A/N: Okay, so this was my entry for Big Time Bang this year (which I would put a link to but FF won't let one do that so... yeah. It's on LiveJournal. You guys are smart, you can find it) and um... it's huge. So. Sorry.

Warnings for: *ahem* swearing, some scenes of terror, violence, murder, mentions of death, and explicit sex. Oh, and length. By the Angel, the length...

Love to my beta, Liz, who was amazing in dealing with what was originally 94K of crazy and is now over 97. Whoops. Also gotta give love to my artist, solarbaby614, for her amazing pieces (which are on my LJ page, so be sure to check 'em out. Warning: slightly spoilery). And a shout-out to Nath for dealing with my "OH GOD I CAN'T DO THIS I'M GONNA THROW UP" messages and tweets and for having faith when I didn't. And finally, thanks to you for reading this. Enjoy.

Andreviewcoughcough.

At least it hadn't gotten bigger.

Kendall shrugged, letting out a sigh as he stared into the hand-held mirror, aiming it so he could see the larger bathroom mirror being reflected, giving him a perfect view of his back. Well, mostly perfect. Would be better to see the whole thing at once, rather than bits and pieces but fuck it. Good enough.

Green eyes narrowed as they focused on the small reflective glass, taking in the image displayed. It was big, reaching from his lower back, up his spine, ending under his hairline. Huge, black tribal looking lines that fanned out across his shoulder blades, permanently etched on his skin like a tattoo.

Then there was the other mark, the circle on the inside of his left forearm, a ring with a small isosceles triangle in the middle, pointing towards the outside, with a small rune, symbol, something at the top, bottom, and sides. It was almost like he had some sorta compass on his arm, for whatever reason.

The third mark was on the bottom knuckle of his left ring finger, a crescent moon with an arrow going through it, kinda reminding him of a bow and arrow, but... not.

He inspected the marks on his back, the intertwining lines, the slight curves and twists, the way it covered a good majority of his skin. He wondered why he'd gotten it, what about the image had appealed to his past self to the point where he had decided to get them tattooed on him. Because, really, that was the only way his body could have been marked to such an extent. Only he didn't remember ever getting inked.

Not that he could remember anything really.

Another harsh sigh left him as he lowered the mirror, roughly rubbing a hand over his face. It'd been six months since he'd been found, naked and wandering in a fast food parking lot, no name, no memory. After that came six months of therapy, of trying to remember something, anything and getting nothing in return.

Well, not entirely nothing.

But dreams of wandering in the woods weren't really any sorta clue, considering that's what he'd done after he woke up, before stumbling upon a White Castle and giving a little old lady the shock of her life.

And, of course, she turned out to be his next door neighbor at the foster home he'd been placed in.

He apologized to Ms. Majikowski several times in forms of raking leaves and promises to mow her lawn when it got warm enough. She tried to pay him for his efforts in hot cocoa, but he always turned her down. He barely got cold, even in negative temperatures.

Which was weird apparently, at least according to his foster sister, Katie.

Shaking the thought out of his head, he turned and placed the mirror on the counter, inspecting the other marks that adorned his skin, clues to who he was that said nothing. He ran a calloused finger over them, forearm first, finger next, feeling the smooth skin, the darkened flesh, hoping for the five millionth time that something would come to him as he did so.

No such luck.

Same shit, different day.

He had no idea why he thought it'd be different, why he thought something would suddenly and magically appear in his memory bank. Wishful thinking he figured. He really needed to cut that shit out. It got him nowhere fast.

The dull thud of a knock was what finally drew his attention away from his reflection. He called out a "yeah", pushing back from the counter he'd been leaning over, grabbing his tee from the spot he'd left it.

"Kendall?" It was his foster mom, Jennifer. He had to give her a lotta credit. When social services told her she'd be taking in a teenage boy—at least they were pretty sure he was about seventeen—with no memory and no ID, she hadn't blinked, had simply opened the door and said "welcome to your new home". And while it still didn't feel like "home" half a year later, he didn't feel completely outta place. And considering he actually had a roof over his head and clothes on his back, he clearly couldn't complain.

"We gotta leave soon or we'll be late, all right?"

Kendall nodded, forgetting she couldn't see through the locked wooden door. "I'll be there in a minute," he called back before slipping his shirt over his head, sliding his arms through the sleeves.

Footsteps were heard outside the bathroom, the squeak of her sneakers on wood floors heading away. He adjusted his tee around his waist, the bottom laying along the belt of his sagging jeans, eyes going back to the mirror. Bags were visible under his eyes, whiskers on his jaw and cheeks. He looked exhausted. He supposed that was to be expected really, considering the lack of sleep he'd been getting. Hard to get good shut eye when you felt an overwhelming sense of paranoia and panic, not to mention dreams of being in the woods looking for...

His brow furrowed. He had no clue what he was looking for; he just knew it was important, like life-altering for everyone on Earth important. Important enough to know that if he didn't find it—and soon—a whole lotta bad was gonna happen. Although he wasn't entirely sure what kinda of bad, just that it was bad.

Whatever. He didn't have time for this shit.

Then again, he was about to head to therapy. If there was ever a time for getting deep and trying to figure out the meaning of shit, it was then.

With a final sigh and another quick visual perusal, he left the bathroom, flipping off the light as he went.

Jennifer was waiting downstairs, giving him a small smile when he reached the bottom floor of the house. "Ready?"

He shrugged, not really knowing how else to respond. He was more than ready for answers, more than ready to figure out who he was, where he came from, why he couldn't remember any of it. But talking to a stranger he barely knew—despite twice weekly visits over the past six months—wasn't exactly appealing to him. The one thing he'd seemed to have learned about himself was that telling people about his emotions or any deep shit like that wasn't something he was comfortable with. And whenever he did actually feel the desire to open up, something in the back of his head would start screaming at him to shut up, that it wasn't right, that that person shouldn't know, couldn't know. It made him feel crazy, made him even more self-conscious, and therefore more likely to keep it all to himself.

But Jennifer wasn't deterred, had dealt with hard cases like him before. At least that's what she claimed. He hadn't exactly seen the proof. But she never pushed him, never forced him to talk or do anything he wasn't ready to do. Instead, she gave him a kind smile, one that crinkled around her sparkling eyes, and changed the subject. Or, in this case, lead him outside to the car.

The house was an average four bedroom, three bathroom type of deal that was part of a seemingly repeating pattern on the average street it lived on. Kendall may not have known much, but to him, the whole scene just screamed "stereotypical suburban neighborhood." Countless houses lined both sides of the street, lawns covered in leaves, dying grass, or actually green blades from the one neighbor who seemed determined to actually have a nice lawn. More power to him really.

Kendall's green eyes roamed the neighborhood, searching for... well, he had no fucking idea really. It was just a weird habit of his, forever a minute detail in the constant presence of paranoia in the back of his mind. Something was after him, something was gonna get him, something was...

He shook his head, digging the heel of his hands into his eyes as he stood by the car, waiting for the click that signaled it had been unlocked. Clearly his dream from the night before was getting to him, just making shit worse, messing with his head. It wasn't that big a deal and nothing was after him. It only felt that way since he had no clue about who he was and it was leading him to think of the worst possible scenarios about what his past held.

That's what he kept telling himself anyway.

Letting out a sigh, he dropped his hands, feeling them slap against his thighs as he looked around once more. Everything was fine, everything was normal, nothing outta place...

Except for the dark haired guy dressed all in black hanging over at the corner of his street, motorcycle resting in front of him. Aviator sunglasses masked half his face, leather jacket creased from where he folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the street sign. And even with the few hundred feet or so of distance between them, Kendall got the impression that he wasn't one to be fucked with, that he was dangerous, that he was someone to leave the fuck alone as you held your valuables close to you and hoped he didn't decide to jump you anyway.

Basically the dude didn't belong in Suburbia USA.

An odd feeling settled over Kendall, a belief that while he should've been freaked the fuck out, should've been scared, should've been worried, he actually wasn't any of those things. Which was probably the most worrying part of the whole situation. Sure, his stomach was flipping and his heart was pounding and his skin was tingling, but it wasn't outta fear or unease. It was something else entirely, something he couldn't put his finger on...

"Kendall!"

His head snapped to his foster mom as she stood across the car from him, one hand on the roof of the sedan, the other on the open door. An expectant look was on her face, a manicured eyebrow raised.

"You gonna get in or just stand there staring at nothing all day?"

The teen opened his mouth to speak, head turning back to the street corner, only to find the guy and his bike were both gone. Fucking weird. He didn't recall hearing an engine start up and there was no way he could've missed the rumbling of a motorcycle, even from that distance.

But the confusion was overpowered by a sudden sense of loss, one that rivaled a similar feeling that he'd had while he'd slept the night before, a feeling that didn't seem to dissipate after he woke up.

All right, maybe it was just the lingering effects of a strange dream. It was entirely possible, right? Wasn't like it hadn't happened to him before.

Turning back to Jennifer, he shoved a hand through his hair, nodding his head as he did so. He pushed everything in his head to the side, determined not to worry about the black-clad stranger, the silent motorcycle, or any thoughts or emotions those two things had brought to the surface. Instead, he was gonna focus on the therapy session he was heading to and hope that he'd actually remember something.

Because, hey, maybe the memories actually were coming back. Maybe the dream was a sign of things to come as far as remembering who he'd been and where he'd come from.

He wondered if that was a good thing or not.

"So. How are you feeling today?"

It was the same question the start of every session. He supposed Dr. Wainwright was a good doc, did good shit or whatever. Her specialty was memory loss and amnesia, recovering memories, helping people adjust to a life filled with strangers who claim to know you. Kendall, unfortunately, was the exception. The strangers he was surrounded by didn't actually know him any more than he knew himself. Which really didn't help him at fucking all.

