Title: "Search and Destroy"

Rating: T

Genre: Adventure, Drama

Character(s): still the Lab Rats gang, with a few familiar faces and a handful of OCs

Pairing(s): Donald/Tasha, Adam/OC, Leo/Kerry and hints of Chase/OC

Summary: Six months after his supposed death, Leo and a new ally track down Douglas after uncovering the inventor's destructive new plan. Meanwhile, the Davenport family continues to adjust to a life after loss. But when a mysterious activity comes up, a game soon ensues, leading both sides to unknowingly head into a path of collision.

Notes: Second story in the series! Unlike the preceding story, this one will be much shorter. I hope. Still part of a personal challenge, so I hope I'd do good. :) As far as warnings, I don't think there needs to be one. Just flares of angst here and there; nothing too major.

Just to be clear, the title's more of a reference to a computer program as opposed to the military tactic. The reason for that will be more evident as we go along.

Like in the first story, a number of chapters in this had been written months in advance (started around the first week of May, I think). Also, like the first, the events in Season Three never happened in this universe, so I guess you can say this is AR-ish.

Enjoy!

One.

"This is interesting, too: Davenport Industries had recently released its own home security system, and a lot of consumers are rating it really high. According to the customer feedbacks, the quality is very satisfactory, the service is great—and a lot of people are surprised, get this, with how uncostly it is. Imagine that!"

"Wow!"

"Yeah. For a successful tech company, I personally wouldn't've pegged Davenport Industries to do something like this. I mean, usually, when we talk about Donald Davenport and, you know, what new products his company comes up with, it's usually some state of the art inventions. Home security system sounds like a step outside the box to me. In a good way! In a good way! It's more practical and really customer-oriented."

"I agree. Although, it does make me wonder if this is at all any indication that the company is suffering in its usual field, that's why it's branching out in something different."

"No, I don't think so. The label still sells like hotcakes worldwide. Yeah, no. I don't think decline in sales is the reason, Jenna."

"Oh."

"Well, actually, there's a lot of speculation that the main reason for the development of this product is that horrible incident that the Davenports experienced a little more than six months ago."

Consuela Villar reached upwards to the television situated at a ledge not too high overhead as a cold hush fell over the audience of the talk show she was watching. Stepping forward, her small frame was engulfed by the less tense North Carolinian afternoon sunshine which flooded through the open balcony and many windows of her diminutive but rather warm dine-in. Her wrinkled fingers expertly located the notch for the volume, turning it three clicks clockwise, before stepping back to get a view of the screen again.

With a work-worn hand perched softly on her hips, big, honest deep brown eyes ahead, and the other hand sympathetically pulling at her mouth, she watched and listened.

"Mm. I forgot about that."

"Poor man. And, you know, I've actually had the chance to meet Donald Davenport in person, and I think I've gotten the chance to meet his wife, too. It was at a charity event, I think. Great people. He seems very happy with his family life, with those four beautiful kids. Just untimely. His stepson died before his son graduated high school."

"I…Mm. I can't imagine going through something like that. I just don't know how I could do it if I lose any of my kids."

"Were the two of them close?"

"Yeah. Family and friends say that the family is pretty close. I know it's something you don't see too often, especially since he and his stepson had only known each other for about two, three years, but—yeah, they were."

"How old was the boy?"

"He just turned sixteen when it happened."

"Oh, wow. Still very young."

"But you know, I think Donald has shown strength in character at a time like this. There he was, faced with a terrible, terrible tragedy, and he turns that into something helpful. He turns it into something that others can use so the chances of them losing someone they love because of some senseless reason like he had is lessened. Isn't that wonderful?"

Loud and hearty applause lightly blasted from the dust-and-oil encrusted speakers of the television.

Consuela breathed out in approval, the pad of her hand traveling from her mouth to her sternum, right on her heart, while her bottom lip jutted up in an expression of agreement.

The lithe sound of metal against glass snapped her concentration out of her favorite program. She swiveled around alertly. Her eyes gradually adjusted from the sight of the five perfectly sculptured women on the television to the rather rough but familiar features of a young man she considered as her friend. She smiled. "Frankie," she said, glancing at the laptop he deposited on top of the counter.

"Lo siento, Mrs. Villar," the boy laughed kindly as he scratched the back of his head. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to tell you that I've finished with your laptop."

"It will take more than that to scare me, mi hijo," Consuela said as she transferred the computer closer to the cash register. "And what did I say about calling me Mrs. Villar, huh?"

