"Our problems are man-made, therefore they may be solved by man. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings." - John F. Kennedy

There was a chill in the air, consistent with the grey skies overhead.  The clouds themselves were a darker shade of grey than the sky, and passed by overhead, faster than usual; the result of steady northern winds, bringing in yet another cold front that the city would suffer from for at least another month.  It was that time of year again.  When winter had overstayed its welcome, and the only feelings left to associate with the season were a sense of dread.  Perhaps it was the clouds themselves, but the city seemed especially dreary, and everyone could feel it.  This was the time of year that depression was at its worst.

In the distance, the sound of a car engine could be heard.  Its tires could be heard as they rolled over the wet pavement, its brakes squealing gently as the vehicle rolled to a stop inside its designated parallel parking space.

"I'm not pleased." The female driver said, admitting her obvious feelings, despite her tone of voice.  "It's not even 1 o'clock in the afternoon."

"I know what time it is." A male voice came from the passenger side of the vehicle, its tone also one of annoyance.  It was easy to tell that the one being lectured would rather have been anywhere else but where he was at that moment.

"I know you do." She replied.  "That's the point, you think you know everything!" The jingling keys rang against one another as she turned off the vehicle's engine.  "But if you did, I wouldn't have had to just bring you home early for the third time this week.  I can't keep this up!"

The teenage boy in the passenger seat sighed audibly, as he stared out the window, not even wanting to look at the woman who was lecturing him.  She was right, it had been the third time this week.  It had been the third time that he'd gotten this same lecture, and the third time that he'd face the same punishment.  It would also be the third time that she'd send him to his room for the evening, grounded, only for her to turn around and leave for the evening, heading to work, and leaving him to fend for himself.

The only real punishment was having to endure her lecture, yet again.

"I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but I've had about enough of it." She said, as she started in on him again.  "Your attitude stinks, and it seems like every day now, you're making some kind of obscene or snide comment to the school faculty!  You realize what's going to happen if this doesn't stop, right?"

"No, Mom." The boy finally answered.  "What's going to happen?  Alternative school?  Juvie?"

His mother sighed.  It was useless to even attempt to talk any sense into him... he was already too far gone for her to try and save.  And despite any attempts she made to try and show him that she was on his side, he was going to keep a chip on his shoulder to her and everyone else.

"Forget it.  Just get out of the car." She answered, as she pulled the keys from the ignition and opened the car door.

The teenage boy got out of the passenger's side of the vehicle, before locking and closing the car door behind him.  His shoulder-length straight black hair looked almost greasy, in the dreary weather that surrounded them, and the backpack that hung off of one shoulder looked like it had seen much better days.  Of course, it didn't help that it appeared to have been gone over with by a razor blade and a series of permanent markers.  The young man didn't look like he really cared, as he reached around his neck and grabbed his headphones, put them on his head, turned his music on, and followed his apparent mother across the sidewalk and into the nearby low-rent apartment building.  

The inside lobby was old, and covered in wood paneling, which only made the place seem darker and drearier, with the weather they'd been experiencing outside.  The mother walked in, keys in hand, and headed directly for one of at least fifty locked mailboxes.

"Hey, Barb." A man said as he walked up.  "Rough day?" He asked, barely noticing the dirty look he was receiving by the woman's headphone-wearing son, in the background.

"You have no idea." She scoffed, as she slid the mailbox key into its lock and attempted to turn it counter-clockwise.  Suddenly, the key broke off in the lock, leaving her standing there, ready to scream in frustration.  "...And it's only getting worse."  She sighed yet again, before turning around to the man staring at her in pity.

"It's alright... take a breath.  I've got another key to open it with, and I can have a locksmith here in the morning." He told her, sounding like a father who was trying to console a frustrated child.  Without a word, he reached down and pulled a large key-ring from his belt loop, with a seemingly uncountable number of keys on it.  "There's something we need to discuss, though." He said, as he sorted through and pulled out a cylindrical-looking key, and shoved it into the lock in the center of the mailboxes.

"...Rent..." Barbara responded, in a disheartened tone, as she raised her hand to her cheek and closed her eyes.  "Bobby, I completely forgot..."

The key turned, and the entire faceplate opened, revealing the contents of every mailbox mounted within the wall, including Barbara's.  Bobby reached into her box and retrieved her mail, glancing briefly at the red past-due and final notice envelopes as he passed them to her.  He felt sorry for her, he genuinely did... but there was only so much he was capable of doing for her.  "Hey... I completely understand." Bobby told her.  "Times are tough right now." He said, handing her the substantial stack of bills, before he turned to close the mailboxes back.  "But tomorrow's Friday, and I've held off all that I can."

Barbara looked as though she was about to cry, as she took the mail from him without looking.  She already knew what the red envelopes signified, and she wished that just one day would go by that she didn't have to see them.  She took a deep breath and recomposed herself.

"I can have the money for you first thing in the morning.  I'm going to work in an hour, and tips tonight should cover everything." She pleaded.

Bobby nodded calmly.  "That's fine, dear, just make sure I have it by tomorrow morning.  Otherwise..." He frowned.

"You'll have it.  Without a doubt." Barbara said, faking a smile to the man, before turning around to her son, who was leaning against the opposite wall, playing some handheld videogame.  "Roger, come on."  In silence, the two headed for the stairwell, leaving Bobby standing there, watching them in pity.  Sure, she'd have the money for him tomorrow morning, but they'd have to do without some other necessity to pay him.  He hated that, but as the apartment manager, he was only able to hold off the property owners for so long before his job was put on the line, and it had reached that point.  One thing he could say for the poor woman was that she was trying.  No one could say otherwise.  

Roger didn't look away from his videogame, as he followed her across the lobby, and up the stairwell.  He didn't need to look up... he couldn't hear the conversation, but he knew what it consisted of.  He didn't watch the interaction, but he knew what had happened.  It was the same thing that happened every day now, and nothing ever changed.  It was like watching the same television show again, and again, and again.  He didn't say a word to anyone, he just followed her up the staircase, listening to the music from his headphones, and playing his videogame.

Dinner consisted of a thick wad of peanut butter, pressed between two slices of near-stale bread.  It was just another cheap meal that Roger couldn't bring himself to eat, without wanting to gag.  And yet, he couldn't complain about it.  It was what they could afford to survive on, despite their best attempts.  He wished that just once, he could have a warm meal for dinner... something that wasn't a sandwich, something that didn't require a microwave to cook.  There were days when he felt that if he had to eat one more frozen burrito, or one more television dinner, he'd snap.  The truth was that he wasn't angry with his mother for their financial situation... he was just mad with the situation in general.  When he woke up every morning, he was made to endure eight hours of school with hundreds of people who would just as soon spit on him as look at him.  Then, he was to return to a home that held no appeal or value to him anymore.  Between the bad food, a terrible apartment, and no money to spend on things like entertainment... what was the point?

"You know the rules..." Barbara said, as she walked into the dining room, dressed for work.  "No friends over, no going anywhere, no setting the building on fire." She said, in a half-kidding manner.  "You have the number to the bar, so if anything happens..."

"I know." Roger told her.  "I'll call."

She stared at him for a moment, in silence.  He was the only person she'd ever known who could drive her up the wall with frustration... but she couldn't help but love him, and wish she could provide him with more.  Beneath the obvious problems, he really was a good kid.  He was just lost and angry.

"You know I love you, right?" She asked, as she reached for her purse.

"Yeah.  I love you too, Mom." He replied, his tone sounding almost like one of defeat.  "Be careful."

Without looking, he could hear her keys in her hand, as she proceeded to the door.  He heard it open, close back, and the deadbolt lock from the outside, by key.  Not like he wasn't nearly seventeen years old, and could unlock it anytime he wanted, or anything.  He rolled his eyes, and finished eating his sad excuse for a meal.  If nothing else, at least he could be pleased that he'd get to spend one more evening without listening to her lecture him on his attitude, and his behavior at school.  If she spent less time bartending, and more time at home with him, she might have actually realized how capable he was.  He was practically an adult, and should be treated as such... else, she was going to find out the hard way, and it wasn't going to be pleasant for anyone involved.  He finished choking down the stale bread, and the half-empty glass of water that he'd poured from the tap to help force the food down his throat.  He chuckled to himself briefly as he thought about the stories he'd grown up hearing, how the only meals you get served in jail consisted of bread and water.  Part of him wondered if any prison could be any worse than his home life.  At least there, he'd have some form of entertainment, and people to associate with.  Silently, he rose from the dining table, with his empty plate and glass in hand, and took them to the sink to rinse out.

The inside of his bedroom looked like a tornado had hit it.  It was more than clutter, it was absolute filth; clothes on the floor, both clean and dirty.  Dirty dishes left throughout the room, on furniture and on the floor.  Broken compact disks, and particles of rotting food throughout the room, and an almost indistinguishable odor of what smelled like sweat and garbage.  He didn't care, though... it was all him; a metaphor for his life in whole.  He entered the room and closed the door behind him, locking it, before he looked upwards.  Raising both hands above his head, he firmly grasped the molding atop the door frame, and lifted it upward.  In a single, fluid motion, it slid upward and free from the door, falling into his hands and revealing the compartment that held a carton of cigarettes.  Silently, he pulled a fresh pack from the carton, before lifting the piece of molding back up and replacing it just as he had removed it.  He turned and opened the pack of cigarettes as he proceeded towards the bed, grabbing a half-empty soda can along the way for an ashtray.  He laid down across the bed, and held the soda can between his thighs, as he pulled a single cigarette from the fresh pack, and placed it between his lips.

As he reached into his pocket to grab his lighter, he was interrupted by a knock at the door to the apartment.  He thought about ignoring it, but the thought crossed his mind that it was Bob, or someone else from the complex that knew that he was home.  Silently cursing, he placed the lighter back in his pocket, put the cigarette behind his ear, where it would be hidden by his hair, and left his room.

"Open the door, dude." The familiar voice came from the other side.  Roger pressed his eye to the peephole, to see Chris, his cousin, standing in the hallway, waiting to be let in.  He quickly unlatched the locks and opened the door.

"What's up, man?" Roger asked, letting his cousin in.

"Nada.  Bored to tears, and my Dad just left for work." He said, entering with what looked like a battered briefcase.

"Doesn't anybody have a daytime job anymore?" Roger asked, as he closed the door behind his cousin, and locked it back.

"Hell if I know, but I'm not complaining.  I enjoy having the nights to myself, you know?" He said, chuckling.

"Amen." Roger said, as he turned to head back to his bedroom.  Chris followed, without question.  "So what do you have in the purse?" He asked, as they trailed down the hall.

"Purse?" Chris replied, sounding slightly offended.  "Man, this is a briefcase."

"Same thing, if you ask me." Roger chuckled.  "Why are you carrying one, anyway?  What the hell is in it?"

"Slow your roll, I'll show you." Chris said, smiling, as they entered Roger's room, closing the door behind them.  Roger pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it, as Chris headed toward the bed to take a seat.  Resting the briefcase in his lap, Chris released the latches on either side of the handle, and opened the case, as Roger looked on.  What was revealed inside was a brand new laptop, recently-purchased, and incredibly expensive.

"...Now how did you get your hands on something like that?" Roger asked, dumbfounded, as he looked at it in awe.  "Steal it?"

"Something like that." Chris chuckled, lightly.  "Don't worry, nobody knows I have it but you."

"Christ, man, did you have to kill anybody?" Roger asked, still in shock.

"Man, be serious for a second." Chris answered, giving him somewhat of a dirty look.  "Come over here and take a look at this thing."

Roger approached, stepping over the various piles of laundry in his room, to get a better look at the laptop.  It was certainly impressive, even by today's standards.  A more advanced motherboard than anything on the market, faster processor speed... it was so top of the line, it hadn't even been put on the market yet.  Roger couldn't help but wonder if his cousin had any idea exactly what he had in his possession.  He didn't bother asking, though.  Just knowing exactly what it was, was alone proof that there was no way that it could have been obtained legally.

"Seriously, who did you kill?" Roger asked, again.  "There's nothing like this on the market, for business or personal use.  Something like this would sell for three times the cost of a PC."

"Suddenly I have your attention, don't I?" Chris asked, smiling wickedly.

"Your register came up fifty three dollars short last night." He said to her, with a scolding look on his face.  "I wanted to let you know that it's coming out of your check."

Barbara sighed, once again fighting back tears of frustration.  It wouldn't be taken out of this week's check, but it didn't change the fact that it was money that she couldn't afford to lose.  She'd only just arrived at work, to be hit with this.  She wasn't even on the clock yet.

