It Began With Blood (Origins)

[Allen Daughtry]

OOC: To point out, this thread is meant to be Daughtry's introduction and origins thread wrapping up some business from the various boards he's been on and introducing one of his arcs, so please keep this a closed thread. Also, the period shown in Philadelphia is from nearly a year ago, when Allen Daughtry was a student at Mugen Hall. The later portion will cover events just a few weeks to the present.

IC: Distance is a remarkable thing.

Months ago, when Allen Daughtry lived in Philadelphia and worked as a thief, his life, for all its complexities and long treks of loneliness, had been kinder to him in those times, when the only scars he had were parental and peer in nature, and all he had to worry about was how to slip through school and when the next job would be. He had a specific role to play in a terribly broad world that, for all intents and purposes, cared little for him, and rightly so.

His routine was comfortable: get through the week of school, rest a bit on Friday, find a reputable target for a score, get the score, and turn it over to Joey Jefferson for cash. Really, for someone that was skilled at jumping around and breaking in, there was nothing easier, though to say it wasn't a challenge would be demeaning the entire occupation entirely. To give the short of it, thievery - or rather, specific parts of the job - were his passion.

But he wasn't a thief for the reason one might suspect, though that'll be discussed later.

At that point in the season, Daughtry's days were filled with a few beatings given or taken due to his position as a Pillar of Mugen Hall Collective, the occasional time spent with "friends" (understand that Allen only uses this word to appear courteous; he still hasn't met someone he'd designate by that title in his opinion, though he's come close) and whatever came around to be done. He liked to think that people saw him as an egotistical, slippery, shady rebel with little care for a cause or an ideal.

He liked people thinking of him that way. Kept them at a safe distance.

What had once been a relatively calm lifestyle, however, had its inevitable ends, and change was speeding faster then the shaded eyes of Allen Daughtry could foresee. One night, after a simple job done, Allen made his way to the grimy, unpleasant little corner of Philly that housed Jefferson's pawnshop. Typically, the fat old Italian could be found behind the booth watching some tacky reality T.V. show through his twelve inch vintage tube, with rabbit ears that were taped from top to bottom. Allen found this to be a perfect example of just how stingy Joey was, considering a thirty inch flat screen television hung from the hall right behind him, with an overpriced tag taped to its corner. That alone summarized Joey best.

And so, when the thief walked into the shop, clad in his shades, his jacket, and everything else, he expected to find just that: lazy Jefferson with a lazier skit flashing across his face. He never thought to expect Jefferson sprawled across the glass booth with two muscular men holding his arms behind him, greasy goatee rubbing against nitpicks on the top, his white tee riding up his flabby abdomen as he squirmed across the corner table. That was entirely new.

Allen tried to pull out a weapon that he never liked to use and charge towards the two men that held his rat down, but his hand never even left his jacket; a third thug had been hiding behind the door as it swung open, and tapped a baseball bat across the top of Daughtry's skull. It was just enough to make his eyes go dark and his mind to reset. He was knocked out.

*****

He awoke in the sot of place a person expects to be when knocked out: a dark, clammy old basement, with the cement flooring and concrete walls, the few dim lights hanging loosely from the ceiling, and little in sight that could be called furniture. There was plenty of storage space, though, and a foul lack of smell, the sort of thing you'd expect either from a socially awkward woman with an OCD problem, or a morgue. The latter is what brought the weight of reality to Allen's predicament, and the fear came crashing in.

Let's get something straight: Allen Daughtry, above all else, is far from impulsive. He hates to be driven by his instincts, to the point that he treats any animalistic thought as outside his nature. That doesn't mean he's without instinct, merely that he suppresses it. But when one's life is in grave danger and their grip on power is a slim zero, the survivor code starts to kick in harder than a gazelle in full sprint with a cheetah on its tail.

Daughtry found himself gazing about in shell shock for a few minutes, his eyes taking in details that he failed to register; his mind was too busy dealing with what it considered to be a higher priority. This included thoughts that included, 'Why me?' and 'I don't want to die' and everything else that comes with the pointless wretch of panic and terror. This, however, did not last for much longer. Allen had, after all, trained himself to remain at the head of his own mind at all times, and once he used his 'get real' technique to straighten out his logic, the body's rapid pumping of blood slowed, the adrenaline calmed, and before long, he was returning to the steel of an observer.

