There is nothing so satisfying in life as having a mission.

A purpose. A singular direction. A reason de etre.

The man moving through the streets with the grace of a drunken alleycat knew nothing about it.

His thoughts were focused entirely on the task ahead of him. Well specifically beside him, encased in plastic and filled with flatspace tech.

Stopping in the shadows of an alleyway, the man paused-before running his tongue over one of his elongated canines in an attempt to calm down. Even before becoming infected, he'd been in the habit of nervously licking his lips. Less a man and more an animal, a coyote, A dog looking for the foot that was going to kick him.

So riveted was he on his progress, that he failed to notice the shadow moving behind him, just before-

John Preston, a man with a mission and a reason for existance-swung the barrel of his gun outward to catch the hemophage full in the face.

AT least, he would have.

Had the creature sprang upward, Twisted and then grabbed for Preston's hand at the last second, "Who the hell are you?"

Preston said nothing. He had long ago cultivated a face that frightened even the bravest of men. A face that had made all those people so long ago stare at him in fear-

He kicked with his left foot, swinging gracefully to the ground as the hemophage was knocked off his feet, lying winded a few inches away. Something small and plastic skittered to a stop and hovered-precarious at the edge of a drainage ditch.

The hemophage saw it.
"No-"

A wave of pleasure welled up out of some dark and horrible recess as Preston kicked the thing into the drainage ditch.

Hope died in the sick man's soul as he fixed Preston with a wild gaze, letting loose a gutteral and animal growl. He launched himself forward, spiraling at the greatest warrior a former dictatorship had seen-

Preston was ready for him though. He caught the man's motion and turned it against him-flinging him across the concrete only to hit the wall.

A loud Crack.

How the hell is the monster still coming?
-------------

Far away from the battle of shadows, another shadow watched.

"You are making this all too easy."

They kept the old sniper rifles in museums. Children watched them in awe, eyes glazed over at the prospect of a world that allowed for such lethal methods of killing.

A dry chamber made a noise in the scuffed silence of the night.

----------

The hemophage lunged at Preston, who found it physically difficult to keep up. This was like fighting a werewolf again, only without the advantage that size gave the creature.

No. These things were fast. wicked fast. Deadly Fast. He'd never believed that such speed could have existed- If I hadn't faced it before..

His mind lost track of that however as he dove to the side, pinning the hemophage to the ground with a knee on his chest.

The man struggled, "You-"

"I what."

Preston's voice was hard.

"I what. I kept you from delivering your little message to your leader? Kept you from making your appointment? I've tracked you for three days. You little shit. Tell me Where the fuck your hideout is.."

The vampire's fangs glistened in the light of the buildings far away, "-What?"

He wasn't sure what made less sense. The fact that this guy had just cursed, or the fact that he was looking for their leader.

"Violet Song Jat Shariff.. I want her. Where is she.?"

"...Fuc-Fuck you." The Hemophage said something in Thai-Hindi that made no sense and Preston slammed his head against the concrete, a thin trickle of blood oozing across the ground.

"-Don't toy with me asshole. I want your leader."
"What makes you think I'd know?!"
------------

Another sound in a silent forest.

His knees were starting to give with age. They sounded like gunshots in the gloom.

----------

Later. Preston would thank the Hemophage.

Profusely. Had the man not jerked his eyes upward in fear-Preston wouldn't have seen the danger. Far ahead-a glint-was it-

Instinct propelled the hemophage's body upward, shielding him.

----------

The bullet cut a graceful arch through the air, and the sniper took a moment to appreciate his resourcefulness. His skill.

He'd fired directly at the cleric's chest. He'd be dead before they knew what to do about it, and the Hemophage-after a beating like that-probably wouldn't survive.

The eyes played tricks, and the light did things to them that made the gunsman frown. It looked like-

No.

Oh Hell no

----------

The bullet blew past Preston's face.

Shock, fear, and a number of other emotions numbed him beyond all recognition as he remained frozen, aware of a sudden bout of rain hitting his face, his hands.

The hemophage slumped. A light going out in the creature's eyes as he dropped to the ground and curled a hand into the dirt. One final gesture before he passed on completely.

Getting to his feet, Preston caught his breath, Smiling down at the defeated monster.

"...I told you I'd get you."

He brushed the rain off his face and ran a hand through his hair, putting a foot on his chest. Call the police, have them cart this monster away-

The hemophage was smiling.
Smiling.