"Do what you have to do." She said, obviously upset, as she walked behind the bar and put her purse away, before heading to the timeclock.

"This can't become a habit, Barbara." Her boss said, still standing there.  "We've had too much money and alcohol come up missing in here, and I know there are times when you get slammed with business, but we have to pay attention to what we're doing, don't we?"

She punched in on the timeclock, and slid the card into its plastic pouch along the wall, before turning to face her boss once more.  "I do my best, George.  I really do." She told him, exhausted.  "If you want to take the money out of my check, or my tips, then go right ahead... but you need to understand that I have just about all I can say bless over, right now."

"And I get that, but..." George started, preparing to delve into a lecture about how she needed to get her life together.

"No, I don't think you do." Barbara said, cutting him off.  "Tell me, when was the last time you had to play Pin The Tail on the Donkey to decide what bill wasn't getting paid that week?" Her tone was angrier than it had been.  "When is the last time that you had to explain to a sixteen year old boy why he has to stay locked in the house alone all night, every night, because you're doing the best you can to feed him?"

George didn't have an answer for her.  Which seemed to speak for itself.  He was married, with two children, and finances weren't a problem for him.  They never were, as far back as he could remember.  As irritated as he was with the insubordination in her tone, he knew that this was neither the time, nor the place to discuss her personal life, or her personal problems.  As such, he conceded a temporary defeat, and walked off, leaving her to finish opening the bar.  There'd be time to handle this problem later.

Barbara sighed as George walked off, knowing that she'd regret what she'd just said to him.  A lot of Bar Managers had come and gone, as long as she'd worked there, and unfortunately, George wasn't one that she got along with very well.  She didn't bother standing around any longer, before she opened the cash register and pulled out the keys, before turning to walk towards the liquor closet.  When she reached it, she searched for the right key and unlocked the padlock on the door, then reached inside and turned on the light.  One by one, she began bringing out the bottles of alcohol to sit out behind the bar for the evening, trying desperately not to think about how many mistakes she'd made over the course of her life, or how much she hated her job, or how bad of a parent she'd been to the only male that had ever bothered to stick around for more than a couple of years.  She was getting far too old to be proud of the fact that she worked as a bartender, lived in a reduced-rent apartment, had no gas utilities, and had a teenage son she was failing to raise.  She hated knowing that she was in a constant state of exhaustion and frustration.  Even now, and her shift had only just begun... and it would be another ten to twelve hours before her head ever got to touch a pillow.  She only hoped that tonight would provide enough patrons to leave her with a significant number of tips for the evening... else, tomorrow, she'd be facing an eviction notice.

--

"You realize how advanced this is, right?" Roger asked, a tone of concern in his voice as he looked at it.  "Something like this must've taken millions to develop, and you're sitting here with what looks like a prototype.  We're talking about corporate espionage, Chris."

"I know." Chris answered, before setting the laptop down on the bed.  "But I want you to trust me when I say that there isn't going to be any repercussions for this.  I bought it, and there is nothing tying us to the seller."

Roger stared at him in shock for a moment.  As long as he could remember, he and Chris had never had a problem getting into or out of trouble, but what Chris was discussing was the black market.  Even if he was telling the truth, and had purchased this, there was no way that he legally obtained the money necessary.

"You bought this?  With what money?" Roger asked.  "You're as broke as I am."

"It's called sweat equity." Chris smiled again.  "I did some work for a few guys in the International district, and as payment for my labor, I got this."

The concept baffled Roger.  Whoever these guys were that Chris was working for, they obviously had connections, and undoubtedly had no problems with funding.  If they'd hired him to do any job, there would be no problem in paying him cash for what he'd done... which only meant that they'd pay him with something like this laptop, if it was hot, and they needed to unload it on someone else.  And that meant that someone was looking for it, and would probably go to a lot of grief to get it back.

"Chris, this thing is obviously hot." He said, trying to reason with his cousin.  "If you did work for these guys, why wouldn't they pay you in cash?  They obviously have the money if they can get their hands on something like this."

"They were going to pay me in cash.  I saw this and wanted it instead." He explained.

"They didn't even try to talk you out of it?" Roger asked.

"A little, at first.  John said that this wasn't worth as much as the work I'd done for them... it wouldn't be a fair trade." Chris answered.

"What the hell did you do?" Roger was growing increasingly concerned.  "Tell me you haven't booted this thing up yet.  It could be rigged."

"Yeah, I already booted it back at my place.  It's safe." Chris replied, as he closed the briefcase.  "Look, man, I brought this by here to show it to you, and to show you that I can help you get some of these bills paid that your mom's freaking out about.  I didn't think you'd react like this."

Roger closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.  The whole situation was getting to be a lot more stressful than he'd first imagined, and he wasn't the type to get paranoid easily.  If Chris had already booted the laptop, then at least he knew that it wasn't rigged to explode or anything, but that didn't guarantee that he wasn't being tracked somehow.  If he was, then it was only a matter of time before police, or worse, started making themselves known.  And depending on how badly they wanted the hardware Chris had obtained, there was a good chance that they'd show lethal force.

"Who did you get it from, Chris?" Roger asked, growing more concerned by the moment.

"Why should I tell you?" Chris asked, getting annoyed at the attitude he was receiving.  "The way you're acting, you'll probably rat me out."

Roger rolled his eyes and turned away from Chris, lighting another cigarette as he tried desperately to sort through the sudden madness he was having to endure.  He couldn't help but think to himself that this was one of the reasons you never do business with family members: insanity will always ensue.

"So what exactly are you wanting to do, Roger?  Call the police?" Chris asked, irritated and starting to wish he'd never brought the laptop over with him.  "Get me busted, or worse?"

Roger didn't answer.  He was too busy trying to figure out exactly what he could do about the situation, by assessing all possible options and the consequences associated with each of them.  He could have contacted the police, but that laptop probably already had enough evidence tied to it to put him and Chris away for a long time.  And, of course, if he somehow managed to anger whoever was responsible for first obtaining the hardware, he could easily end up getting both Chris and himself killed in some kind of gangland assassination.  Those were just the most foreseeable consequences.

"I'm not calling the police." Roger answered, finally, as he pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it.  "I would like to know where you got it from, though.  I don't know anyone in the city that has connections like this."

"I'm not telling you, man." Chris said, point-blank.  "It would be different if you weren't acting like this, but to be honest with you, you're freaking out... and I don't trust you."

Roger didn't really know what to say to that.  It struck a bigger chord with him than he knew it should've, but he couldn't say he blamed Chris, either.  If he was in his cousin's position, he probably wouldn't trust him, either.  That was fine, though... there was another way that he could get answers.

"Alright, then don't trust me." Roger said, smiling softly to himself.  "Get in contact with them, and get me hooked up with something like this.  I'll do whatever work I have to do."

Chris was dumbfounded.

"You really don't want to do that." He said, trying to talk some sense into his cousin.  "These guys will chew you up and spit you out, man."

Roger turned to Chris, accusingly.

"Why?  What did they make you do?" He asked, knowing that he'd just been given the ammunition necessary to succeed in his argument against his cousin.  "Run drugs?  What?"

"Deliver packages, mostly.  Possibly drugs." Chris said, finally giving Roger a straight answer.  "They put me on the front lines of their operation... made me the target of any police involvement that might've occurred.  You really don't want to deal with them, trust me." His tone was worrisome, as he explained.  Somehow, he knew, though, that this wasn't going to be enough to dissuade Roger from whatever was going through his head.  He was far too hard-headed for that... and it was going to cost him, in the end.  It had already begun costing him, where school was concerned.

"So what?" Roger asked, semi-mockingly.  "They're not worth my time, but they're worth yours?" He glared at Chris, almost ready to wring his neck for putting himself on the line like he had.  "It's real simple, Chris.  I want one, and you're either going to hook me up, or I'm going to go put the word out and see where I can get one for myself."

Chris' eyes widened at the thought of Roger stupidly putting the both of them in danger, the way he'd suggested.  It was going to end up getting them both arrested, or otherwise shot.

"Akasaka." Chris finally told him, matter-of-factly.  "The gang that runs that territory is called the Brothers of Destiny."

"And they're the ones you went to?" Roger asked.

Chris nodded silently.

"You know, dude, we've done a lot of things..." Roger sighed, before taking a long drag off of his cigarette.  "...from smoking hash, to hacking the school network.  We've never messed around with gangs, though."

"Well yeah, but there was a reason for that." Chris offered.

"Yeah, because it's something universally stupid to get involved in!" Roger exclaimed, angrily.  "But that didn't stop you, did it?  Seriously, I'd just like to know what possessed you to get involved with those guys.  They're insane."

"Money." Chris shrugged.

That was typical.  It also left Roger with little or no other option, than to confront the source of the problem, directly.   It wasn't by any means going to be a preferable outcome, but it was going to be necessary to find out the extent of the heat that was on that piece of hardware Chris had obtained.  Otherwise, it was going to end up being a surprise... and Roger wasn't a fan of unwanted surprises.

--

The annoying buzz of the alarm was enough to jerk him out of the drool-secreting coma he'd sank into, over the course of the last few hours.  Blindly, he slapped at the alarm clock several times, knocking over a couple of old sodas in the process and grumbling in annoyance as he heard their contents spilling out across his nightstand and into the floor.  It took no less than five attempts before he succeeded in knocking the contraption into sleep-mode, relieving him of the terrible noise that was reverberating in his skull.  A grumble or two later, he tossed the blankets away from him violently, and tried desperately to get his balance and sit up.  Succeeding in opening his left eye, barely, he fumbled around until he found the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd hidden before falling asleep, the night before.  Lifting the flimsy and half-crushed pack to his mouth, he wrapped his lips around one of the filters and pulled a cigarette free from the pack, before using the lighter to set the tip of it ablaze.  Part of him was shocked at the fact that he was only seventeen years old, and already, the easiest way to fully awaken in the morning was by smoking a cigarette.

"Rog, you need to wake up!" The annoying voice bellowed from the other end of the apartment, causing further grunts of disapproval from the teenage boy.

"I am." He said, calmly, to himself, as he rose from the bed and started searching for his clothes, still trying to open both of his eyes.  "Already had one alarm jerk me awake, too, you harpy."

After a moment, he jerked a shirt up and off of the floor, before removing the cigarette temporarily from his mouth and putting it on.  He paused only once, to lift it back up, from his stomach to his nose, to smell it and verify that it was clean enough to wear to school.  He shrugged, as the shirt passed the smell test.  Next was the daunting task of finding his shoes.  Kicking a small pile of garbage out of the way, he began his search.

"Roger, wake the hell up!  You have to be at school in thirty minutes!" His mother yelled once again, from the other end of the apartment, and causing him to trip, in mid-kick of yet another pile of garbage, and fall face-first onto the floor.

"I'm awake!  God!" He yelled, in considerable pain.  Slowly, he drug himself up and off of the floor, and back to his feet.

"Good!  Hurry up!" Her voice came down the hall, as Roger continued to grunt a series of long-winded curses to himself, regarding her.  He rose to his feet and brushed himself off, before noticing a newly-formed stain on the front of his shirt, undoubtedly attained during his fall.

"You're kidding me..." He growled, before sighing and reaching to his mouth to grab the cigarette and remove the shirt once more.  That's when he realized that the cigarette was no longer dangling from his mouth, as it had been, moments before.  His eyes widened with a mixture of realization and concern, as he began looking around the floor for the lost and lit tobacco product.  In a panic, he bent over, searching for the lit cigarette that even now was undoubtedly beginning to burn a hole in the filthy carpet of his bedroom floor.  "...where is it?!"  Suddenly, an orange flame ignited in the center of a nearby pile of trash.

"Roger, is everything alright in there?" His mother's voice called out again from down the hall.

"Just peachy!  I'm getting dressed!" He responded, his voice cracking with panic, as he looked around the room quickly.  Spotting more half-drank soda cans, he grabbed them in a rush and began emptying them out on the fire, finally managing to extinguish it with a sizzle of charred garbage and clothing.  He took a deep breath of relief, and threw the empty cans in the floor with the rest of the garbage, before resuming his search for a clean shirt to put on.

Roger finished pulling the shirt over his head, before letting it fall down his chest and back, as he headed down the hallway toward the dining room and kitchen.

