Disclaimer: I do not own man or any of the characters.

CHAPTER 1

He ate and ate and ate. Neither the biggest bowl of rice nor the largest bucket of chicken wings could deter his stomach from growling for one more serving. And when it seemed that the monster had been finally sated, nary an hour passed afore it took up its keening moan for food once more. Restaurant cooks quailed and restaurant owners rejoiced at his passing. But yet, the boy never grew. He stayed as slim as a supermodel, befuddling all those who met him and his voracious appetite. His seemingly frail frame devoured amounts that even seasoned masters of the plate grew nauseous just thinking about. You would think that all that energy would power him into the next year, but somehow, he was always tired. Where all those wonderful calories went, nobody knew. But at any time of the day, one could find him dozing in some corner, his white locks hiding his face. The people who saw him thus tiptoed away very quietly, for his angelic little face just brought out the mother in everybody.
He ate exceeding well and in the time he was not asleep, he worked well. But always hanging over his head, or neck rather, like a scythe, was the fact that he would not live long. At least not as long as the others would. But as far as everybody knew, the boy never let it get to him. Allen was diabetic.

Candy was all she had known since she was a baby. She did not know how milk tasted all by its lonesome because all she had given had been chocolate milk. She had her toast with strawberry flavoured butter. At any given time of the day she could be found with a lolly in her mouth, rolling from side to side, as her petite little head thought up more and more candy. She spent half her waking hours in brushing her teeth and the other half in devouring prodigious amounts of candy. Bestowed with a genetic tolerance for candy by dint of coming from a long line of candy makers, she licked, sucked, chewed and swallowed gigantic amounts of glucose that would have made any normal person keel over and die of a motley group of metabolic disorders.

Given her lineage, one would expect her to push candy to everyone she met with all the vigor of a drug peddler whose next fix depends on it, but rather, she was extraordinarily possessive when it came to her candy. She left all the candy peddling business to her Father, the proud father of the biggest candy store in the city and the biggest candy consumer in the city. She once described seeing candy pass out of her hands as akin to having a part of her soul ripped off. Candy was Road. Road was Candy. Incidentally, Road was also Road Camelot, scion of the Camelot Candy Corporation.

It was a fine Halloween night and Road was out trick-or-treating dressed as a witch, her third costume of the night. Her previous two rounds had been made as a giant bunny and as a pink bandaged mummy. This year's haul had been good, she thought, as she made her way to a hither to unvisited house. Every one of her trick-or-treat runs had yielded sweet results, which were currently stuffed in many pouches beneath her witch's robe, making her seem like a plump little witch indeed. 16 year olds normally did not trick-or-treat with the fervor she did, or if they did, they were not as successful as Road. She was a short little thing with an elfin face which made people mistake her for being younger than she really was. Not that the little girl had any complaints about her height. As long as it got her candy, it was just fine.

The house, whose door to which she was currently walking up to, had been missed because it had been unoccupied till the month before. As a result, it had not crossed her mind on her first two runs. But just as she was passing it on her third, she noticed a solitary light on a window and it came to her mind that her mother said something about somebody moving in recently. "More the houses, more the candy" being her solemn motto, she made her way to this dwelling. It was an unremarkable little place, a little bit on the bleak side, with a few scraggly bushes growing on the front lawn. But all this barely perturbed Road as she made her way to the front door, her cloak struggling to sway with the wind, weighed down as it was with candy. Once she had gained the door, she stopped, took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

***
Trying to get into the Halloween mood had not done Allen much good. The diabetic candy at the drug store had been too much for his starved wallet and he had settled on some nice pumpkin seeds ('Baked and salted, Halloween limited edition pumpkin seeds' it had said) instead. He had considered buying a turnip to carve into a jack o' lantern, for he was partial towards them, but found pumpkins more affordable. And besides, there was that pumpkin carving contest in the neighborhood, offering a grand prize of a hundred bucks, which would come in handy in case he couldn't find any work the next week. Being a pianist for hire hadn't turned out to be a great career option for the white haired lad.

