OOC Information: These posts follow the separation of Devon from his wife (covered in some detail in "Rivalry") and primarily addresses how he is dealing with the emotional results. It transitions into the somewhat self-contained mission "Tableau," which leads immediately into "Family."

(( May 29, 2013, edited August 28, 2013 ))

The Protector stood silent in the driving rain. He was soaked, his bones ached with cold. But he felt only the heat welling up inside of him.?

He stood on the rooftop across from Creighton's condo, as he had so many nights before. Only this night was different. For the first time ever, he had followed Zephyer ? followed his wife ? as she gained entry into his enemy's domain. It didn't bother him that he'd never seen her here before. Didn't raise an alarm that only after he followed her from the Inn did she finally make an appearance. Perhaps she wanted him to follow her. Wanted him to know that she was safe, happy, and sated. The anger burned inside of him. How could she be so cruel.

Slowly and deliberately he made it down to the street below. Then back up again, as he scaled the fire escape. He had planned this maneuver many times in his head. Only in his mind he wasn't soaking wet. Wasn't burning with rage. When he choreographed these moves, it was mechanical. Procedural. Yet now his body moved like an animal. He had forgotten so many lessons about how and when to initiate an operation. But it didn't matter. He couldn't go on this way.

Still, he managed to quiet his nerves long enough to to disable the alarm system and open the window. In a matter of moments he was inside. It was quite dark, the only light coming from the occasional flash of lightning. He stood there for a long while, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He was soaked, dripping water onto the carpet at his feet. It never occurred to him to use his heat vision to locate his prey. Once again, he wasn't thinking straight. Instincts took over. The wrong instincts.

He reached inside his soaked longboat and withdraw his Ares Predator. It felt warm in his hands. The weight seemed off, but it didn't stop him. No distractions. He stalked toward the bedroom door, his gun pointing down. He knew where the bedroom was, even though he was never able to see it from his perch across the street. Perhaps it was intentional that he never saw that room. Never had occasion to see his wife in the arms of another. Yes, that's certainly why he chose that angle. Some things he didn't want to know. No doubt he never would have survived the experience.

At least, not until he was ready. And tonight he was ready.

With his left hand he pushed open the door. Although it was cloudy and dim that evening, a powerful ray of moonlight stretched across the bed like a ribbon, interrupted at the edge by The Protector's long shadow. There they were. His mortal rival, Daniel Creighton, lay on his back. The sheet came barely up to his navel, and the light revealed his torso above. Devon forgot how seriously Creighton took his workout. He was very muscular, very fit. His skin seemed to be slick with oil to the point that he shone. Every woman's dream.

The worst was his smile. A confident smile. The smile of a man who had the world by the balls.?

No, even more draconian. The smile of a man who had just made love and was absolutely content.

Devon's eyes traversed the scene and quickly found his wife. She laid next to Creighton, sprawled along his side with one leg wrapped over top of him. She was luxuriously naked, pressed against him with the kind of need that takes one's breath away. She was completely vulnerable to him, trusting that he would protect her. The kind of trust she once had for Devon. She had surrendered completely to his power.?

Devon scanned every inch of her. She looked much as she did earlier this evening in the Inn ? only somehow better. She was much more fit than when he last saw her, her arms muscular and lean. Whereas in the Inn she seemed somewhat thinner than he was used to, here in this scene she seemed perfectly proportioned. She was a Goddess, her skin smooth and soft and yet warm and supple. Clearly she's been working out, he observed, probably at Creighton's direction. He had turned her into a fighting machine at his sick beck-and-call. He made her into the perfect woman. Everything that Devon loved about her was somehow, inexplicably, on display for him. Her feistiness, her sense of humor, her fierce independence yet also her vulnerability and emotion. Creighton had taken it all from Devon, leaving only a hole in Devon's heart. An emptiness in his soul.

At that moment came a powerful crack of thunder from outside. Creighton and Zephyer both awoke with a start. They quickly followed the shadow up to Devon's form as he stood menacingly in the doorway, gun in hand. He was wet and undoubtedly had a crazed look on his face with wild hair.?

"Devon, no!" she shouted, reaching one hand toward him.

Creighton's reaction was more sensible. He jumped out of bed and lunged toward the shorter man. (Thankfully he was wearing underwear, Devon was not prepared for the sight of a naked Daniel Creighton.) He took a swing, but Devon was faster ? grabbing Creighton's arm with his left hand and twisting it hard. Creighton let out a yelp, his arm going limp. With all his strength, Devon hurled the man by the arm back into the living room behind him.?

"Devon, please!" Zephyer pleaded.?

The Protector raised his gun at his wife and she froze. For a moment they looked at each other, eye to eye (to gun). They were both shaking from the intensity of the moment.?

Finally, Devon broke the silence. "Don't leave this room," he warned. And with that he stepped back, closed the door, and turned the lock on the handle.

Creighton was uncharacteristically hovering near the floor, cradling his injured arm. The fury welled up in Devon as he swung around, bringing his gun to bear. "Did you really think you could STEAL MY WIFE without consequence?" he bellowed, louder than anyone ever should.?

"Maybe if you had?" Creighton started, but Devon didn't let him finish that thought. With his left hand he grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him off the floor. With a powerful move he pushed backwards, eventually slamming Creighton into nearest wall. His fingers began to squeeze, choking the life out of his rival.

Meanwhile, Zephyer apparently began slamming herself into the door, trying to break herself free. Devon knew his time was limited as he leaned in. "Take my business. Take my clients. Take my home," he hissed. "But don't you come near my wife. I won't stand for it."

