He laid in hospital-type bed, all alone in the center of an empty room. Empty, save for the machine that monitored his heart rate and blood pressure, and the IV stand that dripped fluids into his arm. It was silent, too, save for the steady beep of the machine.

His eyes moved beneath his lids as he dreamed. It was a dream of something ugly, a dream that was more like a nightmare.

There was a one-way window on one wall; through it, no less than four pairs of eyes watched him. They'd been there for hours, yet none of them felt the need to move. The boy in the hospital bed had caught their interest in such a way that none of them were willing to step away.

What were they going to do with him? They had wondered. Was it even worth the effort? They hadn't known how far gone the boy was. Yet, in each of them, some more than others, there was something that urged them to try.

So they watched the sleeping boy in the hospital bed. They gazed as his white, tired face, and his messy blond hair, and they waited.

ararara

The boy came awake slowly. It was slow drift from the world in his dreams to the world of reality, and when he first opened his eyes, he was unsure if he was still in a dream. The white room was cold and quiet, and he felt very alone.

A dull pain throbbed in his chest. He tried to lift a hand to see what caused it, but soon realized that the only movement he could make was a mere twitch of the fingers. This, he inwardly decided, could only be a part of his nightmarish dreams. The real world was surely not like this. But with that thought, came the suspicion that he must have been dreaming for a long, long time.

A door opened. Three people walked in, and the boy's eyes widened a bit when he recognized one of them. That man, he knew well. He hated that man, yet had obeyed him more than once. That man had led him into so many dangerous situations, and had stolen away his childhood.

The boy opened his mouth, and whispered hoarsely. "Alan. . .Blunt..."

Alan Blunt didn't smile. He frowned, and pulled up a chair to sit near the foot of the bed. The tall, thin man did the same. The third man, dressed in the white coat of a doctor or lab tech, rolled in a small table, which held a thick file, and a small bowl of peppermints.

The boy watched these proceedings with a tired curiosity. He wondered what was going on, but his fogged mind was too weary to try and figure it out. He waited, sure that one of them would tell him what they were doing.

"Good afternoon," Alan Blunt said, once everything was organized. He leaned over, and plucked a peppermint from the a bowl. The boy watched as the Head of MI6 unwrapped the candy, and popped it into his mouth. That action was strangely familiar...and brought a deep ache to his gut. He couldn't figure out why.

Blunt moved the candy to one side of his mouth so that he could talk. It made a bulge in one cheek, and the boy couldn't help but stare at it. However, Blunt's next words grabbed the boy's attention, fast. "We should have done this right from the start; it would've prevented this whole mess. However, we will tell you now — the truth about your father."

The truth about my father? The boy felt like he'd been blindsided by a truck. The truth? His father? Wasn't his father a Scorpia agent? What did Blunt mean, the truth?

"Algonthin," Blunt made a gesture towards the tall and thin man sitting next to him. "If you would."

Algonthin took a moment to stare at the boy. His facial expression was . . .nonexistent. Yet those eyes in the mask-like face were very alert and intense. He blinked, then picked up the folder laying on the table. Pulling out a black and white photo, he held it up so the boy could see.

"This is your father, age twenty-six," he said softly. The boy stared at the photo. The man in the picture was wearing some kind of military uniform, and had a watchful, alert gaze that seemed to stare straight at him.

Algonthin put the photo down. "He was part of the Parachute Regiment at Aldershot, which happens to be the toughest Regiment in the British army. Quite an achievement, as it was second only to the SAS. Anyway, your father spent three years with them. He saw quite a lot of action, and received a medal for carrying a wounded soldier to safety while under heavy fire."

The boy listened intently, taking in every word. He gained a picture in his mind of the man in the photo running through a forest, a unconscious soldier slung over a shoulder, while bullets thudded into tree trunks and kicked up dirt all around them. It was a . . .heroic picture.

"He returned to England," Algonthin went on, "and got married to your mother. She was studying medicine, and later became a radiologist. However, shortly after their marriage, things started to go wrong." The Deputy Head paused, and glanced at the file. Then he went on, his intent gaze never leaving the boy.

"A few weeks after the wedding, your father got involved in a fight at a pub. He ended up killing a man, quite by accident. He received a dishonorable discharge, and was sent to prison. After a year, he was quietly released. However, this was what Scorpia told you, right? It was all just a cover. The fight in the pub, the prison sentence — that was just a false story to lure in Scorpia."

"A. . .cover?" the boy asked, somewhat surprised.

Algonthin blinked. "Yes. Your father worked for us. He joined Scorpia as our spy; he was our eyes and ears, so to speak. He was a brilliant agent, and he provided us with valuable information that saved many lives."

"But...Mrs. Rothman said he killed people!" The boy exclaimed hoarsely. "She said he was an assassin!"

"He was pretending to be a dangerous killer," Algonthin calmly said. "So of course, he had to kill. However, his victims were all criminals, and those few that weren't — we faked their deaths. As for Albert Bridge — where MI6 supposedly killed your father — that was fake as well. Scorpia thought MI6 killed him in cold blood, but it was all an act."

The boy was white as a ghost. "He. . .didn't die. . .?"

"No." Algonthin's words were soft, but iron firm. "MI6 did not kill your father. Mrs. Jones had nothing to do with his death. Rather, she was responsible for saving his life."

"I. . ." The boy could not form a word.

"Scorpia is a powerful organization," Algonthin plowed on. "They somehow found out that your father was still alive, and arranged a bomb to go off in a plane that they were traveling in. That was how your father really died. Scorpia killed him."

Algonthin fell silent. The room became silent.

And the boy trembled. A lie. . .it has to be a lie. But why would they lie to him? There was no reason to. . .was there? Could this just be an elaborate set up just to draw him away from Scorpia? It couldn't. . .

He didn't want it to be, he realized. He didn't want to be stuck with Scorpia any -

Scorpia killed him.

The boy froze.

Tulip Jones had nothing to do with his death. Rather, she was responsible for saving his life.

He suddenly saw her in mind's eye, standing before him. He saw himself too, holding the gun, aiming. The gun spat out a bullet, and he could only watch as she died. By his hand.

"No," he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. He want to grab his head and force out that horrible image, but he was too weak to even lift a hand. His body shuddered as his cruel mind replayed the memory again, pounding in the fact that. . .

Mrs. Jones had been innocent of his father's death.

He had killed an innocent woman. . .someone who didn't deserve to die. He'd killed her in cold blood.

"Noo," he moaned, struggling. He didn't want to see this! He didn't want to remember this! Just go away! All of it, just go away! But he couldn't escape. "I — I killed her!" He cried out. "And she — she. . ."

He shuddered, his face contorting into an expression of horror. "I killed her. . ." he whispered. "I murdered her. . ."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tried to tell himself that this was a lie. That it wasn't real. That it was a dream, a part of his never-ending nightmare. But he knew the truth. It was real.

And his father. . .he'd become someone so very different from his father. His father was not a murderer of innocents. He turned his face away, and shook with silent sobs.

The boy broke.

ararara

For a long time, I float. I wrap myself in darkness, in silence, in nothingness, and I float alone. But then the whispers start drifting in.

"You can start over," they say.

"Forget the past and move on. Start a new life."

Start over. Forget.

How can I forget? How can I possibly forget?!

I am a murderer.

A killer.

And my father . . . I don't want to think about how I have failed him.

There is nothing left for me but hell.

Nothing, really, but death.

If only I knew how ironic that thought was.