Smiling a hideous smile with it's teeth so long and sharp.

"...Oh really?"

It chuckled. The man who had once been Gregory Parks, a librarian, who'd contracted the disease four years ago, "-Think-think so?"

The human mind, so precariously split in two at the worst of moments, is a dangerous thing.

Some part of Preston registered that this man was only human at the time that he'd died-and some other part realized that there was no rain. No dew.

Nothing but a blurred haze and a slight dizzy feeling as he stared down at his heads-covered with the blood of the man he'd just helped to kill.
----------

"I didn't get him."

Silence on the other end of a phoneline, "...I'm sorry?"

"...Preston. Bastard's too quick."

The man who was being reported to, counted to ten and cursed the ineptitude of his assistants, "...You're saying that the cleric is still alive?"

"...Yes sir."

He wanted to reach through the phoneline and throttle the man. AS long as John Preston remained alive, any hope of his glorious plans coming to fruition was about as dead as the hemophage even now being carted away to the landfill. These Xylyxians weould only hold for so long and-

"...Infected him."

"..What?" Hope glimmered, "What are you talking about?"

"...They don't know Preston was involved. They only know the guy grappled with someone else. Footprints led away from the scene. Bloody Footprints.."

"You're thinking that the cleric might have become infected?"

"...Well I'm kind of hoping not for thet poor guy's sake. I mean an honest killing is one thing, but to become one of those things-"

A plan burned in Henry Dupont's mind, "...Yes. Well. I want him watched. Report on his state of...health."

"...You want me to spend my time following a-"

The line went dead and Henry Dupont breathed out. So much the better to have Preston disgraced. Humiliated. Rejected. Alone.

He wrote out plans for the words of condolences he'd offer Preston's superiors, a dark island in the sea of neon that was downtown Fuchuko behind him.

1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend your cool....

( John Preston: Pirate or Dystopian Enforcer? )

It is a crisp and clear autum day in Xylyx, and Preston is doing his best not to be bothered by the increasingly large crowd surrounding the podium. It's not hard to see why he's bothered. His children are here. Not to mention the person he's supposed to be protecting.

"...This is a bad idea."

Jurgen waved to a passing crowdmember, "...John. Will you relax?" Turning around, the sandy-haired man put a hand on the ex-cleric's shoulder, " This needs to happen. You of all people should understand that."

Preston shook his head, frowning. This wasn't right. This wasn't a good idea by any means. Something about the crowd and the people collecting in small pockets off to the side was raising every hair on the back of Preston's neck.

This was not going to end well.

Xylyxians, after years of isolation and seculsion- The Xylyxian minister of Public Affairs was a genial man in a mask. They were nuts about cleanliness in Libria, moreso then Preston had ever seen -We are fortunate to have Librians here, and ready to talk to us about the reforms that they've made. Perhaps it will once again be possible to unite humanity, as our ancestors dreamed.

The words shook Preston to his core, but he said nothing as he took his place behind the podium and watched Jurgen step out amidst the ragged cheers of the crowd. He continued to scan them, watchful for people without masks-

Xylyx had been hit by the worse of the two plagues that devestated Europe and the other continents. While they'd flung their nuclear resources in Libria-that-was's direct, The Americas had used them for their personal biological and chemical warfare playground. Years after the war, Xylyxians were still growing sick with HGV, the Hemophage virus. Spawned from AIDS and said to be twice as deadly, while it increased the user's strength and-

Preston's musings were interrupted as Jurgen began to speak.

My fellow Humans! I come before you today to address you not as a librian, but as a Human. An ancient human was once quoted as saying, "-I have a dream." His dream was sadly not to be.

Preston was fairly sure he'd known why. It was difficult to reconcile years of teaching with the reality that Jurgen preached.

People were once united. People once dreamed of being equal.

He had come to terms with emotion for himself, not for a greater whole. There had been Mary and her death and passing, along with the knowledge that he'd been manipulated. There was nothing grand about his intentions.

Yet as Jurgen continued talking, he felt himself swept along with the crowd.

...we have tasted the most bitter of defeats, and the most horrible of exiles. We in Libria have triumphed over the adversities that we as humans face. It is not unique to us, You can conqueor fear as well! Opression! Hatred!- Just as we have! together-we. shall. overcome!

