Walking down the dark highway, with his hands jammed in his pockets and his head hunched down in a futile attempt to lessen the full impact of the driving rain, the teen couldn't help but imagine how he must look to those passing by.

Tough. Hard. Ready for anything. He liked the sound of that. He tried to look a bit more intimidating. After all, he was supposed to frighten those around him. He was a tough hood. He feared nothing. He fled nothing. He felt nothing.

Yeah, he definitely liked the sound of that. Hard. That's what he was. Nothing could touch him. Walking down the highway, directionless, friendless, hopeless, he started telling himself over and over that he was hard. Tough. Nothing could touch him.

Continuing his directionless journey, the youth started saying it out loud.

"I'm tough."

"I'm hard."

"Nothing could touch me."

It was a chant really. Rhythmic. Therapeutic.

It wasn't like anyone else was around. The words were only meant for himself. If he said them enough times, maybe he would even start to believe them.

Maybe, if he told himself enough times, it would really be true. One day, maybe he could live with the fact that Richard Ryan was directionless, friendless, hopeless. Maybe one day, he'd understand that and, yet, feel nothing.

Finally seeing some reprieve, Richie ducked inside the chintzy little diner. He attempted to go unnoticed, a difficult task for someone so out of his element among the crowd of experienced truckers.

Refusing to allow himself to show any fear, Richie looked up with no expression as the large man approached him. As the trucker sat down across from him, he only allowed himself to provide the man a slight nod of acknowledgement.

"Need a ride?" The man asked, barely looking at the drenched boy as he took a long drag on his cigarette.

Richie simply nodded, and silently followed the man out to his rig.

Climbing down from the truck, Richie drug his bag behind him. Looking back, he gave a slight wave of thanks to the driver before refocusing on his destination. As he took in the abandoned gas station, empty parking lot and graffiti covered bar, he showed no emotions.

After a moment's reflection, the boy simply hoisted his bag over his shoulder and made his way down the street.

Stepping inside the front entryway, Richie waited patiently for the clerk in the cage to acknowledge his presence.

"What you want?" The scrawny man asked, not even bothering to put out his cigarette as he meandered his way across the cage to look over the youth.

Richie simply stared right back at the man. "A room."

"Can't rent to a kid." The man said flatly.

Richie did his best to look thoroughly annoyed. "You really don't want me to bring in the old man. He's a nasty drunk."

"Humph." The cage-dweller snorted. Finally, he walked back to the key rack. "20, up front."

As Richie tossed a crumpled bill through the small opening, he made sure to appear disinterested.

Looking down at the worn out 6 scratched onto the wooden bar at the end of the key, Richie briefly nodded in the clerk's direction before heading back outside to find his room.

Throwing open the door, Richie did his best to ignore the rat scurrying around in the bathroom tub. As he dropped his bag and flopped his exhausted body onto the mattress, even the passionate sounds coming from the next room over could not keep sleep from overcoming him.

As the sleek black sports car inched slowly down the main stretch of the dead-end town, the few people that actually still remained openly stared at the automobile. Only when the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the flee-ridden motel and the large, frightening man dressed in black emerged from the car did the gawkers divert their eyes. It was obvious even to the common nitwits that occupied the town that this man was not one whose temper needed triggered.

Walking with purpose, the uninvited visitor made a direct path to the main entrance of the motel. Throwing open the door loudly, the large intruder was surprised by the lack of response he received from the clerk. That is, until he realized that the man was not merely asleep at his post; he was in a drunken stupor. Seeing that there would be no assistance provided, the visitor left as abruptly as he had entered and headed straight for the rooms, walking slowly as he passed each one.

Pausing in front of one, he stared through the open blinds of the well-light room that Richard Ryan was fast asleep within, completely oblivious of his visibility to the outside world. Shaking his head in annoyance, the large man quickly slipped a credit card into the side of the door and skillfully tripped the lock; the ease of which he worked compounded by practice and the fact that the boy inside had not bothered to turn the bolt-lock.

As the large intruder silently slipped in the room, he was mildly surprised when the boy did not even flinch as he loomed over the bed. Shaking his head in disgust, the intruder quickly spotted the boy's bag and easily tossed it over one shoulder. Then, with an equal amount of ease, he did the same to the sleeping child.

Richie was tired. He wasn't dead. The sudden movement immediately awakened him and he quickly realized that he was not in a good situation. Not entirely sure where he was, the teen was coherent enough to realize that he was being hauled out of his environment like a sack of potatoes. Despite being held upside down and having his face buried in his kidnapper's coat, Richie instinctually began to fight. Kicking and hitting at the large man, the teen did his best not to allow himself to be hauled off without his consent.

