Red felt like he was dying, blood and bile rising up his throat and pouring from his lips onto the pristine floor before he could stop the flow.

"Now, now, there's no need to throw up at the very mention of being my son, Maverick," the President chuckled. Red's head was spinning, his eyes burning with unshed tears and the ache in his ribs increasing tenfold.

"You're lying," he choked, spittle clinging to his lips.

"I assure you I am telling the truth, Maverick. What reason would I have to lie?" The President turned away from him, slipping the memory microchips back in their case, the tiny slivers of gold destruction disappearing back into the safety of the box. "You're pathetic," he sneered. "Certainly a boy I wouldn't want as a son, but you can't choose family. If I had been lying, I would have chosen someone else other than you."

The words stung more than Red would have liked to admit. He bit down on his lower lip as the men restraining him tightened their grasp, making him whimper in pain. A monster...I would be the son of a monster. "I don't believe you," he said, his voice braver than he felt.

The President shrugged. "Suit yourself." He tapped one of the thousands of buttons that paved the walls, and Red's skull instantly exploded with pure agony, so intense he blacked out for at least a minute, the blinding pain throbbing behind his eyelids as he slowly came back to consciousness.

Before he could recover, floods of colour swarmed his mind, bringing another wave of suffering with it. His body spasmed as one memory after another flashed through his brain. The sensory overload was too much for him, his body spasming so much he slipped out of his captors' hands. Run! he screamed at himself, but he couldn't, so he lay twitching on the floor like a spastic slug.

Red shut his eyes again, which only seemed to make the pain worse. In his mind's eye, he saw a boy---a blonde one, a mere child who couldn't be more than five or six. There was a woman there too, with long, golden hair and emerald-green eyes. She was the spitting image of the tiny child, picking him up and swinging him around gleefully.

With a start, Red realised the child was him.

Is that...is that my mother?

A man came into the frame. When he turned, Red recognised the President---younger and with far more hair. His mouth fell open in a laugh as he teased the child with some sort of toy, dangling it in front of his face with an expression that could only be called kind.

No...it can't be!

The scene changed. An older Red, tall and gangly with a buzzed sheen of pale blonde atop his head and a hint of freckles swept across his cheeks, knelt in front of a wooden casket, hands laced together---as if in prayer. A photograph of a woman, the one from the earlier memory---his mother---sat on top of the coffin. His face was marked with tear stains. The President, much more gaunt and bald now, walked up to him, shouting something. As Red watched, the President drew his hand back and slapped his son in the face.

Another memory: Red, looking the same as he currently did, wrapped up in the arms of a lean Hispanic boy as they hurriedly kissed in what had to have been his bedroom. The door flew open with a bang, the President stalking in. He was screaming, and Red was pulling away from the other boy, hands over his ears as he shouted back at the man. He was being yanked off the bed, pulled to the ground, punched and kicked until he couldn't tell what was reality and what was the past anymore.

And then it was over, his head full of his real life, not the fantastical space simulation they'd programmed him to think with. The effects of the memory microchips had been reversed. Gone was the spaceship crash and the other aliens and the entirety of X9-7. Red felt hot liquid roll down his cheeks, dripping onto the floor as he lay in a puddle of his own vomit.

He'd pissed himself on accident, too.

"His name was Marcus." Red's words sounded broken to his own ears, cracking at the edges like splintered glass. "And I loved him. What did you do with him? Was that why you threw me into Vanguard, Dad? Because you were ashamed of me?" His voice was rising, rising to a horribly loud crescendo. The men nearby hesitated, as if wondering whether to restrain him or not. One of them aimed his gun at Red's chest, but the President held up his hand for pause. They didn't have to worry. Red couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted to; the pain and shock and absolute heartbreak had taken away his will to fight.

"You changed when your mother died, Maverick. The boy was merely the final straw." The President's gaze flickered over the shiny chrome panels. "And speaking of the boy, I had him suitably disposed of."

"You're a monster," Red gasped out, the breath stolen from his defenceless lungs.

"Perhaps," the President admitted. "But you are, too." His lips curved into the thin, leering smile Red had seen far too many times after his mother died. "Take him away and get him cleaned up. He stinks. I want to see him in my room by seven."

The hands were on him again, yanking him up from his own filth. Red let them drag him away.

Red sat still, his body limp as they threw him to two women to be stripped and bathed. None of the ladies seemed very chatty, and he was grateful for that. There was some momentary panic once they'd torn off his ragged garments to reveal his scrawny figure---they're seeing me naked!---but the moment he'd started to flail and claw at the hands holding him, a syringe had been pressed to the side of his neck and he'd fallen still, eyes rolling back in his head as the clutches of Dreamland claimed him once more.