"Took you long enough." Barbara said, in a scolding tone.  "Now you're only going to have time for toast and water."  That's exactly what he wanted: more bread.  At least this time the staleness of the bread had been cleverly disguised with the scorch marks the toaster had given it.

"I'm not hungry." He said, as he stared the toast down as though it had called him something derogatory.  "How was your night?" He asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

"I got our rent money, so I guess it went alright." She answered, not really sounding pleased with her accomplishment.  Roger couldn't blame her for her meagerness, he knew how depressing it was for her to try so hard to get ahead, only to somehow barely be capable of keeping a roof over their heads.  He hated the reality of the situation, though... because the reality of the situation was what was causing problems between him and his mother.

"I missed you last night." He told her, in a solemn voice, in an honest attempt to lift her spirits.

"I doubt that." She replied, coldly, without even looking at him.  It cut deep... for him to try and selflessly make her feel better, and her respond that way.  The truth was, she had been doing it more and more lately, and it killed him inside.  "Why was Chris here last night?" She asked, letting him know that she was aware that he'd broken the rules.

He didn't offer an explanation, he just looked at her in shock.

"You think I'm stupid, don't you?" She asked, finally turning to face him.  "I told you that you weren't allowed to have anyone over, and that goes for Chris too."

He sighed.

"Your aunt called me at work last night, looking for him.  At work!" She said, angrily.  "Like I need another reason to get on George's bad side right now!"

Without a word, he reached onto the dining table and picked up his backpack and started putting it on, preparing to walk out the door.  This was an argument he had no intention of taking part in... and this was one time he could say that he was thankful that he had school, as an excuse to get away.

"You're pushing me a little too far, Roger.  And I don't think you're going to like the consequences of the choices you're making." She began her lecture to him.  "And if you don't make it all the way through school today, you can bet your bottom dollar that you're not going to like it when you get home."

Roger scoffed, as he pulled the headphones from his backpack and put them around his neck, then turned on his music.

"You're crazy if you think I like it now." He said, finally, as he put the headphones on his head and walked out the door, his music drowning out the screams of his mother, who was undoubtedly ordering him not to walk away from her.

From where he stood on the sidewalk, he could see the mass of students congregating towards the school and their friends, each one neck-deep in some meaningless conversation about who's dating whom, who said what, what they were wearing, and so on.  Strangely enough, it didn't even resemble a school anymore, to Roger.  It resembled a snake pit, filled with hundreds of forked-tongued threats, coiled and ready to strike for no reason whatsoever.  As he stood across the street and finished his cigarette, he was forced to seriously decide whether or not he was even willing to set foot on that property and put up with them for the day.  Of course, if he didn't, he'd come up absent once again, and his mother would probably be woken up to a visit from the school truancy officer.... which would start a headache he really didn't want or need.  Not that he wanted the headache he'd be given by having to be around his classmates, but thinking about it logically, at least they were a headache he didn't have to live with.  He took one last long drag from the cigarette, before dropping it to the cold wet sidewalk, and using the toe of his shoe to put it out.  Then, brushing his fingers through his hair momentarily, to pull it away from his eyes, he began his approach toward the school, to begin yet another day that he would despise by the end of it.

He counted his steps, as he crossed the street.  Five, four, three, two.... each step was like a countdown until judgment day.  As he counted the final step, and put his foot on the curb, he knew exactly what was coming next.... he just didn't know who it was going to come from.

"Heads up, 'tardo!" The voice came from nearby, catching Roger's attention and forcing him to look up, just in time to catch a football with his face.  It slammed into his head, instantly breaking the headphones he had wrapped around his neck, as he staggered to avoid tripping and falling to the ground.  Suddenly, boisterous laughter could be heard from several locations of the schoolyard.  "Good catch!"

Roger regained his composure and inspected the headphones, removing them from his neck, and running his fingers across the dislodged speaker.... before putting them back into his backpack.  They were completely useless now, and he didn't have the money to try and get another pair.  Things like this were the reason he hated people.

"You going to throw it back, scrub?!" The male voice of the football jock came again from across the yard.  Without a word, Roger reached down and picked up the pigskin, wrapping his fingers around the laces.  Silently, he inspected the football.... it belonged to Trevor Kline.... the only kid in school who was egotistical enough to sign his own football, in anticipation of his own greatness.  "It's a football, idiot!  I hope that's not lost on you." Trevor called out again.  Silently, Roger turned to face the school parking lot, and launched the football as hard as he could.  Trevor stood in silent shock and horror, as he watched the ball arc through the air and come back down, instantly shattering the rear windshield of a small sedan, belonging to a member of the school's faculty, and setting off the vehicle's alarm.  With his name on the ball, it was obvious who was going to take the blame for the incident, and end up having to pay off the damage.  Outraged, he took off in a dead run, gunning for the trashy-looking teenager who was responsible for the inevitable punishment he was going to receive.

"Sorry, I'm not that good at sports." Roger said, in a non-chalant tone, smirking in the direction of his rapidly approaching attacker.  "Guess I'm not going to be joining the football team next year."

Trevor attempted to tackle Roger, only to be dodged at the last moment, and slam, head-first, into the pole of the 'no parking' sign that was embedded in the concrete behind him.

"You might not be on the team either, if you give yourself brain damage." Roger spouted off, as at least a dozen other kids stared in abject horror.  "That would really screw up your football career, wouldn't it?"

Trevor didn't respond, he was too busy grasping his head in pain as he slumped into a pile on the ground, groaning loudly.

"Cheer up, you've got the money to pay for the damage." Roger said, finally, before walking off, and continuing his approach into the perpetual snake pit.  He might've avoided being bitten by that particular serpent, but the day had only just begun, and the odds were stacked against him making it through the entire day.  He already knew that the backlash from this particular incident was going to be pretty nasty, when it came around.

As he stepped into the school, more teenagers could be found, walking in every direction through the hallway.  He despised crowded environments, and he sincerely blamed school for it.... hundreds of people twisting and turning in every direction, it was like watching an ant bed, after someone had rammed a stick into it.  Come to think of it, the majority of the teenagers that surrounded him probably had the same amount of intelligence as an ant pile.  He spoke to no one, as he swaggered through the hallway, dodging the random advancements of the mindless automatons around him.  Once he approached his locker, he unlocked the combination lock, opened it, and threw his backpack inside, before pulling out two books and closing it back.  That overwhelming sense of dread had returned, as he stared down the hallway, in the direction of his first class.  Everything seemed dimly lit, and thunder could be heard from outside.... meaning that it was going to be another day of heavy rain.  It figured.

--

"I'm thrilled that you decided to join us for once, Mr. Frost." Mr. Solomon called out, in front of the entire classroom, as he placed his Teacher's Edition books on his desk.  Rain poured against the classroom window, lamenting Roger's mood with a fitting hymn of unrelenting precipitation.  It was interrupted by the engine of a passing vehicle, on the street, just outside the classroom.  "Just yesterday, we were questioning whether we'd ever again be graced by your presence." He added, mockingly.  "Dare I ask what happened?  Was sleeping in becoming too much work?"

Roger decided not to answer.  Like anything said to him by the faculty, it was a set up.... they wanted to push his buttons, and have him respond in a hateful tone.  They knew that he'd been pushed to the limit by their comments toward him, and further humiliation in front of the other students would only make him angry.  But today he wasn't going to give them the chance.

"If everyone will turn their textbooks to chapter twenty-three, we'll begin.  I suspect Mr. Frost will be asleep within the next ten minutes." Mr. Solomon said, offering another jab in Roger's direction.  In unison, every student in the classroom began thumbing through their textbooks.  The sound of pages turning added to the sound of the rain, all of which was beginning to play games with Roger's perception.  The surreal feel of it all seemed.... unexplainable.  Part of him questioned whether or not he was even awake.  This wasn't the first time he'd experienced this feeling, either.... it had occurred several times throughout his life, and when it happened, he always recognized the feeling, even if he couldn't explain it.

As the sound of the turning pages began to subside, the atrocious sound of chalk hitting the blackboard could be heard.  It was a sound that Roger loathed; he could almost feel his teeth shake with each chalk scratch against the blackboard.  Solomon continued, however, perhaps too long, leaving Roger to question whether or not the man was going to re-write the entire chapter's contents onto the board.

"We're going to continue our work on binomials, using the FOIL multiplication method." Mr. Solomon announced to the class, all of which seemed to groan in response.  "Hey, don't blame me.  You should have all had this down, long before now." He said, as he turned to face the class once more.  "Mr. Litman, would you please approach the board?  Bring your textbook with you."

From the far corner of the room, the student's sigh could be heard, as he rose from his seat, book in hand, and began walking toward the front of the room.

"Take the chalk, and show the class how to work problem four." The teacher continued, as he moved to one side and picked up his coffee cup, to sip from.

Suddenly, the annoying sound of chalk against the blackboard returned, grating on Roger's nerves.  As the student wrote out the problem on the board for the entire class to see, Roger turned his head to stare out of the classroom window.  The rain was really coming down outside, making visibility minimal.... it seemed almost as though someone refused to allow Roger an escape from the classroom.  Even within his own mind.

A large black sedan slowly rolled down the rain-soaked street, in International.  Its occupants couldn't be seen, through the vehicles tinted windows, and the downpour of the storm.  It seemed considerably out of place, as it seemed to creep forward among the Asian-architecture of the region.

Inside the vehicle, two well-dressed men in black suits eyed the alleyways and crevices between the buildings they rolled by.  They knew exactly what they were looking for, and they would eventually find it... it was now just a matter of time.

"We're in position and standing by." A man muttered into his walkie-talkie, on a nearby rooftop, as he held his position.  He was dressed from head to toe in tactical gear, and wearing a ski mask and helmet to protect him from the storm.  Poised in front of him was an armed rifle, ready to fire.  As he endured the barrage of rain, he looked downward, toward the street, at the sedan as it slowed to a stop.  Suddenly, no less than two dozen other similarly-dressed figures appeared, scattered across various rooftops, and moving into position on the ground.  "Cut all radio chatter and await further orders." He declared into the walkie.

He'd been a member of the SWAT team for the last five years, and in that time he'd seen some amazing and unspeakable things.  The atrocities that some people were capable of were almost inconceivable.  Between domestic violence calls, family hostage situations, the ever-increasing homicide rate, the threat of terrorism, and rumors of a new drug being pushed on the streets of the city, there were times when he hated his career choice.  No sane human would attempt to get married or have a child, knowing like he did, the things that happen in this city on a daily basis.  Even if he were to finally up and walk away from this horrible career, nothing would change.  He knew that the city would never get any better, and the crime rate would never improve.  As he looked down once more at the sedan, both the driver's and the passenger's doors opened, reminding him of one thing that bothered him about this job more than any other: the spooks.

That's what he and his comrades had always referred to the two men stepping out of the vehicle, into the rain, as.  Their flawless black three-piece suits, black ties, perfect hair and matching black sunglasses... even in the rain... they were emotionless.  Criminals were easy to figure out.  These guys weren't... they were like ghosts.  He couldn't think of anything spookier.

The rain was drenching both of the agents, as stepped onto the sidewalk.  They didn't flinch, or react.  He couldn't help but find it disturbing, just how distant they seemed, as they calmly looked over the immediate area.

"Sergeant Whitman, you are cleared to proceed." The monotone male voice came across the walkie, as he watched one of the agents below speaking into his cufflink.

That was their cue: he put his eye to the scope of his rifle, as the officers below scrambled.  Two men came running up to one of the nearby buildings, carrying a battering ram between them.  Moments later, the two men were slamming it into the door, as the other tactical officers prepared to enter the building, guns blazing.  The door gave way, splintering in several directions, as the men carrying the battering ram immediately backed off, allowing dozens of armed officers to enter the building, followed by both of the now-soaked agents.  Gunfire rang out from inside the building.  From the roof across the street, he could only imagine the gunfight that had broken out inside.

Inside the building, bullets flew in every direction.  The tactical security were shooting it out with a number of monk-looking gang members, with shaven heads.  Both agents were already aware that the raid was inevitably going to dissent into violence, but it did not hinder what they intended to do.

"Mr. Moira, you are now under our custody." One of the two agents said, between gunfire, towards several gang members that had made a makeshift shield, behind the counter of the bar.  "An immediate cessation of hostility would be in your best interest."

