“Someday”

Chapter One: Found but Still Lost

You lied.

His head snapped back as another blow slammed into the side of his face, knocking him to the ground.

You promised you would come.

Hands bound by his wrists in front of him, he couldn’t brace himself as his shoulder dug painfully into the snow and dirt, his head smacking against the earth in rapid succession.

You promised you would find me.

Blinking back the haze that obscured his vision, he tasted a familiar coppery liquid as the substance dribbled from the side of his beak. He lifted his head and squinted, trying desperately to find his tormentor. As the monolithic, menacing dark figure neared and came into view, so, unfortunately, did his double vision finally collide into one, horrifying picture—a muscular, red lizard with sharp, blade-like talons and—when he smiled demonically, like now—perfectly honed draggers for fangs.

You promised you’d make everything okay.

The teen shuddered and scrambled backwards upon the ground as best he could while the Saurian drew nearer, walking in a deliberate, reserved stride. The teen’s boots dug into the ground as he pushed awkwardly to get away, dirt particles whisking into the air. Still, the Saurian advanced.

His back smacking into something rock solid, the teen abruptly was stopped. Nervously he tilted his head upward. Regarding him with a sadistic leer was another Saurian sentry, restricting his escape. The teen shivered, his blonde hair wavering in the chilly night breeze. He beseeched desperately about him, noticing the unbroken chain of Saurian sentries, each with their hands behind their back in parade rest, surrounding his tormentor and him. Beyond the left flank was the endless mass of slaves that stood, helpless, as their keepers made yet another hatchling an “example.”

You lied.

The teen let out a sharp cry as he pulled his legs to his chest and covered his head to the best of his ability with bound arms. He trembled uncontrollably, waiting for the hit to come, waiting for more torture to ensue as the footsteps grew closer, but still muffled in the snowy dirt. They halted. Silence befell upon the area.

Slowly, hesitantly, his gored and bloody arms uncoiled from their protective position, as the teen peered cautiously through his limp bangs. A pang of uneasiness quivered through his crouching frame at the sight of the muddied boots. Meekly peeking upward, he gasped at the malicious grin upon his tormentor’s face, his teeth bared to bite.

“Trying to get away, are we?” The Saurian cajoled, bending down to be at the teen’s height. His voice echoed that of a hunter taunting his prey. He brushed back the teen’s golden locks, almost affectionately. “There is no escape, young one. Our glorious overlord has given you to me as a treat to do with as I see fit. Aren’t you the lucky prize?”

The frightened teen didn’t even have time to flinch, as the Saurian sentry seized him by his tee-shirt. Sharp claws ripped through the cloth and into the boy’s chest feathers. Cringing with a strained whine, the teen was lifted almost effortlessly into the air. Blood stained the Saurian’s ivory claws.

A fleeting thought whirled through his head as he implored to the shimmering stars above, then to the masses of ducks watching his lingering death. A day hadn’t gone by that he hadn’t thought of that drake, the one whom he hardly heard. A wistful promise made before he could even remember—yet, still, the teen found himself scanning the crowd, searching desperately for that one drake. It was times like these throughout his life that he had sought to find the one that cared—first in the “foster home,” then when he was taken in by Falcone, and during his stay with Lucretia and Blade—but, it was always the same. He never came. That drake never saved him from the throes of abusive surrogate parents or intolerable living conditions. Why did the teen think he’d come now, when he probably needed the drake the most?

The Saurian raised the teen even further into the night sky, penetrating the boy’s thoughts by resituating his claws in the teen’s chest. The teen would have squirmed against the height and the painful hold, but his bonded wrists restricted him from doing so. He flinched as the sentry proclaimed to all those who were disobedient to the Saurians were so at their peril—as it was with him.

Lowering the teen to eye level, the sentry smirked hellishly, his savage eyes reflecting a myriad of contempt and disdainful pleasure. He brought the teen close to him, too close for comfort, and whispered in the boy’s ears, “I hope you enjoyed the entertainment so far.” The moist, hot air from his breath brushed against the boy’s hair, sending chills up his spine. “If you haven’t, I’ll try to this time, for these last few minutes will be your last.”

The teen stared straight ahead, his battered and tortured body hanging lifelessly in the Saurians grip, as the macabre words sunk into his being.

With a ferocious roar, the Saurian threw the stunned teen to the ground, the boy crashing to the unforgiving soil and tumbling a short distance away. Moaning softly, the teen blinked through the tears as pain throbbed in his head. Struggling to place his hands upon the ground and push himself up, he lifted his head reticently. Dirt was smudged upon his forehead and the side of his left cheek, as blood oozed from a rather large laceration above his left eyebrow. He squeezed his eyes shut against the swirling world, then opened them again, just in time to see his tormentor lunge at him. Instinctively, the teen rolled upon the ground and regained his footing, despite the faint feeling overwhelming him.

The Saurian almost seemed amused, sending the teen a sideways smirk. The blonde teen blinked flummoxed at his tormentor, unnerved and shaky, before noticing the tense of the Saurian’s talons, ravenous to dig into flesh.

His flesh.

Without warning, the sentry once more dove for him, talons honed. Ducking the attack, the frightened and desperate teen kneed the Saurian in the stomach before pivoting on his right foot and delivering a sweeping kick into his attacker’s midsection.

Backing away as the Saurian crumpled to the ground, holding his stomach, the teen stared wide-eyed at his tormentor, a sinking feeling settling in his gut. He gulped hard. Did he just do that?

The Saurian sucked in a few, dry gasps before righting himself and turning to the trembling teen. His hand dropped from his stomach as he growled, albeit almost gently, “You will pay for that, fledgling. Before I was going to make it quick, but if you prefer your death to be long and agonizing, so be it.” He smiled, a wide and demonizing leer. “In fact, keep struggling, young one. I’d rather my victims suffer.”

The teen fought the shiver that threatened to wrack his body, as dread besieged his stomach. With a fleeting glance, he once more glimpsed over the crowd, but the only thing he saw were faceless slaves, distraught and broken.

He wasn’t there.

