Imprint - 31. Ch. 6 Part II

II

He is awake now, finally. Eyes bruised and bloodshot, only half focused, staring up at you. His face is drained of color, pale lips parted to emit thin, shallow breaths; at least he was still breathing, that had not been a certainty yesterday.

Your jaw tightens as your eyes travel over his neck, the angry red slash sewn closed with thick black thread. Someone had washed him off but patches of blood had been missed, now dry against his skin; no one bothered with what had spilled onto the floor, leaving a dark red ring around the bed.

Yellow eyes meet yours and you know he's reading all those small tells in your expression most people miss; for once, you don't appreciate it.

Say something. Make one wise crack, I swear...rip those stitches out with my fingers, leave you here to bleed.

He looks away, eye lids fluttering closed and you think he's gone back to sleep; his lips move, voice barely sounding, “Sorry.”

Your jaw relaxes again, shifting in your chair that had long since stopped being comfortable.

“Don't do it again.....”

…....he's still talking, running his mouth about aetheric arts, all the crazy powerful shit he can do, just how strong his mods are and how amazing that is, all the knowledgeable people who owe him favors. So many words, where only few were needed. You could not much follow him anyway; aether had been Drake's territory, and that was never a place you wanted to be.

“And its not like the bad old times anymore, either. Its not just take a chance and if it don't work out, well, sucks being you. They can test it now, if its going to take or not. And its not perfect or nothing, but its pretty accurate.”

“None of this is what I asked you.”

Yellow eyes study yours, considering for a moment before softening, letting out a breath, “Yes. Okay? Yes. I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't think I could handle it.” A smile, “I'm not looking to die yet. Obviously. At least not until you get boring.”

You laugh, short and dismissive, but you think about it. You admit, it would not be the worst thing, having someone around for......

…....the ring sits heavy and awkward around your finger; you wonder how long it will be before you stop noticing it. You're still not sure how you got talked into this; judging by the stream of jokes and sarcasm from the other side of the bed the feeling is mutual.

“Are we going to have to stop fucking now, start, you know, making love? Will you hold me after?”

You smile; why not, he can't see it, “Only if its under water.”

Laughter and an elbow jammed in your ribs, “Yeah, right. You'd miss me.”

…fuck it, I would.....

Xander woke with a sigh, glaring at the bedroom wall. Another night in a long string of them, where his brain would not turn off, thinking, dreaming

(remembering?)

...maybe. Who knew anymore?

There was a weight pressed against his back, an arm draped loosely around him; Canaan turned his head slightly but Strife seemed fast asleep. Odd, he hadn't been the cuddling type until now; it had been appreciated.

(that's how I used to know it was winter, he'd start inching closer. By midseason, I'd have to peel him off me every damn morning)

He stayed still for the ten minutes it took for Strife to begin lazily stirring; his eyes focused on the clock, watching the seconds tick by, thinking

(dreaming, remembering)

feeling tension start to tighten in his limbs and the base of his skull. He didn't know when things shifted so the incredible sex was no longer enough to mask how fucking weird this whole thing was; pity he couldn't get it back.

“Morning, lover,” he threw it over his shoulder like another casual remark, like he wasn't on edge for the reply.

There was a stillness while the words were processed, then he felt Strife's silent laugh, “Make fun of me all you want. I missed my free heater.”

...fuck.

Xander was out of bed in a flash, stopping only when he hit the wall, then down the corner to the window. He stared down at the evening rush hour, small people driving home to their normal, boring lives.

How does he keep doing that? The theory that he was picking up on subtle cues was looking less likely. Every time, a stray thought,

“Yeah, I had a brother. Well, half brother. Once. Lying little shit.”

dream fragments,

“It was a machete. Or close enough. Didn't realize the guy was still alive and I lean over and whack, and then blood everywhere. Stupid of me. Almost died, too. But, well, help was real quick.”

random bullshit that flew out of his mouth,

“Yeah, it is bone, actually. Good catch.”

and he always had an answer, every fucking time.

.Once or twice could be coincidence, several times could be an exceptionally good mind reader, but Strife was not omniscient. The excuse was growing thinner, what was left when it was gone?

His reflection stared back at him in the window, a ghostly apparition over the traffic outside. Meeting his own eyes in the glass, the tension wound even tighter; when did his own features start to seem so alien, like another piece in this conspiracy to drive him insane.