Sitting in his room beneath the single spluttering lamp, he laid the tip of his carving knife to the juicy pumpkin he had hollowed out. Juicy, attested to by the pumpkin juice residing in his rumbling belly. When times were good, perhaps the monster could be sated, but oft times, Allen had learned to go on, teetering on the edge of hypoglycemia. Such was now,the effects of nothing but jug of pumpkin juice and some pumpkin flesh for the whole day starting to wear off, yet, his hand held steady despite the glucose, or lack thereof in his bloodstream. He fought back the writhing of his stomach, the lightness in his head, as he brought to focus the image of Son Goku hidden within the pumpkin before him. The flames that would burn inside would make a super saiyan of what he would carve. The judge for the morrow's competition was a hard core fan of DBZ, albeit, in secret. Or so Allen had gleaned from the kids next door by dint of a few cents. Small price to pay for the rewards to be reaped.

Music is an art. That being said, a musician is in essence an artist. Whether this ran true in Allen or not shall be left a matter of debate, but what is undeniable is poverty makes artists of us all. Allen fell to his art with a passion unexceeded by Michaelangelo. Or he almost did. At the very second that his knife would have started to birth a Goku-o-lantern, the door bell which did not work nearly as often as Allen would have liked birthed a jittering jingle of compressions and rarefactions. Allen gave a start, his knife gave more than that and the pumpkin gave like...well,a pumpkin. It split down the middle with an equality which would have impressed Martin Luther King.

Allen stared, dismayed, at the wreckage wrought by the bell. His hopes chased out by despair, he slumped in his chair in a sudden show of weakness. Another pumpkin was an impossibility if he needed to pay his rent and keep his sorry backside from being kicked out onto the curb. The bell, though, is an impartial soul which acknowledges not the act of wallowing in despair and as such, it rang its ominous little chime once more. Desperately trying to seize an anger which he never could possess and failing miserably, Allen rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Cursing his luck, he made his wobbly way to the front door, his head throbbing uncomfortably. His palms sweating, he grasped the doorknob in a slippery grip and turned. Thenceforth, our starved diabetic fell headfirst out the door and then all was darkness.

***
Road waited with the patience that is born of long experience. For two seconds. Then she rang the doorbell again. This time, she heard somebody making their way to the door. The doorknob turned and a white headed bundle fell right on top of her, squashing the plump witch, candy and all. Road squeaked in indignance and shoved it off her with the strength that desperation lends to a mother protecting her cubs.

Too late, Road discovered as she reached inside her cloak and brought out handfuls of candy. Warmed by the heat of her body and pressed by the weight of whatever had fallen on her, they were a squashed looking bunch indeed. Broken lollies, crushed lemon drops, ruptured M & Ms. Oh, the tragedy. Her eyes screaming vengeance, she turned to look at whatever had clobbered her so. And a half formed snarl died in her throat.

An angel, she thought at first. But on a second glance, it proved to be a boy, age indeterminate, possibly out cold. On closer examination, a none too healthy boy, for his face looked rather pale. Millenia of maternity reared its head in Road's breast and warred for dominance with an ugly desire to do unspeakable things to this fiend who had perpetrated certain destruction on her candy. Perhaps the Gods looked down favorably on Allen on that Halloween night, for his hand came up to clutch his head, his body curled in on itself and a pitiable moan escaped his lips. Maternity grabbed the sight and in her capable hands she made it a weapon. A weapon to strike down her opponent, screaming into whatever pits of Road's mind it had crawled out from.

Road sighed, and shoving her candy back into their hiding places, she grabbed the boy under his arms and heaved. She huffed and puffed as she dragged him back into his own house. Once she had deposited the heap within its own lair, she drew in a deep breath and sent out a "Hulloooo! Anybody there?" which echoed around through the empty rooms and hulloed right back at her. She waited a moment in vain and when nobody came to her summons, she turned to examine the fallen creature.

It was a boy, no doubt. A tad bit on the effeminate side, but a boy nonetheless. The object of her scrutiny moaned once more and it occurred to her that to splash some water on his face before further inspection would be a good idea. She hurried to what appeared to pass for a kitchen in this house and grabbing a lone jug, she filled it with water from the sink. As she did, she noticed a rather dark stain on the wooden floor and then a dim memory came back to her, something her uncle said. But she pushed it away for now and walked back to the fallen lad.

