I BROKE IT.

Quiet.

BUT I BORKED IT. I BORKED IT GOOD. IT’S BUSTED!

Silence.

BROKENBROKENBROKENBROKENBROKEN-

SILENCE.

But- but- ...sorry. I love you?

This does not have to be to our disadvantage…

Whaddayamean?

The solution is simple. Things are not as they should be.

But it’s busted, and things didn’t go the way they were supposed to!

So fix it.

But the only thing that’ll ‘fix’ it is…. oooooooooh….

Exactly.

But it’s not going to like it!

Most likely not, no.

But it isn’t going to like me.

I can’t imagine why…

But you like me right? Right? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight?

Just go… Yes, fine, I like you.

YAY!

Now stop looking at me like that – go.

Michael never liked watching people get stitched together. Anything to do with needles or the smell of rubbing alcohol always made him woozy. It was worse when it was someone he knew, even worse when it was someone he liked. Uriel seemed to be doing his best to ignore the fact that a medic was slowly stitching the Y shaped wound in his chest shut. The scar it would leave would be a constant mocking reminder, an insulting gift from the sorcerer.

They were rolling down the road at a decent clip. He wondered if it was safe for the large medical van to be moving that fast. Propped up against the side of the van, he sighed. The occasional bump reminded him exactly how sore he still was. A thin mist of rain coated the side window of the truck, hazy in the early morning light. Michael cringed as the medic next to him prodded at the bruise on his shoulder. “Ow! Please, leave me be… I’ve had enough of being prodded at.”

“Now, Michael, be easy on the man. He is only trying to-“ Uriel stopped, a brief pause the only indication that he registered the pain at all. Michael felt his stomach swirl as the medic attending to Uriel threaded the needle through the layers of his flesh, tugging on it like he was mending a shirt. “Help.”

“I know, old friend… I know.”

“I suppose I owe that little blue-haired demon some gratitude, don’t I?” Uriel snorted. Michael didn’t laugh, and simply let out a tired breath, looking out the window of the large army vehicle they had been in the back of for some time now. Uriel may have meant it as a joke, but it was true. He did owe the ghost his thanks, and quite possibly his life.

“She is not fully gone like the others,” he said.

“She may have some humanity left in her, Michael. But she’s unnatural, ungodly. You can’t save her. There is no salvation for her. The only way to save her is to set her free of this world. That would be a gift enough.”

“Perhaps at the Vatican, if we took her there - they could…”

“Could what, boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sympathy for her isn’t wrong. Her compassion saved our lives. But she is a dead soul, trapped on earth by unnatural means, against the Lord’s design. She is suffering, and you cannot change what she is. No one can. Her only hope for peace is to be set loose from this world.” Uriel grunted in pain as the needle went through his skin again.

Yes, the laws and rules that he lived his life by demanded that she be removed. The code he held close to his soul said that she could not be saved, not as she was. Michael shut his eyes and remembered the conversations that they had had - the sadness that radiated from the ghost like a cloud. He would help her, if he could. He would make sure she moved from this world to the next, whichever direction she was chosen to go, was not up to him.

“You’re right, as always…”

“Michael, the others… they’re all dead, or… God help Raphael.”

“I know,” he growled low in his throat, rage and hatred returning to him like old friends. “Ostheim will pay for this… That demon will die by my hands!”

“Easy, now. We can’t fight him like this. Not with the two of us. We have to piece ourselves back together and think about this. We need a plan. We- Mother Mary, boy! Watch what you’re doing, would you?!” Uriel snapped up at the now very startled medic standing over him. “I don’t need you making this worse.”

Michael had to laugh. The gruff older man was scowling up at the wide-eyed young medic, still holding his needle. “Now, Uriel, be easy on the man. He is only trying to help.” With a grin, Michael returned the jab that Uriel had paid him only a few moments prior.

“Bah. That’s all I need,” Uriel chuckled, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes. “A bunch of kids giving me a hard time.”

“I’m not a kid,” Michael insisted for the millionth time.

“When you have as many battle scars as I do, you can call yourself a man,” Uriel said, Michael joining in, repeating the phrase with the older man. He had heard it a million times before, and hoped he would hear it a million times more. The two Crusaders began to laugh, tired smiles on their faces. Yet another battle, yet another hurdle. But no other battle Michael had seen had ever charged them the price that they had paid.