Creighton couldn't speak through the choke but Devon was certain he was begging for his life. But the hate spoke louder and Devon heard. He brought the gun to Creighton's face and pushed it into his mouth. Many times he'd imagined this moment. Blowing Daniel Creighton's brains (such as they were) all over the wall. And here they were.

Finally The Protector eased up on his grip, allowing Creighton to get in some last words. The slamming in the next room continued.

"How long," he grunted, "until she breaks through that door?" he asked. "Are you prepared to kill her too?"

Devon's eyes narrowed. He paused long and hard, and finally withdraw the gun from Creighton's mouth, dropping it on the floor.?

Creighton, now panting, let out a sigh of relief. "Thank God," he whispered.

"God?" Devon asked. "God has no place for you." With that, he reached up with his right hand, clutched both hands around Creighton's head, and twisted with a single fluid motion. Creighton's neck broke instantly, and he slumped easily down to the floor.

At that moment, Zephyer came crashing through the bedroom door. Devon hit the floor in a roll, retrieving his gun and leveling it at her from a kneeling position. She was now a wolf, growling and snarling at him from an attack pose. She didn't look at Creighton's corpse, but no doubt she knew what had happened.?

For a long time they stood like this, both prepared to attack. Both prepared to end each other's life. Devon knew that at this moment she was his tactical equal. She could leap into the air, tackle him, and tear out his throat. Just as she knew that there was a better than fifty per cent chance that he could shoot her through the head before she reached her apex. Either could die at this moment.
?
Finally, moving very slowly, he held up his left hand defensively. "It would be best if we never see each other again," he said simply. He then began to stalk backwards towards the window, his gun held high.

A low, throaty growl. She took a few steps forward, keeping the distance. For the first time he felt fear in his heart. She really was prepared to kill him.

Then another mighty crack of thunder. His heart jumped. The wolf jumped.?

He woke up.

The Protector was covered in a combination of sweat and rainwater as he laid in his bed, alone in his apartment. The window was open and the storm outside was intense. Devon began panting almost uncontrollably. He had this dream many times, the dream of killing Creighton and the never-resolved standoff with Zephyer. But after seeing her tonight at the Inn, it had never been this intense. She was more real this time. More deadly. And the betrayal felt worse than it ever had before. Still, more than ever before, it didn't make sense. He had never actually seen her with Creighton after all these months apart. How was that possible? He was a trained and experienced investigator. He had a 'client' being held 'captive' by an 'enemy.' Why had he spent three months spying on his rival never to see her?

Still unable to control his breathing, he reached under his pillow and withdrew his Predator. He checked to make sure it was loaded and released the safety. He then sat it on his chest, trying to calm himself. The weight of the powerful gun on his body helped. It made him feel in control. Right at that moment he wanted to go to her, to tell her how stupid he'd been, that he trusted her and needed her and knew she needed him. He wanted to tell her that it was all going to be alright and chastise her for not trusting him. Anger, fear, and longing all overwhelmed him. So many emotions he could barely tell where one ended and another began.?

He closed his eyes and listened to the rain. The answer had to be there somewhere. He just needed to focus. Soon he would have his vengeance. He just wasn't sure it would play out like the dream.

(( June 25, 2013 ))

Midnight fell upon RhyDin. A couple of lamps shed a dim light in Devon's living room ? just enough to see the furniture and not trip on anything. Devon sat quietly in his desk chair, eyes glancing at the couch on the opposite wall. Every so often he thought he saw movement ? a shape in the darkness ? but it would fade or be revealed as nothing by headlights reflecting off the wall of the building across the street. His left hand held a glass of scotch, long-since ablated by melted ice. His right hand rested on the surface of the desk, fingers curled lightly around a manila envelope with a postmark and Devon's hand-written on the front.

"So is this what you do now, Devon? Sit and stare at the wall?"

The Protector glanced down at the floor, flashing back to his youth. A torrent of rain fell upon the back of his head as he focused on the floor. "No, sir. Just having a quiet night."

"It's a Friday night, shouldn't you be working?"

"I work when clients pay me to work. Nothing tonight."

"I thought your business was doing well. You should be working on a Friday night."

Devon stood and spun around, glaring at his grandfather. Despite the fact that he stood more than a foot taller than his father's father, he always found himself looking up at the man. Immediately intimidated he shrunk back toward the desk.

"Well instead of working I'm here talking to you," is all he could think to say. "You complain I never call home."

Sullivan scoffed. "Your grandmother complains about that. I know you'll call if you have something to say."

"Yes, sir."

The elder Goral pointed toward the models displayed on the top of the desk. "Where did you get these? The details are all wrong. This battleship is painted the wrong color and the guns are mounted backwards. And the armor belt on that destroyer is upside-down."

Devon frowned, shrinking even further.

"I designed these ships and had to watch on the news as they were torn apart by mobs during the re-emergence. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To my pride?"

"I can imagine, sir."

"And then to see them bastardized like this. It's an insult."

"I built them, grandfather," Devon blurted out.

Sullivan narrowed his eyes, clearly not surprised. His eyes darted back and forth between the models and his grandson before he waived a dismissive hand. "Try to do better next time."

"Yes, sir."

"So explain to me why I am here on a Friday night."

The Protector sat back down at his desk, now facing his grandfather. "How am I supposed to know that?"

"Don't get smart with me, boy. You're a man, act your age. Sometimes it's hard to believe that you're my grandson and heir."

Devon's eyes widened but he did not speak.

