. It was kind of a let down, actually.

Strife walked beside him, no coat and no glasses, tattoos (or, whatever they were) and his ears on careful display; he discovered, as he'd said, the more inhuman he looked the more respect he got here. Using his reputation to strong arm his way through and discourage questions was the game plan. To that end, their first stop had been the flea bag motel that was Strife's home for the last seven years (those look the same in any world, who knew; it also did much to explain Strife's sticking to his apartment), emerging again with a large machete strapped low on his back, in addition to the usual knife at his thigh.

Canaan kept staring at it, and Strife knew why, from the teasing looks he kept getting.

“So, where are we going then?”

“The brothel's in a completely different district. There's no direct route, so we're going to have to pop around a bit to get there. Might take an hour or so, if we don't get held up anywhere.”

Canaan's mind was slowly wrapping around it, while Strife tried his best to explain what were, to him, commonly understood concepts. They were in some...metaphysical wall, that developed pockets of existence within that weren't intended and maybe shouldn't be there. Its landscape, and even structures, mirrored things from both sides of the wall, and those who lived here were either people who didn't want to be found or people who weren't welcome anywhere else. Or it was once, Strife said most of the current residents had been here for generations, clinging to its historical reputation and weren't near as tough as they thought.

None of it sounded familiar. And none of it looked familiar; architectural styles perhaps, but not the places themselves. He never had been here.

It wasn't long before the stone arch came into view. Three stories tall, just wide enough to permit a vehicle, very dark blue in color, standing in the middle of the path that seemed to stretch out beyond it.

“I'd make a joke, but public use gates are never subtle, not even back home.”

Canaan wasn't sure about that, it was more subtle than, say, the swirling vortex that he'd been expecting only half seriously. “And that – what we used before, not public?”

“There are no public sanctioned paths to Veil.” Getting here had involved a trip through a men's room, of all things. Not a place he would've noticed on his own, the whole building had been covered in weird graffiti, twisting arcane symbols that wouldn't have looked unusual except they itched at something deep in his brain, half forgotten. It wasn't the only way to go, he was told, but it got them close to the motel. He hadn't seen exactly what Strife had done on the inside of the door, too busy wondering if this was all a joke, but when Strife popped the door open again and they exited the alley...

“If I were to walk around the arch, not through it, what would happen?”

“Wind up back at the inn eventually.”

Interesting. “Where you're from, its like this, too?”

Strife shook his head, “Nah, its like Veil. Big. But with aether and all the fun, convenient shit like that.”

“Is that what's in the air?” he'd noticed it as soon as they arrived, a slight tingling, a vibration against his skin.

A snort, “You can feel that? Gods within, you have been in Veil too long. Only reason I notice it at all – well, two reasons, I am sensitive to it, and because of all the time over there away from it.”

“So, over there?”

“Much more.”

Walking through the arch was somehow more mundane than leaving a restroom had been: a lurch in his stomach, like a sharp drop on a roller coaster, and that was it. The scenery on the other side didn't even look all that different.

Five arches later, and they had arrived.

“You have got to be kidding me.” It looked like something out of a movie where the director had no sense of subtlety.

“Yeah, I don't know what to tell you. Not one of ours. I always figured Y'hren built it from something from Veil.”

Not that he was any great expert in brothels, but he hoped not. “Who?”

“Guy who owns the place. Owns quite a couple places, actually. He's in the entertainment business. So, you know, whores, drugs, booze, and music, apparently. And I guess that comes from Veil then, good to know. He also claims to be a direct descendant of one of the people that made Outworld in the first place. Which is really not fucking likely, but it can't be disproved and it sounds good, so whatever.”

“Sounds charming.”

“Oh yeah. I think he enjoys having me on his payroll a little too much, makes him feel like a real big man. Asshole.”

“Is he going to be there?” that could be fun.

Strife shook his head, “Oh fuck no. Y'hren's a smirking ass but he's not stupid. I picked today because I knew there's no chance he'd be here. No, it should be Kevin on the desk, a scattered guard detail and that's it.”

“Kevin?”

“That's a Veil name, isn't it? They can be popular here.” A smile, “Shouldn't be too difficult, he's one of those guys, would want to fuck me if he wasn't afraid of me, doesn't know if he should stare at my ass or avoid my notice.”

“Is that what you're going to use?” couldn't say it was his favorite idea.

“It would look a little weird if I suddenly started flirting with him. But I think I can keep his attention on me while you do your thing.” Strife stepped closer, “And you don't talk to him, don't even look at him. Just – walk in there like you own the place and do your thing. I will keep him off your ass.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He knew he could play the part, at least.

