#fosterbrats

[obstinatewit]

~”I Know If I Stepped Aside, Released the Controls, You Would Open My Eyes”~

{https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNUR0fOMpCs}

~~

“вытащить его оттуда! убить выжившего.”

(“Get him out of there! Kill the survivor.”)

There had been a jolt of pain as a knife cut through skin like butter, and the weapon could feel a light streak running along one cheek, hazel orbs dark and dangerously astute as they took in each movement the target being dragged to his death made. Sounds of screamed protests filled the air and reverberated from one wall to another, falling onto ears that were suddenly cold and uninterested. The trilling of a voice cutting through the echo radiating in the air and footfalls fast approaching made uninterested ears suddenly perk in interest, and dark oculars went from watching as yet another target took their last breath to locking onto the owner of the voice that had called out. A slight tilt of the head told the one speaking that attention was being paid and words were being considered, but no words were spoken in response; a swift and subtle nod showed acknowledgment.

“ты в порядке?”

(“Are you okay?”)

Another short nod showed that the words were acknowledged, and the injury was not fretted in the least, not by the weapon by any means, at least. A hand reached up and the tip of a finger ran along alabaster skin, a slight zap radiating from the top of the head and down along the spine, and the finger pulled away in pure reflex, taking with it a deep red at the tip of an unfaltering finger. An angry red gash had made its home on an otherwise unscathed face, and yet the one whose face it occupied was unperturbed by its presence. The only other voice that was there to fill the airwaves seemed to be more disturbed by the sudden presence of an unwelcome injury than the weapon was, and that was a sight that had never been seen before.

“Это не может повториться. Вы не можете быть ранены. Это будет нам дорого стоить.”

(“This can not happen again. You can not be injured. It will cost us dearly.”)

A shrug of a left shoulder indicated a response, and hazel hues focused on a frantic figure before their foreboding gaze flicked over to the wall, focusing on nothing in particular as a strong voice filled the air in the room. There was no indication of pain given, nor did the tone waver for even a nanosecond and strong and sure words filled the atmosphere of the room.

“это просто царапина. Не суетитесь из-за этого.”

(“It's just a scratch. Don't fuss over this.”)

Behind spoken words was a shadow of a doubt and a hint of resentment, which didn't fall onto unknowing ears as they filled the air. That sense of doubt had been lingering in the air between the asset and the masters for an uncertain amount of time, and that again did not go unnoticed. Faltering loyalties weren't by any means taken lightly, and nor were they tolerated, which was not a fact that was unknown to the weapon, poised and always at the ready. The sudden presence of a hand didn't go unnoticed by dark hazel hues, and the object in the hand didn't fail to hold their attention. It wasn't a welcomed sight, and annoyance filled dark oculars as they flitted from the mask being held out to unwilling hands to eyes that were almost equally as foreboding.

“Мы рассчитываем на вас. нам нужно, чтобы ты носил это.”

(“We count on you. We need you to wear this.”)

“Все из-за одной царапины? Это выглядит как морда.”

(“All because of one scratch? It looks like a muzzle.”)

Discomfort radiated like a static shock right below a dangerously narrowed hazel ocular, and the cold contrast of solid plastic gliding along skin was a questionable and  undesired combination. Words failed to fall from the weapon's lips, and breaths were shallower as a result of the thick material and plastic covering dry lips. The thought that it wasn't just being used as a means of protection worked its way through a dark and jumbled mind, and hazel hues flitted from the target that was groaning out in pain on the ground and went to the one holding the reins, the “master”. The sight of the weapon on a leash seemed to appeal to the steely eyed ring leader, a telling grin tugged at sinister lips as eyes focused on the silenced weapon, unable to speak due to reins having been tightened and a “muzzle” having been put in place. The significance of spoken words was questioned and lost to the weapon standing in the middle of the”ring”, feet rooted to their original spot as flecks of blood splattered to the concrete below foot. Hands coated in the blood of fearful targets hanging down heavily, bones aching and frayed as waves of exhaustion rise and fall like the tide of an undisturbed ocean.

