It was hot.

        The sun had no cover.

        The air was burning.

        Yet, he kept on walking. Walking on the roadless land.

        Why? Why was he here? Because things were going so well, and yet, Glory had passed him by. Now he had no root to claim. Wandering aimlessly, yet with a goal, he walked toward the desert center. He had not known where he was going, but he knew, he just knew, that he had to make it before they reached their end game. Him.

        His lungs were on fire. Screaming at him were his feet to stop and rest. To cool off. He was going to die, or at least it felt like it. His water bottle, metal to hold temperature, rattled with indignation. What was his problem? It was not his fault he was here.

        His energy was fading.

        Before he knew it, the sky was forward before him with the threat of nothing more than more heat.

        Why?

        Why?

        WHY?

        Why did he have to make this so difficult for me?

        He continued to lay on the ground, burning his back. He felt like he was sinking. No. He was losing consciousness. The heat was overcoming him. How? How did he get all the way out here by himself? It is impossible. The bright sky began to darken into a day filled night. He was going to die.

     "Hey, I gotta quick question for you."

        "Shoot."

        "Did we ever stop to wonder why we don't just give this dude water?"

        "No. If he needed water so much, he would not have made it all the way out here. Look. He's been in a coma for at least a week. And He's this far out here, so he must have been out for much longer."

        "Oh, I guess that's true." there was a pause. "He had some strange things. Like, nothing and a metal water bottle."

        "Well, what's wrong with a water bottle?"

        "It was rattling." There was a rattling sound. "And when I opened it, there was nothing in it but a chunk of ice."

        "So? That just means that he used ice to keep his water cold longer."

        Silence.

        NOPE! Time to get up!

        He began to get up and open his eyes.

        "Oh, oh, oh, he's getting up." It was a girl, young, curious and smart.

        "Good." On the other side of where he was sitting there was a man, tall, and built strong. "Now he can tell us what he was doing out here."

        He said nothing but grunted in disdain.

        The girl stepped closer to him. "Oh, don't be like that. We saved your life like almost a week ago."

        And for once, he spoke. "What's it matter to me?"

        "Fine, then. I guess you don't really know me anyway. . ." I don't care. "My name is. . . " I do not care. "Glory." I still do not care. "Go on now, tell him your name!"

        "I do not care who you are." He spoke up. "Why am I here?"

        "Well, first of all, my name is Zolomon. As to why you are here, you tell us. All we did was find you in a coma that was at least a week long. Mind explaining that?"

        "I owe you two nothing." He stated. "Now, where are we?"

        Zolomon spoke up and walked around his bed to Glory. "Same place you were before. The middle of the desert. Why is that?" Silence. "Alright then, who is Zechariah Newman?"

        He froze up, causing Zolomon's increased interest. "Ahh, someone important then."

        In a flash things had changed. Now full of energy he had pinned Zolomon like a blur. Zolomon realized that the man holding him was shaking, yet his grip seemed firm on his throat. "Zolomon." The voice that slid out of him sounded nothing like what Zolomon previously heard. This voice vibrated and slithered. "How do you know that name?"

        "Zolomon!" Glory screamed. Her calm yet expressive demeanor changed to that of terror of what she had never seen before. This being in front of her was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

        Zolomon's eyes held no fear despite the being holding him by his throat. "You know, you really ought to work on discreteness. You could always tell us who Zechariah Newman is." That was a mistake. The hand on him started shaking more aggressively, vibrating him from the inside out.

        "I said, 'HOW do you know that name?'" His voice stopped slithering and got deeper and yet more menacing.

        "Glo- Gl-" Zolomon started to gag with a newfound fear in his eyes, but the words could never finish. He was now struggling to speak. The man then turned his blur-faced gaze over to Glory.

        "I guess that means you will have to tell me now. Better hurry." His hand started to shake more aggressively. Zolomon felt like his brain was scrambling and the air in his throat was trying to build up like a balloon.

        "I--I don't know." She whimpered. Zolomon, in a last ditch effort, started to raise his now numbing hand to point at the metal water bottle. His hand then fell down limply.

        "I said, better hurry," The man's voice got more annoyed, "he just lost motor functions in his brain." His grip clenched tighter to Zolomon.

        It then clicked in Glory's brain. The water bottle. She ran over and grabbed it. Searching for something in it or on it.

        "Better hurry," he repeated for the last time, "I am not opposed to killing him."

        "The water bottle!" The man stopped all movement. Suddenly and without warning, causing Zolomon to pass out, nearly dead.

        "What did you say?" he questioned.

        "The water bottle has a name transcribed on it. You can see it right here." She held up the bottle. The man swiftly moved over to her position, leaving Zolomon to fall on the ground, nearly lifeless. He began to search the bottle and sure enough, there was his slight error etched on the bottle.

        Property of Zechariah Newman. "Well how could I have missed that?"

        "Zolomon!" Glory ran to Zolomon, who had just passed out a moment ago, side. He was awaking rather quickly after an ordeal such as this. He looked up and stared him in the eyes. This man, this thing, that had been mysteriously found passed out in a coma just a few moments ago had nearly killed him in an instant. All because of a name. Glory followed his gaze and asked, "So, who is he?"

        The man was hesitant to answer. Something was here now; in the chaos of the questioning it had slipped in and watched unseen. "Me," he finally answered, "that's my name."

        "Zechariah, huh." Zolomon croaked out. "What a wonderful name." he taunted.

        "How can you toy with him after that?" Glory asked.

        Zechariah joined in. "Yes, how can you do that after I nearly killed you?"

        Zechariah felt the presence come up next to him and begin hovering its ghostly hands around his head.

        "It's in the past, Glory, we can discuss it later. Besides, I've been through worse." That's a rather strange sentiment. Zechariah thought.

        "Whatever," he began, "I'm feeling quite tired so I'm going back to sleep."

        "Hey, wait, first you gotta answer some questions for us." Glory stated. "You kinda owe us after. . . whatever that was." Very proactive this one is.

        "I owe you nothing."

        "Don't you dare do that to us--" Too late.

        Zechariah had already tuned them out, moved away from them, and laid down in a corner slightly darker than the room he had yet to fully observe. The presence never left its ghostly position around him. Its fingers ready to grasp onto him in his sleep. It followed him, without a single shift in its positioning. He laid down ready to sleep and recuperate and figure out how to get to his destination.

        But that presence leaned just a bit closer. And it spoke, like it was a child.

        "Liar."