“It won't work indefinitely, so don't fuck around. I don't suppose you have any idea what you're looking for yet?”

Canaan shook his head, and not for lack of trying.

Strife was less than thrilled, “Great. Hope this isn't a waste of time.”

Standing here, in a place no one he knew would ever believe existed, it was hard to think this could be a waste of time.

Inside was somehow worse than the outside: ivory walls with gilt leaves, scarlet carpet, wide sweeping staircase leading to the second floor seeming designed for grand entrances. The guy sitting behind the front desk, reading what looked like a comic book, was – well, it was Jeff in fifteen years.

He stared at them in surprise, “Strife? No one told me you were coming?”

“That's because I'm here on other business.”

Following instructions, Canaan continued walking passed where Strife stopped to lean against the desk (positioning himself to block Kevin's view of the foyer), letting his gaze sweep the room. No other people in sight, passed the staircases there was another door on this floor, closed and quiet.

“What business? Wait, who – who the fuck is that?”

“No one. Its take your daughter to work day.”

A turned back hid his smirk; a few thumps sounded in the distance, upstairs, words too muffled to make out.

“Its just a quick retrieval, Kev. We should be out of here in a minute.”

“Retrieving what? Who is that?”

“Its business. You know you can't ask that.”

“Well, depending on what you want to retrieve-”

“Depending, it would be your boss's business, and I'd deal with him. But it won't be.”

“Seriously, who is that? I've never seen him before.”

“Never said you had.”

(not so dim, he's correctly classified you as a threat, after all)

Strife appeared to be handling it well enough, and should the twat break through he doubted it would take much to intimidate him away. Canaan made for the far door.

“Hey! Hey! Excuse me, you can't go in there!”

It looked like a lounge, as ugly as the foyer. Three women and one man, all barely dressed, sat on red and gold couches playing some card game. They glanced up when he came in and just as quickly dismissed him; something in his demeanor must've said not a customer.

Canaan didn't move from the doorway, eyes sweeping back and forth, looking for... He still had no idea, and nothing jumped out at him. Unless it was a small thing, maybe rolled under the couch.

Couldn't have been a bit more helpful, huh, Drogan?

Footsteps sounded above, an open door and a shouting voice. Canaan ground his teeth, calculating how many rooms might be up there; he did not relish having to walk into each one, and deal with the hideous, unerotic live action porn he was sure to find. In time with the steps upstairs, he left the lounge again.

Kevin the desk jockey had a phone in hand now, looked just like one of the odd cell phones Strife carried around. Strife had that hand by the wrist, pinned to the desk, body still positioned to keep Kevin boxed in, requiring more bravery than the man had to go do something; he wasn't completely backing down, though.

“I could get fucked if I don't clear this, you know that.”

“You could get fucked for a lot of things.” A pause, “Like Adele.”

“...that's not fair.”

“Oh yes it is. You bend the rules when you want, and you owe me.”

“That's not-”

“You owe me.”

“This is not a private thing here, everyone is going to see this-”

“A random guy in a whorehouse? How fucking shocking.”

Canaan leaned against the stair rail, listening, but it was under control for now. Best get himself upstairs then, before anyone notices that-

“You're back.”

(…?!)

Behind and above, top of the stairs; footsteps, he'd heard footsteps.

“I am not at all happy, having to find you like this.”

(…?!)

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” Kevin the desk jockey, relinquishing his phone and finding a backbone; Strife, the look on his face...

(“So that is him. You assumed correctly, he is powerful. Little to say on the person, he does not know what to think right now.”)

(“He's a cocky asshole. Got to keep him on his toes.”)

(“Cocky? Ah. Then I see why you like him.”)

(that voice...I know that voice)

(seated in front of one of the only buildings that had some form-)

(a mass of shadow in a fading landscape-)

(“Is this real?”)

(“...it can be, if you wish it.”)

Blood rushed to his head, drowning out sound. Turn, turn around.

“There's something there that belongs to you.”

(“Some interesting stories coming from the Millburn forest. A cave there, may be worth investigating.”)

“You're going to want it back.”

(“I would move quickly, were I you. Before it vanishes again.”)

Turn, turn around, grand staircases, bright red carpet; eyes climbing the steps, up and up, to the top...

Bare feet, bare legs, long, slim and perfectly smooth; the sort of legs men found attractive, inspire fantasies of what (or whom) those legs would wrap around.

“You're only ever vague like that when you know the answer is going to piss me off.”