Loyalties continued to fall into question, and as a consequence, the object of their questioning was effectively silenced. Much like a lion in a cage that was much too small and confining, the weapon's inner conscience tried to work its way to the surface and get out again, but the murky waters of thoughts and feelings that were stomped down and hidden made it difficult to see the light that shone in the horizon. In a ledger that was lined with victories, there wasn't room for any kind of doubt or question, and nor was faltering an option. Heavy steps filled the air as boots moved on pavement to start toward the next given objective, hazel hues looking toward the horizon with chagrin and wrath. The absence of words seemed to make the oculars even more sinister and dangerous, and responses to that were etched in the eyes of the next targets of the weapon's unbridled fury and rage.

Exhaustion was blocked out of a mind clouded with wrath and set off to the sidelines, and fists collided with bone, cracks echoed through the atmosphere, and blood was spilled in abhorrent amounts while no apology was given. Mangled figures writhed on the ground beneath unwavering hazel orbs, and victory was once again the road that the weapon had taken. Heavy footfalls once again filled the air as the weapon, yet again, walked away from a victory. The confines of the tightened reins were only loosened when an order was given, and the weapon was still being heavily restrained. The heavy feeling of exhaustion once again ripped through bone and flesh alike, and legs as heavy as lead carried the full weight of a lethal weapon away from his last assignment of the day. Otherwise dark and brooding oculars showed signs of fatigue, but he kept them open as he made his way back to the rendezvous point he had been told to meet them at, a strong surge of pain going through him as a voice he had been longing for called out to him from the distance.

“истребитель! Истребитель, Подождите!”

(“Fighter! Fighter, wait!”)

Hazel eyes filled with longing, desperation, and exhaustion snapped open as if by instinct at the sound of her voice, and hesitation filled every fiber of his being as her steps behind him began to get closer. Footfalls from below slowed until they finally stopped, and battle worn ears listened as the sound of footfalls quickly approached from behind, no sign of objection or resistance given as skin suddenly made contact with skin, sending an electric shock to every nerve ending in the entirety of his being. No move was made to brush her hand off of his forearm, no effort was made to keep a distance between them, nothing but a look of exhaustion and anguish were present in his eyes as she finally entered his line of sight. It was only when she reached a hand out to touch the mask that covered the lower portion of his face that any movement was made in protest, but he didn't go far and it didn't take long for her to gather that he had to leave the horrid thing on his face where it was. There hadn't been an order given for him to remove it, so it had to stay right in its place, right where it was gliding against the still angry gash that was etched across his left cheek.

“Мне жаль. Я оставлю это.”

(“I'm sorry. I will leave it.”)

The only words that had hit his ears all day that he actually believed, and he was like a wild animal that had been tamed but still needed restraints. Gentle hands reached out to him again, then stopped halfway between her and their destination, and he leaned his head down toward her just far enough to give an indication of understanding and trust. She was looking for contact, the look in her hypnotic chocolate brown oculars spoke volumes to what little was left of his soul in that regard, and he responded back by showing her that it was okay. Soft, angelic hands rested on either side of a face etched with darkness and exhaustion, and sent a warmth radiating through every fiber and down to the core of his being, and once dangerous hazel eyes lightened and then slowly slid closed. There was no movement of hands reaching out to touch her, that would have made ensuring that what needed to be done in order to be sure that she could go on to live a life without him impossible, and no part of him wanted to rob her of every right she had to be safe. Safety with him was not possible, but at that moment, reassurance that the whole of the world wasn't dark and unforgiving was a much needed breath of fresh air.

Rose petal lips pressing against a thick plastic barrier was perceived by a mind that had gone from being shrouded in darkness to being dusted over with feelings of light and hope, and hazel eyes just opened fast enough to catch an angelic face moving back a fraction of an inch. The path of resistance was a difficult one to have to choose, but he had to stay on that path for her safety, for her well-being. Willingness to continue to let her grip remain didn't wane, and hazel hues slipped closed again as the angelic face once again moved in, and warmth spread through every inch of his skin as her forehead rested peacefully against his. There was still no made move to touch her any more than what had already been done, and a feigned hope that it would make parting ways from her easier lingered in the backdrop of a dazed mind and a frayed heart. Graceful fingers ran through locks tousled from a strenuous day fraught with fights waiting for him, and heavy shoulders shrugged with a tired sigh as relaxation reached every muscle in his body.

“Я просто хотел увидеть тебя еще раз. еще раз.”

(“I just wanted to see you again. Once more.”)