The gunfire didn't cease.  If anything, it doubled in intensity, as more gunshots rang out through the old run-down bar, ripping into the walls of the building, and tearing through the body armor that the police officers were wearing.  The two agents looked at each other calmly, not surprised in the least, before pulling their own weapons.  John Moira could be seen as he peered over the bar, briefly, firing several rounds in the direction of the gun-wielding agents who'd invaded his current place of residence.  There was no way he was going to be apprehended or killed by these puppets, not when his reign in this city was finally taking off.  With that thought in mind, he fired twice more, hitting the fire extinguisher by the door, behind the police, and causing it to explode immediately.  As officers fled in every direction to avoid the explosion, Moira and a few of his inner circle ran out from behind the counter, guns firing at full speed.

Three more officers fell to the floor, as the gang members avoided the agents shots and headed through the back door of the bar.

"They've got snipers!" John yelled to one of his own, as the man ran out the door and into the alleyway behind the building.  It was too late, though, as a single round ripped through the man's chest, dropping him instantly.  "This way!" He informed the remaining members of his group, as he turned, and rather than going outside, ran down the stairs, to the basement of the bar.  As they reached the bottom of the stairs, John grabbed a gas can that laid nearby, and threw it up the stairs, before shooting at it.  An explosion ignited the walls in flame, blocking the passage of any police that would follow them into the lower levels of the building.

"You just trapped us in a burning building, John." One of the gang members said, angrily.  "Now how the hell are we supposed to get out of here?"

Without a word, John Moira proceeded to the corner of the basement, before kneeling down and pulling up a grate.  It led directly into the sewers of Akasaka, beneath the building, but it was an escape.  He turned to the remaining members of his gang and smiled, showing them the answer.

Upstairs, the fire continued to spread at a faster rate than the agents would have desired.  Calmly, the two looked at each other before placing their sidearms back in their respective shoulder holsters.

"Moira has escaped." The first agent said, his voice cold.

"The objective has been lost." The second agent said, emphasizing the words of the first.

As flames continued to burn violently through the building, the two agents stood inside, seemingly unshaken by the inferno before them.  They surveyed the extent of the damage, before turning, and calmly stepping outside.  There was nothing to be gained here any longer.

On the rooftop of a neighboring building, a man pulled his eye away from the scope of his rifle, and watched as the two agents emerged from the building, into the rain.  Several wounded officers followed them, fleeing for their lives, as smoke began to pour out of the building.

"The raid was a failure.  Everyone regroup and start packing up.  We have paramedics and the fire department en route." The words came across his walkie-talkie, followed by his own disheartened sigh.

"Are you feeling alright?" Chris' voice came from behind Roger, as he approached.  "Seriously, not only have you actually bothered showing up at school, but you're actually eating cafeteria food?" He said, as he straddled a cafeteria chair across from his cousin, who looked annoyed by the commentary.

With a mouth full of food, Roger didn't bother attempting to answer his cousin, aside from shooting him a glare from across the table.  Given the choice between going to school and staying home today, school was the lesser evil... and there was the tiny detail of Roger's intentions regarding Chris' new laptop.

"It's alright, take your time." Chris said, nodding to Roger's mouth full of food.  "Chew it good, because if there's a chance that it's still alive when you swallow, you'll be in the hospital for a month."

Roger swallowed.

"I thought you had biology?" Roger asked, hinting as his irritation.  "Shouldn't you be there, cutting up kittens or something?"

Chris shook his head, as he pulled the apple from Roger's lunch tray and took a large bite out of it.

"Nah.  That class was canceled today... something about the dissection subjects being stolen.  I don't know." He said, amidst his mouth full of apple, and shrugging.  "Suits me, though."

"Did you bring it with you?" Roger asked, curiously, as he forked another bit of food from his tray and lifted it to his mouth.  Chris, in turn, looked at him like he was insane for even mentioning it around other people.  "Well?  Did you or didn't you?" Roger asked again, emphasizing Chris' ability to easily answer the question.

Swallowing his food, Chris looked around to see who might be listening in.

"No, actually, I didn't." He said, finally answering.  "But it's in a safe place, nowhere near here."

Roger nodded, contemplatively, as he gave careful thought towards his next move.  The entire situation still had the potential to turn bad in a hurry, especially if some idiot cop started snooping around.  He could just imagine his and his cousin's faces plastered all over the evening news, as they're led to patrol cars in handcuffs.  Especially if this gang that Chris had been dealing with was as stupid as some of its rivals.

"So you're really going to go talk to them?" Chris asked, after a long silence.  "And run the risk of getting yourself shot?"

"Unless you want to go do it for me, yeah." Roger answered, giving his cousin a look that seemed to dare him to speak up and say otherwise.  "After all, they're your pals, not mine.  You stand a better chance of walking out of there without being castrated."  Chris avoided making eye contact with Roger, as he tried desperately to think of an understandable excuse as to why he wouldn't be willing to risk himself in his cousin's stead.  "Yeah, that's what I thought." Roger said, rolling his eyes, as he lifted his hand and turned his wrist to look at the time.  "What time did you say you set that timer for?" He asked, looking at his watch with concern.

Chris' eyes widened for a moment, as he'd almost forgotten the timer he'd set up four hours earlier in the morning.  "I set it for 11:42.  What time is it?" He asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Roger hesitated, as he watched the seconds count away on his watch.  With his free hand, he reached under his cafeteria seat and grasped his backpack, pulling it upward and over his shoulder.  "It's 11:40." He said, finally, as he began counting off the last 120 seconds in his head.  With that, he and his cousin rose from the table calmly, and disposed of Roger's cafeteria tray on their way out of the room.  Normally, Roger didn't necessarily need an excuse to slip away and cut class... if anyone stopped him or questioned what he was up to, he was usually quick to tell them where to go.  But this time was different.  Neither his mother, nor the school, were going to cut him any more slack regarding his attendance, and the situation he and his cousin were currently facing was bordering on life and death.  If he didn't leave and handle the situation now, there was a good chance that it could escalate into something much less desirable.

As the two of them stepped out of the cafeteria, the halls exploded with ringing bells and flashing lights.  The entire school sounded out in surprise, as students and faculty alike reacted in shock and gasp and yelp.  The fire alarm had been triggered, and Roger fought to hold back the smirk that threatened to crawl across his face and reveal his guilt.  Now they would all be evacuated out of the school, and Roger would be free to hop a subway to Akasaka... without anyone being any the wiser.

"Don't get yourself killed, Rog." Chris muttered in his direction, as faculty members swarmed through the school to begin the evacuation procedures.  Without a word, Roger nodded his acknowledgement in return.

"I'm wondering what led them to us." One of the monk-like gang members grumbled, as he sat, angrily, his wounds being cleaned by a geisha-like female.  "We've been more careful than the other gangs in this city."

Across from him, John Moira, the gang's leader, sat in quiet contemplation.  He wasn't pleased with the situation in the least.  "We suffered one hell of a blow this morning." He said calmly, before taking a quiet sip from the tumbler full of alcohol, in front of him.  "They killed no less than ten of our men, including a member of my family." John exclaimed in a cold, calm tone.  He was furious.  "They never should have gotten that close."

The other gang members in the room were speechless.  John wasn't someone you wanted to deal with when he was angry, and the fact that he was this angry almost guaranteed that someone would pay.  Speaking up would increase their risk of taking the heat for the incident that had occurred.

With a light sigh, John sat the tumbler on the old wooden table, before pulling a handgun from the pocket of the large duster he wore.  Almost without looking, he pointed it across the room at its target, before gripping the trigger tightly with his index finger.

"So the question is, 'how did this happen?'" He asked, firmly, before turning to look at the subordinate he was now aiming the firearm in the direction of.  "Would you care to explain this to me?"

The shaven-headed gang member stared back at John in a mixture of horror and surprise, unsure exactly of what to do or say.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Curtis." John said, mockingly.  The gun didn't waiver in the slightest.  "I've been well aware of your extra-curricular activities for some time now... the only reason they weren't squashed is because they weren't an immediate threat to our operation." He explained, non-chalantly.  "But that ceased, the moment agents set foot in our territory."

"Boss, I..." Curtis attempted to explain, but lacked the words.

"Selling stolen property is one thing, when it's a handgun, or a television set..." John explained, as though he were teaching a classroom full of children.  "It's something completely different when it's a piece of equipment, stolen from one of the major corporations in the city!" He yelled, before pulling the trigger.  A single gunshot rang out, as the geishas in the room ducked their heads in fright.  Blood spattered the wall behind Curtis, as his body went limp.  "We do all understand that, right?  Or is it like trying to explain physics to a rock?" John asked the remaining gang members, looking around the room questionably as he held the smoking gun.

The room's occupants were left speechless, either by fear or surprise.  There wasn't anything they could offer to the conversation that wouldn't run the risk of further angering or irritating the gang leader.  They watched him as he sighed again, before raising himself from the table.

"I haven't poured myself into both the construction and the constant operation of the Brothers of Destiny to let us fall apart because of a couple of idiots who don't know how to avoid the police." He said, as he paced the length of the room.  "It isn't bad enough that we have the Sisters of Fate, the Furies, and Great Wall Security pushing in on our territory, but now I have to deal with the greed of one of our own members making trouble for the rest of us." His tone was seething, yet contemplative, as he verbally assessed the situation in an attempt to derive a resolution.  "We lost too many people today, and I promise you, it's going to be all over the evening news.  The other gangs see that, and we're going to have a turf war on our hands."

"What can we do to keep it from going on the air?" Another gang member spoke up, from the other end of the room.

John thought about it for a moment.

"Nothing." He said, answering, finally.  "The only thing we can do is try and be prepared for when it does air... and that means push recruitment.  Tony, you said your cousins were talking about joining, right?"

On the other side of the room, Tony's eyes widened in concern.

"Uh, yeah, but you want to recruit them into a gang war?" He asked, not liking the sound of the situation in the least.  "I mean, I'll call them, but..."

"Look." John interrupted.  "If they're as tough as you say they are, we're going to need them.  Hell, at this point, we need every warm body we can get our hands on.  Sheer numbers are the only thing that's going to keep us from being wiped out in drive-by shootings, once people see tonight's news."

Tony nodded, unhappily, but with understanding.

"Call them." John ordered.  "Rich, Jacob, you two hit the streets but cover yourselves.  We need as many new recruits as we can find, by three o'clock.  I don't care who they are, I'd rather some nobody off the street take a bullet from a gang war than us.  If nothing else, it will buy us time."

The gang members acknowledged their orders, and rose to their feet, to leave.  If this worked, it would pad the gang's numbers just enough to hold off any attacks that would come from their rivals, after nightfall.

--

The Dannah Heights blue line subway's aura was as cold at dreary as the rest of the world, Roger noticed, as he descended the steps into the underground subway stop, to await the arrival of the train.  White cracked tiles lined the floor and the walls, reflecting the illumination of the fluorescent fixtures, humming from their places along the ceiling.  Dirt lined each tile, however, staining the white surface with brown, black, and the occasional graffiti.  The presence of a seemingly endless number of fliers, all of which had succumbed to the moisture and torn, faded, or become soggy, seemed to make the place seem all the more dungeon-like.  Without a word, Roger tossed his hair from his face, and crossed the turnstile, as he grabbed his backpack tighter; a precaution against anyone who would attempt to mug him down here.

It was hard not to let the melancholy nature of the city begin to get to you, when you couldn't help but find yourself in one gloomy-looking location after another.  Every tool of architecture, whether it be glass, tile, concrete, asphault, seemed to be perverted in nature.  While each had been used, undoubtedly, in an attempt to make structures seem clean in appearance and efficient... time had distorted that image into the complete opposite.  The chrome of the turnstiles were now plagued with smudges and traces of rust.  This was what happened to all things with time, no matter how clean and beautiful they once were, Roger felt.  Everything tarnished in time, everything began to slowly rot and contort into uselessness.  It was as ugly as watching a body decompose.

The train finally pulled into the station.  It didn't look any cleaner than the station itself, as it too was lined with traces of rust and dirt, and had several counts of graffiti undoubtedly from various city gangs, looking to advertise across the entire city without bothering to leave their turf.  As the train slowed, its brakes squealing lightly in a high-pitch tone that almost made him want to cringe, Roger glanced up at one of the spray-painted masterpieces.

"RISE UP AGAINST YOUR ENSLAVEMENT." It said, in bold red lettering.  The paint seemed fresh, and the words seemed out of place, even among the other graffiti that covered the subway train, Roger noticed.  It made him feel... strange.

Finally, the doors to the train opened, and Roger stepped inside, looking around at the near-empty car.  Upholstery was torn to shreds, allowing for the yellow cushioning to poke through each thread.  Silently, he took a seat across from a homeless man, who appeared to be asleep.  He sat down, and in a few seconds, the train was on its way.