A black silk robe, long in the arms to the point that not even his fingers were visible; it was short where it counted, indecently so, it if weren't belted so tightly-

Why are you dressed like that?

(he pauses at the threshold, turning back over his shoulder; those strange pulsing eyes searching you out, not quite getting there but seeing nonetheless. He smiles warmly)

(“Are you coming?”)

Those eyes, dark grey pupils, blown wide and pulsing visibly. And at the edge of one fluttering pupil, a single faint, off off white ring can be seen; the faded remains of an iris, the only hint those eyes may have once looked different.

(“You'll have to give me their names. Want to make sure I thank them, for leaving you in such great condition. Just like I thanked Dra-”)

A light touch at his shoulder, there and gone before he could object; Strife, now standing beside and to the back of him (a strategic spot, out of the way). “I didn't know,” his voice was low, a private plea, “I swear, I didn't know.”

The boy started walking down the stairs.

“Something that belongs to you-”

(“Shall I go smooth that out? Can't imagine it would improve your mood much, to continue sleeping alone.”)

“A constant. Something, someone-”

(he stays at the entrance, tightly gripping the doorframe, still terrified of this room even as its painted in another man's blood. The echoes of screams fade, the pool of red expands and a shadow lifts from the boy's face)

(“Thank you.”)

“-been around long enough-”

(he is a limp shaking weight in your arms, pitiful sobs come from his throat. You try to shield him from other eyes, blood soaked and aether burned, and you hate, hate having to put him through this, hate sometimes that he never says no)

(“You're going to be all right.”)

(no words, arms wind around your neck, hot enough to scald)

“-in enough memories-”

(a hand pushes from the edge of the bed, a warm weight fills the space you leave behind, keeping close and not just to avoid accidentally rolling into Strife, sprawled on the bed's other side. This happens less often than it once did, and maybe it would never stop entirely)

(“How bad this time?”)

(“Shh...I just want to sleep.”)

A few steps closer, the boy stood right in Canaan's space, like he thought he belonged there. “The hair, it looks better in person.”

Blood rushing in his ears, it was hard to hear over it; Canaan's sight narrowed on a metal studded leather collar around the boy's neck.

His head cocked to the side, “You almost know, yes?” another step closer, toes resting on the top of Canaan's shoes, “Do you know me yet? Do you know my name?”

(“Was that at me?”)

(“You need a name. Its as good as anything, right?”)

“Trick,” didn't need to think, didn't need to stop thinking and let instinct take over, no need...he knew it, of course he knew it.

Trick smiled, a big bright grin that made him look so young, forever seventeen. He reached a hand out, black silk sleeve falling back to reveal an aether burned hand: blue fingertips, circle at palm and wrist, dark blue vines connecting everything up to his head. Those fingers reached-

-but the boy was sharply jerked backward before contact could be made. The leather collar pulled tight against his throat, feet stumbling, arms pinwheeling out in a desperate bid to keep balance, to not hurt anyone.

Behind him appeared a man, like any that could be found in Veil, middle aged and office job fat, unbuttoned shirt and unzipped pants and the surprised rage of someone still trying to track just where that unexpected no came from. He was holding a leash, a leash attached to the metal studded leather collar around Trick's neck.

Canaan saw red.

“Where the fuck you think you're going?”

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey! Property damage comes out of your purse, you know that.”

“And where does my lost time come out of? The fucking whore assaulted me, where's that coming out of?”

“And we can come to an arrangement on that. Just don't damage any-”

It was almost another voice, speaking in his head, slowing his heart rate and sharpening his vision; deeply ingrained, instinctual training – Calm, this is easily rectified.

“What comes naturally to you to do, darling.”

(you always expect fireworks, every time)

“Just pops the lock.”

(you make your own drama)

He felt a hot splash against his torso, and there was perfect silence for a bare few shocked seconds, before the screaming started. Pain and fear and shear confusion, that oh so familiar inability to believe that this is happening, that it happened to you. The man had released Trick's leash, no more hand to hold on, torn skin, veins and jagged bone dangling at the elbow, blood pumping to the floor. In Canaan's hand was the machete that had been on Strife's back, out of its harness and dripping at his side.

Its not a stream of old memories freed from their bottle and flashing slide show quick through his mind; its not even a popped lock to a building previously inaccessible. It was being in a darkened room and the lights come on and now you can see (if not everything at once, live as long as Canaan has and that room is the size of a country). Its not that you ever thought your room was empty, you'd stumble into objects in the dark, you know something is there, you know its shape, you just don't know what it is – light provides clarity, but the landscape won't be that alien. It never feels as different as it maybe should.