Her soft voice lilted as she spoke, her gentle breath hitting his face as the words moved past her soft lips. A faint hammering fell into keen ears as his heart picked up its pace, racing against the inside of his chest like it was going to burst out from between his ribs at any moment. The absence of her skin sent a painful jolt through his heart as he finally forced himself to move out of her grasp, but if he didn't move, he knew that he never would have, and a foggy mind commanded fatigued legs to carry him toward the rendezvous point he was supposed to be at by that time. Words weren't an option, even if he had wanted them to be, so he simply had to carry himself away from the last source of light and comfort he had in a dark and unforgiving world that saw him as nothing more than a weapon.

Darkness once again filled hazel oculars as steady steps could be heard being taken on scalding concrete, resentment weighing down his chest like a ship's anchor. There had to be a way out, even if it hadn't yet come into view, some way for him to finally rid himself of the heavy burden that the life he was forced to lead put on his shoulders. There had to be something, somewhere, and that echoed through his battle worn mind as he made his way back to the source of his resentment, the ones he was bound and determined to find an escape from.

[obstinatewit]

~“I’ve Fallen in Love with This Middle Ground at the Cost of My Soul”~

{https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNUR0fOMpCs}

~~~

“не колебаться. Если ты остановишься, ты умрешь.”

(“Don't hesitate. If you stop, you die.”)

“Смерть не вариант...”

(“Death is not an option...”)

Knuckles covered in blood. Dark hazel eyes locked on a nearly lifeless man on the ground. Jaw muscles twitching involuntarily as deadly oculars followed strained movement. “ворон” watched as yet another target strained, groaned, and writhed on the ground, one shoulder brushing against steel-toed boots that had cracked bones and broken teeth. Murder wasn't in the ledger, but victory was always the path most taken. None of the others had died, at least not by the hand of the victor, and nor was the one on the ground at that moment. With one final stomp, one of the steel-toed boots caught a hand and mercilessly crunched through bone, and a piercing scream filled the air as the “ворон” accepted victory and turned to walk away, dark orbs fixed straight ahead as the sound of boots clunking against cement progressively got more distant. It was “dog eat dog”, and the one that had gotten to walk away was the same one that did so every time, after every fight. Targets paid up, either with money that they owed for drugs or other “services”, or they paid with their lives. The latter wasn't in the hands of “the weapon”, that simply entailed beating assigned targets until they paid up like they were expected to. Death that came to those who had it written as their fate went to “хозяин” to meet their fate, and “ ворон” only did the near fatal work.

Chocolate brown eyes flashed seemingly through nothingness, but were gone with a frown and a swift head shake. It had been a while since those eyes came to mind, eyes that brought strong feelings of loss and yearning to the surface that were close to impossible to stomp back down again. The one that possessed those striking orbs had been taken away a long time ago, and had yet to come back, which didn't seem likely by that time. A shred of humanity broke through after a hellish act, and that made the ache come back more prominently, much more taxing and difficult to dim and push back down again. There was no room for feeling in the pursuit of targets that owed debts, in the wake of trying to self-preserve and simply survive, especially so inhumanely. Love wasn't something that fit into a weapon's ledger, wasn't a feeling that could have occupied his time without there being dire consequences that came with it. So the feeling was simply blocked out once again, after much intense and aggravating effort, and the ledger was once again wiped clean of any such feelings...for the time being. They were bound to come back again, just to then have to be forced back down.

“истребитель! Подождите!”

(“Fighter! Wait!”)

The sound of boots moving on cement didn't falter or slow down, even as a voice that was known and had been caught by ears that yearned for it rang out in the weapon's ears, hazel oculars sliding closed for a moment before opening and focusing ahead again, trying to push the owner of that voice out and simply focus on reaching the next destination, the location of another assigned target. The scent of her floral perfume suddenly invading a desperate nose as heels clicked progressively closer. Electricity shot through skin like lightning as her hand made contact with his forearm, and freedom from the grip was forced, not wanted. The footfalls that had stopped echoing on the pavement below foot continued as if nothing had occurred, and that much too familiar voice rang out again, much more pleading and desperate.

“ворон, стоп! Угождать!

(“Raven, stop! Please!”)

Footfalls on concrete once again halted, and hazel oculars darkened and snapped open again as the weapon turned to face her, and his voice rang out much sharper than desired but it couldn't be taken back. Heartbreak echoed through the air as the words came out, but an effort to swallow it down was made in vain.