The boy called Frankie smiled, his thick mustache and sprout of goatee shifting along with his lips. "That Mrs. Villar is your mother-in-law so don't call you that," he repeated the curt speech the older woman always gave him.

Consuela waved a finger. "Exactly," she said. She punched in a few numbers at the register, the machine adding mechanical screeches while it slowly spat out a sheet of paper. "It's either Abuela or Ms. Consuela."

"Okay."

After finishing her work with the machine, Consuela drew out a white plastic bag containing two filled Styrofoam containers from underneath the desk.

"So what is the talk about today?"

Consuela lifted her eyes up to the boy whose own dark brown orbs underneath his formidably thick brows focused on the droning television above. She smiled. "Oh, you know. Everything," she said as she punched the larger green button on the register. It dinged and swiftly slid open. She deposited a twenty dollar bill from her pocket. "They just got finished talking about that poor businessman. Donald Davenport? Davenport Industries? He has a small facility thirty minutes off the island. I think Sammy's applied for a job there last month."

The boy nodded thoughtfully. "Oh. Oh, yeah, I think I've heard of it," he mumbled.

"They're just saying how he's selling some security system and how they think he did it because of what happened to his kid." Consuela sighed, shaking her head. "That poor man. And that poor boy. Only sixteen. My Sammy is only a year older than him, can you imagine that?"

"Hm," he said distantly.

Consuela supposed it was an indication of shared sympathy towards the rather faraway subject. Or, perhaps, an effect of the viral disinterest many seemed to have towards items seen and heard from popular gossip shows. Either way was acceptable. She soon resorted into tying the handles of the plastic bag into the same professional knot that allowed her more regular customers to untie it easily at a later time. "What's wrong with my computer this time around?" she asked.

Frankie easily snapped back from the screen to the woman in front of him. "Oh, not much," he said. "Your hard drive is just overcrowded, so I erased a few unnecessary things."

"You didn't remove Sammy's little user folder or whatever in the world it is, did you? 'Cause he specifically told me not to touch that. He said he has many school things in there, and I think his résumé is in there, too."

He grinned, though it was somewhat grim. "No, ma'am," he said. "I did go through his saved files, just to make sure. There were a lot that had viruses and malwares in them, so I installed a program that took care of that."

Consuela frowned. "You didn't have to pay for anything, did you?"

"No. Actually, the antivirus program I installed was something I kind of created myself. But don't worry! You can always ask Sammy to delete it from your computer if you feel uncomfortable with it. I promise, I'm not using it to spy or anything. I just thought it's something you can use. It's really harmless. I hope that's okay."

Consuela thought about it. "Well, I guess it's better than having to pay for one," she said. "And you said Sammy can erase it whenever?"

He nodded.

Consuela's eyebrows quirked. A smirk tugged at her lips. "You probably should have made sure he couldn't erase it, then," she said. "That boy. I think my laptop started messing up when he started downloading his movies."

He smiled, biting back a rather unpleasant remark towards the unknowing woman's grandson due to the very inappropriate 'movies' downloaded onto the laptop could get his grandmother arrested for a malicious crime.

Consuela pushed over the white plastic bag across the counter. "Here. Ropa vieja for you, picadillo for your cousin."

"Oh. Wow. Gracias, Mrs., uh, Consuela," the boy said as he gratefully examined the bag. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing, that's how much," she said. She watched him with amusement as he picked up the lunches, verily occupied and seemingly confounded by it. Her left hand found her hip once more. "How's your cousin, by the way?"

"Bien," he said, savoring the thick and inviting aroma of the freshly cooked food.

Consuela nodded. "Too bad you have to leave after the wedding," she commented. "You can have a nice life here in the islands, you know. You're always welcome to apply for a job here in our restaurant. Armando and I will give you one. Or, if not, you can apply at that Davenport Industries place. You're really good at computers; they'll probably hire you.

"Plus, Hatteras is a beautiful place to raise a family," Consuela added. "You told me you're twenty-three. Aren't you looking to settle down soon? Like your cousin? You know, my niece, Vanessa, she's coming to town next week, and she'll probably be interested in a good young man like you." Her features then twisted as her motive shifted from persuasion to scrutiny. "But I think we have to do something about all of that first," she said, gesturing widely to his face.

Her guest's eyebrows wrinkled and raised consecutively. "What's wrong with it?"