His efforts proved futile, however. His kidnapper provided only a low grunt as thanks for his efforts and he continued to be hauled out of the room and to the man's car with incredible ease. As the man silently dumped him in the passenger seat of his car, despite Richie's continuous physical protests, the boy finally got a good look at his captor. As he got his first glance at the man who held him hostage, Richie found himself absolutely speechless.

The stupefied condition Richie was in lasted long enough for the Immortal to not only get in the car, but also begin driving. It was not until they had pulled onto the highway that Richie finally found his voice. His question came out in a hollow whisper. "Mac?"

"Yeah, partner. It's me." The Immortal replied softly, cautiously moving his hand to stroke the back of the teen's head.

For more than 20 miles, the Immortal drove in silence, wanting the boy to be able to choose when he was ready to speak. It was not until they had pulled off at the first Seattle exit and into a nearby hotel that Duncan finally found it necessary to break the silence. "I'm going to get us a room."

When Richie didn't register the comment, the Immortal continued. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes."

Silence still rained. "Do you want to come with me?"

The slight shake of the head was more then welcome. "All right, you stay right here then. I'll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?"

Squeezing the back of the teen's neck briefly, Duncan quickly exited the car and went inside the main entrance of the hotel, fervently praying that there would be an open room.

When Duncan finally got them registered in the only vacant room, he was more than a little disheartened to realize that Richie didn't appear to have moved from his current location in the slightest. Not even a hand had been disrupted from its original position. Sighing, he opened the back door of the car and pulled out the two bags he had haphazardly packed before leaving the loft in search of the boy.

The flinching motion that shook Richie's entire body when the door clicked open was not the sign of life that Duncan had been hoping for. Slamming the door quickly, the Immortal rounded the car to retrieve the teen as well.

Richie, who was clutching the bag he had from the motel, didn't even look up when Duncan pulled open his door. Instead, he sat unmoving in the car. Hoisting the two bags over one shoulder; the Scotsman leaned into the car to unlatch Richie's seatbelt. Once again he paused, hoping the teen would make some effort to move on his own. Instead, the Immortal found himself pulling the stiff boy, still clutching to his bag, out of the car.

Desperate to get some response from the child, he did the one thing he knew would make the boy object. Hoisting the teen into his arms and heading towards the hotel, he waited for the inevitable protestations to begin. There was no way Richie would allow himself to be carried. He would demand that Duncan put him down at once, claiming he was much too old to be carried. Or maybe fuss and squirm, telling the Immortal he was uncomfortable and didn't want to be dropped. He might begin to goof off, making faces or poking at the Immortal to deflect his embarrassment. If not that, he would at the very least curl into the man's chest, taking comfort from the contact.

As Duncan carried the teen into the hotel, the silence and lack of protest haunted the man. Depositing both Richie and the bags, Duncan became increasingly concerned as he looked into the void that was Richie's eyes.

"Are you okay?" The Immortal could have kicked himself for asking such a stupid question. Of course Richie wasn't okay. How could anyone be okay after what he had just gone through?

When the boy slowly nodded in response, Duncan did his best to provide a convincing smile. As the night progressed along, the Immortal's concerns only increased as Richie passively allowed the man to clean him, tend his wounds and prepare him for bed without even the slightest sign of protest.

It took hours of soothing words, heartfelt promises and unreturned but unrejected coddling before Duncan finally managed to coax Richie into a deep but uneasy sleep. Cautiously slipping out from underneath the teen and carefully securing the blankets around him, Duncan quickly gave into the curiosity that had been plaguing him for the entire night and silently grasped the bag that Richie had been clinging to.

The Immortal was well aware of the fact that the duffel belonged to neither him nor the teen and that Richie had certainly not had it with him when he had been kidnapped. It was all too clear to Duncan that the bag most certainly belonged to Richie's captor and the boy's desire to keep it was more than a little disturbing.

Unzipping the bag as quietly as possible, the Scotsman was relieved when Richie did not stir at the sound. Closely examining the meager contents of the bag, Duncan wasn't quite sure what to think. While the bloodstained sweatshirt's necessity saddened him, the Immortal could at least understand why Richie felt he might need to hang on to it. It was the bag's only other item that really worried the Immortal, however.

The large golden skull hanging from a rib chain was far from inconspicuous at the bottom of the bag. Pulling out the item to examine it more closely, Duncan felt a coldness wash over him at the idea of it still being anywhere near Richie. Staring at the hated possession, Duncan found himself reflecting back on the day three weeks earlier when he had first laid eyes on both the piece of jewelry and its owner. The day that changed everything.