Once Allen Daughtry was himself again, he took the time to recognize that all of his possessions had been taken away, aside from the bare essentials: his white tee, his dark old jeans, and his brown boots. He had no tools to spare, and his hands were awkwardly tied behind his back, but positioned in such a way that he couldn't shift his arms around the chair's backrest, as his shoulders had been folded across the corners under them. Further, his feet were tied to their wooden counterparts, but strangely enough, his ankles were left to wiggle about. Daughtry quickly realized, however, that this was done to mess with his head: all he could do with his feet at this point was kick himself back onto the ground, and at that point, he would be completely immobile.

Yes, indeed, Allen Daughtry was entirely powerless. For the moment, at least.

Satisfied with what he discovered so far, Allen then shifted his head beyond his right shoulder to see if there was anything behind him. It was at then that he saw Joey Jefferson, tied and beaten behind him, in a chair similar to his own. The pawnbroker was in far worse shape than Daughtry; his hands and feet were both tied down for every inch of his limbs, and his body withheld bruising from several beatings, including a few cuts from what had to be someone's heel. He was alive, though, and better, he was awake.

"Frankie? Good.... goo -- good to see you're up." Joey finally spoke in a slow, slurred whisper, one of his eyes shut from the weight of an injury. He usually spoke much too fast for his local accent, but it seemed that whoever had taken him by force had taken all of his energy. Oh, and to him, Allen's name is Frank; part of the business, you see.

"Joe... the hell did you get into this time?" Allen whispered, partly in perplexion, and partly in innate anger. Granted, there was no way he could have known what was happening, and Joey would have been an idiot to tell his thief about something like owing a gang money, but Allen wasn't in the wrong to be upset.

What transpired next was a complete surprise to Allen. He was used to Joey being a vile, sarcastic, and selfish man that never accepted when he was wrong and never, ever acknowledged his flaws. Not even his weight. But instead of denying everything, Jefferson seemed to just stare at the boy beyond him for a few seconds, and then begin to shake. He was weeping.

"Frankie, I... I'm sorry man, I'm really... sorry..."

Allen watched him with confusion for a few moments, but knew that the only way he could get any answers was to push through Joey's sudden bout of apologies. What could be so horrible to make Joey feel as if he'd done something wrong?

"Joey, what happened."

"Those.... those guys, right? They're -- they're Mafia Frankie. They're the Falcones."

"You say that name like I should know it."

"Nah... you don't. But I do. And... and Frankie, they may be small, but they're... they're just as fuckin' mean man..."

Joey began to weep again, somewhat louder now, and Allen had to press further.

"About what? Joey, what did they --"

"I tried to deal with the wrong crowd! Frankie... Frankie, I made mistakes, big ones, and when you make those with the Falcones, they don't like it, and they get tired of your shit, so they decide it's time to... to whack... you..."

Allen left Joey to his tears for a few seconds, listening to the heaves that came from his breath, trying his best to see all of Joey's expressions, but having a hard time of it, considering his position on the chair. From what he could tell, Joey had likely gone to the Falcones for protection - likely from the wealthy residents, since Jefferson's pawn shop was the best place to sell high priced items - and what likely happened was that they expected higher monthly dues, and Joey either refused, or more likely, failed to deliver.

Now they wanted him dead. And Allen walked right into it.

"Joe... are they gonna kill us?"

Joey stared back at Allen for a few moments, his eyes silent, but his lips quivering with a bit of sorrow still in him, "Prob -- probably Frankie. But maybe just me, I don't know... they found out what you are."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I told 'um you're my thief! I told 'um you're my best guy, that you can steal anything, and that you're good in the shadows, and that you probably could 'ave killed the fuckers in that room with us if they hadn't jumped you! So now..."

Allen pressed on, "So now what Joey?"

"Now they... they..."

