Dreams

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He'd just been joking back then. He should have known the guy was as deluded as to actually listen.

After leaving the kid detective at the hospital, Vesca had drove back to that building at top speed, hoping against all hopes D and his son wouldn't be gone by then. Unfortunately, that was a bunch of wistful thinking; D had made a rather lame attempt at leveling the towering thing to the ground, just managing to detonate his rented floors at the very top, but he was as sure as Hell not up there anymore… Or, at least, not in recognizable pieces.

People had been evacuated already, and the low-rank authorities surrounding the building still advised against approaching, in case there were other bombs hidden. They were passing this as an act of terrorism, too… «Just another thing to add to his file.» One of the few things he'd never found ties to before, actually. Now, though—«That bastard's going to rot in prison.» Specially since, there, he'd not find whichever girly items he used to stay so…

Okay, he just wasn't going to think of that word. Not to describe that guy, at least! Not now that he knew he was such a wicked man… He should have suspected he'd become a criminal right away, when they had studied together at Albany, what with his misanthropic ways and his reluctance to be normal. Culture clash just didn't cover his weirdness, after all.

"FBI," he growled at some kid officer who tried to send him back behind the yellow tape. The guy retreated; a wise move. He just wasn't feeling like dealing with anything remotely human right now, with D gone like that. The bastard always made him feel he was on the wrong side of the battle… But which other side existed? None.

He heard to half-made reports of damages and probable artifacts used in the explosion from other officers, before he lost it and demanded to know if they'd seen D get out of the building. Only thing he got was that: "Yes, Agent Howell. A witness described a wo—eh, person like that leaving the place, minutes before the explosion, yet—"

"Where's the witness?" No use hearing to the whole story; even when he got paid for it, he had other things he rather be doing. Figuring out whether D had taken his son with him, like a good parent would, or had left him to die in the explosion, like the villain he was, for example…

The kid had been weird, with all those animals following him around as if he was a Disney princess, and he'd looked the part, though not as much as his long-haired father, but he'd been kind and polite and, damn it, innocent. The kid had been beautiful, kind, and innocent; had he been a girl… That would be nothing less than trouble for anyone involved, in every sense.

He'd better still be alive, or D would have it worse than already planned and mentally rehearsed a thousand times in the past twenty years! Even if the kid was a product of his research, as he suspected, that didn't mean the guy had any right to do with his life as he pleased. Besides, there was still the issue of the ‹mother,› a being so necessary for artificially created life as it was for the natural… except for plants and bacteria, but those were humans he was talking about! Whoever the mother might be—

Hadn't D mentioned, before he let them go, though, that he'd achieved it?

Nonsense! The guy was obviously high on the drugs he traded, if he was walking around believing such crazy lies… And that suitcase must have hit his head harder than he thought, if he had actually listened, knowing only madness came out of those lips.

"Here," the guiding officer indicated, after taking him to a nearby building, where the traumatized yet unwounded victims were at.

He was at this little coffee break room, and the woman was sitting in there, her back to the door. She was one of those young, pretty things one usually saw behind desks and counters at fancy hotels and restaurants, he could tell, 

but he'd become a true penguin on the spot before he got distracted whilst seeking for clues about D's whereabouts. And wouldn't the bastard be amused at such thing?

"Good afternoon, miss," he gruffly greeted as he sat down across from her at the table. She looked up at him, big brown eyes pleading him to believe her story: she wasn't involved. He knew for a fact she wasn't. "I've been told you saw a man exiting the building about five minutes before the bomb exploded. Am I right?"

She shuddered. "Y-Yes… though I didn't know he was a man." He could understand that, of course; half the university guys had been head over heels for D, and he'd had to very clearly and slowly tell each of his friends he was a guy, before any strange incidents occurred. And he'd always wondered what confused people so… He'd never inquired, though, and now was not the time to think about it, anyways; he might as well save it for taunting him as he stood behind the bars.

"Well… Tell me what did he do while still in the lobby," he ordered, and she cowered before his deep frown.

Next time she spoke, though—He wasn't expecting that: "Are you the FBI Agent, Vesca Howell?" she asked.

Taken aback, he didn't answer for a whole minute or two, suddenly suspicious this girl might have something to do with D, instead of just being a witness of when he fled. "Why do you ask, miss?" Straightforward when scared, wasn't he? After seeing what D had done to the kid detective… Hell, he wasn't over sending him a pretty assassin girl!