"We both know I'm not really here, that you've conjured me out of some kind of alchol-induced malady of the mind."

Devon glanced down at his drink and didn't remember having any. He set the glass down on a coaster on his desk, careful not to drip any water on the envelope.

"So I ask again, why am I here?"

Devon glanced up, annoyance plain as day on his face. "I don't know that, sir."

Sullivan folded his arms over his chest and puffed it out. "Well is this is a common occurrence?"

"Sir?"

"Do you routinely cause me to appear in this manner?"

Devon paused, thinking back. "No, sir, not that I recall. This is the first time I've seen you like this."

"But there have been others," the elder Goral deduced.

"Yes, sir."

"Who?"

"Frequently Zephyer. Sometimes Daniel Creighton."

"I see. So you have hallucinations of your wife and your former boss." He scratched his chin. "I don't see how I fit in."

Devon shook his head dismissively. "Neither do I. Feel free to return to London if you prefer to be doing something else."

"Prefer to be? Have you lost your mind?"

Devon threw up his arms, gesturing about the room. "This conversation would seem to suggest that I have."

"Do you really think I'd prefer to be in London right now, laying in my deathbed with your grandmother constantly parading lawyers and doctors past me as if I'm some kind of museum exhibit?"

Devon shrunk even further, shoulders slumping and his eyes glancing down. "No, sir."

"'No, sir' indeed. Maybe I have finally shuffled off and I'm here haunting you. Maybe you're not crazy after all."

Finally Devon glanced up, a look of legitimate worry painted across his face. "I don't want? please tell me?"

Sullivan rolled his eyes and held up a hand. "I'm not dead, Devon. Don't give me any of your patented concern. And your Grandmother is being quite comforting, actually. I didn't think she had it in her."

"I'm going to come visit you in August," Devon offered.

"I'll still be alive in August if my Doctor is to be believed," Sullivan responds as if establishing terms for a business agreement.

"Good," was all Devon could think to respond.

Sullivan stalked around the living room, peering about over his glasses. "Why is it so dark in here?"

"Would you like me to turn on a light?"

"That's not what I asked." He tried sitting down on the couch but found it too soft and 'modern.' Instead he made his way over to a little-used chair next to the kitchen door.

"Because I'm being pensive, grandfather," came the response as Devon began fidgeting with the corner of the manila envelope. "The grand light of the inquisition sheds a bit too much illumination on my demons."

"Ah, so we're here to discuss your demons."

"Like hell," came the retort.

Sullivan straightened in his chair. "I'm not accustomed to that kind of language or attitude."

"I imagine you're not," Devon muttered.

"Devon Goral."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"I am a guest in your home and you will treat me with the requisite respect."

"Yes, sir."

"Now," the elder Goral continued, getting back to business, "you're having dreams of Zephyer and Captain Creighton." A pause as the man seemed to be taking notes inside his mind. "Together or separately?"

"Both."

Sullivan slipped down his reading glasses, glancing over the rim. "Are we talking adult-themed dreams?" he asked warily.

Devon shook his head. "No, sir. Well, not in the traditional sense."

"Explain."

"Well, if Daniel is in the dream, it ends violently. With his death."

"I see," came the response with all the sincerity in the world, and followed by more mental note-taking.

"And Zephyer ? well it's mostly mundane. Tours of the apartment. Walking down the street. Sometimes she joins me at a table at the local bar, even though I know she isn't there."

"And do you talk to her?"

"Of course."

"You have conversations with her in public even though she's just a hallucination?"

Devon nodded simply. "Well, I'm not always sure she's a hallucination until we talk for a while."

Sullivan leaned forward, his face clouding with concern. "How long a while?"

"It differs. Sometimes just a few minutes. Sometimes longer."

"I see."

"But I know you're a hallucination and we've been going on like this for at least fifteen minutes."

"Hmm. Point taken."

"So why are you here?"

"I thought that was my question."

"Aye but clearly you're working out an answer in the analytical form you use for everything you do."

"Well obviously you're distressed about losing your wife. You're mad at your former associate for 'stealing' your business, as I recall. You've living on your own again for the first time in years and you're restarting your business. That's a lot of pressure and it's no wonder it has you a bit off-keel."

"I don't recall telling you about all of that."

A blank stare from his grandfather and Devon throws up his hands. "Sorry, I forgot. You're very real. I start to forget."

"Okay, so let's get down to it. Do you need business advice? Because that's my best qualification."

Devon shook his head, both hands now returning to the envelope and toying with it. "No, sir, I don't think so. My business is doing surprisingly well. I'm turning clients away ? except, apparently on a Friday night."

A smirk from his grandfather, then back to business. "Well, surely I can't be her to talk about Captain Creighton. I don't particularly like the man but I'm ill-equipped to offer advice about how to deal with his betrayal."

"I'm perfectly capable of my own vengeance."

Sullivan removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he glanced up, eyes serious. "Devon, I do know this. I believe it was Confucius who said that a man who embarks on a journey of revenge should dig two graves. I'm a businessman. There were plenty of people out there who tried to damage or even destroy me in business. And I bested most of them, and learned from the rest. But I never sought revenge because it's a distraction."

Devon nodded quietly. "I admire your focus."

"That focus made me a very wealthy and powerful man."

"I know that, Grandfather. But I don't have your strength."

"You could."

Devon shook his head. "But this is different. He didn't just steal my business. He stole my wife ? my soulmate."

"That I won't accept, Devon," the elder Goral said, putting his glasses back on his face and glaring at his grandson. "I've met Zephyer storm and I don't accept that she can be stolen by anyone."

