i'm still working on the next update to The Rose, i'm sorry it's taking me so very long. i'm at a point in the story where it all seems too over-the-top. but i digress.

this is where the irish teen gains a name. note the change in POV from the previous chapter.

thursday, march 8, 2007. 9:44pm.

"I'm sorry, Tobes. I wanted to take it back...you were never a pussy." If his voice cracked, there was nobody around but the dead to hear it anyways, and maybe Toby could hear it somewhere. Matt had to believe that maybe Toby knew it anyways, that it didn't have to be said...but he wanted to say it. Because those words plagued him every day, that Toby had jumped so rashly because he'd been proving him wrong. Because he had been wrong. If anything, Toby had been the more fearless of them. "...I'll miss ya, man."

-- (the year 1987) second pov:

It was early morning when his father finally pulled the car into a gas station, the man exiting and moving into the deep shadows that made up the side of the building; a phone booth was just visible from where the teen sat in the car, watching his father dig into his breast pocket and removing a folded slip of paper. The man studied what was written on it for a few moments before lifting the phone and depositing a few coins into the slot, punching a number and waiting until the other line picked up. And the man nodded slightly as he listened for a good minute or two, and then he was hanging up and moving back to the car, where silence reigned as it had since the beginning of this trip.

He really wasn’t having a good feeling about this.

--

The town they drove through was large, much larger than the one where he grew up, and his father drove until he reached a slummy industrial sector, rusting warehouses rising out of the darkness; windows missing and boarded up (or just missing), graffiti long-ago painted wherever the vandals had seen fit, and most of the signs were already illegible. But the one they finally pulled alongside still had a sign that could be read, fading letters spelling out, ‘Grovers and Co.’

“Out.”

The teen didn’t even dare to stay inside the car, although his insides were screaming that he claw his fingers into the vinyl seats, or to bolt as soon as he stepped on stiffly, shaky legs beside the car, his boots kicking up grit and rocks; he exited the car and shut the door, his hand lingering for just a moment upon the cool glass of the window.

Somehow, he felt that this would be the last time he'd ever get the chance for such a small favor.

Without a word, he fell into step behind his father, who walked around the side of the building into the darker shadows, where a door suddenly arose from the darkness. For such a run-down building, there was a camera installed just above the door, one that tracked them as soon as they got within fifteen feet; the teen felt a deeper chill erupt in his bones, especially as he saw the way his father's hand faltered for a moment before the man pressed the rusted-looking buzzer. There was a moment of tense waiting and then a click sounded, and his father pulled the door and entered, already over his apparent hesitation.

There were people staring at the two of them as they walked through a large warehouse full of things he didn't really wish to contemplate; he kept his eyes on the backs of his father's boots, shoulders hunched as his fists sank deep into his pockets.

The two of them finally came to an office, where a...man...stood in the doorway to greet them. The teen felt his insides curdle as a sharp, blue-eyed gaze zeroed onto him, the man staring and finally motioning them into the office, where his father stepped aside so that the man could circle the boy as if viewing prize livestock.

After a long agonizing few minutes or so, the man finally spoke; "A bit short."

Cold-tipped fingers gripped his chin, tilting his face up; "The eyes have potential...too bad about these 'spots'...perhaps they will fade."

Overwhelming his fear, anger at the casualness of the touch and mention of his height and freckles as being imperfections swept across the boy's eyes, and the man seemed to find it to amusing. But then the man released him and focused his unwavering attention upon the father, who seemed uncomfortable as he stood there.

"What was this...ability...you promised so emphatically?"

Sick fear came sweeping back, unable to help the way his eyes leapt to his father, as if pleading that this not be about what he thought it was.

"G'on, show 'im." And if his father's voice was a bit rougher than usual, it didn't help the dread seeping into his bones, into the hollows beneath his eyes and into his back molars.

But, not being one to ever disobey, he lifted up his forearm, his palm hovering just over the pale and speckled skin. Beads of sweat popped up at his temples as a flush swept from his middle, enveloping his entire body even as the skin of his arm began to split apart beneath his hand, blood welling up and dripping to the floor. The seam was perfectly rendered, and he paused to take a breath before pushing the same 'force' against the wound, the skin heating up and melting back together, leaving his arm as unblemished as before.

His heart was beating more rapidly than before, fluttering in his chest, although he wouldn't ever dare to admit to it.

Those cold fingers touched his arm, running over where the wound had been, smearing the blood that still streaked his skin; then they were running to small circular burns made to the inside of his elbow, perfectly matched to the end of a cigarette. They were years old.

"If you can do that, why is it you still bear these scars?"

The voice sounded almost accusing, but the teen stated, "Cannot fix what I didn't create; I'm only mortal."

The man laughed, a cold sound that made the teen's eyes glaze over from his attempt in not reacting, not giving in to his instinct to bolt once more. Even if he were killed in the process, that'd be bounds better than this. Stepping away from him, the taller man strolled over to the blank desk, standing behind it and folding his hands behind his back, radiating his sense of authority.

"He will be of some use, after all. The amount will remain the same as discussed."

His words were cool and hard as steel; even so, the teen's eyes widened as he glanced at his father, who was still refusing to even look at him. The man looked...guilty.

"Yes...you are mine now, Colin. Your father has sold you to me, and that makes you mine."

Sick, the teen felt a tremble start up in his right leg, his jaw clenching shut as a powerful sense of loss overwhelmed him.

Sold. Like a horse, or a cow.

That man moved without seeming to having done so, behind him and breathing silken words into his ear; "Your father is weak, and for this, he deserves to die. You could kill him, don't you want to kill him?"

Numbed, Colin just stood there, eyes vacant and staring at a gray wall. Hands lowered to his shoulders, spooking him enough to jump; "Kill him, boy."

It was an order, but his head jerked in hard negation; "I can't, it'll kill me."

A sigh came as those hands left his shoulders, but he could still feel their presence, the slightly chilled impression left behind. "Such an earthly limitation for power which shows such promise. But no worry; I can fix that for you."

The man waved his hand, and a strange man came in and herded his father out of the room, where they disappeared back the way he'd come in. Colin knew that he'd never see his father again, but refused to think about if the deed was being carried out by someone else. His father...

"You will never miss that life, not when you grow to appreciate the life being given to you. ...But that will come later."

Shivering despite himself, he forced his eyes to meet those cold blue ones of his...master...afraid of the smile that was twisting the pale mouth.

"Oh yes, I do believe you will do nicely around here."

A/N: there, his name is Colin. and he has much in store for him, oh yes.