Back at the rebel farmyard, night fell for a second time. It shrouded the dead in darkness as if allowing them to finally rest. All was silent. Even the small creatures that were drawn in by the scent tread softly, as if afraid their newly-found feast would rise up and flee if they made a sound.

The night passed in eerie stillness. And when the sun rose several hours later, it spread its light far and wide, baring every garish detail to the world.

Even though the scavengers had scattered the corpses around during the night, many still remained. Stinking. Putrefying. A scene of utter horror to all who dared to look upon it.

One did dare.

He had waited nearly two full days, until he was sure everyone was gone and that no one would be returning. Now he couldn't wait any longer, or there'd be nothing left.

The stench brought tears to his eyes, so he'd removed his shirt and tied it around the lower half his face. It helped, but not much. Regardless, this was something he had to do. He couldn't leave, couldn't move on until he did.

It was the only thought in his mind. He held it there stubbornly, too afraid to think past it, to even try and understand why. Why did this happen?!

He needed to bury them.

Tarrod made for a small, miserable figure as he wandered blankly through the yard. Each step squished beneath his filthy shoes, even as he tried not to walk on any ... anyone. Eventually, he found a relatively clear spot and grabbed a shovel from one of the barns.

Then he began to dig.

He dug all morning. His back and shoulders burned and hurt, his arms shook with exhaustion, but he grit his teeth and didn't stop. Work gloves covered his hands, yet they couldn't protect his fingers from agonizing cramps. Eventually, the shovel slipped from his grasp, falling softly the ground.

Exhaling softly, he followed suit, collapsing onto his butt. He stared at the large hole he'd just dug, and as he gazed into its depths, his vision blurred.

His eyes burned. Water dripped from the tip of his nose, from his chin. But it wasn't raining. And it wasn't sweat - he'd wrapped his shirt around his forehead to keep the moisture from falling into his eyes.

His shoulders shook, and his mouth opened in a wordless cry. Everything hurt, but the physical hurt could never compare to the yawning emptiness inside. Why? Why did this happen?

Tarrod sat where he was for a long time, until his tears tried and he could no longer cry. He stared at the hole, the grave, in a numb haze. He might have sat there for the rest of the day if it weren't for the voice.

"Hey, kid."

Normally, when someone sat alone in a field full of scattered corpses and if a voice came from right behind them, there was an excellent chance they'd crap their pants. Either that, or faint dead away from the shock of it all. Tarrod, however, had already met his quota of being shocked silly for three lifetimes.

So in response to the sudden voice, he just grew deathly still. And waited, not entirely certain whether his ears decided to break and hallucinate sounds.

"Hey," the voice came again. This time, it was louder.

Tarrod stiffened. It was a man's voice, and though it sounded friendly enough, there was a great chance it was one of the Kairg returning to finish off the job. If that was the case, then there was nothing he could do.

Slowly, he turned and lifted his gaze upwards.

The man wasn't from the Kairg.

He wore a long gray coat, whose tattered and frayed ends stirred at the ankles of dusty black boots. A very out of place blue wool hood had been roughly sewn to the collar of the heavy coat, and currently was pulled way over the man's head. It shadowed everything but a smooth chin and lips that seemed like they were about to either sneer or smirk.

The man definitely wasn't a Kairg soldier, so Tarrod simply turned away. If the man wasn't here to kill him like the rest, then there was no point wasting time with him. The dead wouldn't bury themselves.

Grunting, Tarrod staggered to his feet. Every muscle cried and quivered in protest, but he was a merciless master and ignored every complaint. He dully walked past the strange man, head lowered, and grabbed the pair of legs that lay twisted on the ground nearby.

They were too heavy for him to lift by himself, so he tightened his grasp and heaved backwards. It took a couple of tries, his heavy pants the only sound in the entire yard, but he eventually managed to drag his cargo backwards.

The man didn't move, didn't speak, his shadowed gaze merely watching as Tarrod struggled to shove the remains into the large, shallow hole. As soon as they hit the disturbed dirt inside with a soft plop, Tarrod turned and headed for the next target.

This one was nearly intact, save for the missing head and the chewed up arms. It was even larger in mass than the first corpse. The flesh was slimy too, so it was difficult to even get a good grip. That didn't deter Tarrod in the slightest.

He was going to finish this, even if it killed him.

After several attempts, he managed to drag the body a short distance before he lost his hold. He stared at it, taking a second to catch his breath. By now, sweat soaked his hair, dampened his face, but the shirt he'd tied around his head seemed to keep it from dripping into his eyes.

This was just the start of it all; there were so many people left to bury. Yet he refused to let it discourage him. It's the very least I should do.

Clenching his jaw against the sudden wave of emotion, he forced himself to bend down and grab hold of the body once more.

A soft sigh drifted past him. Then the man was right there in front of him, reaching out with black-gloved hands to grasp the other side of the corps under its putrefying shoulders. Before Tarrod could even react, the man had suddenly lifted his side with ease.

Tarrod stared, totally startled. He was caught in an awkward position, still bent downwards, his neck craned painfully as he gawked at the man.