Devon averted his eyes, glancing down. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"People are not one-dimensional. Even the best of us have flaws."

"That I know all too well, Devon."

"The alternative is to accept ? to believe that she choose to be with him instead of me," the words came blurting out. "And I ? I can't accept that."

A long pause. Devon glanced down at his hands, struggling to maintain control of his emotions.

"How do you know?" he finally asked.

"What?" Devon glanced up, gulping to steady his breath.

"How do you know that she chose him?"

Devon's again looked down at his hands. "I know."

"Tell me. Come on, you work in the information trade. Tell me. Just leave out the graphic details."

"I first suspected when we agreed to separate. I knew she wasn't happy with me but I thought we were working through our problems. Then she was attacked in our home and it all went south."

"She was attacked."

"Aye. Hurt badly. It's one of the reasons I moved out, I couldn't ? I couldn't get the blood out." More figurative than literal.

A pause. "Devon, your wife was almost killed in her own home. Were you there for her?"

"Of course I was," he snapped. "But I also had to find out who did it. I had to ?"

"Get revenge?"

"It wasn't about revenge. It was about making sure she would be safe. Someone hurt her because they were coming after me. I had to act. I had to find out who was responsible."

"And you said your relationship was already on the rocks at this point."

A slow nod.

"Devon," the words came more slowly now, "I'm not a relationship expert and I'm not interested in getting too deep into my grandson's personal life. But it sounds like you and Zephyer went through a traumatic experience and when she needed you ? you weren't there for her. Add that to the fact that you were already going through a rough time and it's no wonder you two split up."

Devon leaned forward, beginning to seethe. "Do you know why we were going through a rough time? Why our relationship was on the rocks?"

Sullivan seemed taken aback by the sudden change in tone, tilting his head curiously. "Go on."

"Because I was being your 'grandson and heir,'" he almost spat. "When Zephyer and I got serious, really serious, I somehow became just like you. I built a home in the middle of nowhere, a home far more elaborate than either of us knew what to do with." As Devon spoke he got faster and louder and more animated, waiving the envelope around in the air. "I expanded my business, hired a dozen men and women, and thought I would become some kind of tycoon. I started working ridiculous hours either at the office or in the field. Our relationship became a series of 'date nights,' at least half of which I had to cancel. Notes left on my pillow when I'd leave while we still slept. Extravagant gifts left for her in an effort to buy her forgiveness."

By now Devon was panting, his face flushed and his eyes flashing. Yet despite the energy and aggression, Sullivan remained calmly seated in the other chair, hands folded in his lap.

"The worst part," Devon continued, his voice now soft ? almost hissing, "is that she did everything short of putting up a billboard to tell me what I was doing wrong. We had discussions. Arguments. I kept promising I'd do better. That I just needed to work a little bit more to stabilize the business. But I kept moving the goalposts. I always needed just a few more months. And I watched as I broke her heart every time I said it."

"Go on."

"That's it. And then she was hurt and I needed to deal with the people who hurt her but she wasn't willing to wait any longer."

"So why would she find refuge in the arms of Captain Creighton?"

"Huh?"

"If we accept your scenario," he began with a small tinge of disdain, "that you became more like me to the detriment of your relationship, why was she pushed toward Captain Creighton?"

Devon paused. "Well, he's exciting. Rides a motorcycle. Lives dangerously. Unencumbered by morality."

"And you think he reminds her of you before you became ? boring like me."

"Not boring. Driven."

"And Creighton isn't driven?"

Devon frowned. "Well, he also has a business. A competing business. But I don't know, maybe he just was better at handling the strain."

"Sounds to me like she traded one set of problems for another. Zephyer is a good judge of character. I can appreciate the allure of a 'bad boy,' but is that enough?"

Devon grumbled. "Apparently."

"How do you know? I've asked you twice and you refused to answer. How do you know she's with him?"

Devon froze. Eyes focused on the envelope, his body hunched over.

"What is that in the envelope?"

"Nothing."

The elder Goral stood, taking several steps toward his grandson. Again he seemed to loom impossibly high in the clouds. "I'm not going to keep playing games with you. I'm trying to help you and you've done nothing but dismiss and insult me. I'm your grandfather and I've come all the way here from my deathbed in London to help you. Now be a man and stop playing teenage games with me."

Devon threw the envelope down on the desk, looking up at his grandfather. His expression was a combination of agony and anger with a little guilt thrown in for flavor. "Pictures. The envelope has pictures."

"Pictures of what?"

"Of Zephyer. In his office. On his motorcycle." He pauses for nearly an eternity, looking down. "And a bunch of her naked in his apartment."

"Oh," came the response. The elder Goral seemed taken aback.

"Yeah."

"Where did the pictures come from. Did you?"

"No, I didn't have her followed. They were sent to me. Anonymously."

"I see." A long pause. "By whom?"

"What?"

"Who sent you the pictures?"

"I just said anonymously. They were postmarked from in town and there was no note."

"I wasn't born yesterday, Devon," his grandfather scolded. "Who do you think sent them?"

"If they were from a friend, warning me perhaps, they wouldn't be anonymous. I have to assume Creighton sent them."

"Why would he do that?"

"To mess with my head. To let me know that he beat me. He must get a real kick out of imagining me looking at them."

"And they make you want to kill him," Sullivan observed calmly.

"In a dozen different ways."

"Why would he do that? He has to know that you're a formidable opponent. If he's really having a relationship with your wife, wouldn't he sneak around?"