He was still moaning when she vindictively swung the jug at him and let him have it. The water, that is. It hit him full in the face with a splash, splattering her a little in the process. The boy jerked and came to in a fit of sputters and coughs, much like a rusty old engine. Then, when he had recovered enough to look around, his eyes came to rest on Road. There was a momentary silence, in which his eyes widened, and then, like a hunted mouse, he backpedaled, or more accurately, back crawled to a corner and screamed "Don't eat me!"

***
Allen's head throbbed as he gaped in horror at the plump little witch. He couldn't remember where he was, nor what day it was. But what he was fairly sure of, was he was going to be eaten. Flayed, salted and roasted over a slow fire like those two little kids who got caught by the witch in the gingerbread house, like in story his Guardian Cross' story told him. Eaten with an apple stuffed in his mouth. Eaten like a...Eaten...Eaten...the word aroused something in him and his stomach growled painfully.

Eaten...Eaten...he hadn't eaten in quite a while. Pumpkin juice was hardly sustenance for a whole day for someone like him. Because he was diabetic. But that was all he had, because he was broke. And he wanted to carve a pumpkin. To earn some money at the Halloween… "Oh!" he said as he looked anew at the witch. "Oh!" she most certainly did not say, as she threw the remnants of a jug of water at him with an indignant "You ain't edible!" It splashed him once more and the cold water cleared away whatever fog had clouded his mind.

***
Now that she had splashed the ungrateful wretch twice, he was thoroughly soaked. But a cold wind blew in through the open front door, and as the boy shivered, she couldn't help feeling a tiny bit sorry for him. Then, he tried to get up, but wobbled and would have fell over and cracked himself on the noggin, had she not moved to catch him. "I'm sorry!" he said "I'm so sorry!" his big eyes looking up at her as if they were about to burst into tears. And she felt a whole lot sorry herself.

"It's okay", she said, as she dragged him to the couch, the only piece of furniture in the living room aside from a cuckoo clock ,which seemed like it were about to keel over and die, on the far wall, and plopped him up on it. "I'm..." he began once more, before his hand went up to clutch his head, an involuntary groan escaping him. His hand fumbled in his pocket and came out with a piece of candy, shaking like a leaf. At the exact moment, a cold breeze chose to once more blow through the open door which she had neglected to close and his hand went from shaking to flapping and the candy flew, hit the wall and dropped into a dustbin at the corner of the room. "No" he moaned, involuntarily reaching out.

"Easy, easy" she said, pushing him back. She didn't think she could handle any more hauling. "Need...something..." he shuddered out through shivering lips, his eyes closed, right palm pressed to his forehead. Road looked towards the dustbin, then back at the boy and set her mouth. She took off her cloak revealing a plain purple dress with full sleeves underneath. Laying the cloak out on the floor, she reached into one of the several pouches sewn onto its inside and drew out some candy. "Say 'Ahhh...'" she crooned and began feeding him some, little by little. It broke her heart to see her candy disappear like this, but all the same, for some reason, it tugged at her heartstrings even more to see the boy in such a state.

After she had exhausted a quarter of her supply, she stopped and laid him down on the couch. As she did, a fresh gust of wind blew through the still neglected door. It was almost as if it was begging to be closed. And frankly it was getting on Road's nerves. After a quick look at the boy to make sure he wasn't going to roll over and die, she went to the door and finally closed it. Coming back, she found him curled into a ball, his steady rhythmic breathing advertising that he had fallen asleep. Or passed out. Who knew? She gently shook him, but to no avail.

Road's eye fell on the empty jug by the wall and she briefly considered splashing him again, but she bravely resisted and instead turned her thoughts to drier pastures. As he unconsciously shivered once more, it occurred to her that his clothes were soaked through and through, courtesy of yours truly. If she left him like this, she'd probably find him dead in the morning of hypothermia. Or if he was lucky, down with a bad case of pneumonia. And seeing as there seemed to be nobody to take care of him and seeing that he seemed to be so pathetically inept at taking care of his health, he'd probably die anyway. But she couldn't just strip random strangers down to their underwear in their homes, could she? And the cuckoo clock struck ten and cuckoo-ed.