Except on the outside, the people around him could often see the difference, the known weight of years adding something to his demeanor. He could see it in Strife's face, surprise at being manhandled giving way, the wave of open relief that followed.

The man turned in a circle, feet catching on his dropped forearm, lunging blindly at Trick as the closest person. Canaan kicked him away, knocking him over into a growing pool of his own blood. Ever reliable, Strife took those two steps to the side, planted a boot in the middle of the man's back, pinning him to the ground.

Canaan turned his attention on problem number two.

Kevin the desk jockey had left the protective bubble of his fortress to show off for a customer; he now stood frozen three feet from it, hands raised as though it would help, wide eyes darting to take in the whole scene. Breath jerked loudly out of a gaping mouth, cut off in the middle of his speech.

“I'm sorry,” and the smile was one he'd learned from watching Drogan, “I interrupted you. Please, continue.” Flicked blood off the blade in a long practiced move, “You were saying something about property damage?”

Sweat poured down his face, hands shaking.

“Finish your thought.”

The front of his pants darkened, stream of urine running down his leg, over his shoe and soaking the carpet.

“Finish. Your. Thought.”

Kevin bolted for the desk. Canaan was after him in a flash, vaulting over the counter top and landing easily on his feet on the other side. Kevin shrieked, fumbling at whatever hidden arsenal he was going for, popping up again with the first thing he found: a small knife, held out in front of him with both hands.

Eye poker, it was absurd, “What are you going to do with that?”

“Get the fuck away from me!” he was sobbing, tears and snot flying everywhere.

Canaan took a step closer, just to watch him jump a foot in the air. “What are you going to do?”

“Get back!” he risked a glance sideways, hysterical, “Gods sake, Strife, call him off!”

A scoff, “Does it look like I control him?”

Canaan eyed the knife, calculating-

Do it.

His arm snapped out, hand reaching for the blade, feeling the pinch and burn as the curved tip pierced his palm, slid between the bones, and tore out through the back. Pushed all the way to the short hand guard, wrapping his fingers over the hilt and ripping it out of the kid's shock loosened grip. In a fluid motion, Canaan's arm cocked back and snapped out again, striking the man in the face.

Stubble on the underside of his chin scratched at Canaan's hand. The knife had pushed up through Kevin's mouth, partially severing his tongue, cutting through the upper gum line, the point poking out of his cheek. Kevin's eyes rolled up in his head, breath coming fast and erratic.

“Hey,” waving his hand in the other's face, trying to attract his attention before he goes into shock, “Hey, look at me. Look at me.” Brown eyes reappeared, attempting to focus, hard to say how much was being understood. Canaan turned his hand, turning Kevin's head as well. “There. Apologize. Tell him you're sorry.”

Kevin wasn't going to be saying anything again, but he could think it and that would be enough. Trick's legs were streaked with blood, his face was calm; after a minute he nodded and turned away. Kevin's head was pressed to the desk, the knife removed from them both and driven back into his temple; Canaan let his body crumple to the floor.

He stared at, stared through, the hole in his hand. His clenched his fist, feeling the sharp burn, though manageable and everything still worked. Thin lines of blood ran down both sides, he shook it off but more trickled out.

“This should've stopped by now, right?” that's what the newly lighted brain space was telling him.

“Yeah, but you should have more decoration. So maybe its not working so well?”

Canaan's eyes focused on Trick, “I knew this was going to piss me off. I knew it. But I could not, even as a worse case scenario, would've imagined this.” Though maybe, from the outfit, he should've, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Trick's expression didn't change, “Lovely to see you, too.”

“I'd say the same, but you're wearing a fucking dog collar.”

Trick's blue fingers worked around said collar, squeezing between them, a small stream of smoke and the leather broke apart, brushed off to the ground. “Can we not do this right now?”

Oh, he wanted to, but the plea worked on him, as usual. Out from the desk, holding out an arm in welcome, Trick all but ran to him.

“I missed you. Bastard.”

Wrapping arms around him, hands feeling silk, hot skin, the pulse of energy all around him that gets lost in dreams. He seemed healthy otherwise, thin but not starved, there was that at least. Putting his cheek on that thick black hair, he spoke in a low voice, “Did you really assault that guy?”

Laughter, that he felt as much as heard. “I knew you were here, and he would not get off. Just a kick, the baby.”

“Good for you. Grab him by the face next time, he won't get up again.”

“Well,” Strife ambled closer; the man on the floor was dead by now, maybe bled out, maybe with a helpful boot print on his throat. “If I'd known taking you out would be this much fun, I'd have done it sooner. Hi, again,” directed at Trick, in a tone that held back a thousand questions. “We should probably get out of here, though, before anyone else wanders down.”

