Last edit made on: September 20th 2013.

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An Epilogue, of Sorts

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Normalcy – normalcy was greatly overrated.

Few sought to be average. Some were average, seeking to be extraordinary. And as for the extraordinary, they were divided, either seeking to remain above the masses or seeking to fit the norm.

He himself on the other hand – while certainly extraordinary in his own right – had sought neither, holding no desire to stand above others or to try to fit into an established norm that he did not fit and probably would never fit.

Truly…

He sighed, hoisting his backpack further up onto his shoulder before pressing a button, waiting for the bus to come to a stop. Getting up from his seat, he made his way to the doors and left through them, descending the few necessary steps. Soon, his feet impacted on the pavement and the doors moved to close behind him. Within the time it took to take three steps away from the bus stop, the bus had already moved on, disappearing down the lane and leaving him behind.

Again, Allen's steps came to a pause, and he lifted his gaze, his tired eyes levelling on the cityscape, mapping out the familiar surroundings as he continued walking, taking a shortcut through a nearby park before continuing down a street, heading left, straight and then right before he finally stood outside of the apartment complex that had been his home at one point – his only home as far as he himself was concerned – even though it seemed like such a long time ago.

It hasn't changed. A bleak smile graced his features. It's still the same.

In truth, there was really no reason for him to come back to his place; his ties to it had already been severed, several times over.

His stuff was still back at Tyki's old apartment, boxed up and ready to be moved whenever and wherever within hours of him making a call and giving the word.

However, in order for him to do so, he needed a place to go; there was none, and that was – in essence – the problem, especially now that he had burned his bridges through setting fire to the Earl's mansion only a few hours prior, having made sure that it was prepped to burn for a very – very – long time – if not to the ground. He had even set a timer before leaving the premises, heading to a public restroom to clean his hands and face, even going to the extent of rinsing his hair, ridding it of its temporary reddish colour before once again hiding it beneath a black beanie.

Once that had over with, he had headed to a convenience store, securing provisions before heading back out, enlisting the help of surrounding energies and spirits to remain undetected as he made his way to an apartment building, entering it with ease after messing around a bit with the security system before making his way to the building's elevator. He had made his way to its rooftop armed with a pair of binoculars, watching the whole spectacle unfold from there, far away from the scene.

He had set fire to the Earl's mansion – the location of so many memories, both good and ill – and he had watched as fire-fighters arrived to quell them whilst others called for reinforcements. He hadn't been overly worried though, knowing well that there was little they could do; he had been very thorough in his preparations, ensuring that the fire would continue to burn until the aforementioned mansion and all that lay within it was nothing but a smoking ruin filled with ashes, courtesy of his own variety of Greek fire.

Luckily, the fire-fighters had eventually realised not only the scale but also the nature of Allen's preparations and had wisely withdrawn, fighting the fire at a safe distance from which they could only wait for it to finish burning, making sure the fire did not spread to surrounding trees and from there on to the neighbourhood, even though the risk of it spreading that far had been a minor one.

The fire in the mansion was still ongoing, even though the local authorities claimed to have it under control. To Allen, it did seem to be under control, even though it still left a fair deal of their part of London shrouded in smoke of varying density – thicker in some places and thinner in some, dependent on the direction of the wind, which wasn't much to speak of as a factor seeing that there was hardly any – along with a thick smell of it that stuck to the clothes and the skin of those who ventured outside, despite recommendations to stay indoors received from local authorities.

As such – with most still going about just the same as they normally did – public transportation was still working the way it should, even though the passengers were somewhat fewer compared to during a regular day and especially so during the early morning hours that Allen had stepped onto the bus, riding to a familiar stop before stepping off it.

His casual appearance – wearing a beanie, dressed in a hooded long-sleeved sweater, a pair of worn jeans and a pair of sneakers, and tugging along a backpack – by no means set him apart from other people largely unconcerned with fashion trends. The only thing that may have stood out a tad was his gloves, and the latter could easily pass as something which had been added for the sake of function. Raging fire off in the distance aside, it was still a bit chilly outside, and thus, gloves could very well be excused. Then again, the latter was a minor issue, seeing that his strange hair colour aside – which could also technically speaking be interpreted as either albinism or as a fashion statement – the tired Londoners laying their eyes on him briefly hardly saw anything other than what they would expect to see, namely a teenager – possibly a deviant with a questionable taste with strangely-coloured hair and an either tattooed or scarred face – headed back from some nightly adventure completely unrelated to the great fire.

With any luck – helped along all the measures that Allen had put into place beforehand – then the Earl's mansion would continue burning until it was but a blackened ruin. The building – and to some extent part of the grounds as well, steeped in darkness as they were – needed to burn in order to be purified, as was the less known practice and by all means the easiest route when dealing with extreme cases of haunting and demonic infestations.