The click of a lighter drew him out of his thoughts, turned his head to find Strife sitting in bed, pulling on a cigarette, one of his many make shift ash trays balanced on a bare thigh. He looked unruffled for the rude wake up, yellow eyes sharp and clear and watching him, hair pushed back from those impossibly pointy ears (impossible but real, passed the bite test and everything).

“Problem?”

He (Xander? Canaan?) didn't how to answer, between a natural inclination to dismiss and a lack of adequate words

(and resentment, let's not forget that. He might not be lying, but he knows something he's not saying. Getting sick of it)

“I need to get out of here.”

A frown, “Meaning?”

“Just out. Out of the apartment, change of scenery.” It was a good idea now that he was hearing it, Xander had been trapped and isolated with this insanity for far too long; perhaps a visit to the world outside, stupid and aggravating though it may be, would clear his head, provide some perspective, firm up the eroding boundaries between fantasy and reality. Maybe then he'd have some idea what to think.

Strife nodded, “Sure, sounds good.” ash trapped into the soap dish, smoke curled into the air, “So, where we going?”

Canaan snorted, not surprised he'd invite himself along...nor that the invitation had indeed been implied.

He tried to think but came up against a wall. That was one thing Jeff had been slightly useful for, there was always something he wanted to see or do and dragged Xander along with him; on his own there was little he enjoyed and nowhere he wanted to be, and Strife would likely be no help either.

After a minute of silence, Canaan went with his only thought, “Feel like going to a club?”

---

“Oh, all right,” after two hours of complaining, on arrival Strife was quick to concede, “Its not that bad.”

A Monday night assured there were fewer people in the run down club than during the one and only time Xander had been here; still a sizable crowd pushing and shoving at each other while a barely graduated from the garage band played in the corner. A second full on riot looked more than possible; if Strife got hit in the face he'd probably break someone's arm, and that would be even more satisfying than watching Jeff cry.

Strife was dressed as he had been the night they first met, dark glasses and long coat, a knife up his sleeve and strapped high on his thigh. With the yellow eyes and pointed ears covered he looked like an ordinary man... or would, if one hadn't over a month of close study to catalog every small difference. Being out in a crowd brought that into stark relief, Canaan had a hard time understanding now how he'd ever mistook him as human.

“I thought you might enjoy the floor show.”

“Are they supposed to be dancing?”

“As a thinly veiled excuse.”

A shrug, “I still think bruising someone is a ridiculous way to win a fight, but at least they're enthusiastic.”

“And how would you win a fight?”

“Do you want to know?” Strife's voice lowered to a whisper, lips stretched in a teasing grin, “What would you do to see me join in?”

He played along, “That depends, are they going to the hospital or the morgue?”

“I don't know that word, but I'm sure I know what you mean.” so seductively promising, honey and razor blades; Xander knew it was all fooling around, but...

God, I do want to see that, one day.

“Can I get something to drink here, like at the other place?”

He pointed to the bar.

“They got anything good?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Well, I know that, doesn't mean you never hear anything,” Strife started in that direction, “I hope it isn't more of that weak shit I keep getting here. Swear, I never miss home so much as when I'm trying to get drunk.”

“They got strong spirits in Rivendell?”

“What? Look, it just all tastes watered down to me. What I want is a punch in the face, I want to spit blood, you know?”

The bartender was eying them as they approached, Canaan suspected he caught much of the conversation from the deeply skeptical look on his face. If Strife noticed the derision he ignored it, flashing his charming crooked grin, “I want something that's going to knock me on my ass. You got anything like that?'

The bartender, covered in facial hair and, by the look of it, homemade tattoos, gave Strife an unimpressed once over; he poured a shot glass of something probably closer to paint thinner and stood back to watch.

Strife coughed as it went down, fist hitting his chest, but he was smiling, “Wow, now that's what I'm talking about. See, he gets it.” He returned the glass with another grin, “What else you got?”

And the bartender, amazed Strife was even still standing, nodded to the counter, “Sit down.”

Canaan found himself leaning against a wall midway between the bar and the stage, where he could see both the fighting and Strife making a new friend and drinking on his dime. He tried to spend his time thinking as intended but it wasn't going so well, all that was coming to mind was a headache.