“Не называй меня так! Вы меня так не называете!”

(“Don't call me that! You don't call me that!”)

Hearing that name slip past those lips was like a stab through the chest with a rusted knife, and like the knife was being twisted painfully slow as the sound reverberated through a dubiously jumbled mind. It was soul crushing, the pain that came with the realization was unbearably heavy as it struck clear down to the core of the weapon's being. Dark and foreboding eyes soon shifted and became haunted and tortured, full of pain and anguish as they took in every aspect of her being. The way her brown tresses fell elegantly onto her shoulders, her piercing brown eyes, the smoothness of her silky olive skin, how her hips swayed with each shift of her weight, the graceful way her taut legs carried her just a few steps closer, the lilt of her voice that echoed through the air around her as she spoke.

“Почему ты избегаешь меня?”

(“Why are you avoiding me?”)

Her voice faltered and cracked as she spoke, and at the same time, his heart followed suit and did the same. That fact remained hidden from the Earthbound angel standing before him, and all that was given in way of acknowledgment was a slight left shoulder shrug and a shift from one leg to the other, the weapon's intention of moving again peeking through the cracks and making itself known. A voice that sounded a fraction weaker than was intended spoke out in response after a slightly drawn out silence, attempts at hiding lingering heartache still being made.

“Мы больше не можем видеть друг друга. Мы не можем говорить. Это не сработает. ничего другого.”

(“We can no longer see each other. We can't talk. It won't work. Nothing else.”)

A single tear gliding along olive skin caught hazel hues and held their attention, and they suddenly snapped shut before footfalls could once again be heard growing further away. There was no spot in the ledger for feelings, for emotions, for someone else to become a distraction. The desire to protect her and keep her out of harm's way ran deep and burned like wildfire, so being involved and letting her in any further wasn't an option; the only plausible option was also the most painful one. He simply had to push away and keep her even further than arm's length away, despite how tightly it made his chest constrict in anguish. Previously light and anguished hazel orbs suddenly became cold and calculated as the destination for the retrieval of the next set of targets came into the weapon's view, and the thought of her anguish and the brown hues that flashed through his mind before her echoed cruelly through his clustered and darkened mind as he lengthened his strides, shortening the distance between him and his targets hastily.

Один. Два. Три. Четыре.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

The sound of droplets hitting concrete echoed through the air, blood pooling near steel-toed boots stained in dirt, soot, and blood; dark, foreboding hazel oculars taking in each target that lay on the ground, incapacitated as the number of victims at victorious feet was long forgotten and not fretted in the least. Unbridled anguish coursed through his veins like molasses, and knuckles collided with bone with a loud crack before the sound of yet another body hitting the ground sent vibrations through the air and into calloused ears. Free of any sign of emotion, his eyes took in every drop of blood on the ground, every target writhing in pain on the ground at his feet, still rooted in their original spot.

“Вы хорошо поработали, но мы должны идти.”

(“You did a good job, but we have to go.”)

Tired legs strained against nearly dead weight as exhaustion washed through his entire body, but he managed to carry himself to the “getaway” vehicle that sat waiting for them before he slumped over in the back seat and heaved a tired sigh, once dangerous hazel orbs slowly sliding closed as his eyelids began to get unbearably heavy. As sleep took him into its firm, vice-like grasp, her eyes and everything about her came back to him and flooded his jumbled mind, and he furrowed his brow deeply in his sleep and moved his head from one side to the other before the images began to shift.

Deep brown eyes shut everything else around him out and held his gaze, and he was suddenly face to face with the one he'd loved for so much of his life and had cruelly been robbed of at a young age. It made shocks of excruciating pain radiate through his frayed heart, and a sobbed threatened to rip its way out past his lips as he slept, but he refrained and tried to take in every aspect of those eyes that he had loved so much for so long. The deep intensity with which they took in everything that was around them, the way they seemed to pierce right through him and bore straight into his soul, which he had long since lost. When accompanied by the curly black tresses and puppy face that he had known as a child, the chocolate hues took him back to a better and simpler time, a time when he wasn't seen as a weapon and was treated like a person, a time when he was free to have fun and be a kid. It made the realization of how heavy and constrained his heart had been come up to the surface of the murky waters that represented all of the emotions he was trying to keep out of his ledger, and it bore down on him with a weight that was excruciating.