He loathed this city, and its very nature.  Everything was in disrepair, everything was rotting and filthy.  It was hard to care about a world that seemed as though it was falling apart... and try as he might, he couldn't think of a single person he knew that was truly happy.  It all seemed to leave him with a feeling of hopelessness, that things would never change, and that there was no point to existence, other than to serve the machine; become another gear in some faceless corporation.

His concentration was broken by the feeling of someone's eyes on him.  He looked to his right, to see her hand on the metallic post, holding herself steady.  He couldn't help but notice how beautiful she was, as she stared at him, seemingly with interest.

She didn't smile or frown.  Her lips were the lightest shade of pink, without any trace of lipstick.  They were thin, and he couldn't help but notice how well they accentuated her small, rounded nose and piercing brown eyes.  Her straight brown hair framed her face, and her high cheekbones hid any trace of baby fat.

Roger was speechless.  He knew better than to stare at her, but she hadn't taken her eyes off of him... and she hadn't said a word.  The longer he looked at her, the more he knew she was inevitably going to lash out at him verbally... but he couldn't help it.

Her fingernails were painted black, and she wore fingerless fishnet gloves.  On her left wrist, a black leather bracelet hung, four chrome spikes protruding from it.  She couldn't have been any older than he was.  Coming to his senses, he finally managed to look away from her, if only for an instant.  When he finally looked back, she still hadn't taken her eyes off of him.  She didn't care that he knew she was looking at him... yet she made no indication as to whether she liked him or not.  He wanted to speak to her, but part of him couldn't help but feel as though she was waiting for him to say something.

The passing lights of the subway tunnel caused a strobe-like effect, as he continued watching the girl.  He kept expecting her to look away, but she didn't.  As her hand slowly shifted along the pole, her long fingers moved, revealing a red stain on the inside of her hand.  Roger looked at the section of the pole she'd been holding up to now, and the traces of the stain she'd left behind.  It was the same color as the graffiti he'd seen on the outside of the train.  In realization, he locked eyes with her once more.  She never winced, blinked, or looked away.  It was as though without facial expression, without words, her eyes were trying to tell him something he couldn't quite make out.

The train came to a stop inside the Sai Kung subway station, and the doors opened just as they had before.  Grasping his backpack, Roger stood and moved towards the door, beside where the girl was standing.  Their eyes followed each other, as she watched him leave the train, and he continued to watch her.  No words were exchanged as he stepped out and into the subway station, leaving her in place within the train.

He backed away from the train, his eyes still locked on hers as she stared at him.  She didn't move, as other passengers walked past her, getting onto the train.  Slowly, the doors began to close once more.

Roger watched as the train began to pull out of the station.  She never stopped looking at him, until she disappeared into the tunnel, leaving Roger with one more brief glimpse of the message she had inadvertently given him.

"RISE UP AGAINST YOUR ENSLAVEMENT."

Within seconds, the words disappeared with the train, in the subway tunnel, leaving Roger standing alone in the station.

It didn't take long to reach the address he'd been given.  Less than ten minutes had passed, before he found the place.  It was a small run-down building that had been painted red.  In the window, a sign hung, advertising laundromat services.  Roger continued walking past the building, as he looked in the window casually, curious as to whether or not there'd be a half-dozen Asian men with guns staring back at him.  To his surprise, the place seemed legitimate, fortunately.  He turned the corner and rounded the building, searching for the alleyway behind it.

Puddles of water stood between the buildings, reflecting the cold grey sky above.  Mixed with the smell of the nearby dumpsters, Roger couldn't help but sigh to himself about the ambience of the location.  Before he could complain much more to himself, though, the back door of the laundromat opened, and an old man with white hair stepped out with a garbage can to empty.  He paused momentarily, as Roger came into view.

"Who are you?" He asked, as he set the garbage can down on the ground.

"I'm looking for someone named Frank." Roger answered, cautiously.  "A guy named Kevin sent me to pick up some egg rolls."

The statement sounded ludicrous.  An Asian laundromat that served egg rolls?  Roger knew that he was about to endure a slew of choice words from the old man, at the pure idiocy of what he'd just said.

"Kevin, huh?" The old man said, looking angry at the statement.

"...Yeah." Roger confirmed, trying hard to assure himself that he wasn't saying the wrong thing.  To his surprise, though, the old man nodding knowingly.

"Come in." He said, motioning to the door behind him, as he picked up the garbage can once more.  "I will pour you some tea, while I make a telephone call.  My brothers are cautious, but Kevin is an old friend."

Wearily, Roger nodded, before approaching the back door of the laundromat.  Frank poured the contents of the garbage can into the dumpster, and then followed Roger into the building.

Inside, several eyes looked upward, distracted from their work, to see Roger as he passed through the back room of the laundromat.  Each person was working tirelessly on washboards, carefully hand-scrubbing each garment.  They were there of their own free will, killing themselves doing hard labor, to earn a living.  The sight of them only made Roger feel less comfortable, as Frank passed by him, and led him into another room.  The smell of cleansers and soaps was strong, with just enough ammonia in the air to make Roger's nose burn lightly.  He couldn't believe that this was all these people did, all day long, and part of him wondered just how horrible the skin on their hands must look, after drowning their hands in the same chemicals, day after day.

The two entered a small kitchen area, undoubtedly used by the workers as a break area, complete with a refridgerator and oven.  Throughout the room, several small trays, with pillows on either side of them, outlined the places where the workers would sit to eat their lunch, drink tea, and take their breaks.  On one tray rested a small porcelain teapot.

"Please, sit.  I will be with you in one moment." Frank said, gesturing to the pillow that rested on the floor, as he passed through the room and out through a door on the opposite end.  Roger approached the cushion slowly, still not too sure of what to think, as Frank re-entered the room with a cordless telephone in his hand, dialing numbers.  "You have come here looking to speak with the Brothers of Destiny." He said, more telling Roger, than asking.

"Yes, sir." Roger answered, uneasy with his current situation, but hoping that honesty would earn the respect of the older gentleman.

"You have business with them?" Frank asked, still attempting to feebly dial the numbers on the telephone.

"I... hope to, sir." Roger replied, only to be shocked by the sudden chuckle of the old man, who'd finally succeeded in dialing the telephone number.

"One does not hope to be bitten by a snake, young man." Frank commented, before putting the ringing phone to his ear.  A moment later it became apparent that the person on the other end of the phone had answered, as Frank began speaking into the receiver in what seemed to be a Cantonese dialect.  The conversation seemed to end on a positive note, as Frank pulled the receiver from his ear and pressed a single button, deactivating it.  "Brother Jacob will be here momentarily." He told Roger.  "Let us hope that this business of yours is worth their time, my young friend."

Roger nodded in acknowledgement, feeling somewhat overwhelmed at the entire situation.  But then, that, in a nutshell, was exactly how his entire day had seemed, thus far: overwhelming, at best.

--

Chris sighed, as he stared at the clock on the wall.  He hated sitting in the Secretary's office, but not quite as much as he hated what was going to come next.  The door to his left opened, and out walked a man in a three-piece suit... someone who apparently took his job way too seriously, by Chris' standards.

"Mr. Stepek." Principal Rollins said, as he looked down at Chris in the chair.  "Step into my office."  With a sigh, Chris rose from his seat and staggered forward, unwillingly, through the open doorway.  Rollins watched him for a moment, before turning to his secretary.  "Get Roger Frost's mother on the telephone, and have her come down here.  I'd like to speak with her, regarding her son."

"Certainly, sir." The young blonde said, smiling, as she pulled Roger's file from the permanent location it had taken on her desk.

The kitchen telephone in the Frost apartment began to ring, echoing throughout the emptiness of the household.  Near the telephone, the front door stood, bolted shut, with several locks engaged from the inside.  Eventually another noise could be heard in the distance, as the noise shook someone from their slumber.  Barbara's voice could be heard through the apartment, despite the sound of the ringing telephone that called out to her, as she groaned in frustration and continued exhaustion, trying desperately to pull herself from bed.

"You're kidding me." She grumbled, as both of her feet touched the floor, and she lifted herself up and onto them.  "If this is a telemarketer, I'm going to go on a shooting spree."

Each step sounded like a stomp, as she stumbled down the hallway in a steadily increasing speed.  The resemblance to Roger waking up was astonishing, right down to the epic struggle to keep her eyes open.  If anything, the problem between the two of them was that they were too much alike in their nature, right down to their stubbornness, even when it came to each other.

Her hand slapped across the phone, pulling it from its cradle in a single move and holding it to her ear.

"Hello?" She answered, sounding groggy and unhappy.  She paused for a moment, to listen to the woman on the other end of the telephone as she tried to wake up enough to understand her.  "Wait, the school's on fire?  What?" She blurted out, still not quite understanding.  "Uh huh... hacking?" Her eyes were beginning to open now, though not of her own choice.  "He's not on school property?" She asked, as she looked at the digital clock on the oven, across from her.  "Yeah, I'll be down there as soon as I get dressed."

Without a word, Barbara slammed the telephone back in its cradle before marching back towards her bedroom.  Each step seemed to wake her up a little more than the last, as the conversation she'd just had started to sink in.  This had gotten to be an everyday thing, getting called from the school about something her son had gotten into or done, and she was beyond tired of it.  Begging, pleading, bargaining, punishing... none of it seemed to get through to him, and she'd had enough.  She'd get dressed and go down there to perform damage control, but Roger would have one massive surprise waiting for him when he got home that afternoon.

--

The slamming lockers were easy for him to ignore, especially in his current state.  He tried to avoid thinking about it all day long, but it was all anyone in the station would talk about.  The police department had failed on an epic scale earlier that day, and had not only botched a raid in the International district, but had allowed for a loss of police life, and for a building to be burnt to the ground.  The man they were after, the leader of the Brothers of Destiny, John Moira, had escaped... and to make matters worse, two federal agents had been present to witness the failure.  As he slid his t-shirt over his head and closed his eyes, the image of that burning building through his rifle's scope came back to him.  Each slamming locker sounded as though it was another gunshot that had rang out inside that building.  The city council was furious, and the mayor had been stomping through the station ever since.  News crews had been calling non-stop since the incident, wanting interviews and answers to put on the air for the entire city to see.  And to make matters even worse, he was about to have to go sit in on a department meeting, to discuss their failure at great length, with the mayor.

He sighed quietly as he finished stowing his gear, and closed his locker.  Times like these really made him wish he'd never bothered becoming a police officer in this city.

As he exited the locker room, he felt the sense of dread begin swelling within him.  He wasn't looking forward to sitting in that conference room, listening to the mayor yell at the entire department for the next hour.  But with every step down the corridor, he could feel the situation creeping up on him, as a mass of other officers could be seen, some in uniform and some not, entering the door to the right.  Soon, he was following them in, trying not to look at the police chief too hard, as he found a seat from the mass of chairs in the room.

"Ready to get your butt chewed, Kaufman?" The cop to his right whispered to him, half-smirking.  "I hear that this one's got the mayor so steamed that they're about to lay off the whole department."

"Yeah, right." He scoffed.  "They'll probably just cut our pay again."

The last few officers came into the room and took their seats, as the two federal agents were the last to enter the room, closing the door behind them.  Their presence alone seemed to silence all of the whispers in the room, as they stood side by side, looking flawless in appearance.

"If I can have your attention, please." The police chief said, as he approached the podium, overlooking the large conference room.  "As you're all undoubtedly aware of, at approximately 11:20 this morning, this police department embarked on a joint-operation with federal agents Boise and Wise, to conduct a tactical raid in the neighborhood of Akasaka."

The agents stood perfectly still, near the door, watching the audience in silence as the chief continued.  James Kaufman couldn't help but feel uneasy around them, noting more and more how they seemed to live up to the title of Spook, each time he saw them.

"This operation was a bust, resulting in four deceased officers, several deceased gang members, and at least two wounded." The chief continued.  "In addition to this, the target of this operation, John Moira, was allowed to escape arrest.  The office of Internal Affairs has launched a full investigation as to how this occurred, and several of you will be called to speak with them in the coming days."

There it was: the very thing that none of them wanted to hear.  This was the thing that was going to cause unneeded stress throughout the entire department, and inevitably get everyone fired or reassigned to another precinct.  James could feel the attitude of the entire room sink, almost immediately.