He never was.

He never would be.

By the time the teen turned back to the Saurian, it was all ready too late.

The Saurian’s fist slammed into his right cheek. As the teen flew backwards, a hard fist gripped him by the shirt, pulling him back. Desperately knotting his fumbling fingers together, the teen struck the sentry in the chin and freed himself from the hold. As the Saurian stumbled, the teen dropped to the ground and moved to kick out the sentry’s kneecaps, but the Saurian was too fast. The sentry jumped over the extended leg, then turned swiftly as the teen regained his footing. The teen never even saw the elbow until it struck his beak.

He staggered and blinked, his vision blurred by sweat, blood, and pain. Frantically wiping the sticky substance from his eyebrows, desperately attempting to find his tormentor, he narrowed his eyes in confusion—then he focused upon the chest directly in front of his beak. He inhaled sharply and didn’t even get the chance to exhale as the Saurian attacked mercilessly, rapid in succession, slashing across the teen’s vulnerable chest, ripping through skin and drawing blood, before tearing his cheek, his arms, his back.

Sinking to his knees, the mortified teen sucked in dry, erratic heaves as his body slumped onto its haunches. His chin hung lowly. He coughed and spat, blood staining the snow on the ground.

The Saurian once more knelt by the teen’s side, running his talons through the red-tinted hair. Gripping the bangs harshly and jerking back the teen’s head, he revealed a battered and bloody face. The teen’s sullen eyes were encircled by hues of blacks and blues. Blood coated his face, especially his cheeks, beak, and forehead, where deep, curved gashes cut through the boy’s feathers.

The teen didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Short, bloodied gasps of air choked from his throat as he shuddered from unfathomable amounts of pain and mortification. His eyes, narrowed and terrified, followed his tormentor as the sentry once more stood, ready to pounce.

Lightly touching the teen’s beak, the baleful lizard directed the teen’s sight toward his hand. The teen’s eyes widened. The talons, tainted crimson from the teen’s own blood, flickered in the moonlight as the Saurian pressed his forefinger nail into the flesh under the teen’s chin and sauntered about him. Stopping behind the boy, the sentry caressed the teen’s neck with his claws.

“What do you think—hatchling, is it?” The sentry asked with feigned concern, lightly brushing back the teen’s feathers.

The teen let out a soft, fearful whimper. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“One, fast rip?” The Saurian continued in a low, cruel whisper. “A few cuts, maybe, each digging farther into your throat?” He brought his hand back from the boy’s neck, posed to pierce.

It was frightening, knowing what was next. Would it end fast? Was this fast now, as the pain seemed to linger to no end? The teen bowed his head and retreated into himself. In the back of his mind, images of his father broke through his sorrows. The elder, dark brown mallard was uncharacteristically out of his general uniform and instead dressed in snowboarding gear. He was smiling, a bright and cheerful grin. The teen focused on that image, remembering their trip to the Fisticuff Mountains. He tried to push everything away, the all-consuming pain and inevitable doom that confronted him; he tried to calm himself. He tried to stop his hyperventilating—

I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave…

That voice…that drake’s voice…

…but they won’t let me stay.

He was so sad…tears, the teen acknowledged now, there were tears in his voice.

I promise I will come back. I will find you. Trust me. Everything will be okay.

He found himself crying, as tears slipped under his eyelids. Shrieks of horror and anger echoed from the mass of slaves of the camp.

Someday.

The Saurian’s thunderous voice roared over the horrifying cries as his executioner let out a howl—

I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to wait for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on until then. I’m sorry…Stars, I’m so sorry…forgive me, brother…wherever you are…forgive me…

*BANG!*

The teen felt his breath catch in his throat as his body stiffened. A hot, sticky substance splashed onto his back and across the side of his face. The sentry’s presence disappeared from behind him. He winced at the horrid reverberation of a lifeless body. Slowly lifting one eyelid, he peered down at his clothes, noticing the abundance of red on his once dark blue overcoat and jeans. Whirling, the teen looked down at the sentry, sprawled upon the ground, blood seeping from underneath the prone figure.

Dead. The Saurian was dead.

But how—?

The bewildered teen shot a look about him at the Saurians. All drew their blasters as the right flank walked past him, turning to the masses of ducks who peered about dumbfounded. They knew nothing of what happened. Then who—? He looked back at the slave camp. There was nothing there except excessive amounts of empty tents and barracks.

The Saurians scoured the slaves with their eyes before aiming their weapons at the defenseless masses.

“Who dared to assault one of your masters? Come forth for punishment!” One of the sentries demanded, his voice guttural and menacing.

No one stepped forward.

The Saurian who spoke spun on his heel and aimed his blaster’s end directly at the teen, whose eyes widen instantly. The boy pleaded silently, eyes darting left and right as he knelt upon the ground. There was no escape!

The trigger was pulled—

—the blast dissolved when it hit an ice shield erected in front of him.

With a sharp gasp, the teen looked up, utterly speechless, at the sight of a white mallard, at least five years his senior. Kneeling next to him, the white mallard protectively safeguarded the teen with his armored body; his shield glowed from his gauntlet.

“Looking for someone?” The newcomer challenged the Saurian sentries, his expression hard. He deactivated his shield as he stood and took a defensive position in front of the shocked teen.

“You are charged with the murder of an Officer of the Saurian Empire,” the Saurian declared at the white mallard, blaster firmly pointed toward him. “Punishment: death…by flaying.”

The white mallard didn’t even blink. “Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before.” Peeking over his shoulder, he glanced down at the silent teen absorbed in the action. “You okay, kiddo?”

Meeting the white mallard’s eyes, full of mirth and warmth, the disheveled teen was rendered inarticulate. Those eyes…that voice…it was somehow familiar. The face, too—gentle, affectionate, yet a hint of resolve hidden—he had met this drake before. He just knew it, like something imprinted in him, yet the teen strained to remember when he had met the white mallard. Never, that he could recall, and if he would have, he would remember.