But Allen never had the chance to be given an answer. Just like Joey, Daughtry heard the bellowing footsteps that were echoing towards the door, and just like Joey, Allen Daughtry fell silent.

To that brief second in Time, with Allen trapped, tied up, and powerless, left with nothing but his thoughts, the boy could do nothing but wonder, and wait for that which lay beyond the door: was it a simple mafia boss that wanted some pays due, or was it Death himself, ready to take Daughtry's soul whole?

It would only be a few months later that the thief wished that it had been the Reaper. That would have been the merciful end. But instead, the boy was meant for a darker path.

And it began there, in that room. With blood.

[/font]

[Allen Daughtry]

Anthony Falcone was not a fitting image of death, even for the mafia. He dressed as if the Italians still ruled the corrupt streets of New York City - striped vest and loosely fitted jacket - but his facial hair too sloppy for any generation, and his bangs weren't even oiled back. He wasn't entirely overweight or muscular, though; he was merely a mid-twenties thug trying to dress like his great-granddad did in the twenties. Frankly, his dress said to expect a Tommy gun, but his own looks said to expect a college frat kid. Neither were very intimidating.

His revolver changed that.

Waltzing into the small basement storage room with two other mobsters, Anthony held a careless frown, and must have caught a foul smell because his nostrils were flaring and its cartilage wrinkling. His small, dark eyes ran over Allen with the most attention, which was nothing more than a second long scan. He didn't seem to give a damn that two mens' lives were now at his disposal.

The room was eerie for a long duration, which was not even broken by Joey's muffled tears. Daughtry simply stared at the three men standing before him, thinking to himself in an epiphany that he would only leave the room in two ways: completely unharmed, or in cut-up pieces. That meant that his only real chance at survival was a choice, but what would the choice be, and what were the consequences he'd endure?

"You must be Frankie." Falcone finally said, his goatee quivering a bit from his own contemplation as he returned his attention to the young thief. He added, "Funny, you don't look like one."

"A thief?" Allen retorted after a few seconds of staring back, his face calm, eyes quiet.

"No, a Franklin."

Allen let himself grin in a restrained laugh, but knowing that the humor wasn't from the response, but the circumstance. Here he was, waiting to live or die, and this man was about to realize that he was completely lying about his real name all along.

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

Anthony nodded his head, then took a step forward, "Yeah... I'm sure you do. See, scummy rats never do look good with nice names like that."

Allen raised his eyebrows, but felt his stomach sink, "You don't like thieves?"

"You serious? I hate 'um. See, if all Joe told me about you was that you stole things, I'd have shot ya after Jim blocked ya. But... you're different, aren't ya? You take pride from your job differently than other rats do."

"I guess so. What are you getting at?"

Anthony stared at Allen for a few moments more, then smiled brightly, his incredibly straight teeth shining back at his captive, "Well, you're good at breakin' in, so I hear, and you're good at taking things... but I hear you don't like the things you take. You're more about the act instead of the ends. So I thought, 'Well hey, if he ain't greedy, maybe he can... change his career a bit, and be made of use?'"

Allen saw the way that Anthony was smiling, and felt his stomach fall even farther; he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"No."

Allen hadn't even hesitated to react. As soon as Falcone was done talking, he kicked back with his response, making sure that his mind was set on the matter at hand, "I steal objects, not lives. I'm no hitman."

Anthony Falcone stared down at Allen Daughtry for a while, his smile never leaving his face, as his right index finger toyed with the hinges of his revolver. He must have been laughing in his head, because he was still smiling, "You sure 'bout that?"

Allen stared back, his cerulean eyes cold, lips stern, and face frozen as he responded with a slow, crisp tone, "Absolutely."

Joey didn't take this well.

"Damnit Frankie, just take the offer and get out!"

Anthony continued to stare at Allen for a moment, but then turned his eyes to glare back at Joey, "You should listen to him Franklin; in fact, you should thank him. He's the reason I found out you're not a rat, after all."

"Frankie..." Joey continued, trying to get Allen's attention from beyond the boy's vision, as the blond headed thief refused to stare back at him, "Listen to me. They're gonna kill me no matter what, I know that. But you gotta get out of here, save yourself! If there's been one time that I haven't been a selfish prick, let it be now!"