"Mi hijo, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but all that facial hair—" she shook her head. "You need a razor or at least a butter knife. Maybe a lawn mower."

A customer eavesdropping at a nearby booth choked on the lukewarm fajitas he was pretending to eat.

Frankie glanced back at the customer and then looked back to Consuela.

Consuela smiled apologetically. "Sorry, corazón," she said.

Frankie shook his head, ridding himself of the unnecessary embarrassment. "It's…fine," he said. He picked up the bags from the counter then turned to leave. "Thank you for these, Ms. Consuela."

Consuela gently grasped one of his hands, causing him to halt. She smiled warmly. "Please, mi hijo," she said. "I seriously do hope you think about what I said."

The young man opened his mouth to say something but ended up resorting into a smile that mimicked the older woman who he, too, considered as his friend. "Will do," he said. Consuela let go of his hand, and it gave him the freedom to take his leave.

Moderate September warmth welcomed the young man into its arms as he exited the humble restaurant. With a brief wave to a trio of local customers traversing the almost non-existent parking lot, he mounted his bike and then set off towards the road that had become so familiar to him. Route in mind, he pedaled, the smooth sound of the chains and the wheels falling into a very familiar rhyme during the twenty-minute travel. Occasionally, a soft breeze would slightly push against his back, providing a cool current that he appreciated riding in.

With the sun lightly beating against his skin, his mind automatically enumerated the precautionary measures of riding a bicycle through a busy and somewhat dangerously narrow passage.

After losing sense of time through the course of sand-riddled pavements, he finally turned into a street he knew well. Passing by an ice-cream-place-slash-put-put-course and a shabby seafood restaurant known for its late happy hours and karaoke nights (which had admittedly gotten rather annoying several times over), he arrived at the conglomeration of trees that lined near the street. The lone green mailbox and the nearly full trash can served as buoys that marked the break in the greeneries and thus the entrance to his destination.

The incline of the driveway required a bit more work from him, but practice rendered it somehow easier. Getting off, he wheeled his bike past the sizeable black jeep sitting in the wide driveway and parked it inside the garage, careful not to tilt the bag of food clasped in his hand. He then unlocked the door into the house, closed the garage door, and then came inside.

He placed the food beside the microwave. He proceeded to the bathroom after scratching underneath his fake left brow. There, he flipped the lights on before looking at his rather rugged and unrecognizable face in the mirror. He counted to three to mentally prepare himself for the stinging pain that he knew would come about from his next action.

Then, carefully and with a muffled hiss, he peeled off the fake brows, the fake mustache, the fake beard and finally, the fake goatee.

He washed his face immediately to rid of the glue, as he had many times before, the cold water from the faucet proving to be refreshing. When he finished, he dried his face with a towel waiting nearby, and then looked again in the mirror to check if he had really washed off all of the residue from the adhesive.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, from beholding the sight of the twenty-three year-old, Panama-born Francisco 'Frankie' Vasquez, who was always visiting for his cousin's wedding in every state he found himself in, to the sight of just him, Leo Dooley. The contrast wasn't as stark or as dramatic—to him, at least—as the only things that changed his appearance were the fake facial hair that was purchased five months ago as a precautionary measure. But if he was to compare how he looked physically now to how he looked before he left his family, he could point out several noticeable differences.

His height, for one, had been threatening to rival Adam's. Once his growth spurt kicked into full throttle, all he had done was grow. Unfortunately and much to his chagrin, his voice changed, too, and he wasn't too sure he liked that. Given, before he left San Francisco, its inevitability was apparent; Bree and Chase had teased him once when his voice cracked while he was giving a presentation in Physics class. Lately, it just seemed more final.

A weak smirk pulled on Leo's lips. Though he knew they would have teased him all the way through the process, he wished he could have been with his family as he slowly transformed in that half a year.

Or maybe not, he thought as he caught sight of his hair. Due to a mistake a nervous newbie barber made before they left Atlanta the month and a half prior, he ended up with a wild but rather unique slight undercut as a haircut. He hated it, especially since at first glance it appeared very vaguely of a Mohawk, but Torrance said that it matured him from sixteen to eighteen which, he guessed, made it borderline tolerable.

He wasn't too sure his mother would approve of it if she saw it, though.

Leo laughed when an image of his mother chasing him with hair clippers on her hand popped up in his head. He turned off the lights in the bathroom then happily trekked upstairs in search for his one and only companion. Finding the second floor empty, he continued on the third floor of the house.

