"You," She pointed a languid finger at Io.

"It's always you. Tell me, why is that?"

Io would have gladly told her that he did not have the privilege of knowing as well, and that if he did, he would like to relay this to the headmistress in return. Perhaps even find a way to prevent all these events from occurring, at best.

It wasn't as if he had asked for such attention—all these...eyes.

"I-it's really nothing Ma'am," Vijay said on behalf of his friend who did not answer. "Just an accident." He continued in a strained voice. "Nothing happened."

"I'm sorry—did I give you permission to speak?" V smiled sweetly, scoffing as she turned to the storm petrel. Vijay fell silent, backing away with a bowed head.

"Apparently not," She answered the question herself with the satiated smile of a predator. "Well then why don't you give me an answer, sparrow? We won't wait all day. Rather impatient you see, us predators." The headmistress picked at a lump of whipped potato caught on a strand of Io's hair.

He gritted his teeth at the brief sensation of her nails on his scalp, awfully disturbed.

"I was walking, Ma'am."

"Walking?" V mused, "oh how terrifying you must be for Fortune to condone your very feet on earth," She basked in the glory of sarcasm, taking pride in the reactions of the audience.

"He was pushing it, Miss. V," The one who tripped the boy came forth with a smirk, despite the bleeding lip that he sported. "Claiming he wants a rematch of the games." The leer came with a condescending prod on Io's chest—near his heart; where he was already hurt.

"Don't touch him."

The eagle's warning carved itself in the air like dagger to stone; lasting. Attention drew from the sparrow to him, and all seemed to watch with bated breath. It amused the headmistress thoroughly, as though this was all entertaining to her soulless eyes and the hellish world was the only color she adored.

"Yes, don't. Pray don't touch him—you'd have to wash your hands," V dismissed airily. "What's this talk about the games, dear? I didn't know you were so bitter about your defeat."

Several scoffed along the lines of a 'sore loser'.

Io couldn't help but agree.

There was the breaking of his resolve; a sound so treacherous that it betrayed his heart that stood its ground—resolve was weak. Petty. Cursed to dust.

Resolve was beginning to think the heart a burden, for perhaps it ought to yield to the comfort of darkness after all.

"It's nothing."

"Nothing?" The headmistress gladly used his words against him; it was a perfect example to show them where they were; where they stood—

"Silly sparrow. There's no use going back on your words, is there? Let us hear what you have to say."

He swallowed hard.

There was no turning back; the dark path ahead had materialized before his cage.

"I don't think I lost during the games," He cracked. "So I'd like you to reconsider."

"Is that all?" The vulture nodded musingly. "How trivial!"

"Why didn't you say so before? Such unnecessary commotion over minor matters—you just want a second chance, then?"

"Yes," Io nodded carefully. "Yes Ma'am."

—underneath her feet.

"Wonderful," She marveled in false awe. "Perfect—just what we needed, a brilliant distraction." The headmistress barely looked at him as she said so, ascending the short steps to her seat in the front of the hall. "Well, what do you think of this foolish plan, Faustes?"

Professor Faustes could hear the languid sigh of his heart; but it wasn't as if he hadn't saw this coming.

Beside him was a frightened widowbird trying to control the weak tremble in his bones—Callaghan, really, but not one of his students could relate the deathly skin he wore upon his face to the socially-awkward, poised warmth that hid beneath his smile on a normal basis.

"No. I am against it—the Mark does not fully understand the full consequences of his request," Faustes was quick douse Io's hopes that was beginning to build. "What of the Marks who have been hunted in Season? Does he intend to offer that the predators return their prey?"

"Indeed, that would be impossible," V considered with a yawn. "Well then you have your answer, sparrow—case closed."

The intent audience breathed once again and they began to whisper amongst themselves; oblivious to the one who so wished to bend the bars of his cage.

Lost in his battle, he did not wish to cause the harm and pain that he so selfishly brought upon the people who cared for him. Whereas his eyes were telling, Luka's spoke of a defended soul without emotion—but even Io knew the words of the heart that were often unspoken, for no heart could remain silent on waves of destruction.