Preston did not hear the shot. He'd curse himself later, reflexes dulled without Prosium, attention focused elsewhere.

He only saw Jurgen fall, the great man's head split across the floor of the stage.

Someone screamed and the crowd scattered.

So this was breaking.

Preston pushed medics away as he grabbed at his friend's form, smearing blood and gore across his white ceremonial shirtfront. Jurgen's face was gone-how? where? who-

There was no time to think.
No time to grieve. Just time to look up in the crowd and pick a likely suspect.

"-John!" Robbie waved his hands frantically, "-John! John!"

Preston spared a glance backward at his children, lost in a sea of confusion-and turned away from them. He had been given a job, and he'd failed in it.

He could not stop to care.

Not until the assassin (...That he knew more then enough about. He could recite their names from memory. Ray. Oswald. Booth. Those names he'd learned. Those horrors he could easily believe in.) had been caught and punished.

Preston pushed the crowd away, gun drawn. Someone pushed at him and he reacted instinctively, kicking the man in the back of the head before he continued persuit. Following a lead- I'll kill him, I'll kill him-

Later he'd stop to reflect on how disjointed his thoughts were. How focused he could have become-

But all he could do was run until he found one of the Xylyxian sliding doors-throwing it open.

Dusk began to fade as Preston folded the clothes he kept there carefully back into his suitcase. Time to go back for a while, be with his kids...

His eyes strayed to the bed where Partridge's crumpled letter had stayed since he'd thrown it off. This place was a good place, a sweet place-
But it was also a sour reminder of everything that he'd lost. That he and his society had lost.

"I'm not going John."
Preston's eyes roamed upward. There sat Robbie, in librian clothes, staring at him silouetted against the light.
"Of course you are." Preston frowned, confused, "...We've lingered here too long anyway. It's time to start repairing things."

Robbie said nothing as Preston shoved the last item into a drawer and picked up his weapons, strapping them carefully into his holsters. The silence was uncomfortable, permeating the room and drowning both in a wave of silence.
"We have a responsibility." Preston studied his son quietly. ".....It's time we faced that." He stepped closer, cautious, "Robbie, This is for the common good, the good for all of us-"
"We're facing up to responsibility." Robbie's voice was harsh, "A Responsibility we haven't faced up to for a decade John." The boy shook his head at him, eyes red, "...You can't claim any ownership of that responsibility." His eyes narrowed and he turned away, hunching his tiny body.
"....Robbie-"

"No, don't even try." Robbie held up his hand, "The last generation that claimed any responsibility, reguardless of how misguided they became-was the generation who watched the towers fall."

Preston stared, "....How dare you." Preston grimaced, grabbing his son by the shoulder and whirling him around to face him, "-They-I-I started out with honorable intentions but soon-"
"They hid." Robbie's voice was soft, "...Just like you. Partridge didn't run from his responsibility...from his death."

Preston's hand raised but he lowered it, gripping his wrist tightly, "...I did everything that everyone asked me to do."
"You did it because you were angry and you didn't understand what you were doing." Robbie's eyes were angry, "...Because you acted without control. You're not acting out of a "responsibility", You're acting because you were part of the problem and you screwed up." Robbie snorted, "...You're no different then anyone who's a part of the government. Inaction is just as bad as actually killing those who stand against you. Oh wait-I forgot ...You were."

Preston couldn't contain his anger any longer, "-Why are you saying this?"

"Because I'm scared!" Robbie cried, "It's too hard! You've put too much responsibility on me!" Robbie broke out in a sob, dropping to his knees as Preston stood back dumbfounded, "...You and everyone! what, just cause we're younger then you it's our job to clean up your mess?"

"...You're the future-"
Robbie planted his feet, facing down his father defiant, "...That attitude. That-that train of thought is what brought us to father and to libria in the first place." Robbie's voice took on a tone that Preston recognized all too well, "....Why don't you, and Tate, and Everyone else try and fix things Instead of focusing on what we'll be able to do."

He grimaced, "...I will carry on what you built, what you started, but you can't shirk your responsibility. You can't hide here, and I just..."
He swallowed, "-I just want to rest."
Preston dropped to the floor and wrapped his arms around his son, "...We'll rest when we get home-"

"No!" Robbie pushed against him, "I don't want to go home."
He whimpered, "...It's hard. John things are bad there. There are riots all along the border from people who were working with Father-Xylyx and the rest of the world are contacting Tate-People need you not me."