Absentmindedly – whilst making his way up the stairs to his apartment – he wondered whether or not he should perform some sort of ritual in Tyki's apartment as well, but he shrugged it off, reasoning that the latter hadn't messed around with the spirit world – carelessly opening portals and whatnot – but had rather done the complete opposite; keeping it at bay, caring little for it as long as he was able to enjoy the benefits of it.

He made it to the top of the stairs, reaching his intended floor and soon enough, he entered Tyki's old apartment, surveying the boxes stacked up against one of the walls with a perceived sense of forlornness as he dropped his backpack to the floor and pulled the door back shut behind him, locking it by habit before moving along to inspect the boxes where they lay accompanied by a roll of tape, waiting to be sealed up and carried off to God knows where.

He looked at them in silence, frowning mildly. "I ought to burn these," he mumbled out loud, already reliving part of his life from having laid eyes on the contents of the aforementioned boxes.

"You are the Devil's child…"

Momentarily, he was back in a familiar playground, surrounded from all sides by children armed with rocks.

"You shouldn't have been in this world to begin with."

Sticks and stones, he mentally recited. Sticks and stones may break my bones… but…

"Go back to where you came from!"

"Where is that?" he murmured, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to shake the feeling.

Back then, he had lashed out, angered at his own treatment at their hands and in their midst. First, there had been sadness, followed by anger, followed by more sadness, followed by nothing.

Sticks and stones may break my bones… but…

Nowadays, he was neither saddened nor angered by them, just wistful. His life had been characterised by such things – sad things; horrible things; frustrating things – and he needed no more of them. He had already had his share; he needed no more of them.

Words may never hurt me…

He had made it through – not unscathed, but definitely alive and kicking and with fresh blood on his hands. He had made it through, getting himself cut up and cursed in the process, occasionally even several times over.

If they had been given the opportunity to curse him, they most likely would have; he had no doubts about that, and hadn't given them the chance to do so, even though he could not escape the notion that they would eventually come back to haunt him in one shape or the other. As such, he knew better than to remain where he was, especially now that he had the means as well as the opportunities to do so.

Ever again…

Never again…

He was no longer bound by the past – by either of them for that matter. Neah's room – which became his cell – no longer stood empty. Then again, he could only speculate on whether it still stood at all of if it – along with a lesser or greater portion of the house – had already succumbed fully to the flames and crumbled.

His mission had – at least for the moment – ended, leaving the vast majority of demonic entities of the Noah clan purged from the world of the living – to the extent of his knowledge at any rate. With that in mind, he should have felt relieved.

Instead, he felt increasingly restless and found himself more than eager to leave everything and everyone behind and to start off somewhere entirely new and unfamiliar, preferably somewhere far – far, far – away from any cults, sects or congregations that could possibly turn up to pester him.

Then again, if people did not turn up, spirits no doubt would, lured in by his presence and flocking to him even now that his body, mind and soul had been irreversibly stained in darkness. Some – this mainly appealed to human spirits – stayed clear of him because of that, whilst the pull on others increased, like stars to a black hole, waiting to be swallowed up by it. He sent them on their way before that though, seeing to the fact that he already had at least one shadow too many stalking him.

Now, once again devoid of a proper anchor to keep him after all that had taken place, he had taken to drifting for a while before he once again ended up back in London, pulled there by unseen and unremarkable attachments that he seared off by means of fire and business, seeing that he had already cancelled his own apartment and would leave it within the week, a week during which he still needed to figure out where to head next. But where?

Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out his – formerly Tyki's – phone, contemplating his options.

As for the fate of the latter, Tyki was – if one allowed for such a comparison – somewhat like a cockroach; with or without an attempt at extermination, the guy would come bouncing back in virtually no time at all, with or without an inner demon in a tow now that the rest of those having taken part in the whole affair had been temporarily relieved of theirs, mostly courtesy of the Holy Water Tyki had mixed into the goblet as it had gone around, wisely refraining from taking a sip out of it himself.

Admittedly, as had been proven through their evidently reckless experiment, it had taken a while for it to have any greater effect, likely because the Holy Water had been diluted to such an extent. Then again, as everyone's attention had been firmly directed towards him, the situation had effectively blindsided the lot to Tyki's betrayal until the tables had already started turning.

Then again, there was his own partial blackout and subsequent memory loss to deal with as well. This hardly worried him all that much though, as people could do extraordinary things if the situation called for it, and the situation had most definitely called for extraordinary measures.

After all, the recording proved that he – a tad concussed or not – had risen to the occasion and performed his part before going down for the count for real. However, the fact that he could still – several days later – only recall a mere fraction of the events that had taken place. This was evidently a cause of concern to him, albeit a slighter one as he had far more pressing matters than those events to worry about at the moment, which in turn led him to his latest predicament, namely the where to head next and the how to get there.

