A/N: This is for blissfully ignorant, who tried to bribe me with Jell-O for another angsty one-shot, and who reviewed my poetry without using the words "puke", "horrible", or the phrase "sucked like a weasel on an egg". You're spectacular, and whilst I'm slightly annoyed that chapter two of Can't Let Go was so short, I hope you like this present! (By they by, wrote this while listening to "Radio Silence" by Elvis Costello)

[*]

It's a strange sensation, not knowing who you are. There are times you wonder if you're really what they told you. If you're really a member of the organization for a good reason. If they aren't just feeding you lies as some sort of psychological science experiment. You become an initial, your name dropped into a bleak oblivion. Your family forgets you. You just... exist.

The only problem with this is, there are millions, millions of R's and W's and H's. You're not special as an initial. There are even more people who can take good notes, or who are terribly suspicious of pyromaniacs and their plots to take over civilization. There are wonderful observers all over the planet. There are people who find messages in their alphabet soup, or car lease.

Of course, no one believes that. Because to them, it's not about being special. It's not about the glory, or the secret, or the espionage. It's about helping people. Helping people escape fire, and being trapped inside overlarge snowmen.

Isn't that sweet?

If they wanted to help people, why didn't they join the Boy Scouts...? We're not about helping people. We're about being different. Having power because of that difference. Being able to sneak around and generally avoid lawmen because we're members of VFD. But no one seems to get that.

No one but me. They have all this control at the tips of their fingers, and the idiots shove it away... But I'll get it back.

On my word, I will get it back. And then they'll be sorry.

...Very sorry.