“I…I…um…”

The white mallard once more turned his attention to the Saurians. “I’ll take that as a ‘no.’ ”

The teen shook his head, unsure of why he, suddenly, felt relieved. It was unnerving. What was it about this drake?

“So…let’s make a deal,” the white mallard addressed the Saurians, who were primed to fight, blasters held firm in front of them, teeth bared. “I get the kid, and you get your lives. Sound good?”

“You do not make demands, slave!” The Saurian raised his blaster and fired.

The white mallard reflected the blast off his right blocker armor as if it was nothing. “So much for calm and rational diplomacy,” he muttered under his breath before turning on his heel and gripping the shocked teen by waist. With a single, forceful tug, the teen was hauled to his feet, as the white mallard turned in time to deflect a barrage of shots with his shield.

Suddenly, a second sentry collapsed to the ground, blood pooling about his head. The teen flinched at the grisly sight, but was almost instantly blocked by the more muscular frame of his protector.

“Don’t look,” was the hushed, but stern command.

Unlike anything the teen had ever done, he found himself obeying without question, adverting his eyes toward the ground.

The Saurians stopped firing upon he and his guard and instead turned their attention toward the crowd. The teen felt the comforting presence of the white mallard flee from his shoulder. Turning back to the fight, he watched with bated breath as the white mallard dashed toward the sentries. His protector lifted his gauntlet as a Saurian sentry pointed to a drake among the slaves, a tan mallard throwing off a tattered cloak. Firing a single shot, the white mallard caught the sentry straight in the chest. Another turned to shoot the white mallard, but the tan one pulled out a puck launcher and aimed it directly at the Saurian. The teen immediately turned his back and squeezed shut his eyes.

*BANG!*

*BLAST!*

*BAM!*

“AHHH!”

Seconds became minutes. Harsh shouts, the reverberation of blasts and puck launchers, grunts of agony, piercing shrills—he flinched with every movement, every resonation.

Abruptly, a firm hand clamped over his. The teen’s eyes fluttered open, and he saw the tan mallard’s desperate face. “Come on, kid! We’ve got to move! Now!”

The teen looked over his shoulder uneasily. “But what about—”

With an urgent yank, the tan mallard unhinged the teen just as a blast burned the ground where the boy had stood. Suddenly, a force smacked harshly into the teen’s back, knocking him forward and into the tan mallard. Hissing as his back slash suddenly became inflamed, the teen peered back to see the white mallard, shield once more erected.

“Move! Canard!” The white mallard screamed, pointing behind him toward the endless white tents of the slave camp. “Get him out of here! Now!”

The tan mallard nodded once, then dragged the boy behind him as he raced around a corner of a tent. The teen stumbled over his own feet as pain infiltrated every single nerve in his body, and his back and chest felt like they were on fire. The tan mallard—Canard?—was either oblivious or simply didn’t care.

They continued at full sprint down the corridor of tents, then weaved around another bend, before dashing inside one. Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! They rushed over the panels of wood, much to the teen’s despair as he even realized which one he had slept on last night. He made a point of looking away, and thankfully, he and Canard emerged from under the cloth of the tent a moment later. Looking left, then right, the teen saw no one, just the endless rows of white cloth. Straight ahead, he noticed with dread was the metal fence that surrounded the camp. At least ten feet high, it was the bane of every duck, the barrier between glorious freedom and abominable hell.

Glancing over his shoulder, the teen stammered, “W—Where’s your…um…partner? Will he be—” When he looked back, he blinked as he found himself at the receiving end of a stringent glower. Canard looked him down and up with a piercing glare that never wavered.

Shivering slightly, the teen swallowed hard and looked away, afraid to continue the gaze, afraid of what he’d see in the mallard’s eyes. Hatred? Disappointment? What did Canard want? What was he looking for?

Abruptly, a hard hand clasped his shirt at its seam, much to the disbelief and panic of the teen. The boy tore away from the tan mallard, gaping at him with incredulous eyes. “Wh—What are you doing?”

“Kid, I just want to—”

Shaking his head, the teen backed up a half-step before turning and dashing along the metal fence. He couldn’t believe it! He thought he had finally escaped, was finally safe! Who were these guys? Were they traitors? What did they want from him? What was it—

A rough fist clutched the teen by the back of his jacket, or what was left of it, and shoved him face first against the fence. Coughing as tears expelled from his eyes, he sucked in wet, ragged gasps. Completely demoralized and utterly broken, he knew he couldn’t fight off a well-rested and muscular duck, at least a half a foot bigger than him and the weight to match it. He closed his eyes in defeat as the duck clasped him on the shoulder and turned him around. He waited for the next of his punishment as his arms were forced above his head, and a firm hand secured his bound wrists into the fence.

“Kid,” the tan mallard started, his voice hushed and soft. “Just relax, all right?”

Relax! How could he possibly relax when he was being…when Canard was…

Slowly, his faded teal shirt was lifted. The teen squirmed as his chest and stomach were exposed, the cool night breeze soothing his burning slashes and ruffling his feathers. Pulling in his sobbing, he felt a few fingers brush against his torso, just to the left of his stomach. Reduced to sniffles, the teen opened his eyes, looking wearily through his tears at the older mallard.

The tan mallard met his gaze, eyes soft, questioning silently. The teen automatically knew what Canard saw—his scar. A jagged, pink-brownish blemish contoured the left side of his torso from just under his left breast to right above his jean-line. Only a handful of people knew that he had it, and even fewer would know to look for it.

Canard dropped the shirt suddenly and released the teen’s wrists. Smoothing down the boy’s shirt, he inquired curtly, “Dauphin Flashblade?”

The teen blinked, but nodded quickly. “Uh…yeah. I guess so, but—”

“Canard Bronzeplume,” the duck introduced. He reached into his belt and pulled out a knife. Slicing through the boy’s bonds, he massaged the teen’s wrists roughly to get the feeling back in them. “General Flashblade sent us to save you.”

A wave of relief crashed down upon the boy. “D—Dad…he’s still—”

A small smile formed upon Canard’s beak. “Yeah, kid. He’s still ticking. Now, come on.” He turned to the fence and entwined his fingers in the metal holes. “Let’s get out of here, huh?” Pulling himself up with a strained groan, Canard scaled the ten-foot incline.