Even from the distance, Allen could hear Joey's hoarse voice, and the pounding of his heart. The older, grimier man knew that his life was coming to a fast close, and he was using every ounce of his energy to save a younger one. But Allen refused to listen; he didn't want to. He knew that he was about to witness a murder, and he knew that if he accepted, he'd become the man behind the trigger. Even if the alternative was death, he wanted to do everything in his power to avoid that.

But he had no power here. He was trapped, tied down, gagged. In this moment of darkness, with some bastard holding the gun that threatened his life, and a faint acquaintance that had never cared much for his life suddenly doing everything he could to save Allen's life, the boy didn't know what to do. The part of him that always been told to stay silent suddenly barked out, demanding to be let free, to beg for its continued existence, while his preferred side, his logic, began to realize that he had no other choice, even if his morals had to take the hit.

So when Anthony Falcone turned back to glare down at Allen Daughtry, the boy was silent. He didn't know how respond. He honestly couldn't; he was trapped, afraid and facing death itself. The strength that had been his life had suddenly left him, and all he could do now was wait for fate to take him.

"You gonna make up your mind, kid?" Anthony questioned, his dark eyes staring down in contempt. But Allen remained silent, staring back. "Maybe I should make up your mind..."

Allen saw Anthony pull up the revolver to his eyes, and saw his thumb draw back the hammer. He knew what was about to follow through. He was going to die, in a grimy little basement, with nothing but a single light bulb to give him eyes. His life, barely lived, would be extinguished, at the hands of some low rung mafia thug. Seeing this, realizing this, knowing this, most people would have cracked just then, begging to be let free, accepting whatever cost, so long as they lived.

But Allen Daughtry simply shut his eyes in fear, and waited for the end in silence. It didn't take long: an instant later, he heard the revolver's barrel filled, and the trigger slowly clicking back. But when he heard the hammer crash down and the explosion fly outward, it wasn't the silence that brought Allen Daughtry's eyes to open, but the sudden realization that he wasn't dead. He was still very much alive.

Joey Jefferson wasn't so lucky.

The noises that followed the gunshot described the scene of a bullet crashing into Joey's left shoulder, with such force that his tied-up body was vaulted back and over, the balance on his chair lost, and his body flailing down to the concrete floor. His head whipped against the ground with a terrible thud, his lips releasing a surge of pained yelling, and his body flailed about before staying frozen still, as the man realized what had happened to him.

As Allen found out that he wasn't dead, and that Joey had been shot instead, his eyes turned to glance back at his old pawn shop contact, staring back at the body that would soon become a corpse, his lips yelling his name in a great force.

And there stood Anthony Falcone, just above the fallen old man, revolver still in hand, hammer drawn a second time, and barrel aimed downward at Joey's skull. Below him, Jefferson stared up at the gun that would kill him, then took one last glance at Allen Daughtry, his "Frankie" before whispering his goodbye.

"Later."

And the second gunshot followed.

Allen can't recall if his eyes were really open the moment that Joey's forehead was reared back from the kick of the bullet, a bloody new hole installed into his hairline. He was likely staring with unblinking determination, but his mind couldn't handle the scene, and shut out the view. It would be a few seconds later that Allen's mind finally registered what happened. And when he did, his emotions lost it.

"Joe..."

Allen began to grit his teeth as wrinkles collected across his head.

"Joe..."

The boy's feet shifted him about in a rustle of anger, disgust, and sorrow, not for the loss of Jefferson himself, but more so for himself; he had never seen a dead person before, let alone, someone that died right in front of him. He had always told himself that, in his sort of position, he'd do his best to stop their murder, but in this very instant that he always prepared for, he was completely powerless, completely and utterly worthless. And because of him, a person he knew - had come to know - had been killed, murdered, stolen from, gone forever more, tossed into a realm that no living being could see, hear, or discover. Joey Jefferson was gone, and Allen Daughtry couldn't save him.

"Joe!"