"Uh… He left something for you, mister," she squeaked timidly, reaching for the folded card, which she put upon the table. He didn't touch it. "Eh… He said to give it to you, if you came." Too much of a coincidence, if you asked him, that they had spoken to the same woman.

Still, he took the card, noticing it was actually some rather old photograph. Unfolding it, he almost chocked on the air he was breathing. «The zoo penguins!» Winter, 1975. Not Albany, but he didn't quite remember where they had gone off to, either. Shared a room there for a week; fortunately, not the beds. And D had never stopped whining. Ever. Until taken to the zoo. And then all the snow-covered parks. And a lake. Thing was: he didn't remember the city, because he'd been too busy complying to D's every whim to be in ‹holy communion› with a frozen over Mother Nature.

On top of that, he'd never worn the same outfit twice, and it was Vesca the one stuck with carrying the luggage, too.

God, no wonder they'd teased them that much at school, now that he thought about it. «Blessed be the hindsight.» If he could go back in time, everything would have been so different. Completely different, actually…

He analyzed the picture now, noticing the characters written with fine tip marker all over it, somehow blending in with the surroundings, not disturbing the image's harmony. They were Chinese characters, and they all read ‹I hate.› The patch of sky, the frozen railings, the corner of the bench and the trashcan. Even the poor penguin and all his family had it written right in the middle of their white bellies. The guy was truly insane, wasn't—No. There were other characters, which meant another completely different thing: ‹I love.›

The image of him when young was covered with those: his jacket, his scarf, his hands, his hair, his face… ‹I love› all over him. «My… God…» He couldn't even think straight anymore. He brushed his fingertips lightly against the picture—

The characters blurred. They were new, and were still relatively fresh. Which meant… He flipped the photograph over, and found a message he'd missed when he'd first taken it from the girl, since it was written in that overly-fancy letter he'd only seen D manage without difficulty; even in his school notebooks, it was difficult to see the annotations, unless one was specifically looking for them. This message was in English, though: ‹My dearest penguin, be good and bring a ring, and I'll feed you eucalyptus by the coral reef.›

"What the Hell!" The chair fell back, and the young woman in the room hid beneath the table. He didn't care, though. He was too busy thinking, wondering if he might have gone mad in the last seconds or so… even when the guy who'd written the cryptic message was the one insane.

Because it just couldn't be that D had left a clue of his whereabouts this time.

And that, if he was not mistaken, the bastard wanted him to propose… «Tough luck, D.» Because he wasn't gay.

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It had taken him two weeks to get out of the hospital. It'd take a month or so more to be able to walk without the help of that dumb crutch they'd so kindly provided, but, at least, he wasn't bound to that bed anymore. The inability to just get away from that place had been maddening, specially when, under his request, Jill had brought the latest reports on D's case.

He'd had the suspicion the bastard would be running away again, like the cowardly cat he was. And the whispers between Agent Howell and D's old man… He just knew they had discussed it as well, probably something along the lines of: ‹Darling, I'm leaving! Do follow,› and ‹Didn't get to use the handcuffs on you this time.›

Because those two just had to be gay!

After all, one didn't throw twenty years worth of life away to follow one guy all over the country without intending to fuck him senseless when he finally found him. It was a theme often seen in romantic movies… which he didn't watch, just had been told; except those cases were all straight, not all gay. And, damn, such long waits to get laid could only work on fiction, not in real life; no wonder D's old man had said Agent Howell must be ‹sexually frustrated,› really! Especially when he was the one who'd caused it in the first place…

How fortunate he'd been strong enough to push D away when he'd tried all those girly tricks on him, probably prompted to do so by daddy, who'd already converted the weak-minded FBI Agent into a faggot-in-denial. Surely, the Count's father had found it so amusing, and had thought his son would do well in having his own sick fun with him… It'd explain why D always tried to get rid of his stuff, and frowned whenever a pretty, real-life chick showed any interest in him. And also why he dressed and put on make-up like one.