But still, he showed up, answered her questions, talked about what was going on in his life, if anything seemed familiar at all, if he remembered anything. Yet it was always the same shit. No new memories, same ol' dreams of wandering in the woods. Dreams that definitely didn't feel like something that had already happened.

And, okay, he didn't really have any proof that they'd never happened. And the fact that it was similar to how he'd woken up didn't help differentiate reality from revery. He had no clues that it wasn't connected to when he'd come to other than he'd woken up at night, a black sky overhead, the parking lot fully lit up—which helped him find his way out really—and in the dreams, it was day time, light pouring down through the trees, and seemingly no fast food joints in the area.

Dr. Wainwright had argued that they could still be memories, just that he'd had some sorta accident in the woods during the day, passed out, then awoken at night. But he insisted that wasn't the case, spent nearly an hour debating with her about it, to the point where he was literally screaming and yelling about how he didn't see the point in coming to her office if she wasn't even gonna fucking believe him and the whole thing was stupid anyway and he shouldn't be talking to anyone about anything.

Their next session was full of apologies for his behavior and a discussion as to why he felt like he shouldn't talk to anyone. He had no clue.

Still had no clue.

Kendall let out a sigh from his usual slumped position on the white couch. Everything in the office was white. White carpet, white walls, white coffee table, white desk. He figured it was supposed to be calming, soothing, relaxing, that the flat color scheme was to help people focus on the conversation, rather than the different shades of wood in the furniture. For him, it was slightly unnerving, too bright. He preferred darker colors, deeper shades of greens and browns and blacks, hues found in nature. Ones he could hide in. Although he wasn't entirely sure what he needed to disappear from, just that it was an appealing concept. He kept that thought to himself, too.

Dr. Wainwright sat patiently in her chair across the coffee table from him, left leg crossed over right, stiletto heel hanging off her toes. She was always impeccably dressed, today in a gray pencil skirt and burgundy silk top, the colors complimenting her dark skin tone, the outfit itself seeming more office professional than medical. But whatever. Kendall wasn't there to act as fashion police; he was there to figure out what the fuck was inside his head and why he couldn't reach it.

His spread legs waggled back and forth, open, closed, open, closed, open, closed, as he folded his arms over his lean chest. He knew he had to answer, knew he had to say something. He just had no fucking idea what to say.

"Confused, I guess," he replied with a shrug, figuring it was as good an answer as any. And it was the truth, not the whole truth, but the truth nonetheless. She should've been happy about that.

She nodded, brushing black hair back behind her bare shoulder. "So, same as always," she summed up, tapping her white pen against the white pad on her lap.

Another shrug. It was how they'd spent their first session, her asking questions, him just shrugging, for fifty-five minutes, right until she told him flat out that if he actually wanted help, he needed to contribute or at least act like he was willing to participate in the whole thing, otherwise she wasn't gonna be bothered with it either and would just drop him. Other people had problems with their memory, too, and she wasn't about to waste valuable time with some jerk teenager who wasn't gonna cooperate, rather than helping those who actually would do the work necessary for it.

His second session he told her about his reoccurring dream.

It'd been mentioned in every session since.

And it wouldn't be so bad if Kendall actually did feel like maybe it was something that he'd experienced, but it wasn't. And to top it off, it was exactly the same, every single time. Nothing new. The same light shining down, the same leaves on the trees, the same fallen down log, and off in the distance, the same cave. One that, for some reason, he was positive he was heading for.

Only he never reached it.

Session number six was spent discussing his frustrations with that. Dr. Wainwright said it was perfectly natural and that when he was ready, he'd reach it. She theorized that it was his brain's way of telling him that his memories were still there, locked up in a place for safe keeping. And in a way, it did make sense.

Didn't mean it didn't fucking suck ass though.

His eyes did another sweep around the room, coming across the clock as they often did. An hour in this room, twice a week, for the past six months. Forty-eight hours of the same discussions, the same topics of conversation. The monotony of it was getting to him, making him wish he had something, anything new to bring up and talk about.

The man in black flashed in his mind, but he quickly dismissed the idea of bringing him up. For some reason—another inexplicable feeling that he felt in the back of his head—he knew talking about that guy wasn't a possibility, especially to...

His brow furrowed. Especially to who? Or what? What the fuck was he about to mentally say?

"Kendall?"

He looked at Dr. Wainwright, her head tilted to the left in question. "Yeah?"

"You look like you wanted to say something," she pointed out. Her dark eyes were analytical as they locked onto him, searching his face for clues, trying to figure out what he was thinking. "What's going on?"

His left hand lifted, fingers combing through his hair, smoothing it to his scalp once more. His foster mom had asked if he'd wanted to get it cut before starting school last month, but he'd turned her offer down. He liked the dead mohawk look he was rocking, liked the rat tail at the back. Not to mention it was part of his past self, something he wanted to hold onto. Dr. Wainwright had said his situation was a chance for a fresh start, a clean slate. If he wanted, he could become someone else, could be whoever he wanted. He had every opportunity to build a great life, one that could be better than what he'd had before, and be the best person he could possibly be without anything from his past tying him down or holding him back.

Only he didn't want that. His mind was already a pretty clean slate and it wasn't something he was enjoying, wasn't something he wanted to have continue throughout his life. Instead, he wanted to be tied down, wanted to be held back. He wasn't entirely sure why, but the prospect of starting over wasn't an appealing idea, wasn't something he desired. There was something from his past that he was determined to cling on to, despite not knowing exactly what it was. He just knew it was important and that the thought of never finding it—or at least finding out what it was—was scarier than anything he could imagine.

Which was why his dream from the night before had been somewhat of a huge revelation, and while he theorized his therapist would be pretty happy to hear his beliefs about his memory returning, that small voice in the back of his head was once again nagging at him to keep his mouth shut and not say a word. His jaw clenched as his brow furrowed, chewing on his thumbnail in a strange way to keep himself from talking. He knew he should be thinking up a way to convey his feelings, to explain his dream, yet he couldn't. All he could hear in his mind was that repetitive demand to shut up and keep that shit to himself.

It was soon drowned out by the memory of said therapist stating that he needed to be upfront and forthcoming with information if he ever wanted anything to work.

Loosely folding his hands over his torso, he spoke. "I had a dream last night."

She nodded, glossed lips pursed in thought. "The same one?"

He shook his head, eyes focused on her stiletto, mind absently wondering what kinda doctor wears those kinda shoes. "Different," he started, only to clarify immediately after. "I mean, I was still in the woods, but it was night this time. And it was a different area."

Her eyes went to the pad on her lap, pen quickly scribbling as she spoke. "What makes you so sure it was different?"

His eyes narrowed in concentration, as if he could picture it if he squinted enough, like it would help him see it and describe it to her that way. "Different trees, I guess. And I didn't see that log on the ground or the cave. Didn't feel like I was looking for it either. Felt more like—" He paused, shaking his head as his brow furrowed, as he struggled to find the right words to accurately depict what had happened. "Like I was running from something. And it felt like a memory."

That had the good doc's eyes going to him, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "You remembered something?" She seemed almost in disbelief, like it wasn't supposed to happen, like he wasn't supposed to get his memory back.

Confusion remained on his face as he looked up at her. What the hell kinda reaction was that? Wasn't that the whole point of him going to see her? Wasn't that why he gave up two hours every week to talk with her? To get his memory back and figure out why he lost it in the first place?

He slowly nodded, feeling like he was saying the wrong thing. But he wasn't. He had actually remembered something, even though her reaction and his own mind were telling him it wasn't a possibility.

Weird. As. Fuck.

Dr. Wainwright laid her pen flat on the pad, covering it with both hands and uncrossing her legs. Determination was displayed on her features, her eyes hard as they looked at him, lips pursed as she seemed to give it one last consideration before deciding to do it anyway. "I wanna try something new," she stated, leaning forward, forearms resting on her pad. "Ever been hypnotized?"

He voiced out a "no" before listening to her explain the process, going through the steps it would take in order to put him under and try to draw out this memory he'd stumbled upon. And while the entire thing sounded completely fucking insane, he was willing to try anything. He just wanted to know who he was.

Soon enough, he found himself laying on the couch, pillow propped behind his head, ankles crossed over one of the armrests, his tall body a little too long for the sofa. Dr. Wainwright was seated on the coffee table, a small black stone that had no business in this all white office being held in front of his line of sight. Her voice was soothing as she told him to focus on it and nothing else, to clear his mind, to allow his body to relax and drift off.

Clearing his mind proved to be the hardest though, silencing cynical thoughts of how this was bullshit and it was never gonna work nearly impossible. But he did it, focusing on the stone, on the oval shape of it, on the smooth exterior, on the shiny finish that covered it. And it was only a matter of time before he felt his eyelids get heavier, his body get lighter, and everything go black...

Sticks crunched under his feet, his steps heavy, angry, a steady stomping trudge. He was gonna get lost in the woods, but he didn't care. He just needed to get away, far away from...

No. He wasn't gonna think the bastard's name. He just wanted to go.

Problem was said bastard had been the one who'd driven them and now Kendall was left without a ride.

Fucking awesome.

"Kendall!" His name was called out from a distance behind him, the previously mentioned bastard seeming to be following him. "Kendall, c'mon! We weren't done talking!" A slight pause, before the jerk continued on. "Just lemme explain! Kendall, come back! I swear to you it's not what you think!

Kendall!"

He ignored the pleas for his return, his face hardening into a bigger glare, still pissed, his steps quickening.