Devon shook his head. "That's not his style. I don't know if he's attracted to Zephyer but this is all about getting back to me for whatever perceived sleight that's bothering him lately."

"Really." He sounded dubious.

Devon shrugged.

With surprising agility, Sullivan grabbed the envelope off the desk and opened it. Devon protested, but his grandfather stepped back and held up a staying hand. He flipped through the pictures and then dropped them unceremoniously to the coffee table.

"What?" Devon asked.

"Devon, you are a fool."

The Protector gaped up at his grandfather, the man he had just confessed to emulating.

The elder Goral pointed down at the pictures, scattered haphazardly across the table. "These are not the photos you send to a man you're trying to make jealous. If he was having a relationship with you're wife, they'd be much more ? graphic. The shot you described as her being 'naked' is from forty yards away, ten feet up, and blurry. More likely he somehow snuck some shots of her and are using them to, as you say, 'mess' with you."

Devon stared at the pictures on the coffee table, mouth agape.

"You're smarter than this, Devon. You're letting your emotions get the better of you. Because if she's having a relationship with your worse enemy, it gives you an excuse not to fix your marriage. To somehow blame it on her."

"I've heaped plenty of blame on me," Devon muttered.

"But that's all fixable ? maybe. But once you make up your mind that she's cheating on you, it gives you an excuse to be cold and distant to her ? exactly when you shouldn't be."

Devon just stared, finally speechless.

"How could you let yourself be so easily tricked? You should be embarrassed. You need to fix this."

"No need to keep piling on."

"No?"

"No!" he shouted, looking up. But his grandfather was gone. Devon was alone in the living room with the pale light, the scattered pictures, and his own feelings of anguish.

Devon dropped to his knees and moved over to the coffee table. He spread the photos out in front of him. Suddenly he felt ridiculous. These pictures meant nothing. Literally nothing. He laughed outloud.

He touched his fingers to Zephyer's face in one of the pictures. The supposed 'nude' shot in Creighton's apartment. For the first time he spotted a range of emotions in her face. She was confused. A little angry. He wished he could step into the photo and take her into his arms and tell her it was going to be okay. That he'd never abandon her again.

"You're right, grandfather," he said to himself. "I have been a fool. For a very long time now."

He gathered up the photos and tossed them into the nearest wastebasket.

"I've focused too long on vengeance and not enough on repairing my marriage."

He slumped down to the floor, eyeing the dim lights outside the windows beyond.

"And maybe I can't fix this."

A long pause before glancing at the chair where the elder Goral sat.

"But I will try, Grandfather."

(( July 5, 2013

Excerpted from http://www.ringsofhonor.org/forums/viewtopic.php?p=155173#155173 ))

Devon Goral, The Protector, walked purposely across the field toward the farmhouse beyond. He was not dressed for a trip to the ranch ? wearing his trademark business suit (without a tie), longcoat, and urban sunglasses. He cringed as each step coated his expensive Italian loafers with mud (and possibly worse) and silently cursed his decision not to dress more casually.

The sun was at its noon pinnacle and was slowly baking the muddy ground solid. Devon glanced around as he walked, constantly evaluating potential threats. Could an assassin be hiding in the field within the corn? On top of the grain elevator? Inside one of the windows of the barn? It didn't make sense ? Devon had no reason to believe he would fall under attack. But his profession was borne from a compulsion and he no longer had the ability to take a breath without silently regarding the possibility that someone would try to snuff it out.

Today he was here not as a bodyguard, but as the sidekick. He was not accustomed to being sent on errands (although, to be fair, he volunteered for this one) and he certainly wasn't accustomed to playing second-fiddle to anyone. Nor was this job ? hunting down a stolen book ? the kind of thing he typically took on. But this was different, his patron was a woman with whom he had recently become very close. He wanted to be helpful to her, wanted to make things work out. Plus, the money was good and he was looking to diversify.

As he reached the farmhouse and came 'round a tractor, he was immediately set-upon by the rancher. Jonathan Doakes was a thin man of above-average height, hair gray and almost completely receded, and skin dark and worn from a lifetime working outside in the elements. But his smile lit up a hundred acres and shone brighter than the noon sun above. As he approached The Protector he extended a hand and the two shared a hearty shake.

"Devon Goral!" he cried out with that trademark smile. "So good to see you again!"

Devon shook the man's hand and gave a polite smile. He was not accustomed to such overt exclamations and his shyness came to bear. "Hello, Jonathan."

"How the hell are you?" Doakes pressed.

"I'm good," Devon answered with a nod. "Very good. You?"

"Couldn't be better. We've had tons of rain and everything is blooming. And today couldn't be nicer," he pointed out, extending his arm toward the fields of thriving crops. "It's a good day to be a farmer."

"Thank you for seeing me," was the only response. Devon was quick to get to business when he didn't know what else to say.

"Well, of course!" Doakes answered, and he gestured for Devon to walk with him on a tour of the ranch. "The moment I got your message I jumped at the opportunity to help you."

"Well, thank you. How's Joanie?"

Doakes slapped the taller man on the back. "She's doing fantastic. Just gave birth to our fourth child. A boy. Donald."

Devon smiled, somehow that warmed his heart. "That's great, Jonathan. Congratulations. Got any pictures?"

"Do I?" Doakes proudly pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket and produced a stream of photos of a tiny newborn baby boy. The two stopped briefly to look.

Devon smiled as he flipped through them. "Handsome lad."

"Thank you!" beamed Doakes. They continued walking and he put the photos away. "I wouldn't have Donald if it weren't for you. I wouldn't have Melissa."