The bright afternoon sunshine flooded more freely through the windows and sliding doors at the highest level of their temporary residence. The emptiness was more apparent, but he did notice a sticky note pinned squarely in the middle of the metallic fridge at the main kitchen.

Leaving for New York early tomorrow morning, 2:30 AM.

Please have your things ready by then.

- Torrance

Leo stared at it, somehow dismayed. He admitted his gloomy mood was partly his fault; Torrance had warned him against forming any friendship with anyone they meet during their travel, but he still let it happen anyways. Their three week stay at the islands had been the longest they have stayed anywhere, and even that short period of time sufficed for him to cross paths with the Villars, the elderly Spanish couple that owned the restaurant he and Torrance dined in one afternoon. He guessed his affinity to them had something to do with their natural warmth. Likely, his craving for affection from parents, which both unknowingly filled, was a cause, too.

Now he had to leave them.

Yet, he knew it was necessary. Something bigger was at stake, and as his stepfather had taught him a long time ago, as with many urgent missions, emotions had to be cast aside for the mean time and logic had to take reign.

Presently, logic evinced that his family's safety was imperative.

Leo plucked the yellow note out of the clip before making one last attempt to find its writer. He headed out to the balcony, the salty ocean breeze rushing past him when he opened the door. Halfway through scanning the poolside, he spotted a lone figure perched at the edge of the final landing that led to their personal piece of the beach.

Torrance possessed a small but quite fit frame. Her posture was similar to her character: poised, dignified and certain. Even while preoccupied with the laptop on her lap, she didn't slouch. She never had, not as far as Leo remembered. He supposed that was the reason why it was not very hard to accept the fact that she was smart and frank, which was contrary to his first prejudgment at the masquerade that she was cunning and dishonest.

Her features were captivating, too. With the mask off and in closer proximity, he discovered that her kindly eyes were actually the hue of pale emeralds. Occasionally, when she's surrounded with too much light or at times with too much darkness, her eyes would appear blue, like the sky during summertime. Her long, golden locks of hair, which swayed with the soft stream of the wind, only worked to improve her proportionate features.

Pondering over these, Leo easily understood why other boys were easily attracted to her, especially on those rare times where she genuinely smiles. Whenever she would smile, no matter how small it was, it becomes a task for him as her self-appointed protector and best friend to ward off the oncoming admirers, each and every time varying in strength of approach.

It was almost too hard to believe that she was the same girl who helped him fake his death.

Leo opened his mouth to call to her but thought the better of it when he observed the speed of her fingers across the keyboard and the complete abandon of awareness to her surroundings. She was busy, and he was almost absolute that it was to contribute to their search, so he didn't bother her.

Instead, he walked back to the spacious bedroom that had been his for weeks.

His first inclination was to take a shower. It was one of those luxuries that fled them at times as they skip from city to city, from state to state. Torrance had been very skilled in finding shelter for the both of them (a perk, she had told him, that came from being well-connected and having many people owe her) but having the perfect living conditions wasn't always on the table. He could count those times when they had to wait two or three days before getting to a place with well-watered bathrooms, and this had led him to appreciate the importance of seizing the opportunities of taking a bath when he could.

However, his exhaustion curtailed his travel, his feet taking him instead to his bed.

With a clear mind, he sat down on it.

Then, he allowed his body to fall backwards, and for a moment he remembered the rainy night at the park.

He closed his eyes, the impact of the events from six months ago hitting him full on from the recesses of darkness.

Everything happened in rapid succession, starting from the night he discovered the sea shell at his desk. He sat a long while pondering over the clues that didn't fall into place: the numbers on the mirror, the bouquet of funeral flowers, her recent gift and the sunflower seeds that cluttered his desk after he shook it. There is a certain sequence in nature, Leo Dooley. You will find me within it.

Then, it came to him.

The Fibonacci sequence.

Yet it didn't make sense. Although a few of those numbers fell into that sequence, the rest did not.

If you look hard enough.

Obviously, he couldn't check the numbers on the mirror. He had long erased it to withhold what he perceived was a vital piece of information from his family since he feared that night that it could get them into more trouble. Adam had long tossed away the bouquet due to his anger. So, he resorted to the only available piece he had, which was the seashell.

Upon closer inspection, he discovered that it came from Fresno.