Hooks, a thousand tiny hooks digging into his brain, chipping away all thought, tugging at his consciousness, pulling it toward-

(...wait)

He didn't know if he'd been subconsciously hoping this trip would make Strife's half story seem crazy

(this is not a headache)

but that wasn't happening. The opposite in fact

(I know what this is, its happened before...)

just seeing him standing there, in a sea of regular people

(its a call)

that contrast, looks so familiar from the outside, doesn't it?

(...must be close)

Because that's me, too, isn't it? Doesn't fit in, doesn't belong, everyone can fucking see it, its not different than

(look around)

(...I thought I wasn't allowed?)

On that note, why be cautious? There any reason not to go along with this, see where it goes? What do you have to lose

(wait....there! Right...)

isn't going to last forever, those assholes are just waiting for you to see the light and straighten up, let them put you in college, put you behind a desk, saddle you with some

(there...do you see that?)

that way they can push you in a corner and forget you exist. Their subtlety is starting to wear thin, you know its only a matter of time before it comes to a head, and then it might not matter anymore, what you want, if you want

(red, redredred, dripping, pooling between your fingers...an ivory cage, cracked and splintered, expose the now silent core within, silent and still in the palm of your hand, leaking red down your wrist, splatter the floor, offered up to-)

(its for you, all for you, everything-)

(do you see it? do you see...?)

any exit, anything at all, has to be better than

(do you see it? do you...)

….what?

(there, right in front of you...)

Xander's eyes had wandered in his musing, refocusing on the edge of thrashing pit, watching just out of reach of the crowd, someone

(the glass...)

holding a drink in hand, clear liquid, ice floating atop

(the fingers...)

cupped in the palm of a large pale hand, fingers curled downward and

(the nails...)

and the nails on the hand were red.

(red, always red, blood and battle and death)

...painted nails are odd for a man, but so the fuck what?

(red razors, long and sharp, parting flesh with a mere touch, digging deep until everything is red)

His gaze traveled up the arm, a black suit jacket well tailored and likely expensive (an odder choice in this environment than even painted nails), past broad shoulders to glare at the back of the stranger's red head.

Hooks, embedded in his brain, pulling, pulling

(...around, turn around...)

The band dimmed to a bass thump in the background, the surrounding crowd blurred out of focus; the man raised the glass to his lips

(black iron, thirty-two sword points lined up in twin rows...run your tongue across them, over and over, just hard enough for that spark of pain)

(around, turn around)

(empty space, a void where-)

(wasn't allowed to think about it)

` drained the liquid in a single swallow. His head moved, causally turning to take in his surroundings

(-where something belongs)

(around, turn)

Not even the music any longer, just a heartbeat pounding between his ears.

(turn...)

A large hook nose and single dark eye came into view, a thin silver line marring the cheek, so faint with age it was hard to notice unless you knew to look-

(he's looking at you)

He was looking in Canaan's direction, but how likely was it the man picked out a particular stranger's face to focus on?

(he's not turning away though, is he?)

A dark brown eye, too dark next to pale skin

(its wrong, its not...not real, a shroud draped over the-)

(blood and-)

a powerful stare, made muscle twitch and shiver where it crawled, an echo of footsteps over your inevitable grave.

(battle and-)

Lips stretched in a smile, might have been charming but for the teeth it revealed: black and misshapen, they looked to be rotten.

The burrowing hooks eased their grip; the man turned his head away.

(death, he is-)

(he is, and you are, the mirror image, the mortal avatar; smoke in your nostrils and screams in your ear, weapon heavy in one hand, the other left behind hours back now but no matter, a throbbing stump and a half burned face would never slow you down, crafted by his hand you are his gift and his judgment inflicted upon the world...)

Empty glass dropped on a table the man was moving away, away from the music, from the violent crowd. A path cleared for him without his having to ask, people unconsciously moving out of his way, parting to allow those strange dark eyes to meet Xander's own for a single split second

(come)

He was moving before he realized; crowd clearing didn't work for him and Canaan ran into a wall of people slowing him down. He couldn't see that red head anywhere and feared for a moment it may have already left, but the exit was in the opposite direction.

Men's room.