“But…what about—”

“Wildwing?” Canard asked gruffly, all his strength focused on lifting himself over the fence.

That name, too, sounded familiar…Wild…wing…? Where the hell had he heard that before?

A sudden explosion and screaming chants ruptured from the slave camp and shattered the momentary silence between he and Canard, startling the younger mallard.

“Ah, there my brother goes again.” Canard shook his head and dropped to his feet with a grunt. “Just inciting people to riot.” Motioning to the fence, he beckoned the boy to climb.

The teen glowered at the fence, at the revolutionary, then back at the fence. Exhausted beyond death almost, practically beaten to an early grave, flogged, and clawed—sure, next on his list of things to do was to climb the Fisticuff Mountains of fences. Yeah, why not? Sure. Right.

“Dude, are you whacked or—” A strong hand clamped down over his beak, as his words muffled into mere mumbles. He swung his elbow to attack the person holding him, but was easily blocked. A familiar white face bend down close to his shoulder, shushing softly.

“The Saurians are fighting off our allies, which should give us some time, but…” the white mallard informed quietly, releasing the teen’s beak, then ruffling his hair. “Still, we need to be quiet or else…”

Yeah, the teen agreed silently with a cringe as he thought of the else.

For some reason, he didn’t know why…he felt more comfortable, more safe, back in the white mallard’s presence.

Cupping his hands together about knee height, the white mallard—Wildwing—gave the teen a hand up. Grasping hold of the fence slightly more than half-way from the bottom, the teen pulled himself up with a painful moan, then stuck his foot in a hole of the fence. He placed his foot in another and with a heave, made his unsteady and wobbly way up the structure. Stars, he used to climb trees all the time. It was never this hard…or so he remembered…

After what seemed like an eternity, he heaved himself to the top with a strangled groan. His head swirled, and the slashes across his body smoldered in protest. His beak surged with fire, the pounding he took finally taking its toll. He looked down at the white mallard, who had already begun his descent, to see the older duck’s concerned expression.

Focused upon him, the teen closed his eyes as a faint feeling overcame him—

—An image of a small, white hatchling with piercing blue, yet sad eyes flashed before him—

—and dragged him, albeit almost willingly, into the darkness.

*^*^*

“Uh…”

Excoriating, stabbing, throbbing, racking, punishing, tormenting, insufferable, harrowing PAIN! It coursed through his nerves from the top of his forehead through his torso and down to the very tips of his webbed feet. It wracked his entire being, scourged his feathers, and tore through his skin. He wanted it to end. The pain, slavery, the torture…everything. He just wanted to be free of it all.

Something cold and saturated pressed lightly down upon his forehead, penetrating his mental rant and soothing something deep within his being. Slowly, as reality began to seep in, the pain ever so slightly waned. While his head still pounded to no end, while his stomach and back still burned like an inferno, while his body thrashed against the trauma he had suffered, at least now it was bearable.

As his eyes flittered open, he looked up with tired hesitation. Over him leaned the white mallard again, one hand held upon the teen’s forehead, the other tenderly working its way through his mattered and greasy hair. The fingers lightly brushed over his head—it was soothing, but it went beyond that. It felt…right.

As the teen reveled in his presence, the white mallard stared at something out of the boy’s range of vision. His mouth moved in rhythm, as if humming, yet no words befell upon the teen’s ears.

Softly, melodically, a faint murmur worked through his haze. The teen recognized it immediately as the last single released by the Screaming Beaks, only the coolest band ever to rock Puckworld. The Screaming Beaks were, as he knew well, a heavy metal group, and it was weird to hear “Reign of the Mass Idiocracy” sung as a lullaby.

Scrunching his forehead as another wave of torture decided to unleash itself upon his unsuspecting noggin, he let out a tiny cry. He felt the white mallard jump, then looked down at him in shock.

“Kiddo, you all right?” The white mallard asked urgently, pulling off the cold compress and wringing it out.

The teen scowled as he pushed himself up from the log he was lying on, not too easily as pain raced through his chest and back. Pressing his palm to his forehead, he muttered, “I’d be better if my head didn’t feel the need to explode.”

“Well, getting slammed by a huge lizard can have that effect on you. I should know.”

A small breeze blew about the teen, whisking open his jacket. Grabbing the two sides with his free hand, he pulled it tightly around his slender body, only to find it wouldn’t conform like usual. He squinted through his blurred vision down at the jacket and gasped. It was white and teal now and bigger, too. He also wore a new shirt, a dark navy, rather than his old teal one. Under the cusp of the collar of his new shirt he saw his chest, bandaged and cleaned.

His hand slowly dropped from his forehead, and he turned to the white mallard. “Uh…thanks for…you know…”

The older duck nodded. “Don’t mention it. Canard and I both figured it would be a waste to come all this way only for you to die of hyperthermia or an infection.”

Nodding absently, the teen looked about, noticing his surroundings for the first time. Encircled by thick, snow-covered foliage, he and the white mallard sat close to a bright and luminous campfire, which radiated life-preserving warmth. To the left were supplies, food and various equipment, stuffed into two backpacks and spilling over the brim of each. Around the white mallard were weapons: a puck launcher, puck cannon, and puck bazooka.

“Where’s Canard?” The teen asked, wrapping his arms about his body and new jacket when another gust of wind blew through the forest.

“He went to flank the area, make sure we weren’t followed.” Reaching into his bag, the white mallard extracted a wrapped bar and a bottle of water before throwing them the teen. “Eat. You probably haven’t done that in a while.”

“You have no idea.” Munching on his bar, the teen studied the white mallard, who simply stared back at him. “Uh…so…Wildwing, right? Tell me something, would ya? Why is it you look so familiar? I feel like I’ve met you before.”

Wildwing shrugged as his head perked up suddenly, and he looked behind him. “Dunno know, kiddo. I’d like to tell you I’ve gotten that a lot, but I haven’t.” Standing up, he grabbed the puck cannon and cocked it before aiming it into the forest.