The whispers spoke of him; of his friend, the eagle; of the Indian boy who stood beside him, not knowing where to go or what to do and whether the things he was hearing were about him, or someone else, whether he should be afraid of the punishment to come, wondering if someone would stand up for them any time soon—

"I would like to suggest a vote," The Phoenix rose from her seat, fairly soundless, as if from the ash itself.

The hall paled to a hush in the wake of her words; listening.

"Jane," The headmistress acknowledged shortly—without interest—and had the phoenix been particular about the way people treated her, she would have had her in the flames. V sounded almost bored.

"You have something to say?"

"Yes. I would like to suggest a vote," Jing repeated with a tone that lacked assertion. The vulture raised a dangerous brow and someone tugged at the girl's arm in warning.

"井、干什么呀妳？还不快坐下—"

"And why is that, dear?" The headmistress inquired sweetly. "Is it not clear to you that the numbers differ? There are twice the number of Marks in the school, as far as I'm concerned."

Jing nodded, slackening her arm that was tensed in another boy's grip. "I am aware that the numbers are not to our favor, Professor," She said without heed, and several were taken aback by her lack of censorship. "We must, however, consider that more than half the Marks have a predator and thus will not vote unnecessarily for their kind. I believe that this will make the vote a fair deed."

Surprised, the audience could not help but stare at the bare words, raw, laid themselves before their eyes. However much she lacked the spirit to euphemize her point; to coat; to lie; to make truth die; these words were not things that any predator—much less the president of the council, the phoenix—would take pride in speaking.

The vulture laughed; heartless. "I see your point. Intelligently laid out, I must admit. Far too easy to understand in fact," She jabbed subtly. "I respect your benevolence, dear—but I'm afraid the matter at hand is quite simple. A prey has insulted a predator; and, by extension, the rest of us."

"How do you suggest we settle this, then? Surely, a vote will not be necessarily. I'm afraid the conversation has progressed beyond the decision to reward a rematch to a sore loser."

Jing held her gaze but did not speak. Her heart weighed upon her chest and her will to do anything had long diminished. She had rather sit down in her space; away from everything.

"He should apologize," The predator who had made a spectacle of Io said with conviction, smiling wryly at the power in his words he spoke, for they were in favor of V.

The headmistress laughed with a nod. "What a pleasant suggestion. Simple, short, and terribly easy to understand. How generous of you to save the boy some pride—well, sparrow, won't you obey?"

Luka met his gaze and for some reason, Io could almost hear him. No, not just him; he was beginning to hear everyone—the predator blocking his way, that friend by his side, the guy at the back, the one who told Jing to sit—

Words were loud.

He felt them ring in his ears, beat in the very core of his heart, resounding against its cage—what was going on?

Io seized the fire of thought and held it against the one he was looking at. Luka's eyes were ablaze, as if reflecting the state of Io's mind and for all intents and purposes, he was glad to have him by his side.

"Come on," The predator provoked with a grin so disgusting. "Apologize."

He advanced, drawing closer till he was completely in Io's line of sight. All else was blocked; V, Luka—the light.

Darkness seemed to close its hand upon his heart.

The predator stopped for a moment. There was a hand on his shoulder and its grip was harsh.

He turned with an incomprehensive frown, barely understanding the reason for the eagle's intervention. He shoved Luka's hand off himself, scoffing albeit nervously at his clear defiance. Golden eagles were ranked above him.

"What? Afraid I'll hurt your friend?" He challenged, drawing upon a blunted courage as he, yet again, swung a fist in which Luka caught easily. The latter's grip was a vice, that, upon a slight angle, yielded a virulent crack from the predator's wrist.

"Yes."

Luka had answered without mind. The kite cursed sharply.

Io stepped between them—understanding that this was, realistically, a burden to be borne by one no other than himself. "Do you have to be someone's friend to stand up for him?"