After several seconds of shifting, crashing and cracking, Allen Daughtry finally rested, his body leaning forward, chair sitting still, head pressing across his chest, as something between a cry and a cough ran through his throat and his eyes, and sweat began to tear from his skin. His throat fused into a great ball of terror, and his body became a nuclear reactor, as his adrenaline, his blood, and his muscles converged into the physical manifestation of his dread.

He must have gone on for several minutes of this, as when Anthony Falcone finally spoke up, he had been glancing at his pocket watch, and his two guards appeared to itch for a departure.

"Kid, you can cry all night over the fat fuck's death, but we gotta go, and I gotta know if our boys comin' over later are picking up one body or two, capiche?"

"Fuck you!" Allen roared back, his eyes ablaze with fire and water, body retching as his emotions lost control.

"That ain't no answer. So make up your goddamn mind, or I'll spread it across the floor there like a pink goo."

For a few seconds more, Allen Daughtry glared at Anthony Falcone, wanting nothing more than to untie the knots around his wrists, jump up, and grab the bastard by the throat and wring out every ounce of breath in his body. That was what he wanted, that was what he knew needed to be done, but at that moment, and likely for a long while, Daughtry knew that he didn't have the power to accomplish that goal.

And he certainly never would if he was dead.

Calming himself, exhaling the dread and rage and hatred that was drowning him, though his eyes still filled with the intense desire as he glared back at the murderer before him, Allen Daughtry commanded himself to settle as he responded in a slow, quiet, hushed breath.

"Fine, I'll be your killer."

Anthony Falcone smiled, nodded, then snapped his fingers.

"That's good kid. Now, sorry about the precaution."

A moment later, the thief's world went dark once again, but not for long. All that happened was one of Falcone's thugs arcing a baseball bat right into the young man's skull, knocking his brain around in his skull as if it were a baseball in a hollow watermelon. But the last image in his mind before he would fall unconscious was that of Antony Falcone's face, and the contemplation of how he would kill the thug, in due time.

A shot to the head seemed fitting.[/font]

[Allen Daughtry]

Once more, with feeling.

The first go round, Allen had simply been dazed and confused; now, the second time that he had been knocked unconscious, he knew that a concussion was inevitable. When he opened his bleary eyes, the world above him was faintly light, and the ground that he was sprawled across felt cold and rough, like small clusters of rock joined together. He couldn't tell how long he'd lied there, but he knew well enough how he felt: as if the world was trying to drag him inward, towards its core, and so far, it was succeeding.

Taking a few minutes to regain his bearings, Daughtry slowly pushed himself into a sitting arrangement nearby some crates and trash cans. His vision wasn't focusing; he couldn't tell if he was in an alleyway or an asylum. Yet, in time, his awareness of the world began to sharpen, and at some point, he was able to see the rest of his possessions lain across the other side of the path. His shades, his jacket, his necklace; all there.

Forcing himself to stand up, Daughtry left the alleyway with his jacket over his shoulders and his shades hiding the dim light of his eyes, The time of day appeared to be something close to noon, the breeze picking up, and the traffic following suit. One of the first things that struck Allen - quite like the hit to his head - was the need for medication. The point on his skull where the bat landed had now swelled to a solid dent of purple,

Shuffling through a series of congested city blocks, Daughtry went unnoticed by other passerby, as they likely assumed he was drunk, doped up, or a typical high school ruffian escaping from a bad fight. The day was no different in the urban landscape than from another: rusted old Cadillacs from the 1980s trudging past sleek, sharp European sedans, with business suits rushing past the common blue collar hustler. In this world, no matter his own unique features, the dilemma of Allen Daughtry was not that different, and it was no surprise at all that as he limped through the sidewalks to try and reach a pharmacy, his shaded face went unnoticed.

The man eventually found a haven of drugs and heat packs, and crashed through the doors with his back first and his head last. He tripped into the first aisle without thinking, and accidentally pushed over a tray of cough medicine ads. Ignoring the fallen mess, Allen made his way to a wall of pan relievers. Grabbing a small canister of Tylenol, the man clicked back two red pills into his throat and swallowed without a moment's notice, nor recognition of the white-coated pharmacist that now stood behind him in bewilderment.