What had happened to him? Where had Tamerlane Jameson gone? All of the feelings he felt before...where were they? He had somehow fallen in love with the middle ground he found himself in at the cost of his soul. Even as that realization struck him, he knew that there was no way out, that he was in too deep at that point. Escape wasn't an option, and if he tried, death would have been inevitable. He wanted his soul back, but he was trapped in the iron grip of a toxic society, a poisonous group of vagabonds who would have tightened the reins and pulled him in even further if they suspected so much as a flutter of a doubt coming from him. So he had to stay...and he did. There was no way out, not that he could see on the horizon.

[obstinatewit]

“I Am Dissonance, Waiting to Be Swiftly Pulled Into Tune”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNUR0fOMpCs

“Освободи его.”

(“Free him���.)

“ворон?”

(“The raven?”)

“Да, ворон. Освободи его.”

(“Yes, the raven. Release him”.)

Hazel eyes locked onto dark brown, almost black, eyes, and watched as they wavered, trying to break the tense gaze that they were locked in. The man knew that look, and the one that was giving him that look. He knew what it meant; and it wasn't anything good, it wasn't going to end well for him. As soon as the hazel orbs he was stuck staring into locked onto a target, there was no escape, and that wasn't anything the man didn't know, either. He watched as the eyes that had locked him in as their target darkened, and the one known as “ворон”stepped out of the dark corner of the room he'd been standing in, his arms moving to uncross from his broad chest as he stepped further into the room, only stopping once he was in the middle and the distance between him and his target had been closed. There was an exchange off to his left, but he kept his eyes on the man he was being instructed to hone in on and listened, his dark hazel eyes not once wavering nor missing every twitch of a muscle or bat of an eyelash from the man standing before him.

“Этот должен мне деньги. Это не хорошо. Мы этого не терпим.”

(“This one owes me money. This is not good. We do not tolerate this.”)

Hazel eyes darkened more and hands clenched into tight fists, and there was a bite to the voice that suddenly was filling the room for the first time.

“Готов к атаке. Просто дайте заказ.”

(“Ready to attack. Just give the order.”)

The target of the weapon's wrath fidgeted from one foot to the other and shifted his weight uncomfortably, able to tell by the dark smirk that suddenly appeared on the other man's face that things were going to get very bad, very fast, once he was given whatever he was waiting for to move forward. There was no way out, and the man knew that, even though he still couldn't help but to look around for one in vain. A jaw muscle twitched, but those dark hazel eyes didn't waver once until the first voice to fill the room spoke again.

“разрушать”

(“Destroy.”)

For a split second, the dark orbs that had been locked on the man who was shaking out of his skin snapped over to the man who had given what sounded like an order, but that split second was short lived and those eyes were right back on him again. A fist suddenly collided with the man's jaw, hard, and he cried out in pain as his head snapped sharply to the right, then tried in vain to dodge the second fist that came at his face, grunting as his head got snapped painfully to the left and he lost his balance, falling to the ground with a “thud” that echoed through the otherwise silent room. A steel-toed boot knocked the wind out of the man's chest, and he curled in on himself to try and spare his ribs from taking any more damage, which only caused the weapon going at him to stop down on his leg, hard. A pained scream slipped past the man's lips as the crack of bone filled the room, and he moved his hands from his ribs and grabbed his leg, drawing shallow, labored breaths as he tried to work his way through the pain that was surging through him.

The attack stopped for a split second, but once again, it was only for a split second before the man felt the steel-toed boot stomping down on his leg again, and another deafening scream left the man's lips as pain ripped through his leg again, his hand getting crushed along with it. A strong hand reached down and grabbed a fistful of the man's hair, strong fingers gripping locks of hair like a vice, and the man was being dragged painfully to his feet, his injured leg immediately buckling under him as soon as his weight was on it. The hold didn't loosen, and he was forced to stay up even though he couldn't and was trying to not pass out from the amount of pain he was in. Brown eyes once again locked onto dark hazel ones, and a fist once again swung out and caught the man in the jaw, cracking bone under knuckle. The other fist swung out again and connected with the man's nose, and there was another crack as the man's nose got twisted to the side at an unnatural angle, bare knuckles breaking bone underneath them like glass. Bones continued to get cracked and broken under iron fists, and then the hook of a strong elbow broke the man's arm, and yet another scream made its way past the man's lips before he was launched forward and thrown out of a first story window, his mind not able to wrap around that right away.