“No.” It was out of his mouth before he had a chance to consider it, “No, I don't think so.” The machete had been left on the desk top when he went over, Canaan released Trick to go retrieve it, “I assume my former property has all been repurposed? So we need a new base. I like this one.”

“You want to take over the brothel?”

“Is that a problem?” it was a serious question.

Strife knew what he meant and thought it through, “No one here could fight you, Y'hren won't like it but I think he'll let it go to save face. Its a small district, not a lot else here, we could all but own it.”

“Sounds perfect. I'm upstairs, you're at the door.”

Strife pulled the bone knife off his thigh, “Not that I'll be expecting much,” He brought the blade to his mouth, breathing over it, lips moving in a soundless command.

(watch him carefully carving the snake; fourth day in a row now, scales arranging in a precise pattern, more than just a fuck you to departed Khar'tal)

(“What are you doing?”)

(“Adding a little something. Level the playing field.”)

The necrotizing knife. Fuck, no one could play fast and dirty quite like Strife.

Strife knew he'd remembered, and it was not a good idea to stay and watch his tongue moving over it, prodding the sigil awake again; later yes, when this was done.

“You will be allowing the prostitutes leave, yes?” Trick spoke, “I know them, this is not their home, many would prefer not to be here at all.”

“Its true,” Strife added, “Little more like Veil that way.”

Wonderful. “Its not an extermination, they're free to leave, see that they do.”

Canaan climbed the staircase, designed for grand entrances, weapon in hand, blood staining a once white shirt.

“Should you wish to thank me, well...put on a good show, and I'll consider the debt repaid.”

Are you watching, Drogan? He probably was, he always was, somewhere, never missed a show.

And what would Drogan do? That answer was clear to him, now.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” projecting his voice, far and wide, like on the battlefield, too long ago now, “I regret to inform you this establishment, under new management, is closed for business. You have three minutes to grab your shit and file out the door, life and limb intact. Past that,” the machete twirled in a nimble hand, “No promises.”

---

He was back downstairs in less than an hour, after searching through all eight rooms to make sure there was no one lying in wait. No such luck, he was only even challenged once – twice technically, but the second man ran seeing his partner felled and it was too pitiful to bother giving chase. He was not going to feel settled until he had a chance to really test his limits, make certain he was functioning right. Right after that, see if anyone through to put his things in storage, his weapons, his old clothes; t-shirt and jeans was not meant for this kind of thing, stuck to his skin unpleasantly.

He was surprised to find four new bodies in the foyer, Strife lounging on the stairs, flipping his knife; he was a lot better at that now. Strife turned to him with that big shit eating grin, “Well, hey there, Red Wolf.”

Canaan's mood soured, “How long have you been holding that one back?”

“Since I saw you,” the grin widened, “You got to admit, it fits.”

“I like it,” Trick offered from his spot on the desk top, ever helpful.

“No one asked you,” and then to Strife, “No nicknames. No titles. Every time I hear that, I'm taking a tooth.”

His tongue ran slow over the top row, “Come get them.”

Tempting... He pulled back from the distraction, not yet. “You're bloodier than I thought you'd be.”

“Yeah, go figure,” Strife gestured with the blade, “Y'hren's men, all set to walk out too, until they saw what side of the line I was on.” shaking his head, “What is it with people assuming my loyalty when I never gave it? Is this going to be Khar'tal all over again? Ooh, you traitor! Are you fucking kidding me?”

People always want to imagine proximity and association mean more than they do; when someone like Strife gives you his loyalty there is no mistaking it, but then again, the only person who ever had that was himself.

(“Yeah... I think I'd find a new man in one year, forget waiting forty. No offense, love, this is fun, but, well, its not quite that special.”)

“What?”

He was grinning, “Nothing.” Not surprised, not even a little. Canaan held the machete out handle first, “I believe this is yours.”

“Yeah, I believe I was wearing that,” Strife took it back, set it on the step just above him, “Hope you had fun with it.”

Canaan's hand didn't retreat, it reached out, closer, his fingers finding that ring around Strife's neck for the charmed third time. “And this,” a sharp tug and the leather cord broke, “is mine.”

Strife tried for offended, didn't go a good job, “Thought I said you had to earn that back?”

Canaan didn't reply to that, sliding the ring back on his finger, where it belonged, “Tell me. Did you manage to salvage this memento as soon as I hit the ground, or did you have to go back for it later?”

Yellow eyes narrowed, “Fuck you.”