"Agent Wise has a statement that he would like to make to the department, regarding our ongoing work with his agency." The chief said, before turning to the nearer of the two suits, who approached in an almost fluid mechanical fashion, as though he weren't concerned in the least with the fact that he was about to speak in front of over thirty cops and city officials.

"John Moira has escaped." He said, finally, before the podium, stating the painfully obvious.  "However, my colleagues are not prepared to cease in our attempts to apprehend him.  This means further cooperation will be required between us and your department, to locate Mr. Moira and take him into our custody."

Kaufman half-wished they'd just accept their defeat and leave.  But then again, he knew better than to expect such a thing.  These guys were like machines, they didn't stop until they reached their goals.  If he was smart, he thought, he'd be the same way... which would do wonders for his career.  But he still couldn't imagine himself in one of those suits, with sunglasses and an earpiece, acting like they do... no matter how much training was involved.

"Rest assured that we will not rest until Mr. Moira has been apprehended, along with all of his associates... regardless of how long it takes." Agent Wise concluded, menacingly.

The tea sucked.  But then, Roger never was a big fan of tea... any kind.  He hated it, considering it little more than a step above drinking mud.  He didn't care about the variations, there was no flavor he liked.  Black tea was comparable to the Black Plague.  Green tea reminded him of something along the lines of koala urine.  Oolong tea looked like used chewing tobacco, and white tea was the equivalent of drinking boiled water.  All in all, Roger thought, he made for a very poor excuse for someone with Asian heritage, considering his serious distaste for a beverage that supposedly originated with his particular nationality.  Nevertheless, he sipped at the tea he'd been given by Frank, in an effort to be polite, despite the severe look he gave with each tasting.

"Tell me." Frank asked, as he knelt down on the cushion across from Roger.  "Where do you live?"

Pulling the small cup from his mouth, Roger replied, almost thankful to have a distraction to take him away from the tea.  "The neighborhood of Apollyon, sir."

Frank nodded, noting just how far the teenage boy had traveled.  "Aye, and you came here on your own?" He asked, more curious than anything.  "Without an adult, or a friend?"

"I'm by myself." Roger explained, not sure of what else to say.  "Only one person knows I'm here." He added, hinting that should he suddenly disappear for whatever reason during his trip, there would be someone left behind that could tie him to that location.

Frank nodded again, before his concentration was broken by the sound of the bell in the main room of the laundromat, signaling someone's entrance into the building.  Frank rose from his seat, nodded to Roger briefly, and then excused himself to attend to the potential customer.  In his absence, Roger's eyes sank toward the tray, his facing taking on a horrible expression, as he silently scolded the cup of tea for its sheer existence.  In the distance, Roger could hear the foreign conversation.  Frank was speaking with another male, and they both seemed to be in a calm tone... Roger couldn't tell whether he should be concerned or relieved.  Such a tone could signify a positive outcome for Roger, or it could signify a collaboration between Frank and the second gentleman to eliminate Roger from the equation altogether.  There was simply no way to tell, which left him with little choice but to wait, like a sitting duck, and hope that no harm would come to him for his attempt to contact the Brothers of Destiny.  For a moment, Roger thought, it might have been simpler and much safer if he'd simply tried to backhand a member of the Yakuza.

Frank entered the room, followed by a younger-looking Asian man, in a biker's jacket.  His head was shaven, and he seemed much more serious than his older colleague, which concerned Roger as he rose from the cushion on the floor, leaving his tea on the tray.

"This is Jacob.  He will help you." Frank announced, respectfully.  "Thank you for honoring me by having a cup of tea."

Roger nodded softly, as he looked at Jacob, unsure of what to think.

"My name is Roger, and I'm looking for a man that I believe you might know.  He sold my cousin a laptop yesterday afternoon." Roger explained, trying his best to sound respectful to Jacob, who was now staring at him with a very serious look on his face.  Part of Roger knew that any second now, the guy was going to pull a large weapon from behind his back, and blow him away.

Instead, Jacob nodded his understanding of the situation, before looking around the room and putting his hand on Roger's shoulder to guide him, as he left the room.

"Come with me." Jacob told Roger, as he escorted him out of the room, and soon out of the laundromat altogether.  Outside, Jacob's car waited along the curb, the engine still running, as Jacob motioned for Roger to get in through the passenger's side door and rounded the rear of the vehicle.

Roger grabbed the door handle and opened it, before hesitantly taking a seat inside.  Jacob climbed into the driver's seat, and immediately put the car in gear, checking for oncoming vehicles as he pulled out of the parallel parking spot and into traffic.  He made no effort to speak to Roger, as the car ride ensued, seeming more focused on the flow of traffic and whether or not anyone was following them than if the boy in his passenger seat was wearing a wiretap or carrying a weapon of any kind.  Roger couldn't help but question this fact, which inevitably said something about the credibility of the gang in whole... unless, of course, he was taking Roger somewhere less populated to dispose of.

"I know I probably don't need to ask too many questions here, but, uh... where are we going?" Roger asked, finally breaking the silence between the two of them.

"I'm taking you to speak with John." Jacob answered, without so much as looking at the boy.

"I don't think John's the guy who sold the laptop to my cousin." Roger explained, somewhat confused.  "I mean, I didn't get the guy's name, but my cous—" He was interrupted by Jacob.

"That guy's dead." Jacob blurted out.

Roger's eyes widened at the thought.  It figured... the whole reason he'd even ventured out here today was to try and stop any potentially harmful situation that would arise from Chris' thoughtless acquisition of such a sought-after piece of equipment.  It would be typical that such a situation would've already begun.  The corporation that created the laptop had probably hired a hit man to find the device and eliminate anyone bold enough to perform that class of corporate espionage on them.  As such, John had probably panicked at such a blatant murder of one of his gang members, and is seeking the laptop himself, to turn back over to the corporation.

The more Roger thought about it, the more dangerous the situation seemed.  But there was a chance, at least, that John just wanted the laptop, and would let him and his cousin go safely, when his gang was no longer in danger from this corporate-funded murderer.

"John killed him." Jacob added, finally, elaborating on the fate of his former-comrade.

Roger's eyes widened once more, as he came to the realization that the situation was much different than he'd imagined.

"Oh, hell." He muttered to himself, as he sank in his seat.

The vehicle started to slow, as it pulled into an alleyway.  Roger sat up once more to look out the window, but wasn't entirely sure where he was.  The architecture told him that he was still in the International district, and considering the timing of the car ride, he couldn't have been far from the laundromat he'd been picked up in.  Suddenly the car came to a stop, and Jacob turned off the engine.

"Come with me." He said, getting out of the car.  Roger followed suit, without saying a word, as he opened the door and rose to his feet outside of the vehicle.  Jacob closed the driver's side car door and started walking toward the entrance to a large building.  Roger followed along, silently, hoping that he wasn't walking head-first into a hornet's nest.  Jacob opened the door and allowed Roger to step through, into the building, before following him in and closing the door behind them.  Inside, the place was much larger than he'd anticipated, and the Asian architecture was much more obvious.  Walls were made of thin wood and tiled paper, the floors were lined with bamboo mats, and everything seemed to have a wooden texture to it that made it seem calming.  That is, if it weren't for the half-dozen bald guys in black and green dusters, glaring at him as soon as he walked in the door.

"Another new recruit?" A voice came from across the room.  It sounded firm.

"Not exactly." Jacob replied, as he approached the source of the voice.  "This is the cousin of the kid that Curtis sold that laptop to."

Roger watched the conversation, as the man stared him down, nodding his understanding to Jacob.  Suddenly, Roger realized... this was John Moira.

"With all due respect, sir..." Roger began, trying hard not to be rude.

"Shut up." John blurted, as he glared at Roger.  Jacob backed off to let the two have their conversation.  "Do you have any idea what kind of headache that laptop has caused me, kid?"

"Uh... no, sir." Roger answered.

John rose from his chair, his eyes locked on Roger with almost murderous intent.  Roger couldn't help but imagine what kind of horror was going to come next.

"That idiot stole a forty-thousand dollar prototype from one of the city's largest corporations, and brought the entire police force down on my operation.  Now my question is this..." John said, as he approached Roger slowly.  "...where is the laptop now?"

Roger paused for a moment, not quite knowing what to say.  It wasn't that he didn't know where the laptop was, it was that he'd never actually imagined it being tied to that kind of a price tag.  Chris had told him that he'd performed a series of tasks for this Curtis guy, in exchange for the laptop... meaning that whatever jobs he'd been given to do for Curtis were obviously equal or greater in value to that forty-thousand dollar pricetag.

"It's hidden, back in Apollyon.  No one knows we have it but you." Roger explained, hoping to dissuade the gang leader from doing anything rash.  "I came here because I wanted to put an end to any nasty situation before it began."

John thought about what he'd just been told, before nodding.  He seemed far more understanding than he had been, just moments prior... probably from relief.

"That's good.  It's out of our possession, and no one knows where it is." He said, thinking aloud.  "What's your name?" He asked, looking back at Roger.

"Roger Frost." He answered John, not sure of what else he could possibly say.

"Mr. Frost, I'm going to offer you a deal." John said, looking much calmer than before.  "Don't ask me why, because I'm not really in a generous mood... but... you won't have any problems from the Brothers of Destiny, so long as no one knows that laptop exists." He explained.  "If it ever comes to light that it does exist, though... and it's tied back to us, you can expect us to come after you and everyone you know."

It was a no-brainer.  There was no reason not to take that deal, since he knew he and Chris could keep the laptop a secret.  At least until the prototype was rebuilt by whatever company had designed it, and was put on the market.  By that time, there'd be no reason whatsoever to keep their possession of it a secret... only how they'd come into possession of it.

"That is more than acceptable.  Thank you." Roger said, as he extended his hand in respect.  Before John could shake it, however, an explosion rang out that sent everything into a flurry.  It seemed as though the world was collapsing, and the only thing he could hear were the screams of others in the room with him, as gunshots rang out.

Pulling himself from the floor, he looked up, just in time to see three female gangsters stepping out of the vehicle that had just driven through the wall of the building.  Each of them carried an automatic weapon, and each of them had opened fire on the Brothers of Destiny... with Roger caught right in the middle.

"He doesn't even own a computer, what makes you think he's capable of doing something like hacking?" Barbara's voice could be heard all the way in the secretary's office, as she spoke with Principal Rollins.  Inside his office, the doors were closed, and she sat alongside her nephew, Chris Stepek, and across the desk from Mr. Rollins as he explained the situation concerning her son.

"Mrs. Frost, regardless of where he learned it, our security cameras clearly show that he's responsible for the unscheduled fire drill we were forced to have this morning." He attempted to explain to her, to the best of his ability.  "Not only is he responsible for disrupting this entire school, but he's currently absent from the campus!  Now, I apologize, but we've done everything we can do for him."

Barbara's eyes narrowed, as she looked across the desk at the man she was ready to strangle.

"What does that mean?" She asked.

Principal Rollins paused for a moment, as he grabbed Roger's rather thick school file and slid it across his desk toward Barbara.

"Take a look for yourself, Roger's conduct, grades, behavior and overall presence on this campus has been unacceptable.  Despite countless calls to yourself, and attempts on our behalf to break him from this behavior, nothing has changed him." He said, sounding more stern now, while still trying to retain a tone of sympathy that he hoped Roger's mother would come to understand.  "We have no choice but to expel him, indefinitely."

Watching the conversation in silence, Chris' eyes widened at Rollins' last statement.  This whole thing had just gone farther than he'd ever wanted it to, and he was, at least partially, to blame for it.  Kind of.  He looked at his aunt, as she stared unflinchingly across the desk at the school principal.  It looked to him like she was doing everything she could to restrain herself from coming across the desk at him, and Chris could only imagine what Roger was in for, when he got home.

"Well, then." Barbara said, finally, as she lowered her eyes and looked for her purse.  "It would seem we have no further business, Mr. Rollins." She told him, as she grabbed her purse and rose from her seat, before turning to leave the office.  Chris was in a state of shock... not only had she not yelled at him for his involvement in the situation, she hadn't even bothered to look or speak to him.  It was pretty obvious that he was in her dog house now.

"I wish this could be different, Mrs. Frost." Rollins said, as he rose from his seat and straightened his tie, trying to relieve the angered woman in front of him.

Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks.

"No, you don't." She said, without bothering to turn and face him.  "You wanted this outcome to happen, which is why it's happening.  Well... you've made your choice, and my son will have to live with it for the rest of his life.  Thank you for that." She said, before opening the door and leaving, without another word.