«Hell, the guy was some creepy bastard.» Suddenly, he had the impulse to call his little brother and make sure he still found true girls, at least, ‹nice.› Except… «He would have never!» D wouldn't do anything to Chris, he was convinced of that, entirely sure; he might sell drugs to hundreds, trade thousands of illegal slaves, and kill millions, regardless of gender and age, but he'd never touch Chris, or lure him out of the path of the right and straight, double sense intended. Still, that didn't keep him from throwing himself, all flirty and purring like a cat, at the oldest of the Orcot brothers, did it? «The goddamned bastard liked playing ‹house› with us. Should have gotten him some Barbies, not sweets…»

And so, he'd better get his mind away from those thoughts, if he was going to get anything done on the case. D might have escaped the city, and maybe even the country, but he was still a criminal, and Leon had to make sure he was put behind the bars, for the well-being of all humanity… because he just knew the guy wasn't entirely human, at least. He had his suspicions put between ‹vampires,› because the Count and his old man had admitted being friends with other bloodsuckers, or ‹aliens,› given their astounding physical similarities.

Hell, they might even asexually reproduce, like bacteria! Split into two, or something…

That'd make them ‹genderless,› which wouldn't surprise him much, since, no matter how much D whined he was a man, he just failed to look the part, or act it, even. And the labels ‹cross-dresser› and ‹transsexual› had long become too short to come to describe the Count. He was that weird. Come to think of it, ‹Chinese› didn't cover him either anymore…

When he finally got to the station, having walked and used public transport given that he couldn't drive, leg handicap a courtesy of D's dad, he'd already went through all his memories of the Count, and had yet to come to a conclusion on any matter about him. Of course, if he was intending to get any clue as to what to do next to bring his dream of arresting the guy to reality, he'd need to put it all aside for the time being. After all, everyone would be reluctant to let him into the case again, seeing what had happened to him over it, and he'd need all his energy focused on being demanding if—

Truth was he hadn't expected to see Agent Howell at the office today; he'd thought he'd already gone off after D's old man, all loyal puppy dog and stuff. The atmosphere was charged, and the frowns weren't dropped for a while, as they just glared at each other. Why? Because the other had already proven he was an impediment more…

"Detective Orcot."

"Agent Howell."

Silently after the greeting, they sat across each other at the desk. Nobody else was there, in the chief's office, and Leon suspected the agent had known he'd come today, and that he'd asked for the privacy here. "They died in the explosion."

He chuckled humorlessly. "What a lie."

"Had to try." More silence, and he dragged from the corner two barely closed folders; they were overflowing with papers. "Theirs," he explained, pushing aside one. "That one's yours, and," he handed him the other, "this is mine."

Leon opened it, unable to hold back his curiosity; he nearly growled at the small photo of D's father, which was attached to the first set of pages, which were, presumably, his basic profile. There wasn't much information: missing the birth date, blood type, names of parents… and, of course, his true name. «They have to have a name, damn it!» His own files were also missing that information, and some other. For example, he didn't know if D had any bachelor degree on anything, or the name of the university he'd studied at. Hell, maybe he hadn't ever gone to school, and he ignored it! "Genetic engineering, huh?" he muttered. «What for?»

"Yes," Howell seemed amused. Whichever face he'd just put on, he sure looked comical to the guy.

"Met him at SUNY, too, didn't you?" he threw at him, lowly growling. He wasn't going to get mocked at by a forty-something, rather sad excuse of an agent.

He looked taken aback, but then he chuckled. "You're a smart kid."

"Thanks, pops." He wasn't going to let that bother him anymore.

Instead, the agent was the one offended; he didn't say anything on the matter, though. "Yet you haven't been smart enough." Before Leon could protest, he added: "You're here, after all." He rose to his feet, disdainfully looking down at him, who'd have to support himself to do so. "You should already know this is too much for you to handle; you'd be a rather foolish boy, if you followed him."

"Like you did?"

A vague hint of sadness invaded the agent's eyes, and he glanced away. "One is sacrifice enough for those bastards, don't you think?" he sighed. He seemed to think that was enough to keep him away from the case…

But he wasn't one to give up on things like these!

Leon stood up, hand gripping the desk. "If you're going, take me with you," he growled in defiance.

"Don't think so, kid." Just a look over his shoulder, as if he wasn't worthy enough to be faced.

