Dillon was mad. No- he was beyond furious. He was enraged. He would kill the lowlife that dared call himself his father for driving them out of their home for the millionth time.

He walked back through the empty streets unthinking. He knew the way instinctively. He clenched his fist against the red haze of anger that was brewing inside him, growing larger and larger; towering over his consciousness; threatening to drown him in pure unadulterated hate.

Control, he thought. It was all about control. He could not afford to lose what little he had. He had fought tooth and nail for little inches of control; of power. He would not let that pathetic excuse for a human being take away what little he had acquired of it.

By the time he reached the door of the worn down house that was his lodging, he had loosened up enough to think straight. He remembered Matthew's words and though he doubted he would regret killing his father, it would most probably raise unwanted attention to him.

So the coward lives, Dillon thought maliciously, for now.

He walked through the dusty corridor, the annoying squeaking of the rotten floor boards irritating him further, to the living room where he would most probably find the drunk fool drooling all over himself in his alcohol induced slumber.

Dillon was right.

There lay the source of all his strife, stretched out on the shabby sofa of the simple room, saliva dripping out of his open mouth. Small, intermittent snores erupted from his throat.

Dillon sneered, disgusted. Even in the dark he could see the toll of years of substance abuse on the man's face. His face was wrinkled and thin, his skin deathly pale and spotted with signs of liver failure.

Dillon remembered, long ago, he used to look up to this man. He used to find him strong and capable; someone he would be proud to call a father. That was when his mother was still with them.

Dillon had watched, with naive, innocent eyes, as his father slowly grew more and more distant, more and more addicted to his booze, and his mother became more and more desperate for affection. He'd watched helplessly as his life came crashing down around his ears.

It was Dillon who had first found out of his mother's adultery. He did not understand then. But how could he? He was a mere child of eight. It made no sense to him why his mother was screaming out the stable hand's name from her bedroom. He'd thought she was getting hurt. He'd called his father.

What a mistake that had been. The fights started. Then the accusations. Then the threats. His mother left the week after, never once looking back. Not even saying goodbye to the children she never seemed to want. His sister was devastated.

That was eight years ago. Dillon was helpless then. Helpless to stop the destruction. He was not helpless now.

He caused destruction now. He loved it.

He was grateful sometimes; grateful that he had met Lathenia when he ran out, crying for his lost family. His mistress had brought him a great many comforts; taught him to take what he wanted. Taught him to control the world around him.

Dillon looked back to the sleeping lump. It would be all too easy to kill him. To end the constant fear his sister had to live in. Dillon could protect himself; it was Liana who had to suffer.

Dillon wouldn't even need a weapon. He could wrap his large, powerful hands around his neck and squeeze. Not to choke. Just snap his neck in two.

It was tempting.

Dillon resisted. It was not worth his time. He thought of the one place where he could take out all of his frustration without reserve.

Dillon took one look around the small house, righting the bed that the drunkard had upturned and sweeping away the glass from a broken mirror, making sure nothing else was damaged before using his wings and transporting himself to the dark cavernous lair that was his training room.

He walked briskly through the dim grey corridors till he found the main chamber. It was large and round and in the center was the sphere Lathenia used to tamper with the past, lieng innocently on a plane wooden table.

Dillon waited a few moments before his mistress appeared. She always seemed to sense when her subjects approached from the icy palace that was her home.

Dillon bowed low. "Mistress," he greeted.

"Bastian," Her high, commanding voice rang out, infused with authority and power, almost like it was made to intimidate, "I have a mission for you." Lathenia wasted no time in greeting, getting straight to the point.

Dillon's lips curled upward in a smirk; he was ready for action. "I am at your command my Lady."

Lathenia smiled at this. Bastian was one of her most grateful subjects; always willing to please. He was consequently one of her favourites; she felt she could trust him on this mission.

"May I ask what time I will be traveling to you Highness?" Dillon - Bastian in this realm - asked.

Lathenia smiled sadistically at this. "You're not travelling anywhere. My mission for you is in this time line. There is an important person I would like you to collect."

At this, Dillon's smile faded and the stirrings of apprehension gripped his heart. He did not like it. But again, his powerless to stop it; he could not deny the Goddess of Chaos.

Matthew's words came back to him.

Don't do something you might regret.

Right now, Dillon had no choice.

I know you guys are mad at me - twenty some hits and only one review. So this is an apology for taking so long.

Enjoy. The next chapter will hopefully be up soon too.