When he woke again, he was in an unfamiliar room, sitting up straight in an unfamiliar chair. He was, embarrassingly, completely bare, nothing but bandages adorning his bony form. Thankfully, a towel lay over his lap, concealing his genitals. His thigh, arm and ribs had been bound, almost too tightly, the material digging into his skin cruelly. A desk sat in front of him, hard wood pressing into his damaged torso.

"Oh good, you're finally awake. I told them not to tranquilise you unless you fought back, but those idiots never listen to me." Opposite him, the President lounged in a tan, high-backed chair that made his skinny frame seem frailer than it was. Red mentally cursed him for the abnormally thin genes, which was another unwanted reminder that this creature was his father.

"Where's Alisa?" Red demanded to know. The room was painted in shades of blood, the only furniture being the table, the chairs they sat in, and a sofa. The door seemed extremely far away.

The President waved a flippant hand. "She'll be fine."

"Where's Alisa?"

"She'll be fine."

Red stood up, holding the towel over his groin and slamming his fist down on the table. The sudden movement reminded him of how tired he was, his knees shaking as he did his best to stay upright. If he had to fight for his life, there was no doubt that he would lose the battle. He couldn't leave---he wouldn't be able to make it fifty feet without passing out. His head ached from hunger and thirst. Still, he persevered, his voice trembly and at least an octave higher than it normally was. "What did you do to her?"

The President waved a flippant hand. "You'll see her soon enough, I expect. Her and her twin, once we catch him."

"Don't you dare hurt Cheng Xin," Red growled, attempting to channel Alisa's fear-inducing snarl.

"Of course not. He's valuable. I'll just have to reprogramme him." The President sighed. "My mistake was giving him a brain of his own. But alas, that was necessary for the chip to work properly." His hand hovered over the edge of the table. "Which brings me to the next question: what do I do with you now?"

Red slumped back into the chair, rearranging the towel on his lap. There was no hope for him anymore. "You're going to kill me, aren't you? At least give me something to wear so I can die with clothes on."

The President chuckled. "Oh, Maverick. Didn't I tell you earlier? I can't kill you by my own hand. However, if you were to make that decision by yourself..." He reached over to where a bell on a rope hung---how terribly old-fashioned---and tugged on it. Before three minutes had passed, there was a knock at the door. A man walked in, carrying two silver goblets on a large tray. He placed them on the table, then quietly left.

Red stared into the glasses. Sangria liquid sloshed around in each, little droplets flecking the walls of the cups. When the liquid finally stilled, he could see his reflection in it, and it seemed to be stained with blood.

"I know you must be thirsty, so I had them prepare a refreshing beverage for you and me, son, to celebrate your return," the President said casually.

Red wasn't buying it. "What's the catch?"

The President grinned. He tapped a lean finger atop the rim of each glass, one by one. "Let's play a game, Maverick. These glasses contain the finest Australian Shiraz I could get my hands on."

"You're giving me wine?" Red spluttered.

The President's cruel eyes gleamed with a hint of something malicious, something evil, something wicked. "I believe you're old enough for it. You're eighteen already, aren't you?"

"Yes...but there's something else about it, isn't there? It can't be that simple."

"Oh, I just felt your last drink should be something...special." The President smirked. "One of these glasses is poisoned. The other is not. Pick one and drink. I'll take the other." His fingers closed around the delicate stem of one of the glasses, then opened up again as he released it and sat back. "So what will it be, Maverick? Death or escape?"

"What if I refuse to drink?" Red challenged.

"Then I take Alisa Lee and kill her in front of you."

Red said nothing in response, merely curling his hand around the goblet in front of him. Either I drink or Alisa dies. There's still a fifty-fifty chance of survival for me. There'll be none for her if I don't play my dad's game. "Can I please have something to wear?"

"I'm sure your corpse won't be needing any clothes."

"I'm hoping to survive. And it's cold. If you can attempt to get me drunk during my supposedly final moments, you can give me something to wear." Red rubbed a hand over his bare arm self-consciously, feeling the way his elbow and shoulder blades protruded a little too much.

With an exaggerated sigh and an eye roll that Alisa would have been proud of, the President stood up. The moment he did, Red pushed both the tray off the table, the glasses toppling from it and splashing their contents all over the President. The man he'd called his father long ago shrieked, recoiling back. Up close, Red could see his skin bubble and blister where the wine had touched it.

"You poisoned both, didn't you," Red said. It wasn't a question. The answer lay in front of him, in the layers of reddened skin peeling off the President's face, neck and hands, the blisters full of pus that seemed to melt through his flesh. The man fell to his knees in agony as the acid he'd laced the goblets with burned through his skin, peppering his well-sewed black suit with tiny, steaming holes.