With a clear destination, Xander pushed people out of his way, not pausing long enough for any protest to register. He caught some skinny dipshit with his hand on the door, grabbed the back of his coat and shoved him in the other direction before going in himself. His fingers searched for a lock and thankfully found one. The door rattled violently against his back, a muffled voice yelling, calling him a cocksucking cunt, promising this and that unless he came out right now, or even if he did.

Laughter, a light chuckle that echoed through the room, faded mint green walls, poor lighting making everything look sickly. Three urinals and two sinks stood empty, but there in one of two closed stalls a pair of shiny black shoes could be seen.

“Sounds as though someone wants in here quite badly,” The man had a thick accent, vowels off pitch and consonants gargled and spat out.

The room was otherwise vacant, Canaan wondered if the stranger knew who he was talking to, and why

(empty space, a-)

“Yeah, well, he can go find a corner to squat in for all I care.”

More laughter, “Judging from the smell out there, I would say there is a corner designated for just such a thing, yes?”

He was silent this time, watching the stall door swing open, the man

(void where something-)

(not allowed to think-)

moved right to the sinks without looking at the room's other occupant. Xander watched him in the mirror; he wore a red shirt under the open black suit jacket, bright and shiny even in this light, like it might turn to liquid at a touch, like dark wine, like-

“And you?” a glance into the mirror, strange brown eyes met his own, “Desirous of privacy, are we?”

“Its hardly privacy if you're not alone.”

“That is true enough,” the man actually winked at him, before looking down to where he was pretending to wash his hands, “So what is it you do want then?”

There was a weight to that statement, the man wanted an answer

a specific answer? Something he wants to hear?

(empty space, a void-)

(...I know you, don't I? I do...so why can't I...)

Canaan's hand wandered from the door to his hip, fingers extended to trace the outline of the knife in his pocket. One bought from a hunting store when he was fourteen, his mother had panicked and tried to take it away; Strife had laughed when he found it in the bedside table, called it an eye poker, yet still gave it to him before they left (“Though if anything does happen, you should probably call me to come save you.”) How quick could he get it out if needed? And was it-

Bang! The man's hand slammed down on the edge of the sink, the sound like a gunshot in the small room. Despite the clear frustration, the tension in his shoulders, the man's voice was calm, “Don't do that.”

Xander's fingers jerked away, arms crossed, feeling chastised.

Eyes found his in the mirror, “Why? We are only talking.” His disappointed was palpable, somehow Canaan didn't think either threat or rudeness was the cause.

(I should know...it should be there...)

“What are you planning to do with it anyway?”

Eye poker flashed though his mind, Xander knew it was the wrong answer, “I could always ruin your suit.”

The man's face remained neutral, “And why would you want to do that?”

(I know you...I should, its there...)

“Stop thinking about it”

“Because I can.”

“Turn off your mind”

“Because it would piss you off.”

“Open your mouth”

“Right...”

“And just fucking say it.”

“...Drogan?”

(…............?)

(...that's not right)

It felt like there should be fireworks, lightning, the walls coming down around him, something earth shattering...and yet nothing, nothing came.

(damn it...now what...)

“So you do remember me,” in the mirror the man's face was delighted, “Excellent, better than I hoped for.” He turned around, facing him for the first time, “I suppose I have the whore to thank for that. Not that I will, mind.”

Xander could not say he was surprised by this, “I was told you were dead.”

A nod, “That is the way the story goes. And yet,” arms spread wide, a step closer, “here I am. Clearly not what happened then.”

Another step closer and Canaan had to blink his eyes; was his hair always so red, a bright crimson? And the eyes, those had been dark, he noted it several times, and nothing explained the glittering garnets that were watching him now.

“Though before you go running to the whore to share this new find, you may want to hold off, at least until you remember why it is you left him in the dark in the first place.”

Not a ginger's pale complexion, he was parchment white, unnatural and sickly; his lips had a slight bluish tint, like a corpse. Catching the stare, Drogan's mouth opened in another wide grin, revealing rows of sharpened metal in place of teeth, rotten or otherwise.

(that's more like it)

“Did I know? That you're alive?” the answer seemed clear enough, but he still spoke, just to see

(how honest he feels like being)

“Do you really think you'd make such an error? I made you better than that.”

“And I suppose it would be useless to ask you why.”