Through the unscrewing of the cap and the search for a cold pack, the medical doctor tried to tell Daughtry that any sort of aspirin was inadvisable to take while drinking alcohol, due to some mumbo-jumbo of how it thinned out blood. To this, Allen merely pointed up his left index finger to shut the middle-aged woman up, before pointing to the back of his head.

"This..." Daughtry glanced back through his shades, lips loose, face drooping from exhaustion and disorientation, "ain't no hangover lady."

Grabbing a container for a pair of cold packs and some medical tape, Daughtry stripped open the cardboard and retrieved the two cloth pads, sealing each together and activating the chemical reaction, before pressing it against his swelling cranium. Within seconds, he felt his mind at ease, and started to regain some of his competence.

"Um..." the pharmacist finally asked, bewildered at Allen's attitude, "That looks like a concussion, maybe you should..."

"That ain't happening."

"Can you at least pay for it then?"

"Of course. I'm no thief, after all." Allen said with a grin that only he knew was sarcastic.

*****

A few hours later, Allen finally regained his composure, and beyond the splitting headache and the fact that each of his joints refused to cooperate without some degree of sharp pain, he was fine. Physically, at least. In his head, the man replayed the scene from his night, partly out of disbelief, and mostly out of sheer horror; he had never seen another human being die before, let alone murdered, and the fact that he knew the person made matters worse. He felt his stomach wrenching, both out of guilt and disgust, and could not help but sense a touch of nausea hitting him whenever the bullet passed through his old pawnbroker's head.

For the time being, however, Daughtry had a task to distract him. His main priority, for the time being, was to figure out how to get out of the predicament he now had. He didn't want to kill, and he certainly did not want to be some minor mafia's hitman that had been the murderers of his colleague. Yet, now he was trapped, set to be their bloodmaker, and he could only see two possible solutions: a violent resistance, or escape.

Frankly, he preferred the latter.

But, in order for Allen to properly escape from the Falcone family, he'd need to tie up any loose ends he had in Philadelphia so that he could leave for another city, preferably one where the population was so densely packed that such a small group could not find him - and at the same time, one where he could delve into if discovered. Fortunately, his own involvement in Philly was few, considering that he was no longer a Pillar at the Mugen Hall Collective - what with the Captain Gabe Ember's illustrious departure - and his own lack of social care for those around him.

Daughtry had no friends, after all. Though he did have one acquaintance that could be of particular use in his escape: Jerry Rosenthal, or as he preferred, "Sparky."

*****

"The hell are you doing here? It's three o' clock man!"

"I could ask the same thing to you Jerry; this club doesn't open for another five hours."

Allen had taken the next step to his plan by making a trip to the only man he knew in Philly that could get what he needed. Sparky, Allen's "Cylon," or essentially a hacker, was the thief's source for picking targets to steal from, find out the details behind them, and figure out where to sell. He was a dark, tall, handsome guy with some Ivy League education and parents that were loaded to the brim with green, but he was likely the biggest hedonist that Daughtry ever knew in his entire life. He was reliable for work, but nothing more.

Allen found his "rat" lounging around at his favorite nightclub, a trance dance joint that was owned by a friend of his from the local Jewish temple. If the hacker wasn't spending most of his time here drinking and doping, he was off hiding away in his "lair" collecting information to pass along to Daughtry or another of his clientele, or playing internet security advisor for the local corporate network technicians. He was like a damn vampire sometimes with his hours, and because of it, he had a permanent set of purple bags under his eyes. He didn't seem to mind, though, for some reason.

"How'd you get in? Zachary is always locking the doors whenever he's gone..."

"Sparky, look who you're talking to."

"You broke in?"

"Well yeah man."

"Why didn't you call me?"

Allen sighed in frustration to hear this, and it didn't help when he saw that Jerry had a face of genuine astonishment.

"You didn't answer. I called you three times!"

"... You did?"

"Check your goddamn phone."

Slipping out his phone with his disbelief still evident, Jerry clicked open the cell cover to glance at his screen. A moment of silence hovered between them, before Sparky finally spoke.