“And I'm sure you're only carrying it around your neck because you don't want to lose it.”

“Fuck you.”

He just grinned wider, couldn't have stopped it if he wanted to. “That's just what I get out of all this. Fuck me.”

Strife's mouth opened, all set to deliver some caustic retort, but the words didn't seem to come, just a frustrated scoff before he turned away.

“Well, look at that,” he just kept from laughing, “Speechless already. This is going to be a good life.”

He could feel Strife's eyes glaring at the back of his head as he walked away in victory; it wasn't until his foot hit the scarlet foyer carpet that the response came, “I guess its nice to know it was true.”

Canaan didn't turn around, just glanced over his shoulder, waiting.

“That I am someone worth remembering.”

And there went his victory; it was disgusting how quickly that came back to him. He kept walking.

“You even remember that conversation, don't you?” laughing, the braggart. Not that he didn't like it, making that big mouth just shut the fuck up.

“You shall never hear its end now,” Trick slid off the desktop with all his usual grace, walking through the blood soaked carpet to meet him.

“You need a shower,” not just because of his legs, Trick smelled like sex and he needed that to end.

A nod, “The prostitutes were unable to collect all their belongings within your time frame. I swore it would all be left outside by tomorrow eve.”

“That's fine,” he'd expected to be asked for more, but it was possible Strife had already been volunteered; he would be better for it, knew the area, knew people, accrued favors.

“And my room?” it was a probing question.

His teeth grit together, “Find another one.” It was easy to guess which room Trick's had been, and it had offered a glimpse of his life here Canaan would rather never had. It'd taken every last ounce of self control not to rescind his generous offer, storm out to the street and slaughter every person here. He'd settled for smashing what he could, and later he'd have the door welded shut.

Trick smiled, a complicated expression, glad, tired and regretful. Blue burned fingers brushed his face, “Look under the desk. Thank me later.”

Strife found his feet again, silently watching Trick disappear upstairs. “So, how long are you going to let that go?”

“After I've calmed down,” Canaan ducked behind the desk as suggested, checking out what Kevin had under there. The Veil firearm might've been what the idiot was going for, but that wasn't what caught his eye now.

Strife had a habit, after a kill, of running his fingers through his hair, streaking blond with red. Never saw him doing it any other time, Canaan suspected it was for him, as loudly as he complained about that fetish he also invoked it as much as possible. Never could resist a man in red.

“You know your way around here pretty well?” moving back to the center of the foyer, just over asshole's corpse.

“Yeah, I guess so. Its not a maze or anything.”

“So five minutes is too generous,” the baseball bat was light weight, it swung easy, “Maybe two then?”

“For what?” a formal question, he'd caught on.

Canaan raised the bat, “Go,” Pointing with it, to the back, the lounge, the stairs, “Run.”

Yellow eyes dilated, the corner of his mouth turned up, “Run, huh?” He took half a step back, like he was considering it; his foot rested on the edge of a step, “Nah, I don't think I will. I don't think I need to.” The bone knife came out again, sigil sleeping, holding it out in front of him, properly.

“You don't, huh?” Now, he let himself be distracted, by every little thing, rediscovered and just recalled.

His smile was cocky, as usual, “If there was any time I could straight up knock you down, no tricks, it'd be now. Why would I ever want to pass that up?”

“Really?”

A shoulder shrugged, an eyebrow cocked, “Well, I've kept on doing what I do, whole time. You? You've spent the last twenty-one years being a rich kid. In Veil. So yeah, I don't need a jump on you.”

He let himself laugh, mocking, “You have spent the last seven years leg breaking for weaklings. And I am never that far off my game.”

“We'll see,” sharp yellow eyes, a hornet's nest trap waiting to spring; a tongue ran across his lips, two fingers uncurled from the knife hilt to beckon him, “Come on, love. Come get me.”

...Fuck, he missed this.

---

“You are looking colorful.”

The wound on his hand had closed up now, a new still tender layer of skin stretched over it, sore to touch but unnoticed against the twenty or so new cuts he had.

“Two months in bed with Strife.”

“Ah. Not colorful enough, then.”

“Why are you still wearing that?”

“Because I like it,” Trick leaned against the wall, freshly showered and sweet smelling, in that short black robe, “It helps the heat. You should try it.”

“Don't think I have the legs for it.”

“Would Strife agree with that?”

“You can ask him,” he was out of the room now, wandered off in search of a shower and painkillers. Canaan leaned back on the headboard, waited.

Trick sighed, “I have prepared myself as best I can. Have out with it, however you like.”