But it wasn't just anger that he felt. It was hurt, rejection, sadness, all of it aching in his gut. He knew the conversation had been coming, knew that what they'd been doing was wrong, against the rules, something they shouldn't have even

thought about much less participated in. But neither of them could help it. He supposed sometimes compulsions drove actions more than initially thought, sometimes shit got mixed up somewhere between the head and the heart and the wrong organ would win out in the end. After all, they were only human.

That thought caused his brow to furrow, uncertain about the accuracy of that statement.

A twig snapped to his right, causing him to stop walking immediately, turning towards the sound and seeing nothing. Panic welled up inside, knowing it wasn't... well, it wasn't the bastard he'd left behind at the restaurant. And while he wasn't one-hundred percent sure who it was, he knew he shouldn't hang around to find out.

He heard his name being called once again and he spun towards it, the mixture of fear and adrenaline fluttering in his chest. It didn't sound like the first time his attention had been demanded; this time, there was an urgency to it, a cry for more than just his focus.

"Kendall!" And there it was again, in that same slightly panicked voice. "Run!"

The sounds of fighting broke out, of shuffled feet and thrown punches, of grunts of exertion and gasps of pain. He heard the crunch of leaves, the crack of broken branches, the dull thuds of bodies being slammed against trees. Then came the growls, followed by the sounds of tearing fabric and breaking bones.

Kendall knew he should've turned the other way, knew he should've run as far as possible from the noises, knew he should've headed for safety. But once again, the wrong organ was winning out. He was listening to his heart, ignoring the need to save his own skin in lieu of someone else's.

His sneaker-clad feet carried him through the forest, over exposed roots and fallen branches. The world around him was a blur of brown, black, and green as he raced toward the sounds. His foot caught on a large stick, causing him to stumble, his hands flying out to catch himself. Scrambling to his feet, he soon regained his previous speed, barely noticing the sting of a jutting twig as it slapped against his cheek as he bolted by. His entire focus was zeroed in on the figures up ahead, watching as one of them was pinned against a large oak trunk, the other male holding him there with a hand around the throat.

"No!" Kendall screamed before he could even think about it, willing his legs to move faster, demanding he get there sooner. His breath was sawing in and out of his lungs, throat burning, chest heaving. His heart was pounding out of control and he could hear his blood rushing in his ears as he took in the scene before him. Terror had consumed him, an overwhelming fear and panic of losing him, of having him permanently taken away, of never seeing him again. It couldn't happen, wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it, wouldn't allow them to be torn apart that way, not again.

Adrenaline kicked into overdrive, overpowering the pain he was feeling in his legs when he sped up, green eyes witnessing the other male taking a blow to the stomach. He could practically hear the hit, feel it himself as the victim doubled over, only to be shoved back against the tree. He was getting his ass kicked, the scent of blood hitting the blond, the sight of it making his heart stop in his chest. He needed to get there, needed to help, needed... needed...

"Kendall!"

Kendall shot upwards, a scream still being torn from his lungs. He was breathing heavily, panting, chest heaving, burning for oxygen. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, his heart pounding in a chest that felt achy and hollow. He felt like he'd just run a marathon.

But he had, hadn't he? He'd been running and there'd been someone chasing him and he was trying to get to...

He looked around at his surroundings, noticing for the first time that he was no longer being chased, no longer trying to get to someone, no longer in the woods. He was in his therapist's office, on the couch, the doctor herself sitting on the edge of it with her hands on his shoulders. Her features were flat, expressionless, calm, but her pupils were blown, a sense of worry and slight fear in the dark orbs.

He had a feeling it was because of him.

Raising his right hand, he shoved his fingers into his hair, gripping onto dirty blond locks and feeling the sweat soaking the roots of them. His panic began to recede: heart rate slowing to a normal pace. But still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, someone was missing, something...

"What happened?" he questioned.

"I woke you up," Dr. Wainwright stated, her voice that same calm, soothing tone that had put him to sleep in the first place, her hands leaving him and arms retreating. "You were on the verge of a panic attack."

His brow furrowed as he stared down at his hands, noticing how they shook as he held them above his lap. The whole thing had felt so fucking real, like he was there, like it was happening in real time, not just some faded reverie from the confines of his mind. God, he'd been so scared, so terrified, and not because of the person who was trying to get him, but because of the scene in front of him, the image of...

He grimaced, his eyes scrunching. The image was gone, the whole thing just wiped away once more. A blank slate.

"Here."

Kendall looked up, seeing a squat glass of water being offered to him. He hadn't even noticed Dr. Wainwright getting up, his mind not entirely with it just yet. He thanked her before chugging the entire glass, feeling the cold liquid flow down his throat, soothing his dry mouth.

She gave him a small smile, one that said he was welcome, one that said she was relieved he was okay and no permanent damage had been done to him. Walking over, she moved the pad and pen off her chair, sitting down. She didn't say a word, allowing him to come back into his head, back to reality, back to a normal state of being.

The water now all gone, Kendall shifted on the couch, feet falling flat on the floor. He placed the empty glass on the table, flopping over his knees, threading his fingers through his hair. The memory kept repeating itself in his mind and with it came the roller coaster of emotions he'd felt. Only he didn't know why he was mad or upset or afraid.

"Kendall?" Dr. Wainwright's voice was soft, cautious, and easy, obviously meant to get his attention but not scare him any more than he'd already been.

He slowly lifted his head, noting the concern still on Dr. Wainwright's face, mixed with her curiosity about whatever had happened and the reluctance to push him too far. But maybe that's what he needed, a push, a shove in the right direction. Being put under hypnosis had clearly helped. They needed to keep going, needed to stay on that path because it seemed to be heading in the right direction. One that would hopefully lead to him recovering more of his memories. Or at least a few that told him who he was.

Eyebrows raised in expectation, he watched his therapist as she parted her lips, as she inhaled, as she struggled to figure out how to phrase what she wanted to say. Sighing, she then spoke.

"Who's James?"

His foster mom was late picking him up. Which was, whatever. Gave him time to think really, stew shit over.

Truth was... he had no fucking clue who James was. He'd given Dr. Wainwright a blank stare for a full minute before replying with a "say what?" The name didn't sound all that familiar, not really anyway. But hearing it made his chest get tight and his stomach tie up in knots and a myriad of emotions all flood his brain at such a high speed, he felt like he'd been swept up in some sorta feelings tsunami. Clearly that meant that the name had some sorta significance to him. He just hadn't a clue what.

A sigh escaped him as he sat on the wooden bench outside the downtown office building where his therapist was located. At four on a Thursday afternoon, it wasn't all that crowded, only a few people passing him by, all of them too preoccupied with reaching their destination to notice the teen sitting there by himself. Then again, he wasn't exactly paying much attention to them either.

His head hung off lean shoulders as he stared down at his hands, elbows on his knees, right thumb rubbing over the mark on his left ring finger. A crescent moon and a directional arrow. Seemed kinda fitting after what he'd just remembered: feeling lost and at night.

His eyes drifted to the compass-looking mark on the inside of his forearm. Maybe his past self had been metaphorically lost, too. Maybe that's why he'd gotten that tattoo, for some sorta guidance, for some sorta help in navigating through the crazy ride called life.

Maybe he was just clutching at straws. Another therapy session down and he still wasn't any closer to regaining his memory. Then again, who was to say that if he got his memory back he'd know any more about himself? After all, wasn't that one of the great mysteries of life: trying to figure out who one was and what one's purpose was? Why would he be special in that regaining a lost life worth of memories would suddenly give him any answers about any of that shit?

He breathed out a swear, sitting back on the bench, folding his arms over his chest as he took in his surroundings. There seriously wasn't anything about this town that wasn't a stereotype, that wasn't exactly what you'd see as Every Town, USA on TV. The buildings around him were various shades of gray, different heights and signs differentiating between them, but it still seemed like any other downtown in any other mid-sized town in any other state.

Which meant it looked like any other possible places he could've lived—if he'd lived anywhere other than Newtown, Minnesota.

His eyes glazed over a record shop wedged between a bank and a newspaper office, passed over the sub shop and the entrance to a building he knew to be full of various attorneys who practiced in different areas of the law. Nothing really registered, nothing stood out.

Until they came across a semi-familiar face.

Across the street was a Starbucks, one Kendall had been in before during rainstorms while waiting for his ride to show. Along the front window was a table, several stools waiting to be occupied by various coffee drinkers, business-folk on breaks, random college students pretending to be hip as they drank their lattes and typed on their laptops. Only none of them were there. The sole being seated there was the man in black, the leather-clad biker Kendall had spotted down his street earlier that afternoon.

The aviators were still on his face, despite being inside, but the blond had a gut feeling the brunet was staring right at him, that his eyes were fixated on him. His head didn't move as he lifted his paper cup to his lips, as he drank deeply. People avoided him, took wide berths around him, gave him plenty of room as he sat there alone. Which Kendall understood. That same dangerous aura was around him, even without the motorcycle he'd been spotted with earlier, possibly due to the aggressive body language he was sporting, the way every muscle seemed tense, like he was ready to throw a punch at any moment. His hands were clenched into fists around his cup, black leather fingerless gloves covering the appendages, his brow drawn into a hard line above his sunglasses. Even from that distance, Kendall could see the tightness in his jaw and the strained tendons on his neck, drawing his attention to black marks on the left side of it, almost like a tattoo of some form. He squinted his eyes, trying to get a better look, figure out if it really was a tat, only able to really see a couple points near the brunet's throat.

A shiver raced down Kendall's spine, an absent thought about how he should be scared, should be nervous, should be looking away and pretending not to notice how he was being stared at. But he wasn't. Okay, he was a little scared, but oddly enough, not at the biker.

He chalked it up to just after-effects of his recently ended therapy session, lingering emotions from that memory of being chased, of someone being hurt. His usual paranoia was back, getting the best of him once more. He'd always wondered if that fear was a result of something that had happened to him before, an automatic reaction that he wasn't even fully aware of. Now he felt like it was all connected to whatever the fuck had happened to him in the woods.