"I mean, it doesn't matter whether you know them or not, don't humans stand up for each other?" Io reasoned, and the entire hall heard this with bated breath.

"I'm afraid that is rather naïve, little sparrow," V commented dismissively, surveying the rest of the population under ugly scrutiny.

Their tiny faces painted fear, despair, pride, honor—so many things she detested but most of all emotion; emotion was a useless tool in survival.

It lit no fire; caught no fish; built no shelter.

Emotion

was dead.

"Well look at you all," She addressed with a wry smile. "Feathers ruffled by something so trivial—alright then."

"You can have your silly game."

A wave swept the hall and it seized rational thought to be killed under the deceptive hand of hope.

"What?" The predator beside Io began with a rage so hot it was white. "You can't be serious ma'am; the sparrow doesn't deserve it!"

He silenced himself however, upon glancing at the golden eagle who was in earshot. Detrimental mistake, really.

Io couldn't believe his ears; it made him to Vijay with eyes so wide they contained a certain light.

V however, was quick to bind the population with shackled truth.

"But what fun can games provide if we don't raise the stakes?"

He almost knew what was coming—

"Useless as you are, dear sparrow, I'd like to have the pleasure of deciding who you belong to. What an unlucky predator they might be, to have someone so plain."

Laughter came from the right and it assaulted his senses just as her words did.

"Oh you might be of some use, I don't know. Watching the door?" He learnt that laughter was the sound of predators. A roar.

"No no, that would make you nothing more than a pet!" She expanded on this and he wanted so much to leave the darkness that drew closer upon his cage.

Luka searched in Io's eyes, only to find a growing distance between the latter and reality. He wanted to warn him against it—no, there was no turning back if the headmistress decided his owner; his predator.

There was one person; and only one person—

______________________________

Vaughn often had the luxury of being alone in his life.

He was, once again, consuming the contents of an oddly-colored pot which were rapidly vanishing with every pull of his chopsticks. The dish on the side that was once filled with cold kimchi had long forgotten its purpose of being. Its use depleted upon the vulture's swift completion of dinner, it sat palely on the corner of his kitchen counter—where Vaughn had stood finishing his pot of instant Kimchi ramyeon.

There was, really, no point in sitting.

He saw no purpose of that action when one could simply eat on the spot. Consuming food—the action of feeding—did not necessarily have to be done while sitting.

After all...there was no one to sit with.

The curtain of hair that so often fell on his back was pulled back by a hair tie in the most effortless manner possible. There was no one looking at him. Effort was not needed.

Still, effort was needed to keep his unnecessarily large dormitory in living condition. In fact, Vaughn was fond of the order that possessed the world just so; or at least that was what he told himself. Therefore, he found his hands under the running tap, rinsing the pot he had used, stopping to drain its contents, filling it with the dishwashing liquid that smelled very much like green apple; scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing again—repeating.

And his life was just that.

A repeat.

As broken as he was, Vaughn found a satisfaction in routine. It made him forget about emotion; that he had any.

He donned his coat soon after, thinking that one might be unfortunate enough to meet him along the corridors as he minded his way to the destination he had fixed for several weeks.

Yet another misfortune pounded on his heart that was immune: Vaughn was right.

He did meet someone.

Cameron, down the main corridor of the highest floor, was shutting the door to his dormitory with a languid yawn.

Something within the vulture seized pale thought upon the sight and still heart began to beat uselessly fast as though for some reason, Vaughn needed to be more alive.

"A—" Voice caught in his throat, in which he swallowed for words were death and he was already dead.

Cameron's head snapped in his direction, the usual awkward angle that all owls were capable of executing. The Nocturne then straightened his back, clearing his throat with a fair nod before increasing the distance between them.

What purpose? For there was already a gulf between...friends.

This was no time to turn away from routine, no. His flow of mind, of rational thought, was not to be disturbed by the forces of a pale and miserable heart. Nevertheless, it took him several minutes to repair the dented bars of his cage and for his feet to continue on their purposeless journey.