The scar on his cheek was a red line, like dried blood, cut through white skin that was otherwise flawless-

(-unable to hold on to the blade, fingertips smoking. Shake it out, curl your fist tight, biting down the urge to yell; should've seen that coming, probably leave another mark)

(he is still yelling, punching at a table with the hand not clamped to his face; the wood splits down the middle, collapsing in on itself and he kicks it to the wall. There is anger and pain in his tone, more the former but enough of the latter to make the burnt fingers worth it)

(“Please, I've gotten worse from you in training.”)

(his head jerks around, garnet eyes glaring; he bleeds red, of course, but its strange: too bright, too thick, oozing down his knuckles, “And I apologize, profusely, for every broken bone and severed limb.”)

(shake your head at that, neither meant nor wanted....)

(...red and gold, disappearing quickly in his closed fist. The wound has stopped bleeding now, it gapes wide, swollen and ugly; his eyes are bewildered, “Why-”)

“There you go again, always thinking the worst of me,” step closer, “One must wonder why I keep returning for more.”

Xander felt a smile form, “Think you'd be grateful, some things never change.”

A laugh, “True enough,” and another step, “So tell me, darling, what else has not changed. Do you know who you are?”

A pause, though less of one than might be expected; robbed of a chance to lazily contemplate, pushed up against a wall, he knew there was only one answer, the only answer he wanted.

“Canaan.”

A flash of metal, Drogan's black grin and focused gaze a clear endorsement, “Very good. And do you know what you are?”

What...? It prickled at his mind to hear it said so, something familiar about it. He tried to chase that mental thread, down in the dark past doors that would not open

(“Perfection...do anything...my-”)

“...your knight?”

“Are you asking me?” The continued good cheer couldn't quite mask the disappointment, “I see you know the words but I doubt you know their meaning.”

“You could always enlighten me.”

“I could, but its better you find it for yourself.”

Canaan gritted his teeth, “You know, I'm getting really sick of hearing that.” Especially from you, implied but unsaid.

(you're supposed to fix this)

“Are you really?” Drogan grinned, “And here I thought the whore would open his dumb mouth and vomit out every last inconsequential detail well before he should. Instead you're telling me he's been more reticent than necessary? Interesting.”

“He said he was told to do that, got some advice or-”

“Doing his research, is he? Well, isn't that cute, he must be looking for a promotion. You be sure and pat him on the head, say that you admire him for his brain, the next time you bend him over, maybe he'll learn a new trick.”

“At least he was there,” he heard a bite to his voice he didn't entirely understand

(and where the fuck where you?)

tendrils of annoyance wrapped around him; like an old wound, Canaan couldn't resist poking it, to see what happened, “Why are you calling him that?”

“What? Whore? Because he is one,” Drogan cocked his head in a show of innocence, shamelessly transparent, “Did he not tell you that? And here I thought it was something he bragged of.”

“He mentioned he was, in the past. I thought he was my-” his tongue stumbled over the word, one he had never uttered aloud, that Strife had not acknowledged aside from that once indirectly. It wasn't a thing he could wrap his head around, not yet.

The response was mocking, “Ah yes, of course. Had a change of heart somehow upon realizing he could have everything he wanted simply by marrying you. That in no way makes him a prostitute.”

“Your bitterness is showing,” Canaan leaned forward to spit the words in his face, the part that knew where this was coming from wanting to make it sting; didn't have to lean far, and when exactly did the man get so close, they were breathing the same air...or would be, but he didn't think Drogan was breathing.

Red eyes widened a fraction, even his short lashes the same bright crimson, “Ouch,” his smile was tight but genuine, admiration even in his anger, “That hurt. And with most of your memory still gone.”

Up close, his pallor brought to mind a marble statue, so unnaturally flawless; he knew if he touched that perfect cheek it would be warm, like a heated blade, like smoldering rage. He smelled of smoke and metal, the rush of battle where adrenaline wipes the world away. Canaan's finger twitched hidden in the fold of his arms, another inch or two and he could reacquaint himself with that mouth and its harsh taste; he knew better than to show it, give him the satisfaction.

“And to think, I only sought you out to give you a gift.” A hand raised in the space between them, brushing the end of Canaan's nose: a folded slip of paper, held between two claw tipped fingers.