He wrote down the numbers in a piece of paper as he remembered them and stared at it. He had long eliminated options like phone numbers, coordinates and IP addresses. Performing any mathematical operations on it just sounded like an asinine idea. Still, he decided to revisit his earlier options to make sure he didn't miss anything.

Forcing the numbers to be coordinates or an IP address was a hopeless and draining task. It led him to different places that did not make sense.

Ten minutes into figuring out whether it was a phone number, an inquiry came to him regarding the numbers: what if they were the placements in the sequence rather than the numbers included in it? He wrote the new numbers down on the paper and arrived at what looked like a phone number that excessed one digit.

One long glance at the seashell from Fresno, and he was off to his desktop to check area codes.

When his suspicions were reaffirmed, he shifted a piece of the sequence and ended up staring at a phone number, complete with the US and city area codes.

One, One, Two. Eleven, Nine. Four, Seven, Five. Ten, Nine.

First, first, second. Eleventh. (Nine.) Fourth, seventh, fifth. Tenth, ninth.

001-559-283-3421.

After cautiously dialing the number into his phone, it rang twice. Someone picked up, but no one spoke, so he initiated. Hello?

Leo Dooley. You figured it out.

There were many things he wanted to say, but he chose instead to be succinct—and rightly so. I did.

I knew you would.

You're the girl from the party. Aren't you?

She didn't say anything, but he could almost see her smiling. Have you figured out who sent the letter?

Yeah.

And you know why he sent it?

Somewhat.

Silence. Then, You have to die tomorrow night, Leo Dooley.

He was inclined to protest against it, but after fully comprehending how the letter had affected and endangered his family, he refused to.

In the mechanical pencil in your desk drawer, there is a white pill stuck where the eraser should be. Tomorrow night, when he meets you and when you find the proper time, bite on it, she said. Wherever you wake up Monday morning, there will be a gray jacket which you should take. Inside it will be a paper that will tell you your options of what you can do next.

He brooded over the information she imparted to him, especially the part of him staging his death. How do I even know if I can trust you?

You don't, she said. But, if you see the bigger picture as I do, you'll understand that this is the best option you have.

He narrowed his eyes then. What do you know?

That you can save them, she said. As far as why, the reason will have to come in time.

You're never going to answer my other questions, are you? Like who you are or why're you doing this?

Do the answers to those really matter at this moment?, she had asked good-naturedly.

He didn't answer.

Do pack a modest amount of clothes and bring it with you wherever you will meet him. Leave it at the closest bus stop. I will keep it for you until you can get to it, she instructed. Please bring your phone and your wallet as well. Good night, Leo Dooley.

A click, and then she was gone.

He stayed up all night, weighing the decision along with several factors that tipped the scale. He didn't want to leave his family, not in the manner that he anticipated he would. He had to break their hearts. That was too cruel, especially to his mother, but it was either he stay with them and continue to put their lives on hold and in danger or he goes, to somewhere far away while his parents and his siblings move on in safety.

In the end, with a heavy heart, he decided to pack and walk away from the life he had known.

The void that this decision left in him lasted through a good part of the following night, the emptiness jabbing harder when he came face to face with his step uncle, who he figured was behind the letter. Save for a few things, he couldn't recall much of the conversation now, but the moment when he drew out the tranquilizer came with clarity. It was that moment that he found to be the right time. When he fired the syringes, he recklessly bit hard on the pill.

A very distinct and sickeningly strong bitter taste dispersed in his mouth. It quickly shot down to his throat, and soon his air passages closed. He violently grasped for air, intensely tried to expel the burning sensation in his mouth, but it was to no avail. For a desperate moment, he regretted listening to a complete stranger. He thought about his family, how he had stupidly abandoned them, but before he could do anything else, darkness swallowed him up.

He found himself in a dark, cold and enclosed space when he woke up the next morning. He was so confused and afraid that he panicked. He tried to stretch his arms out to see how he could escape, but his palms soon connected with cold metal, the same type that was underneath his back. His mind cleared at the moment, which did a lot to restore calmness as well as necessary memory.

A morgue, he concluded. He was lying at one of the units in a morgue.

In lowering his hands down after assessing his situation, he felt a metallic canister near his right hand. Curious, he lifted it up and read what the glow in the dark stickers adhered to it said: SPRAY ME.

Before he could narrow his eyes, sounds of movement echoed in the morgue. He was about to come up with his next move should he get discovered when the door above his head swung open and then a hand drew out the unit he was in.