The teen stopped eating and strained to listen. Faintly, the sound of crunching footsteps in the snow made itself known. Gulping, the teen squirmed at the sinking feeling that besieged his stomach and waited for the Saurians to emerge for the depths of the snow.

Through the mist appeared a slightly disheveled, but welcome tan mallard, holding his weapon and empty hand in the air. “I come in peace.”

Wildwing smirked and deactivated his weapon, once more settling it upon the ground. “Find anything?”

“Nope. Not a trace,” Canard informed as he took a seat across the fire from the teen. The flames reflected upward onto the tan mallard’s features, making his feathers glow an eerie orange. “Ah, look who’s up? How you feeling, kid?”

“You know what hell feels like?” was the exasperated response.

“Not really.”

“Well, neither do I, but it’s got to be pretty close to this.”

Letting out a dry chuckle, Canard caught the wrapped bar Wildwing tossed to him. The white mallard took a seat next to Canard, and the teen cocked his head to the side as he watched them. “So…you two brothers?”

“You’re observant,” Canard teased with a smile, taking another bite of his bar.

“You look alike,” the teen replied wistfully. “Twins?”

Wildwing laughed softly. “Yeah.” After an awkward moment, he posed, “How about you? Any siblings?”

Nodding, the teen fidgeted with his boot heel in the snow. “Uh…yeah…one. A brother.”

“Younger? Older?” Canard mumbled through his chewing.

“Um, older…I guess he’d be about…twenty-two…twenty-three…I’m not quite sure.” Focused intensely upon the ground, his face scrunched, he felt his heart tighten as the knowledge burned at his soul. He tried to push hit away, but failed miserably. The feeling never went away. When he finally looked back up, he was surprised by the looks of perplexity on the twin brothers’ faces.

“How can you not be sure?” Canard almost accused.

“We…you know…really didn’t grow up together…” The teen rolled his eyes as a tense gaiety settled in his stomach. “Look…uh…do we have to talk about this?”

The white mallard stared at him, his face contorted, tormented. In his eyes were shadows, the younger duck saw, shadows of despair. Finally looking away, Wildwing said softly, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

The teen sighed and pushed his bangs from his face. “It’s not…it’s just...never mind.” He scowled at his sudden inarticulateness.

“What?”

Meeting Wildwing’s inquiry, the teen studied him thoughtfully. “You don’t want to hear about my past.”

A soft, fond smile graced Wildwing’s beak. “Dauphin, it’s going to be dawn in about a half an hour, and we can’t move too close to the Saurian camps during the daylight, so…we have the time.”

“Not to mention,” Canard added, not even missing a beat, “we risked our lives saving your tail feathers. The least you can do is give tell us your story.”

Rolling his eyes, the teen felt a pang of uneasiness hit his gut. Glowering harshly at the ground, he was silent for a long moment.

“My dad...he isn’t my biological dad,” he started in low and stern voice, gazing up at the older mallards defiantly and waiting.

Canard fixed the teen with a wary stare before throwing his empty wrapper at his book bag. “Okay…so?”

The teen blinked disbelievingly, then waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry…Sorry. I was just waiting the patented gasp and ‘Oh, that’s horrible.’ You know? When I tell people that, they normally tend to think that he’s not really my dad, but he is! Just because we’re not biologically related doesn’t mean—”

“—you’re not family,” Wildwing finished for him with a broad smile. “I know.”

“Wait.” Tthe teen shook his head. “You know?”

Wildwing nodded. “Yeah. I was adopted by Canard’s family when I was nine.”

The teen was confused. “I don’t get it. You said that you were twins.”

“We are,” Canard shrugged. “We have the same parents…mostly. We look alike, and we’re the same age. The only difference is two months between hatching days and nine years of not living together.”

“Oh…” The teen slapped himself in the forehead. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Nah, just not up on the game log…so you were saying about your dad…”

Staring blankly at Canard for a moment, the teen finally blinked and shifted uncomfortably on the log. Now the hard part… “Yeah…um…I—I was one or something like that when my biological parents died. They were…my father speaks of them every so often, but nothing ever in depth. He was friends with them, but…I dunno. He makes comments here and there about how I look like my mom or I do this like my dad, but nothing that even remotely tells me about what they were really like.”

“Must be hard on you,” Wildwing sympathized. “At least I remember my parents.”

“…I have Dad, so I really lucked out there, you know? I really can’t imagine living someplace else or with someone else now that I’m with him...well, besides my brother living with us…”

“I thought you said you didn’t know your brother,” Canard interjected, curiosity tainting his tone.

“I don’t, but he’s the only one of them I remember. And even that’s stretching it.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated. “He left the orphanage when I was really young. I don’t really even remember why, but he made this promise to me that he would find me…that he’d make everything okay and that we’d be together again.” He stifled an incredulous laugh and looked up at the two older mallards. “Yeah, right. I used to think of him a lot during my foster homes. Some were not…” He struggled with the wording as he wrapped his jacket tighter around his body, “peachy…I guess best says it. In fact, a few were flat out wicked.” He shuddered involuntarily and refused to look at the mallards across him. “I finally got out of them when I got that scar you saw, and Dad took me in.”

A bristling wind whistled through the trees, blowing the teen’s blonde bangs over his closed eyes. “I…I just always thought he’d come one day…I just thought my brother would find me. I looked through the crowd today to see him, but…” He let out an exasperated sigh, more angry with himself than anything else. “What was I thinking? He’s never going to come.” His voice fell to a broken whisper. “I bet he forgot about me long ago.”

The teen sat there, beak raised unabashedly as tears trickled from his eyelids. He stared into the forest, at the ground, then at the fire, anywhere but at the Bronzeplumes. Finally, he reached into his jeans and pulled something out of his brief band. In his shaky hand was a folded, crumbled piece of age-worn yellow paper.

“Dauphin—”

“Will you stop calling me that!” The teen snapped as he turned to Canard.

“What? It’s your name!” The tan mallard countered indignantly.