Well, he was never going to be calmer than this. “Strife told me this place has been steady employment for five years. Five years, he's been in and out of here.”

“Yes, I know.” Then, reluctantly, “I have lived here for nine.”

That was longer than Strife had even been in Outworld. “He also told me you disappeared, shortly after, he woke up and you were gone.”

“I went to one of your rural camps,” so at least he had food and shelter, “Only until I knew you had come back, and I found my way to Veil.”

“Why didn't you find me?” That he didn't understand, while Strife had been stuck searching the old fashioned way, Trick could've located him immediately.

“Veil is an intimidating place for an out dweller without a guide. An inhuman one, no less.” The expected reproving look was ignored, his expression turned somber, “I would have found a way, you know that. Things changed, Canaan, it was no longer safe.”

“And this was?”

“Safety of a sort. The guards exist to keep the public out as much as keep me in.”

“You pay a high price for that sort of safety.”

Trick laughed, a brittle bitter sound, one that came close to showing his actual age. “Is nothing I have not done before, a thousand times, or may again should the worst come to pass.”

Blood turned to ice in his veins; he knew, he knew, even before Trick took tentative steps to sit on the end of the bed, arms around himself, small and alone, “Canaan, he's here. He's in Veil.”

Of course, of course he was.

“Close enough in my wake, I do not know...if it was after you, or me.”

“Me,” Canaan tried to sound confident of that, tried to pass the feeling on, “You know it is. That man can't resist me.”

“Nor you him, it seems at times,” but it must've helped at least as little, Trick's arms unwound, a hand rested on his leg.

Harsh, but true, Canaan never could bring himself to walk away for good; goading Drake was far more fun than it should be.

“He would never come for me himself, in the open. He would send another, just a man. And I would see that man coming. If the guards do not stop him at the door they would at the least buy me time. Safety, of a sort.”

No attempt had been made, Trick would've said. “And the only place you could've found that is a brothel? There was nothing else?”

“Hardly had the time to shop around. I was cornered and offered a contract, I felt it best to accept.”

“What do you mean cornered?”

“Y'hren came looking for me. An associate had seen me, thought Y'hren would like an exotic Cradle species in his collection.”

“A what?” any other circumstance, Canaan would've laughed, “Where did they get that horseshit?”

“I do not know, but it was fortunate for me. I could ask for anything, they would not know better.”

“Not to be left alone.”

“Well, no. But I softened it where I could.”

“That is not the point.”

“I know well your point,” and there, some rare frustration made its way to the surface, Trick's hand pressing on his knee, “What else did you want me to do, Canaan?”

“Stay with Strife in the first place. Did you think he wouldn't have protected you?”

Another bitter laugh, “He would have tried, yes. But he is one man, powerful but flawed when you are not there to shore up his weaknesses. And what a pretty picture we would have made, myself all alone with your mortal spouse. What better homecoming for you, to find him dead and me gone? How could he have resisted it?”

Canaan fell silent, he had not thought of that.

“I know you did not, it is a good thing I did. I was thinking of Strife when I left, I did not believe he would be harmed were I not there. You see I was right.” Fingers dug at his knee again, Trick glared as best he was able, “You do not get to be angry at me about this. It is your fault to begin with.”

“Mine?”

“You are the one supposed to protect me, you left me alone.”

“I was dead.”

“Yes, and whose fault was that?” Dark grey pupils throbbing, like an angry pounding heart beat, “Do you remember it?”

Canaan shook his head, “I rarely do.” Too quick for the realization to form, to settle long enough for the memory to retain; if it was slow, if he saw it coming, but that was not the usual way.

“You would have been ashamed to see,” Trick admonished, “It was a boy. A green boy, never held a sword before, swings it out wide and rather than hitting himself in the face, takes out the Black Wolf with a lucky shot. A boy, who would never have gotten near you had you been paying attention. There is hardly a more pathetic end than that.”

Canaan raised a skeptical brow, “That's a lot to pick up from a person in a five second glance, even for you.”

“Not five seconds, oh no,” his smile was almost cold, an even rarer sight, moving up on the bed and sitting astride Canaan's outstretched legs, “I had several days to look my fill of him, Strife saw to that.”

Blue tipped fingers ran over a string of beads around his neck, one Canaan didn't remember seeing before: intricately carved bone spheres spaced out on a black silk cord hanging almost to his waist.

“That's new.”

“Only to you. Strife made it for me, as a memento.”

A laugh was surprised out of him; to think, just this morning, life was dull and prospects bleak. His head thunked back against the headboard, “That bad, huh?”