For some reason, as his green eyes locked with aviator shades, he felt like the man in black was involved.

"This seat taken?"

Kendall's head snapped up and to the right. There, stood a large male, looking down at him. The guy reminded him of the preppy jocks at his high school, popping the collar on not one, but two polo tees. He had the All-American boy next door cliché looks with his blue eyes and dark blond hair, his strong jawline and broad shoulders. His exposed skin was evenly tanned, a stark contrast to teeth that were the perfect white one only ever saw on toothpaste commercials. Arms were corded with thick muscles and wide pecs were shown off thanks to his shirts that seemed as though they were a size too small. Everything about him screamed arrogance, entitlement, a lack of knowing what the word "no" meant. It was in the haughty way he held his nose up, the cocky smirk that revealed a dimple on his right cheek, the expectation in his eyes that meant he was waiting for Kendall to just give him what he wanted as so many others had before him.

But despite the Abercrombie and Fitch outside, there was something darker inside of him, though Kendall couldn't quite put his finger on any one thing that gave him that impression. It was the way his grin didn't seem all that genuine, like it was well rehearsed for situations such as this. It was the glint of something malevolent in his eyes, a sparkle that spoke more of hate and anger rather than friendliness and joy. It was the close proximity that he was standing at, the threatening way he was towering over Kendall in an attempt to make himself seem bigger and more looming. All of it added up to something that made the hairs on the back of Kendall's neck stand on end, something that had the little voice inside his head start demanding that he leave, run off, get somewhere safe and now.

"Uhh." He struggled to come up with an appropriate response, struggled between being polite and doing what his head was telling him. He eventually decided on turning back to the Starbucks window, searching in some form of desperation for the man in black, whom he discovered was rising from his seat, still not breaking his gaze.

"Thanks." The prepster stated in what the blond assumed was supposed to be a friendly manner, but instead made him inwardly cringe at the fake cheer behind the tone. The stranger sat anyway, not caring about being polite or the fact that Kendall hadn't actually answered. "Nice tattoo."

The teen followed the other male's finger, seeing it was pointed at the compass-type mark inside his forearm. "Thanks." An uneasy smile played on his lips as he swallowed, folding his arms, hiding the tattoo—and the one on his finger for good measure. They weren't for his eyes, weren't supposed to be known. He just had no idea why.

"Any special meaning to them?"

Kendall didn't make eye contact. "Not really," he lied easily, not entirely sure if he was hiding the truth, yet feeling like he was.

The man in black was making his way towards the door, glancing out the window at the teen, and all Kendall could think was that he needed him to move faster, to get to him quicker, to save him from...

His teeth worried at his bottom lip before he quickly released it. He wasn't sure why exactly he needed saving, much less by the man in the aviators, or even why he needed the man there. He figured in most situations, plenty of people would've preferred the statuesque, model-boy to the leather-clad biker with the mystery shades. Out of the two of them, Polo Shirt would typically be the safer choice.

So why the fuck was his mind telling him it was the other way around?

"Really?" the male next to him questioned, bottom lip sticking out in a thoughtful pout of sorts. With his head tilted to the side and his eyes fixated on the younger male's arms, he looked puzzled, like he'd been expecting a different answer. The expression didn't stay for long though, his attention and line of sight soon moving to Kendall's face, the arrogant smirk returning. "So, you're not a map then?"

His heart stopped.

A cold feeling of dread washed over his entire body, chilling him right to the bone. He felt his entire body tense up. A lump of fear caught in his throat, choking him. His stomach dropped and knotted. That little voice inside his head that had shown up with the other male got louder, demanding that he get up. That he run. That he get the fuck away as fast as possible. But he couldn't; he was rooted to the spot. Scared. Frozen.

The man in black stepped out of the Starbucks, swinging the door open so fast and hard, Kendall was surprised it was still attached to its hinges. There was a careful urgency about his movements, like he was trying to get somewhere in a hurry, yet didn't wanna call attention to himself and let anyone know where he was headed.

Kendall could only hope that he was the guy's destination.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where to find the Key of Manifleiss, would you?" Jett's voice drew his attention back, demanding the teen's focus. His eyes were narrowed, the blue in them hard, dark. His jaw was clenched, muscles in his arms tensed as his fingers closed into fists. Leaning forward, he got right in the other male's space, forcing eye contact in a way that made Kendall's heart start back up and pound at twice its usual speed.

This time, he didn't hesitate to follow his brain's suggestion of running.

His feet scrambled against the concrete as he struggled to get purchase. His legs were still out of order, the fear that had frozen him to the bench not having fully dissipated yet, making the action of simply standing up more difficult than usual. But as soon as he thought he had a halfway decent feel for the ground, he bolted, not looking behind himself.

He'd barely made it to the end of the first building before he felt fingers wrapping around his thin wrist in a bruising grip. Kendall gasped as they tightened around him like a vice, an ache taking hold that he could feel down to his marrow. His eyes went wide as he was yanked to a stop, heart thudding so hard in his chest he swore he could hear it. A shiver raced down his spine, tingles breaking out over his skin, his breathing becoming shallow and shaky. Panic overwhelmed him, a feeling that he'd lost, that it was over, that they were all doomed.

He just had no idea why.

The prepster forced the blond to spin around with a hard pull at his arm, giving him a good look at his size. Kendall was taller by an inch or so, but the other guy was wider, more muscular, and could easily kick his ass. Didn't mean Kendall was planning on going down without a fight though.

"You aren't going anywhere." The words were practically growled out, blue eyes glowing as his face twisted into an evil grin. He tightened his hold, five distinct sharp pricks stabbing into pale skin, causing the teen's breath to hitch in pain. "We have a lot to discuss, Map." The last word was spat out, like the moniker belonged to a piece of scum that had gotten stuck to the bottom of his two-hundred dollar sneakers.

Kendall could hear the low rumble of a growl, animalistic, drawing away the attention of his attacker, his expressions shifting from victorious to pure terror. His own eyes turned and looked at the empty road, watching as the leather-clad man made his way over. The brunet was looking right at the them, his expression just as hard as before, fists clenched at his sides as he walked in determined strides. There was something predatory about the way he moved and Kendall felt his heart rate double once more, chest tightening even further.

Kendall took advantage of the momentary distraction, slamming his foot into his attacker's groin. The guy released him, doubling over in pain and groaning. Not hesitating, the blond turned and raced down the street, away from the model, away from the office building, away from the man in black.

A couple hundred yards down the street came an intersection, the red hand of the pedestrian crosswalk lit up. Meaning he was supposed to stop and wait for traffic to come to a halt before he continued on his way.

Fuck that. He was crossing anyway.

At least, he was planning on it, until a familiar silver sedan pulled up directly in front of him, forcing him to stop or risk running right into the side of it.

His arms flew out to the side, his body trying to balance itself, still wanting to move forward despite the sudden braking. But he managed it, stopping himself, panting heavily as the passenger side window was rolled down.

Jennifer leaned over, looking at him through the open space, her brow pinched and her lips parted in confusion. "Kendall? You okay?"

He stood there, dumbfounded, wondering why she'd asked such a random question, only to remember that she'd just arrived and obviously couldn't have seen the man he'd been sitting next to, couldn't have seen the way he'd been grabbed, the threatening look on a modelesque face. He quickly checked back to make sure he wasn't followed before turning back to her.

"Yeah. Fine." Another lie in a long list of them, but whatever. It was necessary. He pointed behind himself with his thumb before continuing. "There was a fight about to break out up there so I decided to get away before I was dragged into it."

She nodded slowly, parting her lips slightly. "Okay." She seemed to believe him at least. Shrugging, she straightened up, allowing him to get in the car. Kendall settled in and she turned to the right, driving off.

Back in the direction he'd come from.

His heart started pounding again, not having fully recovered from all the sudden exercise. They were gonna drive right by the prepster, right by the man in black. They were gonna see him and follow him and then...

Well, he didn't know what, but it wasn't gonna be good, he knew that for fucking sure.

As they drew closer to his therapist's office, he sank down in his seat, but made sure he could still peer out the window. Polo Shirt was gone. So was the man in black.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, his head slumping back against the seat. He was okay. He was safe. Nothing—and no one—was gonna get him.

Not yet anyway.

Jennifer glanced at him, concern in her bright eyes. "Tough session?"

He frowned as he stared down at his hands in his lap. His right thumb was rubbing the mark on his left ring finger once again, the subconscious action not even registering as he took in the injuries on his wrist. Five distinct crescent marks, almost clawed into his skin.

A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it down. "Yeah. Something like that."

Jenny Tinkler was a known clutz.

It was just a fact, something Kendall had picked up on pretty quickly not long after stepping through the doors of the local high school. Danger seemed to follow her everywhere, causing those around her to get hurt. He heard stories of her knocking people down during choir practice and accidentally breaking their arms; of her busting huge holes in walls as she played floor hockey in gym class; of her setting someone's hair on fire in chemistry. Twice.

So it was no surprise when no one wanted to be her partner during Home Ec that day. And since no one was in a rush to work with the new kid who had no history either, it meant Kendall was stuck with the accident waiting to happen.

And they happened to be using the oven that day.

Joy.

He should've known something bad was gonna happen. Even after another near sleepless night with the usual dream—which was pretty much par for the course at this point—he still couldn't shake the feeling that things were gonna be different, like his day was guaranteed to turn strange.

The first sign was the claw marks on his arm. They were healed over. Completely healed over, like they'd been done a week ago rather than a day. All that remained were pinkish lines, the only proof that anything had happened at all.