Vaughn wondered if he should have said something; forced the words out of his lips.

But fear got the better of him.

The most useless fear of all.

"...good evening," He said to himself.

*

The vulture arrived at the infirmary moments after the intended hour, scaring Mrs. Goldfinch to her rightful place in her office and leaving the place quite empty except for the still girl by a dying fire.

Dying was a suitable word; or so Vaughn determined by the weakness of her heart. But if this, then, meant the drying of life, was he—too—not on the verge of the abyss himself?

His footsteps emptied the air of its dull warmth, leaving a chill that killed even the fire itself. He paused beside her bed, tip of his shoe grazing the frame just a little from his close proximity. Pipa's pale face drew on his soul with a fragile tug almost as if he felt the tragedy of pity.

Pity was cheap.

His fingers; cold, brushed aside the sunny fringe that seemed to dull upon her sleep.

Vaughn recalled how her smile—a gentle cloud, sweet in its passing—disgusted him so. And even before he had pulled the trigger, how she had clung to that useless smile, believing so naively that he would come to his senses and be cleansed by something so pure.

He had not deserved that smile.

Benumbed faith filled the sleeping creature in his cage; casting a curse upon the quiet happiness he had once possessed—so that it fell into a permanent rest.

Pipa did not stir as he sat on the edge of her miserable bed, sheets creasing with his intrusion, as if protesting against his presence.

"You're weaker than the others," Vaughn began.

He laughed shortly, looking at the stone-paved floor that seemed to eat him up.

The weapon he had used to steal her soul filled the pocket of his dark coat; resting uncomfortably against the place where his heart once was.

"Just like me."

The vulture had not the strength to look at the canary. Her chest did not rise—nor did it fall; she was not breathing, and he could not hear the sound of her life.

Was she dead?

Vaughn knew better, and he knew she was not.

There were many things that identified the dead and somehow, the mere criteria of a beating heart seemed close to irrelevant in such a broken place. In the world he lived in, having a heart was simply too troublesome. You had to give it up; or let it be fed on by the predator that was society and lose it nevertheless.

For one to survive, they must not have a heart.

For one to survive; they had to be

Dead.

His mother was right. She'd always been—from the moment he had been friends with that one person, that one predator, she knew that it would not last. There was only pain in love and there was nothing else to be acknowledged but the fact that it was a poor investment. Placing hopes on love was placing an empty bet that was only going to lose itself amongst many other things and this;

This was why he had to kill himself.

He had to put his heart away.

And soon—this girl would, too.

____________________________

On his way back, he felt the gun speak to him; the many souls inside mourning for the loss of their owner, trying to find their way home.

But there was no home.

The place that housed the soul was long destroyed; consumed by the forces of a world that preyed on the weak—the heart was gone, and this was how Vaughn left his prey to be.

He broke them, just like he was himself.

It terrified him, the first time he had done it—pulled the trigger and stole the soul from a tiny hummingbird's chest—

She did not scream.

The order was simple; falling into a sleep so deep that consciousness lost its way in the darkness of a broken mind—the gun did not give anything. No, not a bullet.

The nature of Death was that it stole.

It takes the lives of not one but many; the people who loved the one who died under its hand, the humans who cared, the peace of humanity—

Living was not simply being alive.

He took the gun out of his pocket, caressing the grooves that were cold to touch. It soothed the heat of his mind and to know that there was a secret that only he and his mother knew—the fact that there never was a bullet—fueled a spark in his consciousness.

Silencer was special.

It was his brother's invention; and his murderer. The only thing that he had left behind.

Vaughn would finish what he had set out to do;

For prey were meant to be silenced.

_____________________________

Io did not talk to anyone about the scene over dinner.

It was simply something not to be spoken about.

There were many details that missed his trail of thought and flow of mind; including the advancing date of the rematch and the obscure conditions that came along with it.