As for the temporal aspect of the matter – the when – he already had his answer; he needed out, preferably imminently, before the world and its never-ending stream of troubles caught up with him yet again.

He looked at the phone – once Tyki's, now his – and reread the number displayed there.

To be completely honest, it was a number he would rather not call if he could avoid it. Then again, if he wished to leave and not be forced to haggle with paperwork and authorities, then he had little choice in the matter. Then again…

With a sigh, he leant his back against the wall and slid down to the floor into a seated position with the phone still in his hands. "I need a way out," he finally texted, pressing send. He had barely even put his phone away before it buzzed, and he read the message immediately.

"Where are you?" it read.

"London," he texted.

"Address?"

He paused momentarily before giving the address, and as no immediate response followed, he was once again about to put his phone away when it suddenly buzzed anew.

"Pack light," it read. "Two hours."

"Two hours," Allen repeated to himself, breathing a sigh of both relief and of fatigue. "Two hours."

He already carried most of his life – the important bits of it anyway – around in his backpack, so what more could he possibly add to it if he also brought a satchel with his laptop along?

"Two hours," he finished, rising to his feet to set about with his final preparations. "Two-…"

He snapped his head up, eyes widening briefly and then narrowing. Then, without much further ado, he headed for the door, leaning his head against it without unlocking it, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm.

"I was just wondering when you were going to turn up, Cross."

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Several minutes later found him alone in the apartment, having slid down the wall next to the door into a seated position, staring at a thick envelope clutched in his hands; both at the eerily familiar handwriting and at the name it spelled out, which was all too familiar to him. The envelope was still sealed; he had yet to open it.

If not for the presence of the aforementioned envelope, then he would no doubt have taken the opportunity to dismiss Cross' appearance as a product of his sleep-deprived mind. In a way, he actually wished that it had been just that, as he found himself seated on the floor, partially relieved and partially disappointed as to how brief and seemingly painless such a dreaded meeting had proven, especially so when he had spent so much time and gone to such ridiculous lengths to postpone it.

It was almost as if he had come face to face with the bogeyman, only to realise that he had spent all this time being scared of his own shadow. Quite ridiculous actually, now that he actually considered it. Then again, after all that he had come to face as of late, just about anything seemed a lot less precarious than earlier – in comparison to other events at any rate.

With a sigh, he tucked the still-sealed envelope away into his bag. Though he technically had all the time in the world to open and see just what lay within it, he didn't; he already had a whole lot to process, and thus needed nothing more to add to his plate. Still…

He found himself glancing at it at it, his attention drawn to the item for reasons unknown.

"I… am an idiot," he finally concluded, giving in to his own curiosity and snatching the sealed envelope back, turning it over in his hands and holding it up before his eyes, considering it.

Then, already knowing he would come to regret it, he gradually tore it open, mindful of its contents. He still peeked at them though, catching a glimpse of something. Despite knowing better, he reached into the envelope and pulled it out, the photograph gradually revealing itself. He stared at it, seconds ticking by as he gradually took it in, trying to make sense of it.

Then, instinctively, he flipped it over and found himself staring at the back of it, and at the message there, eyes widening slightly in sheer disbelief as the envelope and its contents slipped from his hand and onto the floor, scattering. He barely took any note of it though, his attention nearly completely stolen away by the photograph he found himself clutching in his other hand, which was actually trembling slightly; and as he gradually came to realise, so was he.

He closed his eyes, screwing them tightly shut whilst telling himself someone had to be screwing with him again. Then, he reopened them, staring blankly at the opposite wall up until the sound of his phone buzzing right next to him finally attracted his attention.

Blearily, he reached for it, taking the incoming call.

"Allen?"

He blinked sluggishly in response.

"I've been calling you repeatedly for fifteen minutes now, but haven't been able to get through. What's going on?"

Still pressing the phone to his ear, he struggled to get up and failed, sliding back down into a seated position, feeling like he was going to be sick.

"Allen?"

He pressed his other hand to his forehead, wincing. "I'm here. Sorry."

"Are you alright?" The concern in the other's voice was evident and undeniable.

"I think so." Allen sat up a bit straighter. "I just got a bit dizzy all of a sudden."

There was a muffled curse from the other end. "Give me your apartment number. I'll come fetch you myself."

"There's no need," Allen protested, reassembling and returning the scattered contents of the envelope to their proper place before sliding the thing back into his bag and unsteadily getting to his feet. "I'll be right out."

- o0o -

Too much time had passed.

Too many things had changed.

He could never go back.

There would always be shadows, and with him being the way he was, they would always be drawn to him, like moths to a miniature moon; to a streetlight.