“You old codger. Let the man finish stitching you up. I’m tired and I don’t want to hear you whine anymore,” Michael laid down on the cot, glad to stretch his arms out. The numbness and the pain in his arms and legs would take some time to leave, but the burning ache he felt from moving them was a world away from the pain of being chained to that chair.

“Bah,” was Uriel’s ever popular reply.

Michael shut his eyes, let out another chuckle. “I’m glad you’re alive, Uriel.”

“You too, boy.”

If Victor could have broken tile flooring by simply walking over it, he would have about forty laps earlier. Pacing back and forth in the hallway, the vampire looked the worse for wear. In the same clothes he had been in yesterday, he turned and paced again. The glaring florescent lights overhead did nothing to hide the ragged expression on his face, the tired lines under his eyes.

“Man, you gotta quit this pacing’ shit. I’m gunna puke watchin’ you.” Mal rubbed a large hand over his bald head. “It ain’t gunna do her no good anyway.”

“I’m not trying to do her any good by pacing, Mal, it’s keeping me from breaking things - or people,” Victor muttered. Letting out a ragged groan, he collapsed into a chair next to Mal. He watched as a woman in pastel pink scrubs wheeled a cart down the hallway in front of her. He hated these places. The acrid smell of chemicals mixed with human waste, all trying to be covered by some lame attempt at air freshener. To him and his inhuman senses, it just smelled like somebody stuck some daisies in a puddle of urine and rubbing alcohol. And the beeping, good God, the constant beeping.

Putting his head in his hands, he doubled over and shut his eyes. “Christ, Mal…”

“I know, man. I know…”

Victor felt the big man place his hand on his back. The two fought all the time, but truth be told, Victor didn’t know what he would do without the mountain of muscles and tattoos. Mal always seemed to take everything and roll with it, something the vampire wished he could do.

“Where’s Gizmo?”

“I don’t know where Eric is.” It was a good question. Sitting up, he fished into his pocket for his cellphone. “He should be here.” A few buttons, and the phone was to his ear, ringing. It rang a round before he heard the click of the voicemail picking up. Victor sighed again. Great.

‘You’ve reached Eric, techno-god of the universe and exotic male dancer. Leave your number to book a reservation. Ladies only, please.’

“Dude, seriously. Where are you?” Victor rubbed his eyes with his hand. “We could use you here. She needs you. Hell… I need you here, man… C’mon. Call me.” He flicked the phone shut and found himself looking at the tiles but not really seeing them.

“She’ll be okay, Fangs.” Mal leaned back in the chair, causing it to groan under his weight.

“You so sure?”

“No, but… tha’s what people say when this shit happens, innit?” Mal snorted and watched another nurse go by. “Maybe you should call Aaron.”

“What? Why?”

“Well the dude had a thing for her, he cared ‘bout her. Yeah, they got into a fight, but shit - how many friggen times has he forgiven Isaac? He should know what his brother did, an’, maybe he’d wanna be here…”

“We’re in goddamn Oregon.”

“Asshole can take a plane.”

Victor matched Mal’s stubborn look, the two staring at each other for a moment. God damn it, the man was right. “Fine,” he let out with a rush of air. “Fine.” Flipping his phone back open, he started to fish around in his list of contacts. Crap. He had meant to call that girl back. Oh well, too late now. Finally getting to Aaron’s number, he pushed the button and held it to his ear. It still amazed him that the freak actually owned a cellphone.

“He’s not gunna answer, y’know,” he muttered.

“Is’ worth a shot.” Mal started to bite on his fingernails, clicking them against his teeth. Victor tried not to slap him - he hated when the oaf did that, but it wasn’t worth starting an argument now. He certainly had enough on his mind, and he was already too damn tired as it was.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. What the hell, did the man not have a voicemail set up? Ring. Ring.

‘Hello?’

He sounded as confused as Victor felt. “Hey, Aaron… It’s Victor.”

A long pause. Good God, this was awkward. ‘What do you want?’

“Man, look… I know you and I aren’t buddies or anything, but… shit, you have a right to know what’s going on.”

