Chapter 4
Others

--
So Much Time
--Amy S. Thera

So much time
To be anywhere
To act like I care
To act like this life has a meaning
To think that for once I could be something good
But that just won't work

Trying to think of my self as much more
Trying to kill what makes my mind sore
But its not working out like I thought
Nor does it matter, like it ought
So as I sit here in my own little torture
I can't help but wonder when I'll feel better

So until that day comes I'll keep running away
And maybe I'll find that I'm happy some day
--

Mike took his next step, looking up as he did. There it was, his destination: The Clock Tower.

“So this is my destination?” He sighed, with question in his eyes. It was a stupid place to him, with its so-called 'beautiful' architecture, perhaps of Victorian descent. Would they be here? If so, would they oblige to help him? He wasn't sure, he thought he didn't care, but his mind bothered him with these questions.

He took another step forward as the big, perhaps copper minute hand moved closer to the fifth roman numeral.

“7:24,” he noted, “Its... getting dark.”

And dark it was. Though there was no snow or ice, it was winter, a word Mike himself had concluded he didn't remember after trying for a moment to remember it and only coming up with “White”. White it was not, but it was getting cold. And noting he didn't remember the word, “Winter,” he took several more hard, fast steps, and pushed open the polished, wooden door of the tower.

Inside the tower was vast, like a chapel, or wide cave opening, but baring more resemblance to a combination of the two, smelling of moisture and mold. While the clock was indeed still functional, for whatever reasons, the inside had been abandoned for at least a year, with no upkeep at all. Staring at the ground, Mike didn't wonder why. The carpet, a long, thready variety, was splotched all with brownish colors as much as there was text on a newspaper, degrading its otherwise blue-ish color. The walls had similar running-stains on them.

“Blood...” Mike assumed, continuing forward. He didn't have time to make view the ugly, though somewhat interesting to him, assumed murder scene. Each step forward he took, he pondered upon the idea of what might have once been blood being reddened again by his own. And then he heard a crunching sound beneath his boot, of what was probably a bone.

He ignored it, making his way to a long stairway with wooden supports and handles, and what appeared to be extra-steep steps.

And then he heard a sound. It was a somewhat saddening sound, like of a child softly crying, and Mike assumed, yet again, that that's what it might have been. He rushed up the stairs like an idiot chasing a thief, and actually hoping to catch him, as the tearful sound stopped and was replaced with the sound of creaky, old wood being stepped on.

The sound pit-padded itself in a direction opposite of Mike's. At that point, Mike continued his dash, from thief-hunter to assassin as he felt the musky air pass through the threads his hair. Trying to separate the distant pit-pat footsteps from his dash, he headed towards it, stopping as he passed through a corridor he let his mind ignored. He felt as if operating on pure instinct as he stopped suddenly.

“You...” a lone preteen, dressed in pitch black denim clothing with flaming red hair, leaning against the rotted wall before Mike, with his arms crossed muttered, “Want to take me as well?”

“Hmm?” Mike retorted, unsuspecting of such a 'greeting', “Take?”

“First her, now me...?” the person probed, taking stance. “Well, ready yourself, then, pawn.”

Suddenly, the young man lashed out with a blade the color of night in his right, and the speed of a punk rapper on acid, landing the blade right into Mike's shirt, tearing it as he Mike dodged.

Before Mike could consider retaliating, the boy had the palm of his hand over Mikes face, as Mike saw through a crack in the kid's grip the blade of that sword. Mike twisted his body around suddenly, dodging the sharp edge as it passed his abdominal area.

“Holy Shi--,” he though, interrupting his thought process to retaliate with a sharp knee-thrust into the guy's hand, which was still gripping the blade a few feet from Mike. The blade swung out from the boy's hand, flinging itself into the air as if a juggler had thrown it. Mike grabbed up, himself being a few inches taller than his opponent, grabbing the blade with his left, only to meet an elbow to his abdominal, a sleight of movement to his hand, and the loss of weapon strung together with the slickness of silk. He fell to his knees, winded, meeting a blade at his neck level.

“Where is she?!” his attacker shouted, with an meat of anger and sadness wrapped in a taco shell of rage.

“Wh-oo?” Mike wheezed out.

“You damned well know who, bitch. My sister!”

Mike was silent as a bunny whom had escaped a chaser – he honestly had no clue what the kid was shouting on about.

“Answer me, Cotdo!”

He brought the blade closer to Mike's neck, touching it as it tore a slight scratch into Mike's neck.

“I haven't a clue who your sister is, let alone yourself,” Mike made known, rebutting his attacker's defense, and after a moment of silence and a few drops of blood, continued with his newest realization. “And what do you know about Cotdo?”

“Hah!” he laughed, “Can you not feel his blood in me, fellow Child. Your act is good, but I am not fooled!”

He raised the blade above his shoulders, and as he came down to cut down Mike, was met with a retaliatory counter to his neck.

“Hwaaaww--” he croaked, breathing in on his tightened airway as Mike stood in front of him, taking a few steps back as he thrust his hand into the ground. As Mike did this, a deafening darkness appeared around his hand, encompassing it as it formed a path towards the unnamed youth. Upon reaching the boys feet, the ground seemed to tear as solid black tendrils emerged from the ground, bonding themselves to the boy with knots and ties.

“Kill me now, you pathetic excuse of a Cotdo!” The youth shouted, rage building up as his face went red.

“I'm not your enemy,” Mike calmly explained. “I was actually looking for someone here... suppose you know them?”

“Like I'd help you,” he hissed in rebellion.

Mike deeply breathed in, sighing as he let out the air in his lungs.

“Look, I don't really think you're this naive, but I aint working under 'them',” Mike calmly explained, “I'm just looking for a couple o' twins. Do you know or are you one of them?”

“...What do you want from us?” the imprisoned kid questioned.

“I need some allies, honestly,” Mike admitted.

“For?”

Mike grinned for a moment, then answered, “To defeat them, obviously.”

In his bondage, the youth's new-found grin stretched from ear to ear. “If it means I can kill the mother fuckers who barged in here and stole my second self away, I'm in.”

“Good,” Mike celebrated, placing palm in palm as the tendrils entangling his new-found ally weakened and absorbed themselves back into whence they came.

“Very,” Mike's partner agreed, as he adjusted to being freed.

“So, you got a name?”

“Samuel.”

“And your sister?”

Samuel was silent for a moment, then spoke up. “Its her business to tell you. ...What about your name?”

“Mike. MikeSchala.”

“Ah... so you're Mike.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“You're the heir, eh?”

“...I might have once been.”

“Heh heh, yeah, and I was once a Cotdo. You are or your aren't, there's no might. You gonna be a bitch about it, though... well, your problem, man. Reality bit you in the ass and you don't know how to handle it.”

“...Yeah, whatever.”

“Oh, man... hahahahah.”

“...Lets just get outta here.”

“Man, you're in a hurry... but I don't think you're ready.”

“Huh?”

“Your use of abilities, great play, great as all hell, but... man, at melee range, you fuckin' suck. You couldn't use a blade effectively if you're life depended on it.”

“...I didn't even get a chance to swing.”

“You were too slow, too clunky. It was too easy not to let you swing.”

“...”

“Heh, lemme give you a hand at least, 'k?”

“...And what about your abilities?”

“Heh... heh... man, you got me good. You got me damned good.”

“Alright, then. I'll let you help me out with close combat, and you'll let me get your technique side up. Good?”

“Great!”