When the older medical examiner saw that his eyes were opened, he stared in horror. Leo stared back. The weight of the canister in his hand suddenly became heavier, more noticeable. He glanced at it. Then, he smirked. Say cheese, he said. He covered his nose and his mouth with his forearm before pressing down on the nozzle and spraying the stunned medical examiner with whatever was in the can (which Torrance told him later on was just a noxious and very harmless chemical).

He watched as the man staggered back, coughing, and then completely pass out.

He waited a few moments, to make sure that the medical examiner was truly out, before clumsily tumbling out of the unit he was in. He looked around for something to wear. On the coat rack, he found a baggy gray jacket. Below it was a bag of fresh clothes.

After putting on the garments, he searched the gray jacket and found a note, three sheets of paper neatly rolled up, each with a different hotel reservation and confirmation number, and tickets for Greyhound buses that headed to three different states: Oregon, Arizona and Nevada.

Choose whichever place you find best. Leave whichever ones you don't want to go to so I will know.

There's $350 in the box of gloves near the door. Your backpack is beside the dumpster in the back.

Exit through the cafeteria, by the kitchen door. Make sure you remain unrecognizable.

Will call later to establish next meeting place, Leo Dooley.

-Torrance

Wasting no time, he grabbed the hotel reservation and the ticket to Nevada, retrieved the cash, and then sped out through the exit she indicated.

For a whole week that followed, he spent his days in the busy city of Reno, under the feeble but effective disguises of hoodies, caps and shades. Meanwhile, as he was told later, Torrance and a friend who worked in the Mission Creek police department spent that time establishing the elaborate ruse and horrible lie that he was victimized by some heartless crime and was dead.

Leo opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. Six months had passed, and a lot had changed. He promised he would stay away as far as possible from his family and their affairs, and so far he had kept that. The last time he heard about any of them was before spring ended. He heard Chase chose to go to Stanford, while Bree began the transition to her—which was supposed to be their—senior year with an offer of a scholarship to a performing arts institute somewhere in Maryland.

There was also that news item earlier that afternoon, about his stepfather's latest invention.

He had avoided them or any thoughts of them so as not to develop that longing to go back home, so as not to ruin the progress he and Torrance had made, but it proved very difficult at times. There was an instance some weeks ago where an explosion at a mine trapped several workers and visitors underground in the city where he and Torrance stayed, and Adam, Bree and Chase, with his stepfather transporting them in his helicopter, came to rescue them. The ten mile proximity nearly killed him; he badly wanted to drop whatever he was doing and drive Torrance's truck to see them.

Torrance seemed to notice his struggle, so she helped—by offering to take him to an ice cream place at the opposite side of town where, afterwards, they went sight-seeing.

He was thankful to her for always being keen to offer a hand when he needed it and to offer friendship when he wanted it. Both of them seemed to have grown accustomed, too, to a kind of relationship that was similar to the one he and Bree had.

Still, his heart was sick for his home, which, he had been thinking lately, was something he may not ever come back to.

He had yet to fulfill his obligation of saving his family from the person who wished to harm them. When Torrance disclosed to him at the end of their first week of searching the generic schematics of a plan Douglas had been working on for almost a year, he had been alarmed.

Project Deflection involved three subjects, two boys and a girl, and, from what he could gather, a more powerful and inescapable form of the Triton app. Connected to that was a slew of ambitious abilities upgrades that he knew could overload his siblings' chips and could potentially end their lives.

If not, it would render them hazardous to the people they loved.

He knew what that felt like. He didn't want them to experience that.

More terrifying than that was the sole purpose of this project: elimination. Of anything and anyone standing in the way, he was sure, and he knew very well that his parents would be the first casualties it would claim.

So, he would keep on tracking down Douglas for them, even if it meant losing out. He took comfort in the wish that they were living good lives; as well as it could get, at least, after coping from the death of a loved one. He kept in mind that he was doing it for them: it was for his parents, so they could enjoy the rest of their lives together and not waste their time unnecessarily worrying about the danger that could befall their children; it was for Chase, so he could follow his dreams and not feel tethered down by obligation; it was for Bree, so she doesn't have to sacrifice what mattered to her anymore; and it was for Adam, so he could find joy in every good thing under the sun again, which, he supposed in the future, included Ayanna.

As for him, he would stand at a distance, contenting himself with thoughts of so much for them—but, sadly, very little for him.

to be continued.