The second sign was the man in black, who once again was at the corner of his street, watching as Kendall boarded the big yellow bus to head to Newtown High.

He figured being paired up with Jenny was just another part of the phenomenon. After all, didn't things like that come in threes?

Oh, wait, no, bad shit happened in threes.

Although if that was true, then Polo Shirt grabbing hold of him and clawing his arm was probably number two. Number one was obviously whatever accident had led to his memory loss.

Fuck knew Jenny would probably be number three.

Kendall tried to remain positive, tried to tell himself that nothing bad was gonna happen—that it was just his paranoia getting the best of him for the five-thousandth time, blah blah blah. But he still couldn't get rid of the suspicion that something major was gonna happen. And knowing Jenny's history, that major thing was more than likely a trip to the emergency room.

But miracle of miracles, they managed to get everything prepared without incident. And, yeah, sure, making a cake wasn't anything too complicated, especially when most of it was a pre-made mix in a box. But no egg shell got in the bowl, no body parts were removed thanks to any accidents with the electric beater, no splatter was made, no items spontaneously burst into flames, and no injuries were had by anyone.

Thank. God.

The oven preheated beforehand, Jenny put the cake pan full of mix in, Kendall setting the timer. He felt a relieved smile slide over his lips as he plopped onto one of the two stools at their station, pleased that the event had gone down without incident.

Well almost.

"Fire!"

Kendall snapped up onto his feet, the wooden stool legs scraping against the hard floor. Quickly turning around, he saw the flames filling the small space inside the oven, saw the panicked look on Jenny's face as she backed away from it.

"What the hell did you do?" he squeaked out without thinking.

The blonde female just continued stumbling away from the oven, eyes wide, mouth hanging open as she stuttered out a few "I-I-I"s. Clearly she was no help.

Without hesitation, Kendall stepped over, switching off the oven before opening the door. Flames roared out at him, the heat licking at his face. He backed his head away as the sensation hit him, the sudden change of temperature against his skin almost like a punch, scorching his nose and throat as he inhaled. Recovering quickly, he reached inside and grabbed the now ruined cake, tossing the pan onto the stove top next to him.

Their petite teacher, Miss Collins, pushed her way through the small crowd that had formed with a surprising amount of force, bellowing at everyone to move aside, lugging a giant fire extinguisher that looked like it weighed more than she did. Spraying the flaming cake with an expertise that told of her years as a Home Ec instructor, she quickly put the fire out, ending the danger.

Or so they all thought.

"Kendall!"

He wasn't sure who called his name, but a glance around the room allowed him to see that everyone was staring at him. Or rather, at his arm.

Tilting his head down, he caught sight of what had everyone so fixated on him: the top of his forearm was on fire.

"Holy—" He never finished the thought, shaking his arm to put the flames out, successful after only a few seconds. An odd sort of calm was felt, despite the fact that he knew fire was dangerous, that it burned and caused serious injuries, and that he should be screaming in pain. But he wasn't. He was just. Stunned.

Miss Collins hurried over, grabbing at his arm, fussing over him and yelling for one of her students to call the nurse, to call 911, to call someone. All noises, all the commotion—it all melted away into the background. Kendall stood there, dazed, staring at his forearm.

He hadn't felt a thing while it was on fire.

The ride to the emergency room wasn't all that eventful—if he didn't count the panic and the voice in his head that was screaming at him to get out the ambulance and run like hell.

The voice that only seemed to get worse when they reached Newtown General.

By the time he was plopped into a curtained off area to wait on the doctor, the voice had gotten to the point where it was nearly impossible to ignore, an insistent, screaming demand.

This wasn't right. He shouldn't be there. He wasn't supposed to be in any hospital anywhere. Doctors would find...

His brow furrowed, eyes scrunching as he rubbed his forehead, grasping for whatever reason his mind had for being so against the idea of medical professionals. It wasn't like he hadn't been checked out before. The first thing the cops had done when he'd been found was bring him to that very hospital, where he was given a physical by a doctor who didn't even look old enough to have been in medical school, much less been able to practice medicine.

The very doctor who was shoving the curtain aside and walking in.

Too late to run now.

The brunet physician—Mitchell, if Kendall remembered right—had his head in a file, reading over admittance papers more than likely, making a clicking noise with his tongue as he walked. Flipping a sheet of paper over the top of the file, he looked at the patient, giving him a dimpled smile.

"Nice to see you again, Misterrr—" He drew the syllable out as he moved the paper back, reading the front. "Huh. Knight." He looked back at Kendall. "You figure out your last name?"

The blond shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Cops gave me that last name," he explained, gripping the edge of the stationary gurney he was sitting on. "They thought 'Doe' was too cliché of a last name, so they gave me 'Knight' as a play on where I was found."

Dr. Mitchell looked at him with pursed lips and confused eyes, clearly not getting the joke.

"Parking lot of a White Castle burger joint."

"Ohhh." He let out a small laugh, shaking his head as he read the file once more. Kendall didn't think it was that funny.

The doctor closed the file with a definitive slap, turning his full attention to the teenager on the table. "So. I hear you set your arm on fire."

Kendall's eyebrows shot up, mouth dropping open. "That wasn't exactly what happened."

The shorter male tossed the file onto the table, shrugging, his white lab coat opening to reveal blue scrubs. "Doesn't matter. Lemme see."

All right, straight to the point. The blond had to respect that. And despite the fact that the doc was cool and had checked him out before, that same voice in the back of his head was telling him to back away, to leave, to not let anyone see his arm for any reason. It was a lot like the feeling he'd gotten when that prepster had commented on his tattoo, that urgent, unexplained need to hide it and not let the stranger see it. But for some reason, he knew it wasn't just the mark he needed to be covering; it was everything about him health-wise.

"I'm fine," he stated nonchalantly, not lying, not really. He was fine. He'd stared at his arm the entire ambulance ride, the entire wait in the small curtained off area. And it looked exactly the same as it had before. No marks, no blisters, no indication that he'd even been close to a fire, much less had his skin engulfed in flames. Which kinda made sense to a degree, considering how he hadn't noticed, hadn't known about it 'til someone pointed it out and he actually saw the fire with his own eyes. He was sure he should've felt something there while his flesh was supposed to be getting singed, but he didn't. If any of his flesh was burning, he was certain it had to be the skin on his back, traced along the lines of the tattoo-like marks on his spine and shoulders.

Weirdest fucking part of the whole thing really.

Dr. Mitchell was staring at him with an arched eyebrow, not entirely buying the statement. Kendall resisted the urge to sigh, to roll his eyes, to just yell at the dude to believe him and let him go, but he couldn't. Would be a little too suspicious really.

"Seriously, I didn't even get near the fire," he continued, lying his ass off. "Dunno what the big deal was, but whatever. Girls, huh?" He shrugged in a what can ya do? kinda way, shaking his head and letting out a small laugh.

"Uh huh." The brunet gave a long, slow nod, jaw tense as his lips parted, skepticism in his brown eyes, but after a long moment, it dissipated with a sigh and shrug. "Okay then. Wait right here and we'll see about getting you discharged then, shall we?" He gave him a wink that wordlessly told the teen that while the medical professional had a feeling the younger male wasn't being honest, he was just gonna go along with it and let him go, not make a big deal of it. Clapping a hand on the blond's shoulder, he turned and parted the curtain before leaving, the partition remaining open.

Kendall let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding, his body slumping in relief. He'd survived. He'd made it through. The doc had bought his bullshit and was letting him go, no questions, no skepticism.

All right, it was a little weird that the medical professional seemed to just go along with everything Kendall said, without even bothering to take a look at his arm. But whatever. Maybe the guy was in a hurry, maybe the ER was swamped that day and he didn't wanna waste any time when he could clearly see the patient's arm was fine; no redness, no swelling, no burns.

"Fuck it," he mumbled, sliding a hand through his hair with a sigh. Part of him knew he shouldn't care about Dr. Mitchell's reason for leaving, shouldn't give a shit that he hadn't performed a proper thorough exam. He should've been glad it was over and that the doc hadn't asked any questions. He was free, no worries, no need to be concerned about anything being found out that was supposed to be secret.

He frowned at that, not exactly sure what secret his mind was referring to.

Fucking hell was that annoying, knowing he had to keep shit quiet but not knowing what that shit was. He just wished he could remember more than the need to keep his mouth shut. But as it was, all he had was a blank space where memories should be, a distant echoing voice that advised him on what to do, how to handle various situations. He wondered if everyone had it, if it was just a gut-feeling, an instinctual knowledge on what to do, or if it had been programmed in by someone else, drilled through repetition until it was so ingrained it survived whatever had caused his amnesia in the first place. Whatever the case, it brought him comfort and put him at ease whenever he followed the disembodied instructions, although he still found himself wishing it would say something either than "be quiet", "lie", "run".

He groaned, his hand rubbing over the top of his head, down the back of it, before it dropped onto his lap with a harsh smack. He hated hospitals. He hated doctors. He hated being poked and prodded and looked at and people being in his business. His first experience—really his only other experience—in this place, he'd been searched all over by people he didn't know, invasive procedures that had him shuddering at the memory of how uncomfortable he'd felt at the time. It made him feel like a zoo animal, the analytical eyes scanning him cold and unfriendly. A panic had flooded him and all he could think about was how he wasn't supposed to be looked at that closely and how he should flee as soon as possible, a lot like how he was feeling at that moment. He was ready to fucking go, to get the hell outta there and never look back.

Only he had to wait to be discharged. Awesome.

Kendall's ears perked suddenly to the sound of voices drifting beyond the curtain. Hearing Dr. Mitchell's voice was to be expected, of course. However, it was the other voice that had the blond's blood running cold and the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

Polo Shirt.

Shit.