Rollins sighed, before allowing himself to fall back into his chair, in seeming exhaustion from the interaction that had just occurred.  A moment passed before he looked across his desk, at the teenage boy who'd witnessed it all, now staring at him in fear of what was going to come next.

"Go home for the day, Chris." He said, not wanting to deal with the ordeal any longer.

"...But it's not even two o'clock." Chris replied, confused.

Without a word, Rollins stared at Chris with a stern face.  That was all Chris needed to see, as he raised his hands in surrender, before lifting himself from his seat and turning to head to the door.

--

Gunfire ripped through the building, tearing through the wood that lined the remains of what was once a room.  Reacting instinctively, John shoved Roger to the ground as he pulled his pistol from his duster and began returning fire against the three intruders.  Members of the Brothers of Destiny immediately leapt into action, looking for cover as they pointed their own automatic weaponry and launched their own barrage of bullets into the fray.  Roger's mind raced, as bullets passed by him in every conceivable direction.  He'd gotten just enough of a glimpse of their attackers to know that they weren't the police, but it was completely irrelevant to him, next to the fact that they were trying to kill them all without question.

As he looked up, he soon came to realize that he was now ducked down behind a table that had been thrown on its side.  His back was against the metal table, and to his left was the man he'd just made a deal with, trying desperately to pick off one of their attackers with the shots he fired around the edge of the table.

"What the hell, man?!" Roger exclaimed, in a mixture of terror and sheer surprise.  John didn't respond to him, too busy firing back at the three women who'd just driven through the building.  "I need to get out of here..." He added, coming to the realization that he was going to end up shot for no reason at all.  As Roger leaned to his right, to peer around the corner of the table, with some hope that he could make a run for the exit, John's hand grasped his shoulder firmly and pulled him back to place.

"You even try it, and they'll be taking you out of here in a body bag." Moira told him, before firing three more shots around the edge of the table.  "This is what I was worried about... it's Clotho's little tramps!" He exclaimed, before firing yet again.

"Dude, I can't get caught in the middle of this." Roger pleaded, realizing fully that he was now in the wrong place at the wrong time.  "I can't get caught in the middle of some gangland turf war!"

Without a word, John fired again at the attackers, before pulling a second pistol from his pocket and turning the butt of it in Roger's direction.

Roger stared at it, in shock.  He was only 17, and this guy wanted him to start shooting something he'd never dreamed of touching, in his life, at a bunch of women?

"Take the gun!" John yelled, snapping Roger out of whatever thought he was having.  He grabbed the handle of the gun, not saying a word, for fear of John shooting him himself, out of frustration.  "Pull the top back, point, and squeeze the trigger." John paused long enough to explain.

Roger hated it, but he saw no other choice.  He pulled back on the top of the pistol, feeling the spring click into place.  Then he reached around the opposite edge of the table and squeezed the trigger three times, letting out a triage of bursts that shook his entire body.  With that, he ducked back behind the table once more, wide-eyed and staring at the weapon in his hand.  He had no idea if he'd even hit anything, but the fact that he'd just shot his first weapon... and at someone, no less, left him dumbfounded.  More gunfire around him shook him from his trance, though, and he quickly grabbed the gun with both hands this time, and turned around to fire again.

This time he emptied the clip, firing another twelve shots... one of which, actually hit its intended target, albeit in the shoulder.  As the woman screamed in pain, she lost her grasp on her weapon, leaving her open for John to take a headshot that would bring her down permanently.  Within a few minutes, the other two intruders would follow her to their own demise.

It led to a turning point in the battle, when Jacob reappeared from the side of the room with a small Zatkin automatic weapon in-hand, firing relentlessly at the two remaining Sisters of Fate.  A spray of metal tore through the air, catching one of them in the stomach, chest and head, dropping her immediately.  By the time the second one noticed her colleague's defeat, it was too late.  The contents of her skull had been disrupted, the small metal intruder sending a red mist into the air.  Suddenly, the gunfire ceased, as she too, hit the ground, lifeless.  What remained, in the building, was a thick atmosphere of dust and debris, as several gang members cautiously scanned through the wreckage.

"Who's hurt?" John asked, emerging from behind the table, his pistol still in-hand, as he began to assess the damage.  "Did they hit anyone?"

"Maddy caught one in the arm." Jacob spoke up, looking restless, as he tried to calm himself from the heat of battle.  "I think we were lucky this time."

John nodded, as he looked toward Maddy, who was holding his arm in pain, but clearly holding his own as blood trickled down his duster.  It was true, they were lucky this time... but it was still way too close for comfort.  Next time they might not be so lucky, and if his experiences had taught him anything, John knew that this was clearly only the first of the gang attacks that would occur.  If he didn't play it just right, this could very easily be the end of the Brothers of Destiny, and him.

Roger was still in shock, as he stood, staring blankly at the corpses of the three female gang members that littered the floor.

He'd actually shot one of them.

For real, not like on television, where everything was fake.  As John and the others continued to step through the wreckage, looking to see what might be salvageable, and checking for bodies, Roger looked down, examining the instrument in his hand.  It had taken on an all-new definition to him: the bullets were tiny pebbles of metal that could do significant damage.  He couldn't fathom... something as massive as a human life, being taken by something so small.

And he'd been the one to pull the trigger.

Sure, it wasn't a killing shot, but it might as well have been.

"John." Jacob called out, as he noticed the teenage boy's expression.  John looked up from the wreckage to see Roger staring at the gun in shock.  He knew what was going through the poor kid's mind.

"Hey, kid." John called out to the boy, as he looked at him with empathy.  "Are you alright?"

Roger shook his head slowly, and tossed the gun to the floor, where it clattered amongst the other debris.  "I actually shot someone." Roger declared, unhappily.

John nodded.

"Yeah, and it saved someone's life." He explained, trying to reason with what the boy was feeling.  "Possibly even yours."

Roger didn't respond.  Be only sighed, as he looked around the room with widened eyes, his heart still racing.

"Hey!" Another gang member spoke up, as the sound of sirens could be heard, coming into the distance.  John nodded to the guy and threw his hand up to dissuade him from interrupting any further.

"Look..." John said, as he approached Roger.  "...you survived, man.  Hell, we all survived, when they didn't want us to." He explained.  "That's what it's all really about: survival.  So you did good, regardless of how you're feeling right now."

Roger's eyes locked on John's, with a strange kind of understanding.

It did make sense.

He and his mother had been striving for years now, just to survive.  And survival required things that were unpleasant.  Hell, Barbara had been working as a bartender, in a place she loathed, around a bunch of drunks who would spend all night trying to get her to go home with them, for as long as Roger could remember.  It wasn't that she wanted to do it, it was that she had to... so she and Roger could survive.

"I understand." Roger said, finally.

By now, the sirens had gotten much closer... but John was pleased to see the understanding on Roger's face.

"You helped us out, and for that I'm grateful." He said to Roger, as he approached him.  "You need to get out of here, though, before the cops come.  You were never here... and if anyone stops you and asks you what you were doing in the area..." John stopped, as he looked around, searching for something.  Suddenly, he'd found it.  John reached onto the floor and picked up a brand new magazine that one of the guys had apparently brought in.  As he picked it up, dust and debris fell off of it, revealing it to be in decent condition.  "...tell them you were at the newspaper stand, a block away, buying this." He finished, handing the new magazine to Roger.

Roger nodded his acknowledgement, as he took the magazine from John, and turned to leave.

"One more thing, kid." John said, stopping Roger for a moment.  "You weren't too bad back there.  If you ever want a place to belong to, I'd be willing to give you a home with us." He said, smiling at the boy.

It was a nice offer, but Roger was still too uneasy to smile.

"Thank you." He managed to say, still heading for the exit, as the sirens continued to approach... now too close to ignore.  "I'll definitely consider it." He added, before walking out the door and leaving the Brothers to their business.  He entered the alleyway and took off in a dead run from the place, hoping to put as much distance between it and him as possible, before the cops arrived.  As he neared the end of the alley, he finally saw other pedestrians, and slowed to a walking speed, as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and attempted to blend in.

Soon, he looked down, examining the cover of the magazine in his hands.  It was brightly-colored, with some techno-design on the cover, but obviously lacking in quality... some underground publication that probably couldn't be found on store shelves anywhere.  News stands throughout the city were all the time selling underground publications, from independent publishers.  The title of the magazine read "Phrack Magazine – A Monthly Guide to the World of Phreaking and Hacking."

Roger couldn't help but smirk, slightly, at the irony.  He was already starting to feel a little better about the situation, and soon he'd be on the subway back home, to put an end to what had been a very long and unnecessary day.

Because it was already so late in the day, Roger chose to completely bypass the school on his way home.  He'd make it back to the apartment just in time for it to look like he'd just gotten home from school, where his mother would already be busy getting ready for work.  He could retire to his room for the evening, pleased with the fact that the entire situation had been resolved, and all disaster had been averted.  There, he'd listen to his music, smoke, and relax for the evening, maybe even going to bed early, out of sheer exhaustion.  Teenager or not, he figured anyone would be exhausted if they'd had the day that he just did.

He began to doubt that he'd seen anything so beautiful in his life as the door to the ratty old apartment, when he approached it with the key in his hand... except, of course, maybe that strange girl on the subway earlier.  But that was neither here, nor there.

The key slid into the deadbolt lock, forcing tumblers in place, as he turned his wrist and unlocked the door.  He pulled the key back out of the lock and reached for the doorknob, turning it and opening the door to enter... to see his mother, not getting ready for work, but sitting in a chair, waiting patiently for him.  Somehow, she knew what he'd done.  The school, the fire alarm, the gang, the gun, the laptop... she knew.  He could tell from the silent glare she was giving him, as he stepped in and closed the door behind him.  All he could do was stare back at her in confusion and worry.  He'd learned a long time ago, not to reveal his cards too early, without knowing exactly how much she was aware of.

"How was school?" She asked, sounding almost sincere in her curiosity.  Almost, but not quite... her tone hinted that something was off about the question.

"Good?" He asked, more than said, staring back at her.  After all, she couldn't have accused him of not going, because he did.  Though... he didn't stick around for too long.

"How good?" She prompted, tilting her head to one side, slightly, as she squinted her eyes to examine his facial reactions.

"Uh... it was alright, why?" He asked, growing more concerned with his mother's demeanor.

"Because you won't be going back." She announced, angrily, as she leapt to her feet.  Roger's eyes widened, as she turned to walk down the hallway, away from him.

"What?  Why?!"

"Does it matter?" She replied, not even bothering to look at him.  "Look what you've been learning there!  Your attitude has gone to pot, you've been slacking at school, you've been getting in trouble with your cousin, cutting classes, and now you've apparently picked up computer hacking?"

Roger followed her down the hall, outraged.

"What the hell, mom?  You can't take me out of school, just because you don't like what I've been doing!" He yelled, trying to reason with her.

"I can do whatever I please." She spat back.  "I'm your mother."

Roger was left speechless.  Suddenly, he threw his hands in the air and turned to walk off.

"You seem to forget that little fact, son." She continued, not finished with her reprimand.  "I've given and given and given to you, and all you do is throw it away.  So now, I'm not giving anymore."

Roger turned back to face her, becoming angrier with each word spoken.

"You go right ahead and do that, mom." He blurted out.  "Rule your kingdom with an iron fist, because god knows it's the only thing in your life you still have any control over."

Barbara launched toward him, getting just close enough for her hand to slap across his face, turning his cheek red.  She reached back to swing again at him, but Roger backed away and threw his own hands up in defense.

"You stupid little punk!" She screamed.  "If you were half as intelligent as you thought you were, you'd realize that this isn't my doing!  You were expelled, son!  They have you on video, leaving the school!  They have logs of you hacking into the school fire system!"

Roger didn't know what to say.  He couldn't help but think to himself that the day just seemed to be getting better and better.

"You did this, not me!" She continued screaming.  "But you're absolutely right, I pay the rent here, and this is MY kingdom, not yours!  That means you're MY royal subject, and tonight you're going to spend the evening with no television, no music, no telephone!  You're going to clean up that pig sty you call a room, and you're going to go to bed!  This weekend you will have NO company, and you will go nowhere!  Your cousin is now forbidden to enter this apartment!  So says the Queen!"

Roger couldn't do anything more than frown.  There was no arguing with her, and especially not now.  Without a word, he turned and marched off to his room, silently cursing her... if she'd only known what he'd been through, then maybe she'd have treated him with a little bit of respect.  But the fact of the matter was that she had no respect for him... he wasn't a son to her, just a roommate.  Someone she had to deal with on a day to day basis, and be annoyed by.