Red saw his chance, yanking the towel around his waist to protect his modesty and tying the back into a knot as he stumbled from his chair. He felt like a newborn colt learning to walk for the first time, unsteady on his feet as his head sang in pain and his knees buckled. His ankle wasn't healed yet, and it threatened to bring him down with each wobbly step.

The President was slowly scraping himself off the floor, a sea serpent rising from the deep. Red didn't have much time left, but he could barely walk; he wouldn't be able to make it to the door in time. He dropped to the ground, using his scabbed fingertips to pull himself along. His legs were next to useless. Now I know how victims in horror movies feel, Red thought as he practically crawled across the room, one hand reaching out for the door.

He screamed like a little girl when he felt blinding pain seize his bad ankle in a death grip. He couldn't shake free, too weak to do much more than claw at the floor to prevent himself from being pulled backwards. It was no use. The President, face half-melted off, dragged him further back with each hard pull. The remaining acid speckling his fingertips scorched Red's ankle to the bone. His body was on fire, begging for some water to put the eternal flames out.

That water came in the form of an explosion that seared Red's face with heat and shook the room to its rafters, sending the President flying back.

Red lifted his weary eyes to what had previously been the door. A boy stood there like a wingless angel, a rifle in his hands, dark hair pushed back from his forehead and face smeared with soot. Lee Cheng Xin frowned sadly at the wreckage. "I didn't mean for the explosion to be quite so big," he muttered. Red could have cried with happiness.

"You came back," he whispered.

Cheng Xin smiled, his grin radiant and beautiful and a reassurance that everything would be alright. "Of course I did." Then he lifted his rifle and fired three shots over Red's shoulder. Red felt more agony slice through his haze of hope as bright lights and the violent boom of shots echoed through his mind. He vaguely registered Cheng Xin's muffled Sorry! and the President, who had somehow managed to get up, falling back down behind him. White spots fluttered through his vision, even when he closed his eyes. His ears rang like church bells on a Sunday morning.

Finally, he dared to look back at his father's body. The President's head was an unrecognisable, pulpy mess of blackened flesh, any features charred into pathetic lumps of ebony and pink. Blood pooled around him. The hand that had earlier gripped Red's ankle was gone, shot into nonexistence. Cheng Xin walked over to the corpse, slammed the butt of his rifle into the man's back so hard a crunch was heard, then turned back to Red. "It never hurts to quadruple-tap," he declared. At least, that was what Red thought he said, although he couldn't really tell, what with his eardrums beating miniature gongs and all.

"Thank you," Red croaked, his throat dry from ash. He found that he surprisingly felt no loss for the dead man. Perhaps, once ago, that man had loved him, but that certainly wasn't the case anymore. He wasn't his father anymore. He was simply the President, a cold, callous, calculative monster.

And even that was an insult to monsters.

"What happened to your clothes?" Cheng Xin asked. Red felt a fiery blush paint his cheeks as he realised that the other boy could see nearly every inch of his naked, albeit half-bandaged body, save for the part concealed by the somehow-intact towel.

"Woke up without them. He didn't want to give me any."

"We'll have to find you something to wear later. Can you walk?" Cheng Xin questioned. Red wanted to lie, because telling the truth would make him seem pathetic, but he decided against it. He shook his head, shame-faced.

"How much do you weigh? You're pretty skinny, I think I should be able to..." Before Red could answer, Cheng Xin managed to hoist him into his arms with a grunt of effort. It took a little arranging, since Red topped the other boy by quite a few inches and would cringe in pain each time any limbs were bent, but they managed in the end. Cheng Xin beamed. "Good thing you're damn light and I've got my sister's genes."

"About that---" Red started, then stopped. There was a time and place for everything, and it definitely wasn't the right time or place to inform Cheng Xin of his true origins. He pressed his lips together tightly to keep any secrets from slipping out.

"About what?"

Red's mind worked desperately to find a cover-up. "Um, can I kiss you?" he blurted out, since it was the first thought that came into his head. Cheng Xin seemed so shocked that he nearly dropped him. He quickly recovered, however, nodding and leaning down before pressing his lips against Red's.

Cheng Xin's lips were cracked from dehydration and laced with soot, but Red didn't care. He devoured the other boy's mouth like it was his last meal, savouring his soft touch, his eyelids briefly fluttering shut. The rest of the world momentarily faded, and there was only bliss and cotton candy clouds and Cheng Xin.

And then it was over, and Cheng Xin was pulling away to grin down at the boy in his arms. "So, here's to getting out of this alive?"

Red nodded, and they slipped out of the room, leaving the monster behind.