Leaning over, he peeked through the still-open curtains, seeing the doctor standing there with the much larger polo-wearing douchebag, the two having some sort of heated conversation in hushed tones, judging by the defensive body language both males were sporting. Both their frames were tense, muscles tightened, arms crossed with their brows pulled into hard lines. The shorter one was glaring up at the taller, face hard, jaw clenched as he spoke:

"He's not here."

A shiver raced up Kendall's spine and a lump of fear formed in his throat.

The more muscular one snorted, a hard look in blue eyes as he glowered down at the young doctor. There was a strange sense of amusement lingering behind his dark, aggressive expression, like he'd been prepared for that response. "You're a shit liar, healer," he replied, corner of his lips turned up in a smirk. "I tracked him here myself. I can smell his scent."

Kendall gripped the edges of the gurney he was on, knuckles turning white. Panic had overruled his body, pushing his pulse upwards and making it harder to breathe. And all the while, he could hear that voice just screaming get out get out get out! But where could he go?

The prepster stepped closer to the doctor, right in his space, only inches separating the two of them. His entire face went hard, the amused smirk disappearing, replaced by the hard lines of fury. Kendall could even hear the crack of his knuckles as Polo Shirt clenched his fists. Or at least he imagined he had. He wasn't entirely sure he could hear anything over the sound of his thumping heart and the rush of blood in his ears.

"You're gonna tell me where he is," the larger male growled out the threat through gritted teeth and a tense jaw. "Or I'm gonna tear this entire place apart looking for him. After I slowly and painfully rip your skin off strip by strip."

Kendall's eyes widened, his fear growing for both him and the doctor. But as scared as he was for the other male, a nagging at the back of his head was telling him that he was the one in danger, he was the one who should be feeling threatened, he was the one whose life was at stake.

"Go ahead," Dr. Mitchell called his bluff, smirking up at the taller male. "Because I'm not telling you shit, half-breed."

A minor sort of befuddlement managed to work its way through the fear, Kendall sneering in confusion as he wondered what exactly that meant, why the doctor had called Polo Shirt that, why he'd said it in a disgusted tone. It was as though the term was meant to be an insult of some form, given how it was spat out like that.

That smirk tugged up at the corner of the prepster's lips and his eyes sparkled in a dark sort of delight. "Fine. Maybe I'll kill him in front of you so you know you've failed." He shrugged before continuing. "After we've tortured that map outta his head first."

Okay, time to go.

Kendall didn't hesitate to listen to his inner-voice this time, grabbing his backpack and quietly sliding down off the gurney. He slipped around to the opposite side of the curtain, trying to slide it aside, getting tangled before finally just lifting it up and ducking underneath. He crept into an unoccupied alcove, much like the one he was just in, and kept going, out the open curtain on the other side of the space. Believing he was out of immediate harm, he broke out into a mad dash, determined to get out and away from everyone in the hospital.

He nearly took down a nurse as he burst into the main throughway of the ER, calling out an apology as he kept running, not slowing down for shit. And, all right, he knew that speeding through a hospital probably made him appear suspicious, like he'd planted a bomb or escaped the metal ward, but he wasn't really interested in anything but getting out. Adrenaline and panic were fueling him, his entire body driven by a desperate desire to just gogogo.

Until he burst through the doorway and skidded into the waiting room.

The man in black was leaning against the wall, right next to the exit. The black marks on the side of his neck were visible like before, aviators still blocking half his face. But Kendall knew he was staring at him, had been waiting on him. He pushed away from the wall with tension in his shoulders, ready to spring into action. His fingers clenched into fists, muscles in his jaw ticking, long legs like coiled snakes prepared to burst into motion. But as tense as he was, as ready to fight as he looked, Kendall knew he wasn't in danger of getting his ass kicked.

At least not by present company.

Although now that Kendall thought about it, what the fuck was the guy even doing there in the first place? No fucking way was it a coincidence that he had been at the smaller male's street, outside his therapist's office, and now at the ER while he was getting checked out. Once was an occurrence, twice a coincidence, three times was a pattern.

Kendall had a stalker.

He panted heavily as he stood frozen a foot or so past the door, eyes wide while they took in the other male, his fear still prevalent in the forefront of his mind. The sudden reappearance of the man in black had freaked him out even more, doubling his desire to get out. His head snapped to the right, trying to find another way to escape. No such luck. To the left, the exit to the ambulance lot was visible several yards down a half-crowded hallway and he took off running without a second thought. He dodged bustling EMTs, frantic doctors, and a couple gurneys carrying new patients, ignoring the calls of those telling him that he shouldn't be down there, that he needed to go back to the waiting room, that he better stop running immediately.

The doors to the lot were open and he burst out into the afternoon sun, nearly colliding with a couple EMTs who were heading back to their ambulance, muttering out another apology before continuing his race toward the main parking lot.

His Vans slapped against the tarred ground, book bag hitting against his back, his breath sawing out in harsh pants, and he could feel the sweat dotting on his skin. He wasn't safe, not yet. At any moment Polo Shirt could realize where he'd gone and follow him, grab him, take him and... fuck only knew what, but it wasn't good.

Weird that he was more worried about the one he'd evaded without being noticed. The man in black had actually seen where he'd gone and posed a greater threat.

Whatever. He'd worry about that later.

He rounded the corner of the hospital, taking off across the parking lot, not entirely sure where he was going, but heading there fast. It wasn't until he saw a familiar face that he figured it out.

Although "saw" wasn't the right word. He'd nearly collided with her, too.

Kendall's hands flew out, grabbing hold of his foster mom's upper arms as he once again skidded to a halt, the strap of his backpack sliding down his arm and catching on his elbow.

"Whoa!" she cried out in shock, before worry took over, her blue eyes looking him up and down. "Kendall, what happened, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he wheezed out, forcing a small smile on his face, trying to convince her that he wasn't lying, that all really was well, and hey, they should leave, like, now.

"Are you okay? I heard about the accident at school. How's your arm?" She stepped back, taking hold of his arm and checking it for herself.

"Fine. See? No problems. Let's go." His words were hurrying out of his mouth, like they were already in the parking lot and waiting for him to catch up. He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her around and gently nudging her in the direction she'd been walking from.

"Wait," she objected, trying to stop him, digging her feet into the ground. "Shouldn't we talk to the doctor?"

"Already did."

"And he said you're okay?"

"Yup." It wasn't really a lie, but the medical professional hadn't actually objected when the teen had said so. "S'all good, now let's go." He kept pushing her, kept walking in the direction he hoped led to her car.

She was dubious as she looked up at him, flipping her red hair over her shoulder, glancing between him and the hospital doors. "What's the rush?"

The blond gave a quick glance behind him to make sure he hadn't been followed, that there were no strange men in polos or leather jackets or anything of the sort, before focusing in front of him once more, trying to pay attention to where he was walking. "Nothing. Just figured you'd wanna get back to work. I'm guessing you're on your lunch break or something and need to get back ASAP."

She gave him a look that was pure skepticism but didn't say anything, probably figuring her facial expression was enough.

The two of them reached her car and she unlocked the sedan. Kendall immediately got in the passenger seat and locked his door before she even pulled hers open. His seat belt on, he sat there, leg bouncing impatiently, arms wrapped around his backpack, mentally demanding she hurry up, start the car, and get them the fuck outta there.

A few seconds turned into a few years, before the engine finally rumbled to life and the vehicle backed out of its spot, on its way towards the main road. But Kendall still couldn't relax, not fully. Now that his mind wasn't focused on getting out of the ER, it was churning over a million other questions. Why hadn't he been burned, despite his arm being on fire? And why hadn't he noticed it, yet felt the burning sensation on his back, far away from the flames? Why had the doctor just believed his bullshit and let him go without actually checking out the afflicted area with his own eyes? Why was the prepster after him and what the fuck did he mean by the map in Kendall's head?

But out of everything he was confused about, the one thing he was focused on was the man in black, who he was, and when Kendall would get to see him again.

The high school had let out for the day, meaning Kendall didn't need to return. Instead, his foster mom dropped him off at home, reminding him that Katie was spending the night with a friend—so he'd have the house to himself. The teenager just nodded in response, getting outta the car with a strange sense of relief. Good. She wasn't gonna be near him. Being in his vicinity could prove dangerous to say the least. Despite being pretty damn sure he'd gotten away from both the prepster and the man in black, he still didn't believe he was totally safe.

His eyes darted over to the corner where the man in black had been spotted. The guy clearly knew where Kendall lived. Kendall just had to hope that he wouldn't return. Again.

Waving goodbye to his foster mom, Kendall played it cool, lumbering inside with his usual nonchalance. Door shut, he felt his panic overtake him once more. Despite running into Polo Shirt in public places, the muscular male hadn't thought twice to threaten him, yet he'd been safe when his foster mom had shown up. But with her headed back to work, it meant that protection was gone and he was vulnerable once more.

His hands shook as he locked the door. As an afterthought, he slid the chain in place, too. That nagging voice in the back of his head told him it was useless. If they wanted to, they'd figure out a way to get inside anyway. He shook the thought off, refusing to listen to it, refusing to give in to the paranoia.

He hurried into the living room, peeking out the window, scanning for any sort of threatening men hanging around. The street was empty, the usual cars parked in their own driveways, causing him to let out a relieved sigh. He hadn't been followed. He was safe.

For the moment at least.

Shuffling over to the couch, he tossed his backpack onto it before flopping down, grabbing the remote and switching the TV on. He needed a distraction. He needed the mindless drone of mid-afternoon talk shows to quiet the bullshit going on in his head, to help him forget the burning, the hospital, everything.

The TV came to life, the picture forming, sound soon joining. A familiar movie was displayed on the screen, playing on whatever channel the TV had been left on the night before. The Fantastic Four.