“No…No, it’s not. I don’t even know why Dad told you to call me that. He hates that nickname.”

Wildwing stared at the teen, his eyes widening in shock. “Nosedive...”

“Call me ‘Dive.’ Everyone does…” Nosedive’s voice trailed off in realization. He sent Wildwing a funny look as he unfolded the paper. “Hey, how’d you know that?”

The white mallard froze, his body tensing rigidly. Canard’s beak dropped, agape.

Cocking his head to the side, the teen waved in his hand in the air. “Hello? Guys, you alive in there?”

Shaking his head suddenly as his motors once more kicked in, Wildwing pointed to the paper in Nosedive’s hand. “Is that what I think it is?” His voice was shaky, tearful.

“I don’t know what you think it is,” Nosedive replied tactfully, “but it’s the only thing I have of my brother and parents. I—It’s just an old newlog about their deaths…” Taking a deep breath, he held back the tears that threatened to slip over the rims of his eyes. “I’ve had it since as far back as I can remember…I guess it was just for me to know where I came from, but…It doesn’t even say my parents’ names, you know? So how am I supposed to know anything? And it says that my brother and me died! I know I’m still here, and I remember him…so…so…what good is this thing anyway!” Crumpling it up, he chucked it with a sharp cry into the fire.

A burst of flames exploded in a wave of heat, washing over Nosedive and the two stunned Bronzeplumes.

Crossing his arms, Nosedive slumped into his seat, his head hanging low. He barely caught the muttered whisper, “I’ll be back” from Wildwing as the older mallard stood abruptly and bristled into the forest.

He watched the white mallard go in shock until he was caught off guard when Canard followed less than a second later.

“Defend the goal, kid. We’ll be back in a moment.”

Nosedive’s face twisted in innocent confusion. “What’d I say?”

*^*^*

Canard found his brother with little effort, the white mallard’s back against a tree, hands on his knees, sucking in ragged, dry heaves. Striding right up to his brother, Canard slapped him in the back of head.

“What the hell is the matter with you!”

Eyes darting to his angered brother, Wildwing bit off, “I can’t. Not now, Canard.”

“What do you mean, ‘Not now’?” Canard’s entire body shook as he tried, though unsuccessfully, not to hit his brother again. “You have searched for—”

“I know,” was the cryptic reply.

“Am I still speaking to Wildwing, or did he temporary abdicate his body? Am I talking to the same person who had Shane and me break into the orphanage to find something, anything, about his little brother?”

“Canard—”

“The same person who broke into General Flashblade’s office to steal his parents’ files—”

“You don’t—”

“I don’t what?” Canard flung a pointed finger back toward the campsite. “I don’t know exactly who’s out there? I don’t know that who you’ve searched for the last fifteen years is standing right there, waiting for his big brother to—”

“CANARD! WILL YOU SHUT UP FOR TWO SECONDS?” Wildwing finally exploded, slamming his fist into the side of the tree.

Dumbfounded, the tan mallard stared at him in surprise. Slowly, he crossed his arms, then stared at Wildwing with an irritated gaze.

Rolling his eyes, Wildwing pushed off the tree and began to pace. “I know, okay? I know who is out there! I’m not completely dense. It’s just…” He stopped and looked at the ground forlornly. “We’re Marked, Canard. Remember?”

“Yeah, well, it is hard to miss the snipers aimed at the back of my head sometimes.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Wildwing fumed, shooting a pointed glare at his brother. “My little brother is out there and thinks I don’t give a shit about him!”

“So? Go change his mind!”

“And tell him what? ‘Hey, Nosedive. I’m your older brother, but I’m slated to be killed any day now because of my traitorous actions versus Dragaunus. In fact, if Dragaunus ever got word that you’re my brother, he’d have you Marked, too! But hey, it’s great to see you again. ’ ” His voice raised facetiously. “Yeah, that’s a great icebreaker.”

“Stars, Wing! That’s what bugging you?” Canard shook his head. “That won’t happen. General Flashblade will protect him.”

“General Flashblade shouldn’t have to protect him! He’s my brother!” Wildwing shouted furiously at Canard before sighing in defeat. “I just want…I just want him to be safe. I don’t want something to happen to him because of me…” He turned to Canard, and frustrated tears trickled down his cheeks. “Don’t you see? If Dragaunus ever were to…and then…I couldn’t deal with it, Canard. I couldn’t…He’s my brother…” He smiled sadly at his adoptive brother, rapture shinning in his eyes. “That’s my little brother…”

Canard returned the grin and embraced his brother. “Yeah, Wing...he is.” He tightened his hold as his twin brother cried.

“This…it’s not fair, Canard. It’s not just not fair... ”

“Life’s not fair.”

*SNAP!*

Both Bronzeplumes whirled, weapons cocked and aimed at the intruder. A five-foot, seven-inch blonde smiled timidly, waving at them with one hand, a puck bazooka pointed down toward to the ground in the other.

“Sorry. I heard yelling and thought…” His words trailed off at the sight of Wildwing, red-faced and tearful. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” was the curt response as Wildwing powered down his weapon and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I was just…thinking about my own little brother…”

“Lost him, huh?”

“In more ways than one, kiddo.” Wildwing didn’t resist the urge to tassel the boy’s hair. “In more ways than one.”

*^*^*

“So…I guess this is it, huh?” Nosedive asked as he and the older mallards neared the two guards at the gate, both dressed in military garb.

Canard, the social one the teen had decided, smiled down at him with a heavy sigh. “I guess so.”

Once more, the white mallard’s reply was terse and unemotional. “Yeah.”

Nosedive didn’t know what it was, the reply or the way it said. Perhaps the body language, how Wildwing didn’t even turn to him. In fact, if anything, the white mallard looked the opposite direction from him. It didn’t matter exactly what it was; Nosedive still felt something thick and sinking writhe in his stomach.

And he still didn’t know why!