Preston and Robbie hadn't talked in quite a while.

Preston found his son sitting on the bed in their room-tossing and catching a baseball he'd gotten from-well-somewhere.

"Robbie-"

"....Hi John."

Preston's face fell. clenching his hand in a fist, Preston strode quickly across the room and took a seat beside his son, "-The door's back." Preston's voice is soft, "...I'm sending you home."

Robbie's eyes widened, "Dad-"

"Listen. To me." Preston said. His words were coming out harsher then he'd intended, "I'm sending you back with a message for Cleric Tate. And Some books and things. We're both going back."

"-John...Why?" Robbie stood up, face controted in fury, "...Why do we have to go back? Why can't we stay here? It's better here. I like it here. I don't want to ever go back!" The feelings bubbled and overflowed, three years of repression

Preston frowned ,surprised as Robbie flung the baseball across the room-hitting the wall with a loud smack. The Child's face was streaked with tears as he flung himself on the floor.

"Why are you behaving like this?" Preston was at a loss. This reaction wasn't expected; especially from Robbie "We can't...hide from our problems Robbie."

"-That's what we were doing with Prosium!" The boy cried, "The War! The Insuing Conflicts and the plagues? You've seen the slogans too John. Feeling Trapped? Take a cap of prosium. Clinically required to suppress feelings of depression, rage, anxiety, fear-

"And that's why what happened happened." Preston stood up, not the father-but the Cleric, "That's why we're going to change, we're going to start fixing things-"

"You can't fix human nature! Father proved that, and Human nature is to run away from problems!" Robbie stood up, furious, "-The strong don't protect the weak like they're supposed to, they manipulate them into believing false notions and lies!"

Preston slapped him.
The movement was so unexpected that Robbie dropped to his knees, terrified.
"Don't be ignorant." Preston's voice was hard, "-Don't you dare decide that now is the time to play the stupid and witless little boy."

Cleric to the end, Robbie rose, "...Yes sir." He stood straight at attention, "Forgive my lapse in judgement cleric."
Preston froze.

Don't you see Preston? It's gone. Everything that we are traded away.

And they'd had a reason to. There had been war and murder. The nations of the world had slaughtered each other over crude oil, bringing the planet and their species to a mutual state of destruction all for their own petty and selfish gains. Then systematically each nation had torn themselves apart under the threat and burden of one thing or another.

And so they'd welcomed the chance to run. The chance that had been provided by the second and third councillaries. It hurt too much on a physical and mental level. Faces of loved ones swam up through the dim and dank fog of the human mind every chance. The people had felt sick, the people had felt sick and weak-

In a flash, Preston was on his knees wrapping his arms around Robbie-burying his face in the boy's chest. Surprised-Robbie stopped completely before wrapping his own arms around his father-the two sharing a mutual embrace.

"....We traded it away." Preston murmured, "But we're going to get it back." he pulled away and set his hands on his son's shoulders, "Listen to me. Robbie-The hope for the future-for rebuilding mankind into something servicable, to make up for all the time that we've lost-doesn't rest with me. I can only help guide you. It is the duty, the responsibility of the generation that follows to take up the mantle of civilization and carry it into the future."

Those had been Father's words.

But they meant something else.

"Throughout human history. We have to go back, I have to build Something so that you and your sister can make it stronger. Make it better. You've seen the lowest that we can sink...now-"

Preston smiled, "....I want to see how high we can fly."

Robbie laughed, "Humans can't-"
"Fly. Some can here."

The two shared a laugh, ".....I'll follow you as soon as I can." He's got things to do here, and he can't go back.

Not yet.

Because he's scared and the thought makes him sick inside.

"....okay dad."
The two hug again, no silence breaching their feeling. Something so perfect, so mute and so right that cursed be the person who comes between them.

Preston was intuitively drawn to nature.

In another life and time he could very easily see himself doing something nature related, or at least making sure it was a part of his life in some way. Being outside relaxed him in ways that he'd never imagined, except for being with Robbie and Lisa.

Robbie had come to him a few hours earlier with a rather odd tale. He'd asked for his father's opinion but John-
John had been unable to give it.

That had drawn him outside where he sat on a rock and stared at the evening sky trying to discern some sort of answer to the mysteries of the Universe from it. Mysteries that he'd been thrust into-yet never asked or wanted to be a part of.

Life was strange that way.