And it just happened to be the scene where Johnny Storm was having a snowboarding race with a female nurse he'd flirted with, his speed causing fire to form on his shoulders, arms, and legs as he headed down the mountain, before he fully burst into flames and seemingly flew off a small cliff and crashed into a snowbank several yards away.

Right, not the distraction Kendall was hoping for.

He switched the television off, flopping over his knees, mentally exhausted. Maybe what happened to him had been a fluke. Maybe the flames had just barely touched his arm hair and that's why his skin hadn't burned. Maybe...

Maybe he was losing his mind. Maybe that's why he went into that supposed psychogenic fugue state and woke up near a fast food parking lot. Now shit was just now getting worse.

Fucking awesome.

Forcing himself to his feet, he turned and headed to the kitchen, considering another distraction of stuffing his face. Seemed as good a plan as any really. Rummaging through the cabinets, he soon decided there was nothing to eat, despite the cupboards being full, despite the fridge being stocked. He ended up in front of the open freezer, debating if he actually wanted to bother with the oven in order to cook some of those buffalo bite things.

The oven made him think of his arm. He decided he wasn't hungry

Straightening up, he focused on his forearm. His skin was completely unmarred. Even the fine hairs on his arm were unsinged. Which defeated his whole "maybe only the hair caught on fire" theory—and therefore his entire strain of denial.

His lips twisted in thought, brow furrowed in concentration as he ran his fingers over the back of his arm, feeling for any imperfections, any defects, any injuries of any form. But there were none. Perfectly normal, perfectly fine. Perfectly fucking weird.

Maybe he was the Human Torch.

Nah. Storm could create fire himself, heat himself up from his core and cause flames to form on whatever part of his skin that he chose. Kendall could only survive being set aflame.

At least he did once.

An idea quickly formed in his head and before he knew it, he was rummaging through the junk drawer for a lighter. He quickly located it, smirking in victory as he bumped the drawer closed. His idea was idiotic and dangerous, but, hey, at least he was near a sink should anything go wrong.

Well, should anything else go wrong.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, flicking the black lighter and bringing a flame to life. His eyes remained fixated on it, watching the fire waver and dance. A small tingle broke out over his back, over the mark up his spine and across his shoulder blades, the sensation so minor it was easily ignored. Anticipation made his pulse quicken and his chest constrict and he knew he needed to just get it over with. Without any further hesitation, he touched his left forefinger to the flame and pulled it away.

The flame stayed on the tip of his finger.

Kendall gaped at it, completely awed. He didn't feel a damn thing on his finger—no pain, no burning, nothing. But the tingle on his back was getting worse, more noticeable, harder to ignore. He did it anyway, pushed the feeling to the back of his mind, focusing on the flame before him as he put his right finger tip to it and set it aflame as well.

Flames danced on both fingers, staying lit, not burning. So he put a flame on the left middle finger, the right one, continuing the pattern before all eight fingers and two thumbs were on fire. Fire that he could see but not feel. Not in a pained sorta way at least.

And he knew that he should be in agony, knew that his hands should not have been capable of such feats. Yet he felt like his back was taking the blow, searing lines into his spine and shoulders, making it harder and harder to bear.

He inhaled shakily, breathing out slowly, watching the flames flicker, but not go out. With a trembling hand, he trailed his fingers along the back of his right forearm, observing four lines of flames forming on his skin.

Kendall lifted his forearm, holding it at eye-level, getting a better look at it. The heat on his face, the glow in his eyes, the way the mixture of orange, red, and blue danced on his arm—it was real fire, all right. Maybe he was the Human Torch. If that was the case, maybe he could control the flames, make them bigger...

Worth a shot, right?

He concentrated on the flames with narrowed eyes, mind solely thinking of them getting bigger, of the fire growing. He imagined it happening, mentally picturing it, creative visualization and all that shit. Only it didn't happen the way he thought it would. Rather than the flames getting bigger, one big burst of fire flamed up, a ball of fire forming before dissipating immediately.

"Whoa!" He jumped back, arm flailing, the flames on his forearm and fingers going out. His heart hammered against his too tight chest, lungs hollow, muscles twitching and threatening to buckle. He felt shaky inside and out, noticing a slight tremor in his hands as he gawked down at them. Yeah, that hadn't worked out at all.

"What the—?" The front door banged loudly, and Kendall nearly jumped out of his apparently flame-retardant skin.

His head snapped around, frantically searching for any signs of what he'd just done. Counters were fine, sink, too. The ceiling wasn't burned after his fire ball—thankfully. And once again, his arms held no visual evidence of having been on fire. The only real clue that he'd been up to anything was the lighter he'd dropped earlier.

He quickly put it away before his eyes scanned his surroundings for a second time. A sudden burst of paranoia had him glancing out the window to make sure no one had witnessed what he'd done. Hard to explain to the neighbors what had happened when you weren't entirely sure of it yourself.

"Why is the chain on?!" Katie's voice was slightly muffled against the partially open door, confused and irritated with the situation at hand. Although, really, Katie wasn't even supposed to be home.

He shook his head, taking a deep breath to calm himself. With the same phony nonchalant gait he'd used to enter the house, he headed to the front hallway. He closed the door for only a moment as he unchained it from the wall, then pulled it open with a sigh to let the girl enter. Along with her pre-teen attitude.

"'Bout time," she stated, dropping her book bag by the front door before heading to the kitchen. "Why was the chain on anyway?"

He followed her, watching as she opened the cabinet and pulled down a bag of pretzels. "Safety." Well, he wasn't technically lying here. "Why are you home? Thought you were heading to that Sarah girl's place."

"Sally," she corrected, opening the fridge and grabbing a soda. "And she's sick. Thank god, she's so weird. Dunno why Jennifer wants me to hang with her." She paused for a brief moment, before see-sawing her head and continuing her ramble. "Okay, I do, but seriously, I'm fine not having friends, especially if it means I don't hafta hang around people who are always so happy and peppy and gee golly gosh, isn't life a barrel of rainbows?" Her voice got higher toward the end of her sentence in a false sense of cheer, phony grin on her face as she batted her eyelashes in a move that was pure sarcasm. Rolling her eyes, she made a gagging noise, sticking her finger in her open mouth. "Can't stand people like that. I mean, it's impossible to be that giggly all the time. I swear that chick's not human."

Kendall inhaled sharply, spine stiffening. He knew the comment wasn't aimed at him, but for some reason, he still felt the sting of the insinuation that someone was anything other than human.

His reaction went unnoticed, thankfully, Katie more focused on popping open her soda and drinking. Turning to her foster brother, she quirked an eyebrow, making him think that maybe his unspoken response hadn't been as under the radar as he believed it to be. "Don't you have work?" Or not.

Work! He'd forgotten all about it! Kendall's head snapped to the left, checking the microwave for the time. Right. He needed to get ready and head out. Maybe bagging groceries and helping little old ladies to their cars would help clear his head.

Not to mention there was no chance of him catching on fire there.

At least he hoped there wasn't.

His shift at Sherwood's Grocery went by without incident, without anything out of the ordinary happening. Thank god. Kendall was able to shove aside all the bullshit of the past couple days and focus on the thoughtless actions his job required. Stocking shelves, gathering carts, bagging groceries and carrying them to various vehicles for various people. Really, the only out of the ordinary thing that happened was someone's bratty six-year-old knocking over a display and causing a soda explosion to cover parts of aisles three and four. Fun stuff.

But it was the kind of mindless monotony that he needed. A few drama-free hours and he was feeling human again, normal. He'd totally forgotten about fire-resistant skin, stalking brunets, and threatening prepsters, remembering instead what it was like to be just a normal teenager with normal teenage duties. And it felt good.

His job done for the day, he left the grocery store, waving goodbye to a co-worker as he walked over to the bike rack. His bicycle was the only one there and he crouched down, twisting the combination to unlock it, only to stop when an eerie sensation hit him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and his heart rate picked up, a sense of unease washing over him. He twisted his head to look behind him, checking over both shoulders and not seeing anything, just his co-worker getting in his car.

Okay, seriously, the paranoid bullshit needed to stop immediately. He was getting fucking sick of all of it, of constantly worrying that something was out to get him and that his life was in danger at all times. He refused to live that way.

Shaking his head, he turned back to his bike, working on the second number on his lock. But, like before, he was stopped, an intense feeling of being watched hitting him, paralyzing him, making his breath halt in his throat and his heart to pound even harder.

"Hello again, Map."

Shit.

Kendall didn't move, didn't even acknowledge Polo Shirt, keeping his eyes on his lock. He could hear steps behind him, the other male pacing over to his right, towering over him. Because apparently the dude wasn't intimidating enough when Kendall was at full height. A wave of terror hit the teen, the panic he'd been feeling increasing tenfold, and his mind was screaming at him to run once again.

Only he couldn't. The larger man was blocking his path.

"Sorry I missed you at the hospital," the blue eyed one spoke, meandering back to Kendall's left. "Glad to hear your arm is okay though. It was your arm, right?"

Kendall still didn't move, barely breathed, just stared at his lock, wondering if he could twist it to the final number so he could get the chain off and use it to defend himself. Probably not. The way things were going for him lately, his intentions would be discovered and halted. He was about ten levels of fucked at the moment.

Oh, his days were just getting more and more fun, weren't they?

"I'm sure it was quite a shock to you though," the muscular one continued. "Your arm catching on fire like that. And then you come out of it unharmed. Quite a miracle, wouldn't you say?" He sounded as though he was making polite conversation, yet there was a mocking lilt to his voice. Clearly he was aware of what happened and was amused at the other man's ignorance and surprise over the results. He was enjoying having something up on him, enjoying the advantage of knowing something Kendall didn't and using it against him in a way. It was obvious in the tone of his voice, the staccato in which he spoke, the smirk he was most likely sporting almost audible in his words.