What was it about Wildwing? Why did he want so badly to know—no, to like—this mallard, and why did he so want Wildwing to feel the same way about him? He glared up once more, noticing the same hard expression plastered on the mallard since the second day of their four-day hike to the cell, and wondered, again, what he had said that night to upset Wildwing. Their good rapport faded after he had found Wildwing and Canard in the woods, and a strand-thin tolerance seemed to reign. Nosedive tried to prod the white mallard for answers during the last three days, but received nothing more than, “Leave me alone, kiddo.” Still, the way he added “kiddo” made him think that the white mallard, the one who saved him, the one who hummed “Reign of the Mass Idiocracy,” was still there. Then why was he so cold? Canard had offered the only answer, that Wildwing had mental problems and needed to be examined. In the end, though, Nosedive finally gave up, hopeless but to just trail behind the two Bronzeplumes.

Quickly being checked over, Nosedive cringed and barely held in a shiver, as rough hands patted down his arms and legs. He never liked people he didn’t know touching him, ever since his first “foster home,” and now it seemed only amplified by the torture from the Saurians.

He stared down at the ground when the guard barked at him once more to keep his hands on the fence and not to look over his shoulder again. He closed his eyes and waited as a hand was shoved into his pockets, then tugged at his jeans back pouches to do the same before being pulled away suddenly. A faint, rushed command was heard, and while Nosedive couldn’t hear exactly what was said, he knew it was from Wildwing. A moment later, a hand clasped him on the shoulder, urging Nosedive to look up.

Canard smiled down at him. “All done.”

Nosedive nodded silently, not really trusting his voice, and contorted his jacket about his torso. He followed Wildwing and Canard into the base. The three were rushed into a conference room not too far from the entrance, only the third or fourth door in, and were left alone.

Nosedive sat opposite Wildwing at the round table, the only furniture in the room besides the chairs. He wrapped the older mallard’s white and teal jacket about him. “So…uh…what happens now?”

Wildwing remained silent.

Canard sent his brother a harsh glower before gracing the younger mallard with an exhausted smile. “Just a simple debriefing. Nothing too interrogating. They’ll probably want to know a little about you and what you’ve been doing and where you’ve been for the last few months, so…be ready.”

“Thanks, but where’s my dad? Is he here or at another—”

The door behind him whooshed open, and in treaded a built, elder duck, at least twenty years older than Nosedive’s counterparts. With dark brown feathers but graying-tan hair, the duck wore a typical general’s combat uniform, white body armor and navy pants with a teal undershirt, complete with a puck launcher hanging at his side. The two Bronzeplumes rose from the table, each sending the newcomer a stringent salute. Nosedive watched them, slightly miffed like always when he saw people salute the man. It wasn’t like the general was a higher life form or something to that nature.

It was then the military officer turned his attention to the teen, his eyes hard.

“So…you claim to be Dauphin Flashblade?”

The teen rolled his eyes. “No, I claim to be Nosedive Flashblade.”

Surprise flickered in the general’s expression. His eyes flashed briefly over Nosedive’s head to Wildwing. “So…do you know what I was thinking?”

“Now you want a telepath? A little high on the expectations, ya think?” He ignored the shocked expressions on the two mallards behind him. What, like they never talked back to a military officer before.

The general didn’t even blink. “I was thinking of when you were nine and walked into my house with dyed green hair.”

The teen’s eyes narrowed, though a baiting smirk crossed his features as he rose from his seat. “It was blue hair, Dad. Your old age catching up with you already?”

Eyes widening as tears filled them, the general crossed the rest of the room drew the teen into a tight embrace. “Stars, you’re alive…I thought when the invasion came…” He pulled the teen closer.

“I’m stronger than I look, Dad,” Nosedive replied wryly.

“Don’t I know it.” Cupping the teen’s face in his hands, he scrutinized the boy with a quick visual examination, his eyes laying pointedly on the boy’s black and blue about his right eye, then on the blood drenching his jeans. Finally, he noticed the familiar red coloring that had seeped through his navy shirt. “What did they do you?”

Nosedive shrugged, though his voice was low and sunken. “Nothing too bad. I’m cool.” Catching his father’s glance over his head, the teen quickly amended the statement. “Better than I could be…”

The general nodded, a rigid expression etched upon his face. “That’s an understatement. I want to hear everything later.”

Nosedive snorted at the command. “You’ll get as much as you get with everything else in my life.”

“Nosedive, I’m serious.”

“Back in civilization not even five minutes and already you’re on my tail feathers.”

Sighing, the general draped an arm over his son’s shoulders and lead him toward the door. “You’re pushing it, already.”

“Well, somethings just don’t change, Pop.”

“I don’t want them to…well, except your hair, maybe.” He ruffled his son’s hair playfully, to which Nosedive tore away.

“Hey, the hair is off-limits! Bleach was bad enough! I don’t want to see you with scissors!”

The general chuckled as he slowly ushered Nosedive toward the door—

“General Flashblade.”

The general halted with a heavy sigh and looked over his shoulder with grim eyes. “Yes, Bronzeplume?”

Wildwing stood, his eyes blazing at the general as if to burn a hole in the man’s forehead. “I request a word with you later…sir.” The cold tone in his voice indicated his severity.

“I see,” was the icy response.

Nosedive’s head suddenly perked up, and he tugged off the jacket. “Oh, Stars. Sorry! I totally forgot when—”

“Keep it.”

Nosedive stared at Wilwing in disbelief, as the fondness and warmth returned in the older duck’s voice.

“Keep it, kiddo,” he repeated with an affectionate smile. “I can get another.”

Before Nosedive could say anything, his father pushed him through the doorway and out of the room.

*^*^*

Wildwing looked up at the clock in the general’s office. Eleven thirty-three. While he didn’t begrudge the general time with his reacquainted son, Wildwing was fuming and wanted a release for the smoldering anger burning at his soul. He had barely held it in back in the conference room and practically bit off Canard’s head afterwards. Now, he wanted to direct his anger toward the rightful recipient.

Breathing in to the count of three, he released the air, only to repeat. He clenched his fists, void of his gauntlets as he now wore his normal clothing, a simple tee-shirt and jeans. His thoughts whirled to the knowledge of where his jacket was, and it only made him more furious.