Agent Howell left the office, and Leon followed, grunting as he was forced into a slower pace than the older man. All the guys at the station just stared, and he thought he heard Jill call his name, but he'd not listen to them, or feel awkward with their disapproval and their pity. His blue eyes were fixed on the turned back, and he wasn't going to let it get lost from his view anytime this century.

He reached the lift the man had taken before the doors closed. "Go back, kid," the agent grumbled, fishing through his pockets for lighter and cigarettes, to be ready for the outdoors. "Even that bastard warned you about it, remember? And little boys like you'd do better obeying and staying at home with their mom—"

He tackled him against the lift's wall, glaring. "You shut up, or I'll do it for you, permanently!"

"I can get you fired," Howell shrugged, chuckling at the show of moderate violence, main actor being a mid-twenties LA detective; the guy being an FBI Agent, surely he found it amusing… because Leon did not.

"You take me with you, if you're so worried, pops," he growled. "I'm going either way."

Howell pushed him away, straightened him up, and looked fixedly at the opening doors as they reached the lobby. "Don't think so. Even if I have to put you behind the bars before I do them, you're not coming, and not going."

The older man's strides were way to quick for Leon at the moment, and he cursed his luck as the agent got to his car and opened the door. "Wait, Howell!" he yelled.

It was a shock that he actually listened and did as told.

"I'm quitting the FBI sometime this week," he casually said as Leon approached. "No jurisdiction outside of this country."

"Think they already fled?" he panted, leaning against the car, surprised he'd gotten exhausted over walking. Seemed the time at the hospital, and using a crutch to go around, were going to hinder him too much.

"I know they already left," he lighted a cigarette. "They were seen at the airport that same day they detonated the bomb at D's building."

Utter confusion. "Which D?"

"Mine." God, he was truly gay, or he was just seeking to scare the grim mood around them away.

"Oh," he simply replied. "Becoming a freelancer?"

Howell got around the car, leaving the door ajar, and he unlocked the passenger's side. "Yes." He opened it wide for Leon. "You'd do well to do the same, if you're planning to arrest your D."

«Sounds like a secret sect or brotherhood or something…» Only they knew, and only they followed, after all. «And what's with those terms? ‹Mine,› ‹yours›?» Even if it was easier to identify the nameless bastards, it was still a little bit too uncomfortable for him… «They might not be humans, but they're not possessions.»

"Besides, American authorities aren't well liked out of our country's boundaries."

"And are we within?"

"No." The mood brightened considerably.

They got in the car without another word. The silence wasn't charged now; wasn't uncomfortable either. Each was planning, while the world outside passed in a blur by the car's windows, the people there unknowing of the mysteries of a pair of Chinese men, the mad scientist and the pet shop caretaker…

"Where are they now?" he asked casually as they got a red light.

"Australia." He sounded so sure. Hell, maybe D's old man had told him, after all!

"How do you know?"

"That doesn't concern young cops like you."

He didn't want to go into the cheesy and clichéd lines with the guy, but it seemed nothing else would help him now… "Look, Howell, if we're going to work together on this, we've got to—"

"—start working like a team." God, nothing worse than having it finished in unison like that! Leon looked out his window, hoping the agent wouldn't see him blushing awkwardly. "We're not equals yet, kid," Howell chuckled, and it got to green light. "I've no obligation of any kind to share my sources of information with you."

"Not yet," Leon grumbled.

"Not yet," Howell agreed, nodding.

The detective glanced at him, blond eyebrow up. "And when we are, will you tell me?"

Howell actually laughed. "Don't get so ahead of yourself, kid!"

Leon didn't get anything else of importance from the agent that day. Or the following. Or during the week… Until they quit their jobs, applying for an international license to keep doing the only thing they could and had interest on doing; it wasn't ‹protecting the innocent,› of course. It was more along the lines of ‹following those Chinese faggots and putting them behind the bars, any place they might be hidden at.›

Indeed, arresting D and his father, even if they had to go all across the world to find them.

The ex-agent revealed his reasons to believe they might be in Australia. Hell, he even shared his undocumented experiences with D's old man at the university! «Damn, their weirdness must be genetic by now…»

Yet Vesca Howell refused to answer any questions of Leon Orcot's of why he'd bought a ring before they left for Sydney.

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The End

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I really hope you enjoyed this story;
I personally did love writing it, and
I dream of the day when you may
let me know whether you liked it or not.
Do review, please.