Kendall swallowed hard, surreptitiously moving his fingers, trying to undo his lock anyway. He wasn't going down without a fight.

Only he never managed to get the final number lined up. Claws dug into the back of his neck, much like they had on his arm the day before. He yowled in pain as he felt them sink into his flesh.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The words were growled out, the threat going unspoken. Not that it needed to be said. The stinging sensation on his neck was enough to let Kendall know that the other male wasn't fucking around. "You and I have a lot to discuss, starting with where the Key is."

"I don't know anything about a key," Kendall gasped out, shoulders hunched up, face scrunched in pain, eyes squeezed shut. He had no idea why this was happening; what the fuck was going on; what the guy was talking about. But the biggest question on his mind was why he wasn't being saved. Where the hell was—

Was who?

The claws dug in more, causing Kendall to cry out louder. His hand flew up to grab hold of the other male's wrist in an attempt to pull him away. But his habit of chewing on his nails clearly was his downfall, rendering him unable to dig in and cause any pain in return. Didn't stop him from trying though.

Polo Shirt leaned down, face alongside Kendall's. His lips curved into a sneer, features hard as he practically snarled in the teen's ear. "I think you do, Map. And I think it'd be best for you if you tell me what I wanna know. Maybe then I'll take it easy on you." The pain in Kendall's neck grew and he tightened his grip around the large man's wrist.

Kendall knew there was no way he'd win, no way he could do any damage and get away unscathed, at least not without some major trickery. Deciding to bluff his way outta the situation and hope for the best, he gave in, gasping out a response.

"Okay," he choked out, before swallowing hard. "Okay. I'll tell you. I'll tell you. Just lemme up."

A growl sounded by his ear, pissed but curious enough to give him a chance. "Fine." He straightened up, dragging Kendall up to his feet by the grip on his neck, the claws still digging into his skin.

Kendall didn't release the guy's wrist, claws still making their presence painfully known. He grunted, his jaw tightening as he was spun around to face the prepster. His feet planted, body no longer being jostled, he acted swiftly, right leg shooting up and kicking Polo Shirt right in the groin. Because, hey, it worked the first time. Why wouldn't it a second?

He whimpered in pain, curling into himself. Not wasting the opportunity, Kendall knocked his arm away before punching him in the face, hearing the crunch of bone against his fist. Another kick to the midsection and Kendall took off running across the parking lot, leaving his bike behind without a thought.

His feet slapped against the pavement, panting making his throat burn and his chest hurt, but he didn't stop, didn't slow down. It was the hospital all over again and he didn't even spare a second's thought to hope someone would show up much like his foster mom had. No way would he be that lucky, not again.

Then again, he'd been wrong before, too.

A black sports car pulled to a stop in front of him, passenger window rolling down, much like the day before. Only he knew it wouldn't be Jennifer behind the wheel. For starters, there was no way she'd even consider driving a Camaro, much less show up to save his ass a third time in one. And when the driver leaned over, he found out how right he was.

It was the man in black, aviators and all.

"Get in the car," he commanded.

The blond snapped his head behind him, seeing Polo Shirt in pursuit.

"No time to hesitate," the driver pointed out. "Get in."

"I don't thi—"

"Get in the fucking car, Kendall!"

Well, when it was put that way...

He opened the passenger door, clambering into the sports car. And before he could even get the door shut, the man in black had slammed his foot on the gas and sped off, fishtailing it out the parking lot and onto the main road.

The car lurched from side to side as the driver straightened it out, jostling Kendall around. His shaky hands struggled to get a grip on the seat belt, yanking it hard and getting it caught. He grit his teeth as he mentally pleaded with the fabric strip to cooperate, head jerking back and forth between the seat belt and the windshield. Finally he was able to pull enough out in order to safely strap himself in, clipping it in place. He then scrambled for a grip to steady himself as the car swerved with another wide turn to the left, nearly crashing into an oncoming driver. "Watch it!"

"I got it," he replied, calmly, not sounding like someone who'd narrowly avoided a major collision on a main road.

Kendall wasn't entirely sure about all that, tightening his grip as the car weaved in and out of traffic. He watched with wide eyes as a speed limit sign whizzed past him, almost ironic in its suggestion.

"Don't you think maybe you should slow down?" he suggested over the rumble of the engine, eyes still locked onto the windshield, terrified and doing his very best not to show it.

He was failing. Miserably.

"Yeah, suuure," came the sarcastic response, the brunet shrugging in a mocking way. "Let's just slow down and let the half-breed catch us. Genius idea, Kendall."

Surprise hit Kendall like the eighteen-wheeler truck they zoomed by, head jerking towards the stranger. "How do you know my name, anyway?"

The other male turned to him, the facial features that weren't covered by his aviators flat and expressionless. Kendall searched for his eyes behind the shadow of the sunglasses, trying to find something to hold onto and ground himself inside a car that was still tossing him about. "I know a lot more about you than you do. Which isn't saying much considering your memory loss. But still. I know you and I know every answer to every question you have. You just gotta trust me."

And for some unknown reason, Kendall did trust him. Despite the danger and the panic and the fear that was overtaking him, he also felt a strange sense of safety, a feeling that the man in black would protect him if the need arose. Kendall wasn't the one in danger anymore; but that couldn't be said about anyone who was a threat to him.

Letting out a long breath, he slumped down, releasing his death-grip on both the seat and the handle. He reminded himself that he was outta the danger zone—for the time being anyway—and that it was okay to be at ease now. Focusing on that thought, the tension eased from his body. Mentally, he repeated his new mantra, that he was safe, that there was no danger, that nothing was wrong.

Except they just missed the turn-off for his street.

Kendall turned to the brunet, full of unspoken questions and a prickle of unnerved rage. "Uh. This isn't the way to my house."

"We're not going to your house."

Okay, what?

His confusion grew, hand flying up to grab onto the handle as the man in black swerved in traffic again, narrowly avoiding another collision. "Why not?"

"Because Jett's tracking you," he began, swerving back into the right lane, one glove covered hand on the stick shift, switching gears. "He's not gonna give up until he has you, meaning he'll follow you anywhere: work, school, home." He turned his head and gave a pointed look before turning back to the windshield. "And he's not gonna give a shit about anyone else who gets in his way. Including your foster mom and sister."

Kendall swallowed hard. While he didn't feel all that close to his foster family—or anyone really, since that inner-voice he had tended to keep his mouth shut and other people at arm's length—he still had an overwhelming desire to protect Katie at all costs, to take care of her, to keep her safe. And if keeping her away from danger meant he had to never return to that house, he'd do it.

Slumping down in his seat again, Kendall refocused his eyes outside, chewing absently on his thumbnail. They were leaving the suburbs behind, leaving the entire city really, as the highway stretched ahead of them, out of town. A highway that seemed eerily familiar. Only he'd been heading in the opposite direction, on his way to the hospital.

He sat up straight again, staring at the passing trees, the wooded area whizzing by. Then he saw a familiar parking lot up ahead. His heart plummeted.

"Stop," he requested, voice even, calm. "Stop." The repeated word was louder, still not acknowledged, before he finally yelled it out. "Stop!"

"What?!"

"Pull into the parking lot."

"Why?"

"Just do it!"

The leather-clad one shook his head and Kendall had the feeling that the driver was rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. But he still did as he was asked, slowing and pulling off the road. The car was still in motion when Kendall bailed out.

"Kendall!" The brakes squealed over the man in black's voice, but he ignored them both, bolting for the woods. But he wasn't trying to get away. He was trying to get to.

He avoided trees, fallen branches, exposed roots, panting, running, feeling out his destination rather than searching for it. He wouldn't know it through memory alone. He just knew that he'd know when he got there.

And wasn't that just confusing as fuck?

He slowed to a stop, feeling the leaves crunch under his sneakers, hearing the sounds of small rodents scurrying away. The sky was dark, the cover of trees not nearly as much as it had been six months ago, bare branches sticking out in every direction. But this was the spot. He just knew it.

Leaves crunched behind him, the sounds of his companion approaching. Neither said anything. Kendall peered around the area, trying to figure out why he'd stopped, why the spot was so important.

His latest therapy session came to mind, the memory brought up under hypnosis. It happened there. It had really, actually, truly happened.

But there was more to it than that. He'd been tackled, knocked down from behind. He'd been...

His head began to ache and his face scrunched up as he frowned in aggravation and confusion. He rubbed his forehead, stifling a groan, wishing he could remember.

"I know you and I know every answer to every question you have." The stranger's words from the car echoed in his head and he turned to face him, face hard, serious, determined.

"What happened here?" he demanded to know, pointing to the ground with a trembling hand. "And why can't I remember any of it?" He felt completely overwhelmed, his mind spinning as he struggled to get a grip on what was happening. His stomach was in knots, a mix of anxiety and adrenaline, although he wasn't entirely sure if it was something left over from what happened there before or if it was a result of everything that had happened that day.

The man in black swallowed hard, slipping his aviators off his nose, allowing Kendall to see his whole face, see the way his features rearranged into an expression of pain, of hurt, of guilt, of a million different, horrible things.

Dread prickled at the back of his neck, a subconscious belief that he wasn't gonna like the answers he'd be given. But he needed them, needed to finally know what happened so he could start filling in the blanks in his head—and his life. "Tell me," he begged in a shaky voice, eyes pleading with the man before him.

The stranger looked around, avoiding eye contact, as he put his hands on his hips. Finally, he looked at Kendall, met green eyes with his dark ones, letting him know he was dead serious.

"You died here, Kendall. You were killed."