One…two…three.

Exhale…

He sunk into his chair, his head falling into his hands. Fifteen years of searching…for it to come to this…so close but, Stars, so far away…He closed his eyes—

—A young hatchling, barely speaking, stretched desperately for him as he, no older than seven, was dragged away.

“Why-WIG!” squealed the baby.

Wildwing tried to touch him, tried to console him, but he couldn’t reach the crying and screaming child. They wouldn’t let him. Couldn’t they see they were upsetting the child? Didn’t they understand?! They were all each other had left! Get off! He thrashed against their hold, but it just tightened.

“NOSEDIVE!”—

The door opened behind him. Jumping in his seat, Wildwing shot to his feet. “What the hell is your game!”

The general stopped in the doorway and regarded Wildwing in silence for a long moment. “Insubordination, Bronzeplume. First, for not saluting, and second for—”

“Why, sir?” Wildwing emphasized the last word sarcastically, not caring he cut off the general. “I came to you before the invasion! I asked you to help me find my brother, and you…” He shook his head, disgusted. “You lied to me. My own godfather…you adopted Nosedive and didn’t tell me!”

Striding around his desk, General Flashblade occupied himself with the file on the top of it. “So…my son’s codename didn’t seem to faze your curiosity, did it?”

“You lied to him! He thinks I don’t give a damn about him!” Wildwing scowled and pointed toward the door. “I doesn’t matter what you did it to me, but he’s your son! How could you lie to him like that?”

“I have my reasons,” General Flashblade affirmed, somewhat distracted as he opened a file and took a seat at his desk.

“Your reasons! Like what? What could possibly be so important to keep us apart, to lie to your own son? Like—”

“Like your reasons, Bronzeplume?” The general pierced Wildwing with a sharp glare.

His glower never wavering, Wildwing stared back at the general in furious bewilderment. “I don’t follow…sir.”

“You obviously haven’t told Nosedive you’re his brother. Why?”

Wildwing froze at the accusation, utterly flabbergasted. Looking away, the distraught white mallard grated, “I want to protect him. If the Saurians ever found out—”

“Then we have a common goal, don’t we?”

“…What?”

Standing, the general bowed his head for a moment, fists flat against his desk before meeting Wildwing’s gaze. “Years ago, Wildwing, I had a conscious choice to make. My son confessed to me that he knew he had a brother somewhere and he wanted to meet him one day. At the same time, I had watched you grow up from afar with the Bronzeplumes and knew that you were actively searching for your little brother. However,” he sighed deeply, straightening his back and knotting his hands behind him, “I promised your father sixteen years ago I would watch out for you two and make sure you were safe.”

“Wait…you knew where I was?” Wildwing asked harshly.

The general returned a reluctant nod. “Yes.”

“But you said that you had wanted to get to know me. I thought—”

“—that I didn’t know where you were placed. Wildwing, I knew you were with the Bronzeplumes even before the orphanage keeper did.” The general ignored the shocked look on Wildwing’s face and continued, “You have to understand something, Wildwing. A week before the invasion, the people who were after your parents were still in power on Puckworld. They still would have done anything to get at you and your brother, despite the fact that your parents have been dead for sixteen years. That is why I couldn’t tell you I had adopted your brother.”

“That…makes no sense,” Wildwing admitted coolly.

“The people after your parents, they were monitoring me. They were monitoring my son—everyday. Nosedive didn’t know, but I saw them. Following him after school, at the pizza place he worked, at the arcade. If your father was still alive and would have come back, they figured I would have been the first person he would come to see and wanted to not only keep tabs on me, but alo on Nosedive, just in case they needed a bargaining chip. Separate, they didn’t think Nosedive was his father’s son, but if they would have seen you and Nosedive together, there is a good chance they would have put two and two together, and I couldn’t have that.” The general graced the younger duck with a smirk. “Does that make more sense?”

Wildwing shook his head. “What about now? Here? Why didn’t you tell me that I was saving my brother?”

“I have a son in my quarters tonight, Wildwing, who I thought I would never see again. With the last name ‘Flashblade,’ I can only image what they put him through, but that’s only a fraction of what the Saurians—Dragaunus— will do to him if they find out that Nosedive is related to you.

“You knew the risks when you took the missions you did, Wildwing, and that’s admirable. You’re a good drake, as good as your parents, may they rest in peace.” General Flashblade paused for a moment, grief striking him. He swallowed, then continued hoarsely, “However, that has made you Marked. And Dragaunus….” Leveling Wildwing with a harsh glare, he beseeched to the stunned mallard with tears in his eyes. “Dragaunus will do anything to get the Marked, Wildwing. Anything. That means attacking those you love the most, those closest to you…”

Wildwing closed his eyes. “Nosedive…”

“Exactly. That is why your relation to Nosedive must now be kept a secret.”

Wildwing recoiled, his thoughts pressing down heavily upon him. He wished and hoped and searched for his little brother for so long, and now that he had found him—he could be the cause of the death his brother’s death. Was being able to know and love Nosedive worth that? Worth his torture and death?

Was that even a question?

A hand clamped down on Wildwing’s shoulder, bringing him back to reality. He sniffled and wiped his beak. When he did start crying? Turning to his godfather, Wildwing received the fond smile offered to him.

“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you are going through. I hoped to spare you this pain. Nosedive is…” General Flashblade struggled with the wording, though his tone was nothing but caring, “…a gift, at times. At other times, a pain in the ass, but he’s a good kid. I didn’t want you to suffer seeing him, knowing him without being able to be his brother.”

Wildwing clenched his hands in fists, shaking them uncontrollably as he felt the tears drip from his beak. His mind once more relayed to the sight of his crying and screaming little brother as he was torn from him as a baby. Finally, with a sigh, Wildwing’s fists relaxed and uncurled. His hands hit the sides of jeans with a smack. “Harper?”

“Yes, Wildwing?”

“He looks like Mom.”

A tender, reminiscent smile graced the general’s face. “Yes, he does, Wildwing. Yes…he does.”

To Be Continued…