Everyone has their darknesses-their secrets, their problems.

His is...

...he can see them.

Our world Earth has already gone through a massive ordeal, a chain of natural disasters. People are still rebuilding, but slowly and the progress is all but unseen. A young girl is reported to possess strange abilities, and she is powerful enough that a certain organization notices her. They send him as a messenger to offer her training in exchange for two things:her loyalty, and her assistance with tracking down the shards of this planet's life which shattered soon after The Beginning. After some haggling, she accepts. But she is drawn to him out of fascination, undying curiosity. His gift-his curse, is something he has lived with his entire life. Because of it, he has never really lived, never really healed. Will she be able to help him, when she too masks great scars of the past?

The destinies of the great intertwine, as they will soon discover as both of their destinies are great.

And the dreams of those destined for greatness also often intertwine...

I duck the man's fist just in time, and swing my leg around to connect with his shins, knocking his feet out from under him. But there are men behind me as well, and they step up and grab my arms, restraining me.

"Let me go!" I snarl between gritted teeth, struggling and kicking. But the men take no notice, and the one I knocked to the ground, their leader, stands in front of me, glaring down at me.

"I've been half-payed to take you down," he whispers hoarsely in my face, his voice rasping. "And I plan on receiving the second payment."

His hand goes to his side, reaching into his jacket, and my blood runs cold as I hear the sound of metal unsheathing. The man draws the sword out, and raises it high overhead.

"Get her into position," he growls. The men holding me twist me around and one grabs my long red hair with a greasy hand, wrenching my head back and exposing my neck. I snarl and kick, snapping my teeth at their hands, to no avail.

The sword pulls back for the final blow.

I hear a chink!, and feel to my relief no harsh metal biting into my flesh. I crack open one black eye, peeking at what saved me.

The first thing I see is black. Then, my eyes focus in the dim light of an alleyway on a cloudy night, and I see I'm staring at a black shirt, bound to its owner at the waist with white bandaging, covered mostly with a grey trench coat. Slowly, I look up.

The edge of the blade has been caught on the back of a fist. The fist of a sixteen year old boy. His head bowed, he stares listlesly at the ground with yellow eyes empty of life. I'm surprised to see his shoulder-length, scruffy, shaggy unkempt hair is the colour of ash, a rain-day-grey. His head slowly turns, and he regards me with a yellow eye. Then, he looks up at the man, who tries to shove the blade into the boy's hand.

I can make out a faint silver mark on the back of the hand: a hollow sun with six small triangle rays, the tips facing outward, and a diamond inside the sun, made up of hollow triangles like the rays, the tips facing outward.

"Romiraien." I breathe the word. That explains the odd eyes and hair.

The blade breaks the skin in between the paper edge-thin lines that make up the mark, and dark red blood slowly flows out. Then, moving almost too fast to see, the boy twists the wounded hand back over the blade, wrapping his fingers around it and gripping it, even though the double-edged metal slices into his flesh, and shoves it downwards toward the ground, wrenching the hilt from the man's hand. In the same movement, he grabs the hilt, and guiding the blade with his other hand, shoves it into the man's stomach.

I hear a choking sound from the man, and watch blood bubble up and leak out of his mouth as his eyes roll up and he collapses limply on the cold concrete ground, still wet with the recent rain's fall. A gasp of horror forces from my throat, and the boy turns.

"Do you want to die too?" he asks the two men holding me, his low voice void of feeling. I feel them trembling, and they release me and step back. Off-balance, I fall hard to the ground as the men dash away into the night. I slowly look up at the boy, swallowing hard as he looks down at me.

"A...Are you going t...to kill m-me too?" I stammer. He regards me a moment.

"Are you Kogurae Roshen?" he asks, his voice containing no more feeling than it did when he spoke to the men. I can see him clearer now. He wears a grey trench coat, and under it a baggy shirt, with large bell-sleeves, and he has baggy black pants, secured to his legs at various points with bandaging. He wears black boots, and there is a black fingerless glove on his sword hand. I stare at the mark on the back of his other hand, now bleeding in two places: where the sword cut him in between the marking, and on his palm where it was gashed when he grabbed the weapon with his hand.

In answer to his question, I slowly nod. Then, to my surprise, he offers his hand to me. The bleeding one. As I take it and stand, he throws the other man's weapon off to the side.

"You should keep it," I blurt out. As he raises an eyebrow, I elaborate. "Someone not meant to have it might find it. That would mean many innocent deaths."

He looks down at me a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then, he glances at the disregarded blade out of the corner of his eye.

"Then you can take it. I am Tokahe Corsharahn. Follow me."

Then, he turns, and starts walking out of the alley. I watch him a moment, frozen with indecision.

The clouds part overhead, and the moonlight fills the alley with soft light. The glint of the sword catches my eye, and I decide.

After darting over to pick up the sword, which I recognize as a katana, I turn and dash after the boy.

xxx

"So this is your place?" I ask as I step through the door into the apartment, leaning the katana against the wall. He pauses as he closes the door. And locks it, I notice.