"Oh, Jonathan," Devon dismissed.

"I mean, it Devon," Doakes responded sagely. "Her father's enemies would have killed her or worse. I owe you a great debt."

"You paid me well, Jonathan," Devon answered. He didn't feel he deserved any special adulation for doing his job and he was uncomfortable with the attention. "You don't owe me anything."

"You went above and beyond, Devon," Doakes persisted. "You helped us find the guys responsible and bring them to justice. I'll never forget that."

The Protector nodded quietly.

"Oh, how's your wife? I used to see her at the market sometimes but it's been a while."

Devon frowned a bit, chewing on his lip. "She's doing well. I keep pretty busy with work and I ? I don't see her as often as I'd like."

"Oh, that's a shame, Devon." He paused, scratching at the back of his neck. "If you don't mind some unsolicited advice ? I've been a rancher all my life. My father was a rancher and his father before him. My family has worked this land for three generations. It's hard, sometimes back-breaking work. From before sunrise until long after the sun sets. But through it all, I've always made sure to take time for my wife and my children. Otherwise what's the point?"

The Protector held his breath, biting harder at his lip. The ground was hardening and getting dusty and he kicked at a small twig.

"So I put together a list for you," Doakes said, finally breaking the silence and pulling a small notepad out of the back of his pants. "You wanted a list of anyone buying up lots of animals under suspicious circumstances, or people who suddenly showed up with large orders that I didn't know."

"Thank you, Jonathan."

"I also talked to some of the other ranches around here. They gave me lists and I combined the list. I put stars by some of the names who bought from several of us ? spread around the orders. Those deserve extra scrutiny." He handed over the notepad and Devon glanced down at it.

"Jonathan, you really put a lot of effort into this," Devon observed, reading. "I don't know what to say."

"It really was my pleasure, Devon. Not just to help you, but if some sick bastard is mistreating animals, they should be found and stopped. This isn't a game, this is my livelihood."

Devon nodded. "Thank you."

"Now Devon, something came up recently that I thought I should call attention to. After I wrote the list."

The two men stopped as they reached the barn, and Jonathan leaned on an old dusty tractor.

"Go ahead," Devon bid.

"Have you heard about the circus that just set up outside of town?" Doakes asked, pausing to light his cigarette and take a puff. "Over the ridge."

Devon glanced around for somewhere to lean, but everything was dirty or dusty. He decided to just stand there and he shook his head. "I have not."

"It's big news around town the last few days. Bunch of gypsy carnies showed up in the dead of night and set the thing up. Already there have been thefts and cons. Bad news."

"What does that have to do with the list?"

"A couple days before I got here, they ordered fifty sheep from me. I delivered them yesterday."

"Fifty?" Devon glanced at the list to compare.

"Yeah. And they bought fifty from McDonald's farm to the north, fifty from Old Maid Gammon's farm to the east, and fifty from Larry Fitchner's farm to the southwest."

"Two hundred sheep just from the farms around here," Devon observed, always quick with the basic math. "That seems like a lot."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. Plus, have you ever heard of a circus using sheep? My father took me to a circus when I was six. We saw elephants and lions and tigers -- but I'm fairly certain there were no sheep."

Devon nodded. "I will check that out."

"I think it should be your first stop. Something ain't right about those carnies."

"Thank you, Jonathan. I will."

"Anything else I can help you with?"

"Yes, I had one other lead come up. We think that the person we're looking for might have need of insects. Any idea where someone could procure hundreds ? perhaps thousands of insects?"

Doakes frowned, tossing away his cigarette and kicking at a rock in the dirt. "That's a tough one. I don't know anyone that deals in insects."

"We thought he might try the sewers."

At that, Jonathan glanced up and snapped his fingers. "Then you need to talk to Crazy Ryland."

A raised brow. "Crazy who?"

"Ryland. He's lived in the sewers going on twenty years. He used to raise and train rats and he was good at it, but time has not been kind to him. I'm afraid he's lost his mind and now he mostly wanders around the sewers talking to himself. If anyone's doing anything shady in the sewers, he'd know about it."

The Protector produced a pen from inside his coat and made notes on the notepad both about the circus and the sewer dweller. "Where can I find this Ryland?"

"I sometimes see him fishing at the big sewer output near the docks when I'm picking up shipments."

Devon nodded. "Well, I think that's all." He took a step forward and again the two men shook hands.

"Bless you, Devon Goral," Doakes lauded. "And good luck with this operation of yours."

Devon smiled genuinely. "Thank you, Jonathan. If you hear anything else?"

"?you'll be my first call."

(( July 15, 2013 ))

A line of yellow projectiles slowly advanced through the machinery ? up the ramp, across the belt, into the firing chamber and past the limiter ? until finally making contact with the fast-moving rubber wheels spaced vertically over the chute. At an interval of exactly six seconds the mechanism fired, launching each projectile into the air towards its target ? each at a slightly different parabola.

At the other end of the room stood The Protector, Devon Goral. The bullets were meant for him. Six-point-seven centimeters in diameter, a hollow core surrounded by rubber surrounded by a fibrous felt. The machine was set to launch the projectiles at a perfectly-calibrated rate, just fast enough to keep him on guard, constantly moving.

Anyone seeing Devon would not recognize him. He wore loose athletic shorts and a t-shirt and he was soaked with sweat. His eyes stayed focused on the machine and the tennis balls as they launched towards him. Currently he was able to meet a near 100% return rate, although just barely. His breathing was rapid but deep and his joints ached. He had been at it for twenty minutes now and his body was fatigued, but this was a central core of his rehabilitation.