‘Okay.’

“Muse is hurt bad. Isaac screwed her up pretty hard. She’s… she’s in a coma, in a hospital. The doctor’s don’t know if she-“ is going to live. No. Victor couldn’t deal with the idea of her going away. “Is going to wake up.”

‘She’s dead.’ Aaron sounded like he thought he was talking to an idiot.

“Um,” he froze for a second, not sure how to say it. When in doubt, be blunt. “Not anymore.”

Another long pause. ‘What?’

“Yeah, dude.” Victor stood up and began pacing again, his nerves on edge as he thought about what had happened. “I don’t know either. Isaac did something messed up, and… I swear to you, she’s alive. Somehow. At least… at least for now anyway. Look, man, I know you’re all pissed at her, and, Christ, you’ve got good reasons, but… You know Isaac was the source of that.”

Silence.

“Dude, she needs all the support she can get.”

‘She has you.’ That sounded more than a little bitter. Victor stopped walking and shut his eyes, running his hand through his hair and gripping it with his other hand. He resisted the urge to scream at him over the phone. It wouldn’t do any good.

“Fine. Whatever. Show up or not, it’s up to you. I just thought you might care that she’s in a goddamn coma,” he snapped. Silence was all that met him on the other side. “Man, sorry…” He slumped into the chair again, although he couldn’t sit still. He got fidgety when he was nervous. “I haven’t slept, it’s been a long two days.”

Silence.

Checking the screen of the phone, he saw he was still connected. The man was freakishly asocial. Isaac looked ‘well-adjusted’ next to his younger brother, and that was saying something. “We’re at the Bay Area Hospital, Oregon. It’s… like, I don’t know… a hundred miles north of San Fran.”

Silence again. ‘Oregon?’

“It’s a long goddamn story. Short of it is, Isaac moved the house to the middle of goddamn nowhere Oregon. Coos Bay or something.”

‘Huh.’ Silence.

“Are you going to come?”

This time there was a click, and Victor nearly threw his phone against the wall. Letting out a growl of frustration, he tried desperately to restrain himself from throwing chairs around. Getting kicked out would do no one any good. “Goddamn stubborn-“

“You tried.”

Glaring down at his phone, he flipped through his contacts again. He called a number. It rang once, and then it went quiet. One simple beep, no message.

“Isaac, where the hell are you?! You need to come deal with this. This is your fault!” He slammed the phone shut again and went to stand up to hurt something. A large hand on his arm pulled him back down to sitting.

“Ease up, Fangs.” Mal released him. “You wanna take rage out on somethin’, you can throw punches at me.”

“No… it’s fine.” He forced himself to sit back down. He hated being fidgety, but his nerves were absolutely shot. He’d never felt this helpless before. There was nothing he could do but sit. Sit and wait. Sit and wait and stare at the ugly-ass watercolor pastel painting of flowers that hung in a tacky-ass frame across from him on the wall. It looked like every other watercolor painting he had ever seen in any hospital, ever. He wondered if there was a ‘tacky hospital painting superstore’ online.

“So I guess it’s us, huhn?”

“I guess so…” Victor looked up as Mal stood up out of the chair, straightened out the t-shirt he was wearing, and started off down the hallway. “Where’re you going?”

“Goin’a get some cards from the store downstairs. Hell if I’m going to be doin’ nothin’ and be bored at the same time. At least I could be takin’ all your money in poker.” A nurse pressed herself against the wall to make room for the big man. She didn’t really need to, but Victor understood. With the size of him, people often felt like they needed to get out of Mal’s way. “Hey darlin’,” he heard Mal say to the nurse sweetly.

Victor snorted and folded his arms, settling back into the chair. Here they were, alone, waiting for their friend to either die or wake up… and he’s hitting on women and thinking about poker. Victor shook his head, wondering how Mal did it.

Left with some time to himself - and really not grateful for it - he took his phone and glared down at it, willing it to ring. Willing it to beep. To do anything. No such luck. He wished that just by shaking his phone he could will people to call him, to contact him. To care. Giving up his attempt to rearrange the forces of the universe, he sat back and resumed staring at the hideous painting across the way from him. He took the opportunity to get his mind off of things, fantasizing about setting the painting on fire.