"This is my...dwelling, yes," he answers stiffly, and brushes past me. In the better light of the apartment, I can see his skin is pale, another trait of the Romiraien. I follow him, taking in the living area with three couches, a seventy-two inch plat-screen, which surprises me as this guy-Tokahe, was it?-doesn't strike me as the TV type, and dark maroon flowing curtains drawn across the two large windows on weither side of it. I raise an eyebrow, wondering what this guy might have against an open window. Especially on a night as stuffy and hot as this one, when there is still rain to fall. A good idea would be to leave every window open, so the breezes that blow in off the Grey Plains that this city is smack in the middle of could flow in and cool everything down.

To the left is an open-area kitchen with a small round wooden table, cluttered up with papers. My eyes narrowing, I walk over to it, wondering what kind of businesses this guy might be involved in.

As my hand reaches for one especially interesting-looking paper on top, my wrist is suddenly caught in an iron grip. A bleeding iron grip, with a Romiraien symbol on the back. I swallow hard and look up.

"My business is my own," the guy growls, glaring down at me. I nod.

"Sounds good," I squeak. His eyes narrow, then he slowly releases my wrist. As I look down at it, I realize it's the same hand that accepted his in the alley, and that it's now got two coats of blood on it. One that's already half-dried, and it makes me feel uneasy. I'm not squeamish or anything, it's just that it feels really uncomfortable.

"You can wash the blood off in the sink," he growls. By the time I look up, he's already moving silently off into some other part of the apartment.

After I make use of mentioned household facility, I walk into the living area and sit with some caution on a couch.

"Life just got more interesting," I murmur, looking down at myself. I wear a thick baggy dark purple hooded sweater, and a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it. The sleeves on my sweater are long enough to reach halfway down my fingers. My slacks are thick and grey, and made of the same material. I reach down and pull them up so I can see my brown hiking boots. They're covered in mud.

As I look closer, I see that some of the brown splotches aren't mud. I swallow hard and realize I must have walked through the growing puddle of blood that surrounded the dead man.

A strand of red hair falls in front of my face, and I tuck it behind my ear.

Who is this guy, To-kah-hey? Why would he waste his time rescuing some twelve year old girl in an alley?

I gnaw on my lower lip, something I do while I'm thinking. Could this have to do with my...abilities?

I look up as I sense a presence entering the room.

"Hey," I greet as Tokahe returns. His only response is to flick a glance at me out of the corner of his eye on his way into the kitchen. I watch him, noticing that while the blood has been washed from his hand, it's already bleeding again. I'm reminded of a song I like:

Oh my love, please don't cry

I'll wash my bloody hands and, we'll start a new life

My Bloody Valentine, by Good Charlotte. A small smile appears around my mouth. He's nowhere near my love. We're barely even acquainted. We aren't acquainted, except for names.

"So how did you know my name?" I ask as I tuck the bothersome strand of hair behind my ear again. He's sitting on the carpet, which to me seems a little odd since there are three couches and even an easy chair for reclining purposes. Then again, maybe that's just me. Also, this guy doesn't seem the type who would push the speed limit on his way home from work just so he could melt into a massage easy chair. Not that the chair's a massager, but the point remains.

"I have my sources," is his only reply without even looking up from what he's doing.

"What are you doing?" I ask, cocking my head to one side like an inquisitive puppy.

"Bandaging my hand."

I blink. Like that wasn't obvious enough. I am such an idiot. I roll my eyes and smack myself in the head.

"Right. Duh. I'm stupid."

"Mm."

I blink at him.

"Well somebody isn't very talkative," I grumble, turning around and sliding down on the couch.

After a minute of silence, I hear a muttered swear and peek over the back of the couch. The guy is grimacing down at his hand, and I notice blood on his fingernail. I guess he nicked himself or something.

"Whoa," I say as I stare at his claw-like fingernails. "When was the last time you cut your nails? Like, four months ago?"

He pauses to glare up at me.

"Shut up."

Sufficiently cowed, I sink back down the couch.

"Okay, sheesh..."

However, my curiosity is powerful, and I can't resist. After several seconds, I stand up from the couch and walk around over to him, sitting down across from him and mimicking his cross-legged position.

He pauses, and slowly looks up at me.

"What are you doing?"

I blink innocently.

"Watching you."

"Why?"

"I've never seen anyone bandage their hand before. I want to learn."

He stares at me, then his eyes move in a way that suggests a slightly disgusted and annoyed rolling, and he looks back down at his hand, apparently ignoring me.

I lean in slightly, fascinated, as he holds the cloth by pressing it between his thumb and the side of his hand, then carefully begins to wrap it with his other hand. Once, he hit what I would guess was a rough part of the cloth, winced, and muttered another swear under his breath.

"A vulgar tongue makes a vulgar mind," I say solemnly in a slightly warning tone. He pauses and glares up at me again.

"Who told you that? You grandfather?"

I blink in surprise.

"Yes, actually."

There's that slight movement of the eyes again, then he goes back to wrapping his hand.

When it comes to tying it, he pauses a moment. Then, he pulls the cloth a little tighter against his hand, then leans over even more and takes the part he was holding in his teeth. Which, I notice with a small flutter of my stomach, are quite sharp.