Six months ago the surgeries began ? just prior to (and no doubt complicating) his separation with his wife. They were spaced out over time to give his already-fragile body time to recover and allow him to continue working. Modern medicine made this possible. Of course it was modern medicine that also put him in this position. Modern medicine ? or the perversion thereof ? which had so nearly taken his life so many times.

Each strike of a tennis ball with his heavy racquet made a satisfying pop which reverberated through the small indoor court, coupled an involuntary grunt. The balls ricocheted off the wall ? usually the far wall behind the machine ? before rolling into a gutter which fed them back into the machine. A cycle that need not ever end, except for the fragility of the subject.

"How long do I have?" Devon remembered himself asking.

Doctor Harlowe removed his glasses, leaning back in his office chair. It was an unseasonably-warm afternoon in early November and the sun streamed through the window behind his desk, causing an odd aura to form around him as Devon regarded him cautiously.

"Devon, you're an otherwise healthy man of forty-one years. You generally eat healthy, you exercise, you see me regularly. Yet since you came to RhyDin you've had two heart attacks. We should not be sitting her and having a discussion about your longevity."

"And yet we are," Devon countered. "So lay it out for me."

"What I'm trying to explain is that I can't tell you for certain. The cybernetic and bionetic technology you infused into your body at such a young age has aged you. It's allowed your body to do things that normal bodies can't do. And as I'm sure you were told when you had it all installed, those advantages came with a price. Well, here it is."

Devon almost missed a ball, hitting it on the edge of the racquet and causing it to spike up into his face. He barely flinched at the strike, refocusing on the next ball.

"I'm not here for a lecture, Doctor Harlowe. I'm here for answers."

"I am very concerned with the results of your latest tests. Your heart is once again in atrial fibrillation. Your implants are pumping you full of adrenaline to compensate. I believe another attack is imminent."

"I'm not concerned about my heart."

"Well I'm also seeing abnormal activity in your spinal column and cerebral cortex. Could indicate a stroke or worse."

Devon remembered glaring at his Doctor. He didn't need to be lectured. He didn't need wild guesses. He needed answers. And they were not forthcoming except in the most unspecific and dire. "What can we do?" as all he asked.

"You became my patient shortly after you came here and I've always told you the same thing. You need to take these monstrosities out of your body."

"And I've always told you that's not an option. I need these enhancements to function. To make a living."

Doctor Harlowe snapped shut his notebook. "Then I cannot help you, Devon."

Devon rose from his chair. "Thank you for your time." He turned to leave.

"You're a dead man walking, Devon Goral," Doctor Harlowe shouted with uncharacteristic passion. "It's just a matter of time. Days, weeks, maybe months. But if I were a batting man I wouldn't give you a year."

Devon missed a tennis ball and it crashed into the wall behind him. The computer monitor on the wall dropped down from his 100% return rate for the first time this session. He winced but remained focused.

"When you were twenty-one these cybernetics allowed you to be better than everyone around you. No doubt they helped elevate you to a level of success otherwise unattainable. And now that you're forty-one, they are merely allowing you to keep pace with those half your age that you frequently find yourself up against. Your body has been disintegrating for twenty years, Devon. How long did you really think it would last?"

Devon spun around dramatically, ready to lay into the older man. But where he was expecting to see smug prognostications, he saw only the kindly face of a man genuinely concerned. The Protector's rage faded quickly, melting into the tile floor below.

"I can save your life, Devon," Doctor Harlowe continued. "I can give you back lost time. But only if you're willing to come down to reality and become human again."

"What if I can't function without them? What if I'm so reliant on the implants that I just fall apart?"

"You're not the first human to have his enhancements removed, Devon, and you won't be the last. Books have been written on how to do it safely. But you have to be a willing participant."

A long pause. "Do they all have to go?"

"Yes," Doctor Harlowe answered. "Even the minor ones have taken their toll. Your body needs to be whole again. It won't stand for anything else."

"I'm afraid to be average again," Devon confessed with alarming vulnerability. At that moment, many months ago, he remembered an overwhelming desire to have Zephyer at his side for comfort. But he didn't know how to explain this to her. She'd have thought him ridiculous and would have marched him to the operating room herself then and there.

"I am your physician, Devon, not your counselor. I can heal your body but I can't heal your soul. But I do believe with all my intellect that removing this implants will not make you 'average.' Perhaps this is something you should discuss with your wife."

The Protector missed another tennis ball and his accuracy rating ticked down again. He shook his head, sending a spray of sweat around him.

"No need for that," he answered. "Let's do it."

And so began a lengthy, excruciating process of making The Protector human again. Everything must go. Cranial computer and phone. Enhanced reflexes. Thermal vision and magnification. Retractable spur (never did work very well to begin with). Hearing amplification and damper. The surgeries themselves were not difficult or even very invasive, but the hard part was learning to live without each enhancement. After twenty years, losing each one was like amputating a limb. He had to go through extensive physical therapy to adjust to the loss of each.

The final surgery was the most difficult. Weeks ago the surgeons removed his smartgun link and targeting computer, which for two decades had allowed him to sight his trademark gun through his eyes. For a man who makes his living with a gun and could not afford to ever miss, the loss was excruciating. For the first few weeks he almost literally couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. The rehabilitation specialists immediately discouraged him from further shooting practice, instead suggesting that he spend time performing activities that stressed hand-eye coordination ? hence tennis. And after a rough start, it was working. He found that he excelled at tennis (despite its French origins), learning how to link his eyes with his hands with his feet. In only a month he had spent perhaps hundreds of hours here at the gym playing tennis, battling the machine, until he finally reached near 100% accuracy.