Or maybe even the painter.

Eric found himself wishing his Pontiac GTO had better storage. Diagrams and blueprints began to roll through his head for some detachable undercarriage storage unit. Another bag shoved into the trunk, another one into the back seat. Stopping, he took off his goggles and ran his hand tiredly through his hair, scratching his head. Frustration boiled through him, giving him the express need to break things. He knew being tired wasn’t really his issue. It was about the dozen other things that were running through his head. Putting the goggles back on his head, he started back to the house for more of his stuff. Hearing his ring tone, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw ‘V-Bro’ written over a ridiculous picture of his brother in a ten gallon cowboy hat, splayed over the display of his iPhone. For the eighth time in three hours, he pressed the button on the top and sent it to message. Letting out a sigh, he slipped it back into his pocket.

“Sorry, Bro..”

Stepping into the foyer, he reached down to grab a few more bags. Then came the very last voice he wanted to hear.

“And where are you going?”

Goddamn him, he sounded amused. Putting the bags down he looked up and saw Isaac stepping out of the living room, watching him with that same detachment he always had. It made him want to pound his face in. Or shoot him. Or something. Anything. “Away. I can’t be here.”

“Very well.”

Great, now he was resorting to being passive aggressive. He suddenly felt like he was four, yelling at his dad. “It’s okay?! Do you even want to know why?” The sorcerer shrugged lightly, adjusting the cufflink on his left sleeve. It was obvious the other man didn’t care. That just made Eric all the more furious. “You… you douche bag. You are such an epic douche bag.”

Isaac looked up at him over the rim of his glasses, raising one eyebrow at him.

“Oh don’t you dare give me that look. You know it, too. There’s no way you don’t know you’re being a jackass.” Eric picked up one of his bags and threw it over his shoulder. “I can’t be part of this… this… ‘organization’ anymore. Not after what you did to Victor. What you did to Muse.”

“Whatever did I do to your brother, now?”

“This- this is all your fault!”

“Do tell.”

“Vic wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you.”

“Like what?”

“He’s becoming a monster.”

“I didn’t bite him,” Isaac smirked.

“No! But if it weren’t for you, he… he’d never have been screwed up by the Crusaders. He’d never have - have eaten them, he wouldn’t be like that! He could be going on like a bunch of the other vampires - just, going on like a normal person. You’re making him loose his humanity, like you.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Isaac muttered and pinched the bridge of his nose. “More people questioning my humanity. I am quickly tiring of that insinuation.”

“Well maybe you should think about it, douche bag!”

“Please pick another phrase, Eric. I really do dislike that insult.”

“Fine! Whatever!” The man was so damn infuriating. Just looking at him was staring to make Eric feel ill. Gripping the strap of his bag tightly with his ‘real’ hand hard enough that the knuckles turned white, he glared a hole into him. “You drag everybody down around you. Everyone around you does nothing but get worse and worse! Look at Aaron, look at what you did to Zeek, look at Vic, at Muse! I’m leaving before you drag me down to hell with you.”

Isaac remained silent now, just staring at him emotionless.

“So fuck you, Isaac. What you did to Muse is just the final straw. She’s lying in some hospital bed because of you, and all she did was have an ounce of compassion for someone else. If that’s what you do to people who have compassion… screw it.” He was ranting, he knew it. Isaac would probably stop his heart, dropping him dead on the spot. He didn’t care. If this was his last stand, he’d die happy. “She’s probably gonna die. Everything around you dies, Isaac. You do nothing in this world but cause people pain. You’re a goddamn disease!”

Isaac shut his eyes, standing there. Eric wondered if he had made a dent. Some emotion crossed Isaac’s face for a brief moment, but whatever it was, Eric couldn’t catch it. He picked up his other bag and stormed out of the house, heading to his car, not wanting to stay to find out. He was done. Done with it all.

Sitting behind the wheel of his car, driving down the road - he debated where he was going. To the hospital? No. He couldn’t face Victor right now. Then to where?

A single thought rang through his head. It was one that he had a day prior, but he had dismissed it as suicidal. But now, suddenly, it seemed like the only option. The only logical choice. Turning down the highway, he made his choice. God help him, he made his choice.