"Hell fire and damnation!" she cursed. Well, she had no choice. "It's a matter of life and death" she kept saying to herself, as she reached over and first ,swept his hair back from his forehead, she laid the back of her palm to it to see if he were running a fever already. And just stood there looking at him.

His face had mostly been obscured by his curiously coloured white hair, wet and plastered to his skin. What she had thought to be just a clump of hair, differently coloured from the rest in the mess, proved to be a thin, long scar beginning in a star shaped patch and running from above the middle of his left eyebrow, through it, missing his eyelids, jagging a bit laterally below the lower one and finally ending in a wicked line which went to just above his jawline. Unconsciously, her finger traced the line of the scar and his face twitched and caught her off guard. She quickly withdrew her hand, feeling flustered.

She tore her eyes away from his scar, wondering how he had gotten it, and set to work on his shirt. Funny that he should be wearing a full sleeved, button up shirt indoors. He even had the cuffs buttoned up and two white gloves on like a proper little gent. 'Perhaps he had been planning to go out somewhere' she thought, as she started to undo the buttons, then stopped and moved to take off his gloves first. She pulled off his right one and then as she pulled off the left, she took an involuntary step back and dropped the glove.

"What..." she began and trailed off. Slowly, she undid his shirt and with a little bit of maneuvering, she got it off him with him still sleeping like a fairy tale princess. "Oh my..." Words had temporarily deserted her as she took in the ruin that was his left hand. His pale skin ran smooth over the slim lines of his body and just an inch or so below his left shoulder, on his arm, it changed abruptly. Like the boy whose carnival costume had been sewn from many coloured pieces of cloth, the skin from thereon seemed to be a patch work of several patches of variously coloured skin; some patches seemed various shades of red, others mottled, and in between, there were patches and criss cross lines of darkened scars.

"Oh!" she exclaimed once more, a lump rising in her throat, as the boy unconsciously drew his arms to his chest in a primal move of preservation. His left arm, she noted, moved stiffly and less than his other arm. Like this he seemed so vulnerable, it made her want to hug him and whisper to him that it would be alright. But she snapped out of it and quickly worked him out of his pants. To her eternal relief he had boxers on underneath. She searched all over the house for something to cover him up with, but couldn't find a blanket. In fact, she couldn't find any furniture except for an old fridge in the kitchen and a desk with a lamp, a split pumpkin and a chair in the room next to the hall. This room lead to a smaller one which held a grand old piano. Other than that, it seemed as plain as a new born babe's heart.

She opened the kitchen's back door which lead to a little patch of land a couple of metres wide. It had a clothesline which held a set of clothes similar to what she had gotten him out of, and finally, a blanket, albeit dripping wet. It seemed only recently washed. Sighing, she closed the door and went back to the living room. As she scratched her head, her eyes fell on her discarded cloak. Well, it was that or body heat, and frankly, it didn't seem like too tough a decision.

She grabbed it and draped it over him, making sure to tuck him in real tight. Then she headed over to his desk and rummaging in one of the drawers, she got hold of a piece of paper and a pen, on which she wrote in a rather beautiful hand, "Return cloak to the Ark, Millennium Avenue. P.S. It has a giant lolly over the gate." This, she placed on the desk and she put one of the halves of the pumpkin on its corner as a paperweight. Then, she took his drenched clothes, draped it on the chair and just as she was about to leave, she stood in the doorway and cast a last glance at the strange, scarred, sleeping boy on the couch, curled up beneath her cloak with all it's candy. "Trick or Treat" she whispered and closed the door behind her.

A/N : The representation of the disease in this story is fictitious and not meant to hurt anybody. The author advises calling for help if you find somebody unconscious, not feeding them candy and stripping them naked. However cute they may be.

P.S. Read and review. Hopefully I'll keep at this fic.