AU. If there is will, there is way. And if there is a Will, then maybe there is a way out of Allen's latest financial predicament. Maybe.

Edited: August 27th 2017

-.-.-.-

The Deliverer

-.-.-.-

If there is will, there is way. And, if there was a Will, then perhaps there was a way out of Allen's latest financial predicament.

People were not supposed to inherit other people's debts and for good reasons at that. However, as things were, loan sharks and their people tended to work around and outside the boundaries of the law rather than within them. Besides, with his own track record, Allen figured that the law would hardly do him any favours either.

Allen Walker, aged sixteen, was sick and tired of getting screwed over. Initially, the news that his guardian, Cross Marian, had finally bitten the dust had come as something of a relief. Once dead, the man could hardly rake up any heftier debts after all, because they were hefty enough as it was.

"Do I really need two kidneys?"

He uttered the question to the largely stripped apartment one late Monday morning in the early autumn. There was after all a quite staggering sum that he would need to have at his disposal by the end of the month; Cross did owe a whole lot of people money and after adding it all up, Allen had finally realised just how screwed he was.

Dropping out of school had been an easy choice; it liberated few funds but a whole lot of time. And time was running out anyway, so he might as well make it count while he still had Internet access.

Legally, a kidney sold for somewhere around 1,000-2,500 pounds. Illegally, it could technically sell for a much higher sum, like 100,000 or something. And, without a middleman taking most of it, that should be able to cover most of the collected debt but not all of it. And Allen did want to repay it all, because if he did not, then there was a definite risk of them harvesting his organs for themselves in order to make up for their losses.

So, as things were now, one kidney would have to go. And, if push came to shove, perhaps a piece of his liver as well; the liver was regenerative, but he kept it as a last resort, having heard that the recovery period was nothing short of excruciating. Selling his corneas did not sound very appealing either because he still needed them, much like he still needed a whole lot of his other organs. As for blood, he had plenty of it, but the money he would get for it was nowhere near the amount that he needed.

Selling his organs aside, there were only really three viable options: Selling himself, turning himself in to the proper authorities or waging it all on gambling. Out of the three, Allen definitely favoured the third alternative, because with the other two, who really‒?

A sharp rap on the door interrupted his musings, and Allen turned his head to glance towards it. By now, he had already grown too jaded to flinch, and he watched the door not with tense apprehension but rather with grim exasperation, even anticipation. When someone began fiddling with the mail slot, Allen merely turned around fully in his seat and narrowed his eyes at the spectacle.

The swivel chair gave the slightest creak, and apparently, it was enough. "Hello, Mr. Walker? Mr. Allen Walker, are you in there?"

They were unusually polite, but Allen wasn't falling for that. After all, trust didn't come easily and opening the door to strangers these days was decidedly dangerous; it had always been dangerous, but now it was more dangerous than ever before.

"There is a delivery for you, so if you'd please‒?"

Hoh? A delivery? A package? Allen supposed it could be a mail bomb if it wasn't a new slew of debts people expected him to pay. Or perhaps the package was just a ruse in hopes of luring him closer to the door? Perhaps they stood there on the other side of it, armed with a semi-automatic and whatnot?

On second thought, they wouldn't shoot him, not immediately at any rate. After all, if they intended to salvage his organs, then they'd have to‒

Allen contemplated his options, making sure he still had his switchblade on him. Then, pulling out the nearest drawer, he retrieved a Walther PPK and checked for ammunition. It was better to be armed than sorry, but he passed on the silencer; if push really came to shove, then it would probably just get in the way.

The knocking resumed.

Allen got into position. Some would have called it overreacting. Allen would have called it learning from experience. After all, this was by no means the first time that someone had knocked on the door, trying and at one point in time succeeding in luring him out of hiding.

Allen had already managed to get himself abducted once; a decidedly unpleasant experience. So, if possible, then he would rather avoid a repeat of such events. Besides, these days, it wasn't like there was anyone who could be bothered to come and rescue him now, was there? Not that Cross had done much the last time around; most of it had been Allen's own doing, but at least he'd been there as a kind of makeshift insurance, just in case.

This time around, there was no insurance; no safety net whatsoever. Allen only had himself to depend on, and that was fine. It wasn't like Cross had been much to depend on either, so it was simply the matter of getting used to the changes to his living situation.

Skipping town and even the country was pretty high on his list of priorities, but at the same time, Allen was sick and tired of running away. "Say."

The knocking ceased.

"Why are you looking for Allen Walker?"

There was a brief pause; a beat of silence. "Important delivery."

Gun still in hand, Allen pondered the matter. "From whom?"

"Bookman & Junior."

The name sounded vaguely familiar. Still‒ "If this is about getting money back from Cross‒"

-.-.-.-

It wasn't a package; not a bomb either for that matter. It was a thick envelope, and upon it, there was his name written in elegant cursive.

Allen just looked at it; he didn't touch it or anything, and then he looked at the highly peculiar deliveryman who had brought it along. "It would've fit in the mail slot."

"It would've," the redhead readily agreed, in the middle of composing a text to someone. "But the instructions were to deliver it in person."

It looked old. "Who's it from?"

It really couldn't be Cross; Allen knew that man's many hands by heart. This was not one of them.

"Who knows?" Lavi Bookman shrugged a bit helplessly. "I was only told to deliver."

Only told to deliver, huh? Allen sliced open the envelope, intent on getting things over with. "So, why are you still here then?"

There was no response other than a slight widening of the other's grin. Despite finding it immensely unnerving, Allen averted his eyes, pulling out and unfolding the letter.

What met his eye was somewhat surprising. Instead of the expected letters, there were symbols; a code of some sort. However, unlike the earlier hand, these seemed remarkably familiar to him and stirred up some very unwelcome memories. Allen resolutely resisted the instinctual reaction; to get the letter away from him before he was overwhelmed by a surge of unpleasant remembrance. Instead, Allen readily skipped right along to the end, decoding only the part of the sender.

It made no sense. He reread it twice, and it still made no sense. "Campbell?"

"As expected."

The voice was behind him now, accompanied by the cocking of a gun; small firearm, going by the sound of it. Allen turned slowly, confirming that the delivery guy had indeed pulled a gun on him. Maybe he ought to put his hands up or something? Or run? Or attack? Or even move?

Instead, he stood his ground, waiting. The other seemed to favour a similar strategy though, the gun steadily trained on him. "So," Allen said at last, considering the merits of going for it, consequences be damned. "Bookman & Junior. Debt collectors? Bounty hunters?"

The trademark grin returned, the aim unwavering. "Executors."

The shot rang out, but there was something strange about it, much like the impact. Allen's hand immediately flew to his shoulder, expecting blood; expecting something. Moments thereafter, he found himself staring at some sort of dart. Pulling it out was instinctual and quick, but obviously not quick enough.

The redheaded bastard caught him when he faltered, keeping him upright even as his knees buckled beneath him.

-.-.-.-

It was the slamming of a car door that woke him up initially, but he had been just about to dismiss it all as a dream when there was the sound of another opening, along with a definite changes to air temperature and sounds; the sound of traffic among them.

"Oh good, you're awake."

Awake yes, but for now much too groggy to muster the energy to glare. "You shot me," Allen wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, he remained as he had awoken, lying on his back and staring at the car's grey interior, one hand resting on his stomach and the other hanging limply over the edge of the seat. Neither his hands nor feet were bound, which was curious, but then again, in his current state, the need for such was debatable.

"Sorry man," the redheaded bastard offered up, not looking sorry in the least. "But the letter isn't the only thing I've been told to deliver."

Go figure. Allen could've cursed him.

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