He still wasn't sure if the training would translate to shooting ? he hadn't set foot in a shooting range since just after the surgery. And he was, frankly, afraid to try it again.

After a thirty-minute workout, the machine shut itself off for safety reasons (the staff at the gym were concerned that Devon would kill himself if they didn't set limits on him). No longer under attack, The Protector fell to his knees and lowered his head. There he stayed for quite some time until his body stopped churning.

There was no question that Devon no longer felt himself. After six months of surgeries, he was no longer physically capable of working at the level he once could. The feeling of profound physical loss combined with the various drugs he was on to cause havoc on his system. Dreams, hallucinations, tremors. Doctor Harlowe insisted that he would adjust, that things would return to normal in time so long as he stayed with his physical therapy. He gave Devon a clean bill of physical health, assuring him that the danger was gone. That he could live a full life. To which Devon repeatedly asked if it was worth it.

There were no answers.

This particular day, Devon found himself in the locker room after a refreshing shower. He paused to look at himself in the mirror. His body featured a variety scars like strokes on a canvas ? a combination of old battle wounds and new surgery incisions. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology the surgery scars were less invasive and ugly ? yet those are the ones he found himself focusing on. Each one seemed to scream at him, bubbling and threatening to tear open and spill his guts into the floor. He realized with a sense of disgust that he didn't even recognize himself anymore. He shut his eyes tight, waiting for the hallucinations to pass.

When he opened his eyes, he found that he was not alone. Behind him was a slightly taller man. More fit, chest and arms muscled and toned. A perfect physical specimen. He smiled ? almost a sneer ? at the damaged corpse standing in front of the mirror.

"Hello, Lilly."

Devon's eyes regarded Daniel Creighton coldly. It was the first time they had laid eyes on each other since that evening in the nightclub so many months ago when Creighton began his little rebellion. They'd come a long way since then. In that time Devon lost his business, his home, and his wife. Creighton ? was still Creighton. Certainly he achieved much, yet despite the smug confidence he still appeared empty inside. Perhaps it was the dozens of dreams Devon had about killing the man that made him seem less threatening. He was no longer convinced that his wife was sleeping with the man, although the sneaking suspicion was still eating at him (and the manipulation was still difficult to stomach). He was happy in his old apartment, it was easier to maintain and closer to his various jobs. And he no longer cared about the collapse of his business and the stolen clients ? his new solo business was doing well and he no longer wanted what he used to have.

Any other time, Devon might have realized that things weren't so bad. That he had overcome each of the ways Creighton tried to beat him so that they no longer mattered.

But now came the final insult. Devon was feeling physically insecure today, and Creighton looked this day to be in such good shape. He wasn't sure if Creighton had any cybernetics, but it was generally understood that they were roughly physically on par with each other. That is, before Devon had his implants removed. Now ? it was likely that Creighton could beat him to a pulp.

"I always took you for a ladies' man, Daniel," Devon finally said, toweling the water and sweat from his face and chest. He attempted to mask his uncertainties, praying that they would not be noticed. "Do you really want word getting around that you're stalking the men's locker room, checking out other guys?" He threw in a roguish grin at the mirror, which only widened as Creighton narrowed his eyes.

"Just saying hello, old friend. Haven't seen you all winter."

Oh, but I've seen you, Daniel. I've followed you home every night and imagined crushing your throat with my bare hands.

"How's Zephyer?" He asked. He couldn't help being an ass.

Or was he being an ass? Was he asking the question to twist the knife? Or did he actually not know? Devon had no idea how to respond and still maintain his cool. He couldn't give this pathetic man any victories. Not now.

Devon took one last look at himself in the mirror and turned. He took two steps towards Creighton, looming impassively. Despite the fact he was the shorter man, the more physically vulnerable, he summoned every ounce of command and authority to stand metaphorically taller than his nemesis. Their eyes locked together, each set searching for weakness.

"Not today," Devon finally said, his voice low and subtly menacing. "Not here."

"Name the time and place, then," Creighton dared. He didn't let on any indication that he was taking the threat seriously.

A pause. Devon realized, with some finality, that he wasn't done with the surgeries. There was one more thing he needed to remove from his life if he was ever going to heal.

"You came here at my invitation," The Protector observed, "when you had nothing left."

Creighton flashed an odd smile, as if remembering the good old days. "That's true. You offered me a hand when I needed it most."

"The invitation is now revoked. You've worn out your welcome, Daniel."

Creighton cocked his head. Arrogant to the end.

"I'm going back to London next month on some personal business," Devon explained, his words slow and carefully-chosen. "If you're here when I get back, I will remove you."

A long pause. Devon thought he saw a gulp, but he wasn't sure, and he didn't dare take his eyes off of Creighton's.

"You don't frighten me," Creighton finally said. Yet his eyes suggested otherwise.

"I'm not trying to frighten you, Daniel," Devon continued calmly. "I am merely informing you of the situation and my intentions."

"I have an army at my disposal, Devon." Creighton almost never called Devon by his name. This meant something.

"This is between you and me," The Protector answered. "But if you feel the need to get other people involved, so be it."

The two men stood and stared for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Creighton took a step back. "Have a safe trip." He smiled.

"Thank you, Daniel," Devon responded with a mirror smile.

"See you soon," Creighton warned.

"See you soon," Devon promised.