“Pitiful. You are lucky no one else saw, and your reputation remains intact.”

And the laughter stopped again, “Sorry. That you had to see that.”

“I felt it. And you should be.” Blue fingers pressed to his lips before he could get a word out, tingling hot against sensitive skin. “No, you listen. Do you know what that was to me? Not only a good life I had just began to trust, gone in an instant. It was my – the only person that ever – could ever-” the words got backed up in his throat, frustration at play on his face, “Look, it is not as it was, any longer. Drogan could put everything on hold to wait your return, it was to his benefit and yours, yes. But now – I need you alive. Because without you, I am alone. And when I am alone, I – I-”

“All right,” he couldn't listen anymore, “All right, enough.” Wrapping his arms around Trick's thin frame, he pulled him down to rest against his chest, “I'll do better this time. Promise.” he was sure he could pull that off, for a while at any rate. He should've made arrangements for Trick for when this happened, so he would be safe until Canaan came back. That was an unforgivable oversight on his part.

“I will forgive you.”

“You know I'd find you? If you'd been gone, I'd come get you.”

A grim whisper, “You would try. And hope it was in time to matter.”

“Well, its not going to come to that.”

Trick's body relaxed, bit by bit, settling in for the night. Strife's reappearance seemed well timed, he came in with a grin and a sarcastic quip to break any remaining tension, “Aww, look, we're a family again. How fucking sweet.” He threw a bath towel on the floor and stood at the bed side, naked, wet and bruised, “You're staying, right? Room for me in there?”

Canaan answered, “The bed fits four, get in and shut up.”

Trick's head turned, eyes watching as Strife flopped on the other side of the mattress, a body's worth of space between them. “I had not thought to see you,” he said, “Were you not going to get another man? Within the hour, I believe?”

Canaan worked to keep his face blank, “I remember something like that, too.”

Strife's eyes narrowed, “I forgot how annoying this was.”

“Or how evasive you are.”

Burning sulfur eyes, speaking through clamped teeth, “Okay, look. I have, over the many years, gotten used to a certain level of sexual, uh, freedom, and... What can I do here? I can't just fuck any guy like I can fuck you. I'd kill him. And I don't have the time to hide all those bodies. So congratulations, you've ruined me.”

That was it, Canaan laughed, long and loud, Strife still glaring only making it better. Trick joined in, relaxing the rest of the way.

“Yeah, fuck you both.”

“No, no, wait,” Trick reached a hand out, a token gesture that only patted the middle space between them, “Now you tell me how you found him?”

“Don't you already know?”

“Only enough to see it would be far better to hear you tell it.”

Oh Christ, it would, too. Canaan leaned back, closed his eyes and tried to pretend he couldn't hear.

It somehow took more than an hour. “Its a really nice apartment, though,” the only thing not embellished beyond recognition, “Its in one of those real tall buildings Veil has, like way up there, too. Nice view, huge tv, you'll love it.”

That snapped him back out of his idle musing, “Why would we go back there?”

Strife blinked in surprise, “Where else would we go?”

“I just got us a place.”

“You want to live in the brothel?”

No, but it would do. “Since we're playing flashback, you remember what I told you that first day?” Seemed like a vast understatement now, he isn't sure anymore how he managed to just quietly pace the walls of the prison he knew he was trapped in, how he kept from killing anyone, killing himself for a chance at escape. The very first time he came to adulthood without his memory, out of Drogan's view, and he couldn't even do it on his familiar home ground? He had to also be stuck in the foreign world of Veil?

There was a gaping hole in his prison wall now, so why would he ever continue sleeping within it, wearing the skin of a bored kid from Brighton that never really existed to begin with?

“I am never going back there again.”

---

He returned only one last time with Strife and Trick in tow, to collect what few belongings he wanted to keep (including the Mustang, Strife included the tv). He closed his bank account, maxed out every credit card buying what he could to sell for cash later. Last, he took a chunk of his parents' bank account, grateful that while they thought him lazy and unmotivated, financially irresponsible was not on the list. It wouldn't be a problem to come in panicked, stumble out a story about some vague emergency and the teller would be happy to help out, they knew him, they knew the family, whatever he needed.

The bank would alert his parents, no doubt; Walter and Anita would be waiting for a phone call, and when it didn't come, they'd drive into the city to pound on his door. The door would be unlocked for them, the interior untouched save for a few missing items. And in the center of the kitchen's island counter, a deliberate arrangement: his cell phone, his wallet, his keys, his driver's license. No note, no goodbyes were meant, no further explanation needed.

Xander Cain was officially dead.