The sound of glass crackling and crunching under boots caused the man to curl up into a ball right where he had landed, and he anticipated yet another hit or the stomp of the steel-toed boots that had made themselves familiar with the guy's ribs and leg. The “Weapon” stopped next to man and reached a blood-soaked hand into the man's pocket, pulling all of the money he had out of his wallet along with s couple other choice things before throwing it down and purposely hitting him in the face with it. Steel-toed boots retreated back along the trail of broken glass and through the window again, and the man was left to wait until he was sure it was safe and the “weapon” wasn't paying attention anymore before he was going to try and crawl away from there.

“Прикончи его.”

(“Kill him.”)

“Мы не убиваем. Вы сказали, что. Я сделал то, что я здесь, чтобы сделать. Это все сделано сейчас.”

(“We do not kill. You said, that. I did what I am here to do. It's all done now. ”)

The roll of money retrieved from the target's wallet was handed to “хозяин” (“master”), and the “ворон” had done what he was there to do. So, one more stone cold look was given before the “weapon” left and went to claim his “prize” for the day. There had been a flock of women that had been throwing themselves at him, so he picked the one that appealed to him most at the time and went to relieve tension, not planning on going back for the rest of the day and just laying low. He was praised and rewarded with money, women, and drugs. He didn't like how the drugs made him feel, and he really didn't do much with the money he was given, but he found that the hookups were a good way to relieve leftover tension that built up in his body during fights.

Hazel eyes snapped open after what felt like a short and restless sleep, but nonetheless, sleep was out of the question and out of reach. Auburn tresses lay delicately over his chest and along his left arm, and he furrowed his brow only for a moment at the weight he felt on him until he remembered that he had brought his “prize” back with him for the remainder of the day. Her bare chest rose with each breath, and then slowly went back down with each exhale, plump rosy lips partially open as her cheek rested on his bare shoulder, and smooth porcelain legs tangled with his. There wasn't any kind of emotion in the hazel eyes that took in every aspect of her, so there was no regret or second thought as he untangled himself from under her and picked his clothes up before going into the bathroom for a shower. If the girl was awake but not gone by the time he was out, he was going to remind her where the door was; but if she was asleep, he himself was going to just leave. He didn't get into “relationships”, that wasn't in the cards for him, and nor did he want it to be, especially considering who he was affiliated with. He'd let himself grow to like one of the girls that lined up to get with him, he actually connected with her and didn't sleep with her, but then he called it off when she almost got killed because of it. He'd gotten distracted during a fight because she called out for him, and he actually got hit, which rarely ever happened. As a result, she got hurt and almost killed, and he detached despite how hard that was at first and swore that he'd never let that happen again. She was safe once he stopped associating with her, and he did everything he could to keep it that way, to keep her safe.

A bruised hand shot out from behind the curtain as soon as the shower was off and grabbed for the towel hanging on the hook next to the shower, and he dried himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist and using his free hand to slide the curtain open. Stopping in front of the mirror, he reached out a hand and swiped it across the mirror, wiping away as much of the condensation in one swoop as he could, and then looked at his reflection, hardly recognizing it right then. Was that still the same man? It didn't seem like it. He didn't feel like he was still the same man as he had been before the Russian drug cartel he was with sunk their hooks into him. He wasn't Tamerlane Jameson, big brother and superhero, like he had been before all of that. He was “the raven”, or “the weapon”, and he didn't go by his name anymore. He was someone else, someone entirely different, but also someone who remembered where he came from and what it was that he had loved and then lost. He was a weapon of mass destruction, a warning to those who went against the “rules”, and he did what he was told when he was told to do it. When they told him to attack, he did it. When they said stopped, he did just that. He complied, acted when they told him to, reined it in and refrained when they wanted him to. He was their guard dog, their harbinger of death and destruction, even though he hadn't ever killed anyone. Even with the long list of things he had done by that point, murder wasn't a thing that was on that list, and nor was it ever going to be. “Big brother” wasn't on that list anymore, either, at least not how he wanted it to be, and he didn't think it was ever going to be again. If there was one thing he had been really good at, it was being a big brother, but that had been taken from him a long time ago, and he had been alone ever since. He'd almost opened himself up enough to allow himself to love again, but he watched her get hurt, and had to leave that behind. He'd watched his brother get taken from him. There wasn't much out there for him, and hadn't been for a long time.