Canaan made a point to glance at it, turning back to those garnet eyes, “I see the gift. Where's the string?”

A chuckle, “Time has made you suspicious. Its always been to my benefit to help you, darling, you should know that. Now take it.”

Carefully, Canaan plucked the paper away, unfolding it with a practiced disinterest. Inside a single line, three unfamiliar words and four less familiar symbols, and one surprising element he recognized right away.

That's my fucking handwriting.

“Its a location. There's something there that belongs to you. You're going to want it back.”

“What?”

Drogan grinned, “Far be it from me to spoil the surprise, you'll simply have to go yourself. When you see it, you'll know.”

He sounded confident of that; Canaan wished he could feel the same.

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

“Show?” he frowned, “What show?”

“What comes naturally to you to do, darling. Hold nothing back. This is a gift in more ways than one.”

“One for you as well?” half an inch closer, he could count those eyelashes, taste metal on his tongue.

Drogan hummed, raising his hand, trailing fingers down Canaan's cheek, “Do you know how bored I've been? Waiting, these last few decades, with little to entertain?” Those claws were sharp, burning across his skin, teasing threats that had him coiling in anticipation, “Do you know how boring this place is? To be stuck watching from the sidelines?”

“Aye,” his voice lowered, breathing the words, “I do. Intimately.”

“Mmm, I know,” the second hand joined the first, holding his head in place, “Sorry for that.” Blue tinted lips brushed against his own as the words were spoken, the bite of metal teeth just pressing into his skin, everything he'd wanted.

“Oh, how I have missed you,” closer, enveloped in a presence both familiar and exotic; the part of his mind that knew he should keep his distance was drowned out to a faint echo, Canaan instead wanted to test the strength of this door.

And then it was over, like an amputation his nerves screamed in protest at the sudden abandonment, a cold shock to his mind. What the fuck am I doing here?

Drogan had a hand on the lock, regretful, “You go run that errand now, quick as you can. Won't want to wait on that.”

“Wait,” he couldn't get his thoughts in order, “Wait a minute.”

(you can't leave yet, you haven't fixed it)

“We have taken too many minutes as it is, you will be missed.” The lock clicked open, the door pushed at his back, “Farewell, Canaan. I'll be in touch.”

Not a minute went by before Canaan was out the door after him, but Drogan was already gone

(knowing this place, he probably didn't even have to leave the room to disappear. I picked the right club, didn't I?)

The band was still playing, the crowd a buzzing mass of noise, only now he couldn't ignore it; it hit him in full, exhausting and irritating, a trap that clung to him however hard he struggled. For one brief moment he had something, something real, he had seen his escape and now it was gone, and he was left with nothing but nonsense on a slip of paper to say it'd ever happened at all.

That was the breaking point, he was done with this shit.

Canaan stormed through the club a second time, detouring only long enough to slap the back of the blond head at the bar, before heading right to the door. He had reached the next block toward the parking garage before Strife caught up to him.

“So, what the fuck is your problem?”

“Nothing,” spoken through clenched teeth.

(Drogan would not have given you an order you could make no sense of. If he didn't explain, then he must know you already have what you need to decipher it)

So then...

“Are you sober?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. We weren't really there that long.”

“Then can you make sense of this?” Canaan passed the now crumpled note over his shoulder, he didn't stop walking until he realized his were the only footsteps he could hear.

“Where did you get this?”

Canaan studied Strife's face; there was nothing hidden in his expression, he seemed honestly confused, “It came to me.” Not the best explanation, but a simple one and that felt like the safer option.

“How? And why would it?”

“You know where it is,” the relief he felt could not be suppressed.

“Yeah, I've been there. You haven't.”

“Sure about that?”

“Very.”

“So if I told you there's something there that's mine...?”

“I'd say you're fucking crazy,” Strife glanced at the paper in hand, shaking his head, “Its not a storage shed, Canaan. Its a brothel.”

“Spent enough time there to know the place inside out, have we?” that came out harsher than intended.

“Often enough they all know me by name,” Strife grinned brashly at Canaan's narrow eyed glare for a whole half minute before conceding, “They'd hire me to rough up asshole customers and collect debt from cheapskates. I don't fuck whores, I used to be one, remember?”