"I have four messages."

"Three of those are mine."

"Yep... and the fourth's my ma. Looks like she called between 'Sparky, pick up the phone.' and 'Sparky, pick up the goddamn phone now, or I'll beat you.'"

"I was serious about that threat you know - and you didn't even pick up a call from your mom?"

"Hey, don't look at me that way, haven't you ever heard of the Jewish mother stereotype?"

"Whatever."

"I"m serious! Her nose is nearly as big as her nosiness, and that takes effort man!"

Allen nodded his head in disapproval, waving his hand to silence the older man. "Enough, we've got serious shit to discuss here."

"Like what?"

"Like how to get me the hell out of this city with a pack of Italians hounding me."[/font]

[Allen Daughtry]

"You know 'Frankie'," Jerry began with a limp cigarette in his hand and a small pint of whiskey at his side as the tired dark eyes stared back at Daughtry, "I always told ya Jefferson was a bad buyer. Dirtbags like him are never any good."

It had been a long story to explain, since Allen Daughtry had never involved his hacker in the dealings between him and his pawnbroker. Their relationship had always been business, and one quickly learned that in order to survive, lying became an adequate tool - and in order to successfully lie, one had to isolate their connections from one another. Essentially, if Jefferson knew Allen had a Jewish hacker, it wouldn't be long before their business transactions would turn sour from a lack of trust.

"You're just saying that because he's an Anti-Semite." the blond thief remarked, doing his best to forget the trauma by taking continuous hits from a joint. The drug was helping somewhat, but ever since he had taken it up from his occasional meetings with Jeremiah, he was already starting to gain a strange tolerance for the weed that he couldn't explain. His blue eyes were glassy behind the ebony shades, and his body relaxed, but his mind was growing harder to calm down. He was just getting edgy.

"That certainly helped," Jerry responded, taking a swig of his drink, "but that motherfucker was dirty in so many other ways. Dealing with his Italian buddies was just a tip of the iceberg. Russians from downtown, Triads around the northern fishing docks, Yakuza upstarts in the white collar firms, even street thugs with record companies. When you're in that kind of business, you don't make friends Allen, and he didn't give a shit if he made enemies. I can bet you that no one is missing him right now."

"Oh come on man, the guy's dead! Have a heart for crying out loud, you cynical prick."

"Hey!" Rosenthal pointed at Daughtry with a glare, "That's the truth, raw and cold to the bone. Don't go trying to sprinkle it with sweetener or cover it with a bad sauce Daughtry, because I'd expect more from you. What is it you say, 'logic over instinct'? That's your fucking call sign, ain't it? Mr. Reasoning? Daddy's thinking machine?"

"Shut the fu --"

"No, you listen." Jeremiah finished the last of drink and planted the glass down on the table between them, and kept his right hand poised on Allen's direction, the cigarette pressed between his fingers. "You don't let anyone in, and that's good, real good. You're good at what you do Daughtry, really you are. But if you're going to be effective in this world in the line of work we have, as thieves and crooks, than you better get over some bloodshed in the process. Now I'm not asking you to kill anyone outside of self defense, but shit, if you can't handle some scum ball buying the farm, then what's going to happen if I get killed, or a friend? You'll go mad in that little head of yours. You've gotta use that logical thinking of yours and reign in your secret optimism and feelings, or you're just going to burn."

"It's not that easy." Allen finally quipped back, staring down Jerry's eyes with futile resistance, feeling as if he knew the man was right, but searching for some way to refute his dark facts.

"Why not?"

"Because if I'm nothing but logic, just see things objectively and through that cynicism you hold so dear, than I'll be less man and more machine. I'll go cold, hard inside, and then that very same logic of mine won't even be as strong as before. It'll narrow, it'll lose its flexibility, and before long I'll just turn to a faster route to instant satisfaction and burn out, and even more than had I gone and mourned someone's death."

"So what? You're saying if you let some of your emotions float around, getting attachments, feeling harm, than it'll make all of this worth something?"