"Lift, kid," the man said. "Or are you going to have me stand here all day?"

Tarrod jerked into motion, straining to lift his side. With the man's help, it was a much easier task. The two of them carried their grim load to the hole and swung it inside. Tarrod watched it land beside the first. He couldn't help himself from wincing at sight.

He sharply turned away, jaw clenched. The next one was small enough that he could handle on his own. The man in the gray coat silently found another nearly intact corpse and effortlessly slung it over a shoulder like it was a sack of potatoes. He followed Tarrod back to the hole and practically shrugged the corpse off his shoulder and into its grave.

It wasn't long before the two of them settled into a wordless routine. They worked side by side, working from one side of the yard towards the next. The man would silently grab the heavier and larger corpses, leaving the smaller remains for Tarrod to deal with.

They worked without stopping for a long time. Tarrod was a gasping, panting mess, fueled only by his grim determination to see this task to its bitter end. The man, however, didn't even seem out of breath. Not only did he appear to possess rather uncanny strength and endurance, but it didn't escape Tarrod's notice that he seemed quite relaxed for standing knee-deep in rotting human carnage.

It was like death didn't even bother him. The stench didn't even touch him. His demeanor was more like he was merely strolling through the kitchen looking for an afternoon snack.

It unsettled Tarrod, yet he said nothing. What did it matter? The man gave his aid; why he chose to do so made no difference. The only thing that mattered to Tarrod was that his friends, his family, were finally being given a proper burial.

Well, perhaps it wasn't exactly the burial they deserved, by any means. But it was better than being left to rot where they were slaughtered, picked apart by scavengers.

It was late in the day when they finished. They managed to gather all the remains into the hole - even the ugly mess on the pole, though they ended up just throwing the whole thing in , pole and all - before shoveling piles of dirt on top.

Tarrod managed the first few shovelfuls, but he had reached his limit long ago and was barely able to even stand, much less lift a shovel. He didn't last long, wobbling about like a top at the end of its spin.

Eventually, the man just snatched the shovel from the teen's hand. "Sit," the man flatly ordered, like he was talking to a dog.

Then he proceeded to rapidly bury the entire mass grave with a thick layer of dirt, before packing it down with surprising care. When he finished, he tossed the shovel aside, and turned around to find Tarrod passed out on the ground.

The man sighed softly. "Lasted longer than I thought he would."

He quietly stepped over. Reaching down, he grabbed the teen, slung him over a shoulder like one of the corpses from before, and wandered into large house on the property. In contrast to the outdoors, it was clean and untouched by any signs of what had happened outside.

Humming to himself, the man tossed the teen on a nearby bench, and started fishing through the cabinets in the kitchen. They were full of pleasant surprises, with homemade canned goods and rare delicacies such as sugar and salt.

The man didn't waste any time. He pulled off his filthy gloves and left them in the kitchen sink to be cleaned later. Then he found some dishes in the cupboard and cutlery in the drawer, before settling in at the table for a feast.

Canned peaches, homemade pickles, currant jam, pickled squash, even a single jar of canned chicken - he helped himself to it all with enthusiasm. It didn't matter than that his coat was slimy and stinking like a graveyard or that he had just waded through a sea of guts. His appetite hadn't diminished at all.

And since there was no one surviving to eat any of this, he might as well put it to good use. It was only the right thing to do, wasn't it?

~*RW*~

Tarrod gradually awakened to an odd tapping sort of sound. It was persistent, annoying, and utterly destroyed any chances he had of sleeping further. Waking up was something he did extremely reluctantly, as everything ached and sagged in a bone-deep exhaustion. He had no idea how long he'd slept, but it felt like mere minutes for all the good it had done him.

He sat up, discovering that the hard wooden bench beneath him. As far as beds went, it sucked. No wonder why the cricks in his back had cricks. He groaned under his breath, then sought out the disturbance of his rest.

The little hallway he was in led directly to the kitchen. All he had to do was follow his line of sight to the kitchen table, which was piled high with a gigantic mess of jars and dishes and cans. If one was going for an artistic display of pure slobbery, this had a great chance of winning first place.

Behind this mess was the man in the gray coat. A bare, long finger idly tapped against the side of a tin jar, creating the annoying tok tok tok sound that had disturbed Tarrod. The man had propped up his chin with his other hand while he seemed to gaze at something far away.

Tarrod stared, more than a little startled at the sight. The man had lowered his hood, revealing a sharply handsome face that couldn't be any older than thirty. Longish black hair hung straight from his scalp, brushing against pale cheekbones and tickling the tops of his ears.

"Finally awake?" The man's voice startled Tarrod. Without even glancing over, the man somehow had known.

"Y-yeah," Tarrod lowered his gaze, grimacing as the stench of death filled his nostrils. It stained his clothes, seeped into his skin. He needed to burn these clothes and take a bath. Many baths, because one probably wouldn't do it.

"Then sit."

Tarrod glanced up, only to see the man lazily pointing at the empty chair across the table. This was all while the man stared distantly into outer space. Weird.