“And you're certain there's nothing?”

“Like what?” a shrug, “I never saw anything. And I can't think how they'd get something of yours, either.”

He sounded so certain, but so had Drogan; for all he knew, Drogan had recently planted something there for him to find. “I want to see for myself. You can take me there?”

Strife's face turned uneasy, he averted his eyes, “I don't know about that,” quickly brushing past Canaan, he continued to the garage.

Enraged at the evasion, Canaan followed, “Why not? What is it? Far away? I think we can afford a vacation from fucking in the apartment. We can fuck somewhere new.”

“That's not it.”

“Then what?” Sprinting forward, he caught Strife before he could climb in the car, spinning him around and pushing him against it.

“Look, I just don't know, all right?”

“I think, once again, you're being more reticent than you need to be.”

Strife glared angrily at that, removing his sunglasses to help highlight the point, “Yeah, well, I told you in the beginning I don't know what I'm doing. Maybe you should've given someone some fucking instructions before you went and fucked off, huh?”

If it was intended as a reprimand it fell short, not knowing what any of it meant; it just further stoked his rage, “So what are you doing here, then? What's the plan? Haunt my apartment? Suck my cock? Keep dangling this shit in my face until you drive me fucking crazy with it?”

“Fuck you. I had one plan, one fucking idea, and it didn't work.”

“You mean you tried something? Well fuck, why didn't you say so? What was it?”

“Its not supposed to be this hard,” frustration showed so clearly on his face, in his voice, it seemed Strife had lost some hope since the first day; it calmed some of his anger, “You're supposed to remember, you were designed for it. It should only take one thing, one thing, to unlock it.”

(…)

“What?”

“A...what did it say? A constant. Something, someone usually, that's been around long enough, they're in enough memories, that it just pops the lock.”

“Not you though?”

“I never thought it would be me. We haven't known each other that long. Relatively,” a sigh and a hand running through his hair, “It should've been Drogan.”

“...excuse me?”

“The evil ex, Drogan. Should've been him. I dropped his name, you reacted to it, yeah, but that's it. It was no more reaction than what I got, or anything else I've told you. I don't know, maybe just a mention isn't enough, maybe he needs to waltz up here in person and shake your fucking hand, but that ain't gonna happen, so now what?”

...and that didn't help either.

(and why is that?)

(“...forget...for now...”)

A deep breath and Canaan felt calm again, centered, certain. He pointed to the note in Strife's hand, “Where is that place?”

Strife met his eyes, considering, and caved, “...Outworld.”

“Where is that?”

“Out. Not here.”

“Out of state? Out of country?”

“Out of Veil.”

“And Veil is?”

Silently cursing a slip he didn't intend, Strife swept his arm out, “This.”

“This? The city?”

“The...world, I guess. Veil is what we call it.”

“We?”

“I'm sure you've figured out I'm not from here,” fingers traced along the edge of one pierced, pointed ear.

“Is that where you're from then? Outworld?”

“Anyone else would get punched for suggesting that.”

“So, some other place then. And Outworld is?”

“A liminal ghetto, not here not there. Filled with refugees, exiles and petty criminals. Only reason I ever stepped foot in it was to wait for you.”

“We can get there from here?”

“Outworld? Sure, no problem. Past that? Doable, but I'd need to look into it. Not going back the way I came in, that's for sure.”

There was a story there, probably a good one and Canaan made note to ask later. He took a step closer, “You are going to take me to that brothel.” When Strife opened his mouth, he spoke louder, “No. You had a plan, it didn't work. Now its my turn.”

Another long, considering look, and a sigh, “Fine, we'll go.” Turning, Strife pulled the passenger side door of the Mustang open.

Canaan kicked it closed, “I'm not done yet,” another step, “Now you're going to tell me why I know you, even though that should be impossible.”

Yellow eyes widened, “You want to do this here?”

“Why not? You see anyone around?” The garage was near empty, no other cars parked close by, nothing a lowered voice wouldn't help. He crossed his arms on his chest, “No more bullshit, no evasion, no distracting me. Here, we can just talk.”

“If you think I wouldn't distract you in public, you don't remember me that well,” Strife sighed loudly, leaning back against the car, “Fine, but it might not help much.”

“I can live with that.” a pause, “Well, you may begin.”