Next, he takes the part he's been holding with his thumb and tugs at it, drawing the bandage tighter and getting more slack from it. Then, he somehow moves his hand, wrapping the piece around the one he's holding with his teeth, then releases it and grabs it with his hand. Now he manages to tie it in knot one-handed, and tightens it by taking a piece in his teeth again and pulling at it.

"Cool," I say when he's done. He looks at me a moment, then gets to his feet.

"Whatever."

I stand and follow him into the kitchen.

"So...why did you bring me here?" I ask as he goes to stand by the sink for no apparent reason.

He doesn't answer for a minute.

"Your name is Kogurae Roshen. Four years ago, you started displaying strange...abilities."

My whole body sags. No point trying to make friends, since he knows. That must be why he's acting so cold.

"So you do know," I murmur.

"You suspected?"

"Yeah."

"Telepathy, telekinesis, pyrokinesis. Those are the abilities you have. The proper titles for them."

My eyes narrow.

"So you know what they are," I growl. "Since you know I have them, it doesn't surprise me you know what exactly they are. So what do you want with me?"

Reaching deep inside of myself, I find the feeling. I hold a mental hand over it, ready to summon from it if this guy plans on trying to take me and ship me off to some lab where they can experiment on me or something. And in this state, my telepathy is powerful enough that I can hear what he's thinking without really having to concentrate.

I can feel it...she's summoning her power...she must have been practicing. I was unaware of this. If she tries something, I'm going to kill Jamen...

"Who's Jamen?" I ask sharply, tensing.

He stiffens, staring at me. Then he becomes expressionless again.

"You don't need to prepare yourself. I'm not going to do something to you or anything."

My eyes narrow.

"Keep talking and we'll see."

He leans back against the counter, but I know he's pretending to be casual when he's tensed for anything I might try to pull. I can sense it.

"I work for certain people who work with people like you," he continues. "If you go with me tomorrow, I can take you to them. They will teach you how to control your abilities, and how to use them properly." I feel a glimmer of hope rise in me for the first time since two years ago. But suspicion momentarily crushes it.

"In exchange for what?" I ask, then add sarcastically, "my undying loyalty?" His eyes narrow.

"Think about it," he says. "Is that really so much to ask?"

I take his advice a moment, and think about it, looking down at the ground.

After a moment, I reply.

"My name," I say slowly, "Means Wolf of the Rain. You know this, yes?"

"Of course."

I slowly lift my head and look him straight in the eye.

"A wolf," I continue, "is not loyal to any outsiders. It is loyal only to its pack. I don't consider this organization or whatever it is part of my pack. So thanks for the offer, but no thanks." I turn, and head for the door.

I'm halfway there when his voice stops me.

"You don't understand. The organization will consider you dangerous. They will track you down, and you'll either be forced into training under them or be locked up."

"So you don't think I'd be dangerous too when trained?"

"You're more dangerous now, because you're unpredictable. You could lose control of your powers, unleashing raw power, and that would kill a lot more than power that's been chiseled down after training."

My eyes narrow.

"So you're saying I may end up hurting people."

"Yes. A lot of innocent people, who don't deserve to be hurt."

I think about that a moment.

"You're saying...that in exchange for training my-let's call them abilities- I would have to follow the every order of these people you work for."

"...Yes."

Never bind yourself to anyone, Rae, so that you can't break away if you feel you need to. What if a loved one needs help and someone you work for threatens you with losing your job and you are kept from helping them? A wolf runs only with their pack, Rae. We do not run with outsiders. We are our own.

"Tell me," I say, turning to see he's followed me, standing a yard or so away. "Do you dislike being bound to these people? Don't you hate knowing they control you?"

He glares.

"They do not control me. If they had not trained me, you would have been dead the moment I looked at you."

"Well, that's how it is with you. Not with me. So I think I'll take my chances, and train myself."

I turn and put my hand on the doorknob.

"We need you."

I freeze.

"What for," I growl, half-turning. He sighs and comes up to stand dierctly behind me.

"They didn't want me to tell you this until we were sure...but it's possible you have the ability to sense a certain...item we are searching for. We need you to help us track it down."

" I see," I say thoughtfully. "But you don't know for sure it's me?"

"We have several reasons to believe it is you."

"Meaning good, solid proof?"

"Meaning several reasons."

"Then come see me when you have proof." And before he can say anything else to stop me, I've unlocked the door and am out and gone, having taken the katana with me.

xxx

"Kogurae-shahn! Where have you been?!" exclaims Aunt Rose as I walk in the front door. "It's way past your curfew! It's eleven thirty! And why on earth are you carrying a weapon?!"

I sigh heavily. And ignoring the last question, I answer,

"I know the time, Aunt Rose. Look, I haven't had that great a night, all right? So...I'm just going to go to bed."

"All right, just don't forget you have work tomorrow. And...do something with that sword! I don't want to see you carrying it around again, understand?"

Pushing politely past her, I head upstairs to my room, throw the katana in the closet, and plop on my bed, instantly passing out.