"Emotion is more than just instinct Jerry. There's something spiritual about it, and it's that sect of it that makes us human. And goddamnit, I don't want to lose it!"

Jerry stared at Allen Daughtry with a sudden sense of curiosity, perhaps even of understanding. The two had never discussed anything past work before, and now they had not only jumped into Allen's mind and thoughts, but his beliefs and personal values. Rosenthal had never been a religious or metaphysical man, but he could not help but envy those who genuinely believed in something, yet pitied them for the lack of foundation behind those thoughts. What he suddenly saw in Daughtry was different: a source of faith from a realm of cold reality.

"So..." Jerry began, taking another whiff of his cigarette, and keeping his eyes set closely on Daughtry as he continued, "You'd say we should hold those things above what we have right in front of us?"

Allen was a little perplexed by the situation himself. It didn't help that he was high, stressed and falling from an adrenaline rush. He stared back at Rosenthal for a few seconds, watching his body language, trying to understand the direction he was taking, when he realized his intentions. He tapped his lips against the butt of marijuana one more time, inhaling the earthy fumes, allowing their chemistry to influence him, before staring at the smoke receding from the stick's tip. He was now allowing his philosophical side to play the game, and in order to do so, he would have draw out a part of him that had been long asleep under the months of empirical work.

"If we do nothing but dream as idealists, then that's all we'll ever be... a mind trapped in a dream with a body struck in a dark grey world. But, if we allow ourselves to be too realistic, too accepting of how the world works, and the science that we're told explains everything we can sense, then we become narrow minded, dismissive of anything beyond what we already know. In order for us to dream again, and to really enter that world we want, we need to find our bearings in this reality - accept this world in grey - and make that our foundation for a new reality that we want to forge. There are fantasies, and there are goals, and dreams can be the blueprint for both. We just need to make sure we know how to draw the blueprint first."

Jeremiah simply stared at Allen, seemingly grinning in some sort of satisfaction in the answer. Indeed, after so many months of mystery, the hacker felt as if he was beginning to crack the mysterious code that was the shell of his colleague, and naturally it made him feel as if he he could trust the shady character far more than he did before. He flicked away his cigarette into the line of a janitor's broom and nodded to Daughtry, impressed, "So you're a mix of both worlds then, realistic and idealistic. So why is it you walk around with a bigger chip on your shoulder than me?"

A deep laugh reacted, "Jerry, there are two particular reasons: one, cynics are taken a lot more seriously than some dreamy eyed optimist; and two, a cold attitude is extremely useful in keeping people out of the way so I can keep to myself. No one likes you for a reason, after all."

"Very funny, Mr. Lone Wolf." Jeremiah responded with a deep snicker, "Even though that attitude gets your gut punched in more often?"

Allen just shrugged his shoulders, "Everything's got consequences."

Jeremiah seemed content with this, and simply nodded. From there, the business partnership had evolved into something different, more invested. Now knowing that, beyond the ebony shades and the arrogant grin, there lay something different gave him more interest in seeing Daughtry's survival than simply for his good sake.

"All right. I'll talk to a friend tonight and see about getting you a ride up north to New York City. He'll probably have something for ya by tomorrow, so get your shit together. Also, be ready to get a place anywhere, because I haven't been in Manhattan in months, so I don't know anyone with a free place to lay low."

Allen Daughtry watched his hacker with his own satisfaction, as he now felt the weight of fear start to leave him. While he still knew very little about the man across from him, Allen could tell that the assistance was enough to prove trust, and he nodded in thanks as he tossed the joint away and stood up to leave.

"Where should I meet you two?"

"I'll call you about that when the plans are solid. Just keep your head down til then."

"Got it, see ya."

A few minutes later, the shaded junior was strolling his way down the walk from the club. The sun was starting edge closer toward the Appalachians in the west, and the winter season was bringing down more cold with night. Hunching up in his leather jacket and watching a mix of smoke and frozen breath leave his lips, Daughtry chose to take a short cut through the city park to reach Mugen Hall Collective in a faster time.

He would be leaving the City of Brotherly Love without giving a single look back. He was moving on to the West, to California, to San Francisco.[/font]