It was becoming more and more apparent to the boy that circumstances mattered more than he thought they would. The world was not so dependent on mind after all, but to what extent?

Choice was beginning to limit itself—left to the forces he could no less determine; there was no control over the path in which he believed he ought to take.

He rationalized that perhaps this was the point where his life was beginning to slip out of his grasp, where things were falling apart and there was really nothing he could do to fix it but to accept that it was so.

Was that the most ideal solution? He thought.

Though Lyra had heard him, she did not answer. The veil of silence that hung between them felt almost necessary to contain a growing darkness within the boy.

His thoughts sought some form of distraction, in which he laid out the things he would do.

He would, now, have to abandon the initial plan that he had devised for there was something at stake.

But what was at stake?

His identity? Losing it to a predator that would treat him no more than a servant?

Was it right to put himself before others?

Was it...wrong?

Just because it wasn't right didn't mean then, therefore, it was wrong—did it?

Why could he not sacrifice himself for the sake of others? If he would carry out his plan, lose he will, yes—but he would save many others. This was incredibly foolish, silly, cowardly, even. The path to take seemed to be so obvious, so simple to understand and yet, why was it so hard to turn that way?

Were humans naturally selfish?

Io placed this aside, listing down the other things that required attention and action.

He would thank Luka; tell him of the odd conclusion that he had come to by the end of dinner—that true tears did not fill the eyes but the heart.

He would, also, thank Jing. He would have liked to talk to her after; perhaps ask her the reason for her intervention when she often seemed to dislike attention. For at the moment she spoke, he felt her radiance that resembled the flames of the sun—a phoenix.

He would visit Pipa tomorrow.

He would...what else would he do?

The stack of textbooks and assignments by his desk seemed trivial in light of his rational thought. The big questions never seemed to be able to be encompassed by a mere book or text.

Words, words, words.

Io found something sticking out of his book bag, and he recognized it to be the worn-out jotter book that Callaghan had so kindly bestowed upon him as the president of the Astronomy Club. Responsibilities of the real world—independent or not, outside his mind—began to dawn upon him.

He considered the prospect of hopscotch in the next meeting. Yes, hopscotch under the stars. Did that not sound pleasing?

The boy flipped through the jotter book, searching for a page where he could pen down such a proposal. Hopscotch was his favorite game.

In the process of separating pages that were, disturbingly, stuck together, Io came across a page that piqued his interest.

It was a record of the past members' attendance, from more than a year ago.

Io laughed. It appeared to him that Callaghan had not been taking attendance ever since the Astronomy Club had been reduced to a single member.

But at the very moment his eyes scanned the orderly penmanship that spelled the names of his club members, Io learned something new.

Alekseyeve.

So that was his last name. 

Vaughn's.

__________________________

A/N: Hello dears! I'm sorry if my language was a little too complicated to understand...I dunno why I just like to add so much weird things in between like about Death and Society when I just wanted to explain why Pipa could not wake.

Silencer, the name of the gun, steals the soul of the one it is pointed at. The reason why Vaughn has won all the games in the past was simply because he pointed it at the Joker, and stole their soul. He does not literally kill them, but puts them in a state of sleep just like Io once was.

Most of them do wake after a couple of weeks or so (the weaker ones lose their life, literally), but they lose their sense of emotion or humanity since their soul has been stolen. Basically, they conform to social conventions and do not seek to question to challenge the vices of the world or the obvious inequality in which they are being subjected to.

Then...we have Io.

Who obviously frustrates the vulture and interests him at the same time. It's the question of why and how someone else can do something you can't—and it's a mixture of jealousy and awe and hatred and admiration.

I hope things are clearer after this explanation. Also, lo and behold, Cameron, Vaughn's only friend (ex-friend?) is a Nocturne!!

Well then, let us wonder why he is in the Astronomy Club when we all know that vultures are diurnal, huh? XD

And yes, he is the single member apart from Io that I have kept a secret for such a long time ;-; I'm sowieeee

-Cuppiecake.