Warily, Tarrod realized that his best course of action was do what the man wanted. This was the guy who had slung rotten corpses around like they were mere sacks of vegetables without even batting an eye. Clearly dead bodies were nothing new to him. Heck, he probably even created all kinds of them on his own.

He staggered over and plopped down on the indicated chair. Then he wearily looked up, wondering what the man was intending to do next -

Deep violet eyes bore into him.

Tarrod froze on the spot, his own eyes widening in shock. That unusual stare stole his breath away. Not just because of the sheer impossibility of that color, but more because of the terrifying intensity carried by that gaze. It made Tarrod feel like he stood on a knife's edge - to run his back and flee meant death, but to stay still meant he was trapped.

"What happened?" The man asked, his tone low and mild, yet somehow incredibly menacing.

Tarrod flinched. "I - I'm not - "

"Don't." The word was incredibly soft, almost whispered, yet the warning behind it was as loud and horrifying as a nuclear bomb. It instantly destroyed all resistance in its path.

Even though it was the absolute last thing Tarrod wanted to talk about, he found himself spitting out a slew of words. He explained how the strange camouflaged flyers popped out of nowhere, rounding them all up and bringing them all outside. One flyer stood out from the rest, as he wore a creepy metal mask to hide his features. He'd introduced himself only as the Kairg Leader.

The man in the gray coat said nothing further. He merely listened in silence, never removing his eerie purple gaze from Tarrod's.

As much as he wanted to look away, Tarrod couldn't. Even when he started to sob like a baby as he told of how this Kairg Leader singled out Gant and had him bound to the pole. He couldn't bring himself to describe what happened exactly, but thankfully the man allowed him to push on without asking for any other details.

Then he got to the part where some Kairg flyers showed up with an unconscious white flyer in tow. This was the first time he saw that violet stare flicker briefly, almost as if distracted. Then it got even more focused, to the point where Tarrod started sweating beneath the pressure.

He didn't dare hold anything back, and hurriedly babbled out the events as quickly as he could. Tears wet his cheeks and his voice strained and broke with emotion - now that he was forced to talk about it, it was like a bursting dam. Everything came gushing out like a flood, and instead of explaining events, he was ranting out his emotions.

Everyone was dead. And he himself, for some odd reason, was allowed to live. He was one of the three chosen by Jett to live, and yet he was the only one permitted to do so by the Kairg Leader himself. Guilt festered like an open wound. Why him? Why did they chose him? It would have been far better for him to die and let one of the others lived. They deserved it far more than he did.

Eventually, he broke down to the point where he couldn't even talk. But he'd more or less finished.

The violet eyed man finally looked away, which instantly relieved the pressure on Tarrod. But the teen barely didn't even notice, so lost in his emotions as he was.

"I waited too long," the man murmured. He let out an ugly curse, then immediately pressed a fist against his mouth. Above his hand, his violet eyes narrowed, darkened. He seemed to be thinking of something.

A long moment of silence passed. Tarrod had curled up on his chair, burying his face in his knees. His shoulders shook, but he had more or less fallen silent. Suddenly, the man shoved his chair back and rose.

The sound startled Tarrod, and despite himself, he couldn't help but look up. The man glanced down at him in turn.

"Thanks for your help, kid. Also ... none of what happened was your fault. You just got lucky. Or unlucky, however you want to look at it. When you're done here, head to Shann Tei. There's a safe place there that's out of reach of both the Kairg and Troit."

Tarrod's heart leapt at the name of his beloved city. Then plummeted the next second because the amount of destruction that place had endured was still fresh in his mind's eye. He lowered his head, mumbling, "But Shann Tei is a ruin now."

"Exactly," the man said. Amusement briefly flashed over his face before it darkened. "But that's why it's safe. Go there, and tell them Mr. Black sent you. The people there are a little rough around the edges, but they're pretty obedient. You'll see."

With those final words, the man reached into kitchen sink for his now clean gloves. His coat on the other hand was a ruined mess. But he didn't care. He put on his gloves, then pulled the huge blue hood back over his head.

"Where are you going?" Tarrod couldn't help but ask. This strange man was both frightening and comforting at the same time.. The world had gone to chaos, yet he didn't even seem affected. 

The man glanced back. Only the lower part of his face showed beneath the shadows of his hood. His lips curved in a chilling, humorless way. "I've got a baby brother to rescue."

"Huh?" Tarrod barely had time to utter his confusion before the strange man swept out of the house. Tarrod blinked, then after a second, impulsively got to his feet and ran outside. He looked around, but there was no sign of the man.

Where did he go?

Instinctively, he glanced up. It was night, however, and the only thing that met his eyes was a dark, moonless sky.

Feeling somewhat conflicted, Tarrod wiped at his face. He still felt awful, emotionally and physically. Yet, after telling everything to the strange man, he felt somewhat better. Like a load had been taken off his chest.

There was nothing left here for him.

But perhaps he should give Mr. Black's words a try. Maybe he should go back to Shann Tei. After all, it was his home, wasn't it?