That was fine.

If she wanted to put the bare minimum into motherhood, then he was going to put the bare minimum into being her son, and that was all there was to it.  Even queens weren't above being revolted against.

--

That night, the dreams came.  While Roger slept, his mind raced, combing over everything he'd been through in the last twenty-four hours... everything he was, and everything in his life that had brought him to that moment.  Childhood memories came flooding back, of him and his mother, alone in the apartment on Saturday mornings, where he'd eat cereal and watch cartoons, while she rested on the couch from the night before.  Even his dreams seemed to take on a monochrome appearance, much like the dreary city itself had, for as far back as he could remember.  The world never seemed right.  Even memories seemed like they were fleeting dreams he'd had in the past, their impact on the present not really mattering in the slightest.

And then Roger found himself standing alone in a house that didn't look remotely familiar to him.  Everything seemed brightly lit, as the sun illuminated the interior of the large household.  Before him, his mother stood... much younger in appearance, yelling at a man who seemed vaguely familiar.  Roger couldn't hear them.  It was as though someone had pressed the mute button on a television set, but it was obvious to him that they were angry at once another, as they screamed into the silence in each other's direction.  The house that surrounded them was beautiful Asian architecture, sun shining through the windows and glistening across the rose-stained hard wood floors.  The loveseat that separated him from the argument was a cream color, meticulous and immaculate, like everything in the house.  It all seemed so alien, and yet so familiar to him, as though it was a memory just beyond his reach.

The man arguing with his mother was also of Asian descent, like Roger.  Part of him knew that this man was his father, though he was far too young when he saw him last, to remember anything about what he looked like.  As Roger looked at the two arguing in the living room, he saw movement from behind them, down a nearby hallway, which seemed to command his attention.  Roger couldn't quite make out the figure of the person, who was now kneeling against the wall, half-way down the brightly lit oriental-designed hall...  but he didn't feel a sense of fear, or dread.

One foot stepped in front of the other, as he slowly walked past his arguing parents, toward the hallway, and as it finally came into view, so did the person residing within it.

She looked up at him with brown eyes, her brunette hair lightly touching the edges of her face.  Her expression wasn't one of love or hate, but rather amusement, as she looked up at him, with the faintest hint of a smile on her face.  He tried with every ounce of his being to speak to her, but the words didn't exist in this place.  Without words, she lifted her hand to him, holding it firmly in the air from her position on the floor.  Her eyes felt as though they were causing gravity to increase for him, each time she stared at him, he felt heavier.  Without words, he reached out and took her hand in his, holding it firmly as he helped her to her feet.

She let go of his hand, and turned to face the hallway wall, revealing the spray can in her other hand.  Dismissing his very presence, she pressed on the nozzle, and a stream of blood red paint spewed from the end of the can.

Her face expressed such calm, as she sprayed the wooden walls of the cabin-like house.  Her body language was smooth and fluid, seemingly impeccable and ghostly.  Roger couldn't help but watch her in a state of awe.  Soon, she was finished, and turned to him once more, staring at him just as she had on the subway, earlier in the day.  Roger turned to look at what she'd painted... more graffiti, painted over walls and hanging photographs.

"RISE UP AGAINST YOUR ENSLAVEMENT."

The same words he'd seen on the side of the subway train.

Was she trying to give this message to Roger, specifically?  He couldn't help but wonder, as she stared at him in silence, as though she were waiting, ever-so-patiently, for his inevitable response.  Was he willing to do what was necessary?  Was he even capable of it?

Roger's concentration was again broken, as he saw the man and the woman from the living room, his parents in memory, approaching, angrily.  They both had seen the graffiti on the wall, and were coming to deal with the source of the issue... and Roger for allowing it to happen.  The girl turned to look back at them, before turning back to Roger with a sense of urgency in her eyes.  But she did not flee, even though it was painfully obvious that they were coming to do something horrible to her for the defacement of their property.

Concerned, Roger stepped forward, blocking their access to the young girl, as they both glared at him angrily.  She stood behind him, watching, genuinely interested in the outcome and what Roger would do.

His father stood there, glaring, as his mother's hand drew back, and came toward his face in slow-motion.  As the blow landed across his cheek, he could see his father stepping forward to grab hold of the young girl who'd painted the message on the wall.  Panic set in, as well as anger, as Roger stepped forward, shoving the man against the wall.  His eyes widened, as he and Roger's mother stared at him in abject horror.  Roger had done the unthinkable, the girl he was protecting, now grinning widely.

Roger's father regained his balance, his anger swelling, as he and Roger's mother looked at each other in concern.  In unison, almost mechanically, they turned back to stare at Roger, and he could feel an impending doom from his decision... but he didn't care.

"Get up!" Barbara's voice flooded into the bedroom, jarring Roger from his sleep.  "You're getting your butt out of bed early today, and cleaning." She yelled, obviously still angry from the night before... the rest in-between only serving to allow her to dream up more punishments for him.  "Oh, and I found this piece of garbage last night..." She added, as she stepped into his room long enough to throw it at him.  Pages fluttered through the air as it landed on his bed, and on him.  "I see that you've been doing this kind of crap for awhile now."

Without a word, Roger rolled over onto his back and grabbed the magazine John had given him.  He glanced at it briefly, before letting it fall to the floor beside his bed and rubbing his face with both hands.  He wasn't even going to attempt to respond to the woman who was ranting and raving through the apartment hallway at... Roger looked at his alarm clock... 8:14 on a Saturday morning.  He groaned in pain at the very thought of it, before sitting up and putting his feet on the floor.

"And I'll tell you another thing, Mr. Frost." She said, starting up again.  "If you seriously think your life has sucked up to now, you're in for a rude awakening today, buddy.  As of this morning, everything changes."

Roger ignored her, as he lifted himself to his feet, scratching himself appropriately as he looked around on the floor, out of habit, for clothes to put on.  Unfortunately, nothing was there... it was nauseatingly spotless.  Another groan escaped his mouth, as he stumbled toward the dresser he'd forgotten he owned, searching for a clean pair of pants and a shirt to put on.

"If I had the money, I swear I'd send you to military school right now." The unnerving rattling continued, as Roger rolled his eyes and searched through the clothes to decide exactly what he wanted to wear.  "In fact, that's probably not a bad idea.  You're seventeen, though, which means you'd have less than a year there.  Maybe I should load you into the car and we could visit the recruiter's office."

"Can I at least get my clothes on before having to listen to this endless supply of crap?" Roger called out, annoyed, and already fed-up with the stream of insults he'd been receiving.

To his surprise, she didn't answer.  It bothered him, to be honest... but he shrugged and reached into his dresser to pull out a shirt, only to be startled as she entered the room with a box full of unused trash bags.

"Alright, you don't have to listen to a word." She said, angrily, as she jerked the shirt from his hands, and walked toward his bedroom closet.  "But you do have to do what I say, and because of that little comment, I say you're done wearing the crap you've been wearing."

Roger stared in shock, as she opened the closet door and pulled an empty trash bag from the box.  Within seconds, she was going through his wardrobe, pulling clothes free from their hangers, and stuffing them into the bag.  First it was his favorite pair of jeans, then it was one of his favorite shirts, then it was the leather jacket he'd gotten a few months ago.

"Whoa, what the hell do you think you're doing?" He asked, as he stepped up and grabbed the trash bag out of her hand.  "Those are mine, you would freak the hell out if someone did that to your stuff."

She glared at him in silence, as though he'd just crossed a very severe line.

"I don't care who's they are, you're not wearing them, and I don't want them in my house." She growled.  "Now give me the trash bag."

It was pointless to argue, Roger thought, as he dropped the bag on the floor and sighed at the futility of it all.

"From now on, I'll start laying your clothes out for you, like I did when you were an infant." She said, as she snatched the bag from the ground and began stuffing clothes into it again.

Roger didn't say a word, he just walked across the room, only to be pelted with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  Aggravated, he sat down on the edge of his bed and put them on, taking special care to pull his cigarettes from their hiding place and slide them into his pocket without her looking.  When he finished, he stood up and went to his dresser once more, grabbing a pair of socks to put on, before grabbing his shoes and leaving the room.

"Where do you think you're going?" She asked, pausing momentarily from her effort to destroy her son.

"The bathroom, or do I need permission for that too?" He replied, as he walked down the hallway.  Silently, she went back to cleaning out his bedroom closet, with the intent of trashing every possession he held dear, until he broke to her will.  Roger entered the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him, before approaching the toilet and lifting the lid.  He sighed, as the sound of fluids trickling could be heard in the background.  With one hand, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and slid it between his lips, as he finished up.  "I hate this place." He muttered to himself, as he shook gently, and turned to the window just over the bathtub.  Raising himself up by stepping on the edge of the tub, he opened the window, before lighting the cigarette in his mouth and sighing.  Thinking about it, he'd really rather not have become an addict to those things, but he'd found himself smoking more and more lately, especially in times of stress... and this morning had already become one of those times.

In the other room, he could hear her, still ranting about whatever horrible thing he'd done, either in the past or the present, to make her resent him as her son.  He honestly couldn't understand how anyone could call themselves someone's mother, and loathe everything their child did, like she had become infamous for.

At this point, he thought, she was pretty lucky he hadn't done a lot worse.  He finished the cigarette, and tossed the butt out of the window, before closing it back and stepping down from his position, hovering over the bathtub.  In a moment, he flushed the toilet and ran some hot water in the bathroom sink.

He wanted to wash his hands and face, but the steam would also serve to further dissipate the appearance and smell of smoke in the bathroom... making it far less likely that he'd get caught from his mother, who was already on a warpath.  As he ran the water over his face, he thought about what he'd been through the day before, and what John had said to him.  He couldn't help but think back to the dream he'd had the night before, and that strange girl on the subway the day before.  His mother was right, whether he wanted to admit it or not: as of this morning, everything had changed.  He wasn't the same person he was the day before, and he was now officially done with the life he'd been forced into living up to now.

After he finished drying his face, he pulled another cigarette from his pack, and put it behind his ear, hiding it with his straight brown hair.  He turned off the water and reached for the bathroom door, unlocking and opening it just in time to see his mother leaving his room and parading down the hallway with at least four bags of his clothes.

He scoffed in disbelief, before leaving the bathroom and heading to his room.  As he rounded the doorway into his room, he saw it: every article of clothing he owned, minus what she had confiscated, in a pile in the floor in the middle of his room.  That was enough, he thought, as he turned around and headed back down the hallway with renewed anger towards her.  He'd endured this crap for far too long already, and even taking the submissive road didn't seem to be giving him any headway.  The fact was that there was no way in hell that she was going to allow him to go on without losing his temper with her.  She prided herself on her ability to push his buttons.

"I think it's time you put my clothes down." He declared to her, as he entered the living room.

"Oh?" She asked, looking up at him sarcastically.  "If I were you, I'd go clean that mess up out of my floor, before I find myself inclined to take these into the alleyway and burn them."

Yeah, that was enough.

Roger reached forward, forcefully, and snatched one of the bags from her hands.

"I wasn't asking." He told her, angrier with her than he'd ever been before.  "I told you that those were mine, and you weren't touching them.  Now let go of them, or I'll retaliate by destroying the things you own."

She glared at him, shocked that he had the gall to make such a threat.

"You screwed up now." She told him, laughing hysterically, as she reached for the telephone.  "Threatening to destroy property?  I'll have you hauled off to juvenile hall, you idiot."

It was a bluff.

It was all a bluff.

And he was tired of bluffs.

"Whatever.  While you're at it, why don't you call yourself a therapist and ask why you're still single." He said, as he grabbed a second bag of clothes and headed for the door.

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't stutter.  You're so quick to tell me what's wrong with me and my life, but yours isn't any better, is it?" He growled, pausing long enough to turn the doorknob to the apartment.

"Where do you think you're going?!" She asked, louder than she'd spoken to him before.

"Where does it look like?" He responded, turning to her briefly.  "I'm done with this place, and I'm done with you.  Maybe you can bring home one of the drunks you work with, I bet they'd be easier for you to look at than I am."

He opened the door and picked up the second bag of clothes, as he took a step towards the threshold.

"If you walk through that door, don't you ever come back." She hissed at him.  "You will never be welcome here again, and if I see you, I will call the police on you."

"So says the Queen, so shall it be done." Roger smiled, calmly, and walked out the door, closing it behind him.