Still, since he had chosen to live, it was a fate that he had to accept as his own.

The paranormal was a part of him. He could never escape it, and neither did he want to, seeing that he had always felt closer to that world than to that of the living; then again, he was just as a big a part of both.

There would always be voices around him, apparitions.

Objects would always move, disappear and reappear in his immediate vicinity.

There would always be knockings – even outright banging – on walls and doors when he passed by.

Animals would be spooked and temperatures would drop and rise suddenly.

There would always be growls in the darkness, occasional scratches, strange smells, gusts of wind, flickering lights, outright fires and impenetrable shadows in his wake, and they would all watch him.

He would always be watched, and occasionally even touched. Even more so than before, spirits – particularly those of a powerful and much darker nature – would be curious; they would flock to him, drawn in by his natural light as well as by his corrupted body and mind.

They would seek to possess him no doubt, perceiving his sensitivity as a potential weak point, and they would be cast out and eradicated all the same for seeking to attain something that wasn't theirs.

Even so, there would always be bouts of irrational behaviour, and he would always have occasional blackouts, seeing to the fact that even though the Fourteenth – whoever he was – had supposedly left his body once more, the other had still left a deep impression on him – on all of him, ensuring that he could never go back to whoever he was before the other's darkness had first touched him. Then again, there was little for him to go back to even if he could.

Too much time had passed.

Too many things had changed.

He could never go back, and neither would he.

- o0o -

"That's it…"

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"That's it..."

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"Keep going… Keep walking…"

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"Keep walking…"

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"I'll manage." – He would.

"I know what I'm doing." – He didn't.

"It will be alright." – He wondered.

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"Where are we going?"

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His most recent confidant – the surprisingly capable busybody otherwise known as Bak Chan – brought the car to a stop in front of a traffic light. The other's eyes remained on the road, but the way in which the man's attention shifted was very noticeable, even though a hooded Allen – who sat in the backseat of the car at the opposite side, looking out the window, staring at nothing in particular – refused to openly acknowledge it. "You look like you've had a rough night," Bak finally noted, putting his foot back onto the gas pedal when the lights switched back to green. "Or a couple."

Allen – recalling having held a similar conversation before, multiple times even – finally tore his eyes from the cityscape passing by outside the window, giving the other a brief look before screwing his eyes shut, leaning his forehead against the window. "Is that how you start off every conversation?" he asked, keeping his voice perfectly level to the extent that he almost sounded bored.

"Occasionally," Bak Chan responded, not bothered in the slightest from the looks of it as he continued driving. "So, rough night, huh?" he went on, giving him a brief look. "I heard that you've been busy… since you signed yourself out of the hospital and left without saying goodbye and all..."

Allen said nothing, opening his eyes slowly before continuing to observe their surroundings in favour of ignoring the man in the driver's seat. "What about it?"

Eyes rested on him momentarily before once again turning to the road. "You did a quite thorough job from what I hear… though you probably went a bit overboard with all that Greek fire."

Allen snorted in response. "I'd rather be safer than sorry."

"So I see." Bak shot him another look. "You did a good job in covering your tracks as well."

"Define good," he mumbled right back, more to himself.

"Good enough," Bak responded. "Besides, your cover story is pretty solid. As far as legal authorities are concerned, you are a victim of abduction and blackmail and only a witness to the events… and with that friend of yours missing, young Timothy backing you up and no one else to debunk it, I doubt that anyone's about to contest your claim of having taken no active part in it."

"Even if I did." – More than a little even, seeing to the fact that he was at the very centre of it. – "Technically."

"You did what you had to do," Bak responded.

"I suppose."

For almost a minute, tense silence reigned. It was tense, but by no means suffocating. Allen hardly felt the need to speak; what needed to be said had already-…

"So," Bak finally said, taking the initiative to break it. "Where are we headed?"

A bleak smile graced the white-haired teenager's face. "Places."

Bak lifted an eyebrow in response, shifting gears. "Places?" he repeated somewhat sceptically. "Did you have anywhere in particular in mind or…?"

"Away from here would be nice." Allen rested his head against the window, closing his eyes anew.

"How about America?"

The prompt question caught him slightly off guard, and he found himself levelling the other with a tired look with a hint of wryness to it. "As the latest recruit to this… study group of yours?"

"If you want," Bak responded, giving him a short look through the rear-view mirror. "I mean, I could use a new demonologist and all, but-…"

The man paused briefly, weighing his words very carefully from the looks of it.

"But?" Allen responded somewhat wryly, humouring him.

"I do think…" – The other glanced at him again through the rear-view mirror. – "That you could use another vacation, don't you?"

Allen smiled, hand sneaking into his pocket to pull out his phone. He spared a brief glance at the display before once again putting it away. "You know what?" he finally responded. "I really could."

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