#is taken to police stations and either sent to detention centers or just sent back to morocco

[minglana]

op making the borders post unrebloggable..... maybe if you didnt want people to contradict you you shouldve kept ur opinions to urself lmao

[chezzywezzy]

Yandere Billy & Stu pt. 2 (1/4)

Word count ; 4.0k

*Edited.

I twisted the faucet off, taking one final glance around the shop. No more cars would be rolling in during lunch since it was lunch break. It was always a pleasant time around the shop; not because I was lazy, but because my boss, Ralph, and I got along well. We were good friends. We always had lunch together and bantered and watched television. It was a nice, normal part of my day.

I went over to the small side office and invited myself right in. Ralph was already there, bald head and dad bod basking in its glory. He was already munching on a home-packed lunch his husband always made in the morning. He gave me a hearty, mouth-full grunt as I entered.

I sat myself in the seat across from him. A small smile stretched across my face as I reached for the bag my mom always packed for me. The television had yet to be turned on. Ralph was always polite and waited for me to join him. Ralph was nice.

“‘Afternoon, Ralph,” I greeted.

Ralph sent me a grin - I failed to point out the food stuck in his teeth - and replied, ”’Sup. You know, my kiddo’s picked up this new slang term. Sup or what’s up. She said there’s a difference and tried explaining it to me and everything, but it flew right over my head, you know?”

“Well, she didn’t explain it right,” I chuckled. “What’s up is a question. ‘Sup is a greeting.”

He pursed his lips. “Darn. This old brain of mine’s gonna forget that by three.”

He reached for the remote and turned it on. We both fell silent, waiting for the other to show interest. A crab documentary; the weather station; a live concert; a basketball match. I was about to pipe up and mention that the basketball match might be interesting, but Ralph automatically paused on the a news station with a ‘Breaking News’ transition rolling across the screen.

I noisily unwrapped my sandwich, eyes glued to the television. A man and a woman came on screen. Both tensely clutched a pile of papers in their hands. The woman started, ”Early this morning at five-thirty-three, there was a mass prison riot and breakout in one of California’s largest detention centers.”

The man continued, ”The police have yet to discover who was the man strategist, however, it was clear that almost half the prison was in on it.” Some images flashed on screen of the said prison. “Many dangerous criminals managed to escape.”

“Some of them included,” the woman listed, ”Scott Watson, Malcolm Rewa, Mark Lundy, and Peter Tyson. The police have inferred that many of them have either taken refuge in national parks or stole nearby cars.”

“If you have any information on these criminals–“ A long, scrolling list of names appeared on screen–”please tell your local police department immediately. The recapture of these criminals and the safety of the public is dire.”

My brain finally started connecting the dots. A California prison filled with dangerous criminals. Could Bi - they have been a part of the escapees?

Just the thought made my entire body grow numb. The sandwich fell out of my fingers and onto the table. I hardly noticed Ralph changing the channel.

“ -/n. You alright, kiddo?”

I jumped in my seat, breaking out of my trance. Unsurely, I replied, ”Uh, yeah.”

He flashed me another grin. “Hey, don’t worry about that, kiddo. W’re all the way up here in Nevada. It’s not like there’s a reason you’d be targeted, eh?”

“…Right. No, yeah, right.” I picked up my sandwich again.

“Not much on right now. Basketball‘ll have to do,” he conceded, switching the channel back.

A comfortable silence fell over us. I managed to finish the sandwich and was about to reach for my apple when the phone suddenly rang. Ralph reached over and picked it up.

“‘Ello?”

A few seconds later, he handed the phone to me. “It’s yer mom,” he said.

Worriedly, I took the phone. She never called me during work. With furrowed brows, I greeted, ”Hey, mom, what’s up?”

“Well, I. - I was just watching the news!” she cried, the distress in her voice obvious. “A California prison break! Those bastards were in some California prison. For all we knew, they could be out there now, aching to —“

“Mom! Mom, it’s okay,” I interrupted, trying to keep my voice steady. Although I had the exact same concerns, I had to keep level-headed. Mom hadn’t been doing well since the accident; she had to quit her job because of injuries and her mental health plummeted. She became even more paranoid and was a total shut-in now. That was fine and I understood, but it served as a permanent reminder of what happened back in Woodsboro. I wanted nothing more than to sweep the memories of that hell under a rug and pretend it never happened. “Listen, if it’ll calm your nerves, I’ll stop by the police after lunch and ask which prison they were detained in. Even if… they somehow escaped… there’s no way they could find us. Alright?”

By this point, Ralph looked incredibly concerned. He’d halted his eating and was listening to the conversation intently.

“Please, be safe, Y/n. I couldn’t live without you. Promise me - if they escaped, we have to move.”

“That’s a bit drastic —“

“Promise. Me.”

I bit my lip, sending Ralph an unsure glance. “Listen, we can talk about it when I get home. We might be totally overreacting, alright? You should relax, mom. Watch some Golden Girls reruns to let out some steam, okay?”

“…Fine. I love you, honey. Be safe.”

“I love you too, mom.”

I reached across the table and returned the phone to the receiver. All of my worries had been doubled. I know my mom wasn’t the most mentally stable, but she was also just as intelligent and ingenious.

I didn’t have time to think as Ralph spoke up, ”Is everything ‘right? I know your mom’s not doing too well right now, but… is there someone who escaped from that prison?”

I bit my lip and cast my gaze away. “Well… possibly. They’re the reason we moved in the first place and the reason why mom can’t work and all that shazam…”

Ralph frowned. “Listen, it’s a Wednesday afternoon. Nobody with a work life comes in for a repair on a Wednesday afternoon. How about you take it off and go check on your mom and everything? Don’t worry, it’ll be a paid absence. The shop’s doing well.”

My heart absolutely melted. “Are you sure? I’m more than happy to stay the rest of my shift, though.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Nah. Your mom and your health ‘s important. Think nothing of it, kiddo.”

I smiled. “Thank you so much, Ralph. This means the world to me. I promise this’ll be taken care of by tomorrow.” I packed up my lunch remains and trash and grabbed my other bag that was slung across the back of the seat. My actions were rushed, betraying my anxiety.

Ralph and I bid our good-byes and I rushed out of the car mechanics shop.

~~~

“Well, Miss L/n, you’re in luck,” the officer answered. “Our system takes a while to update, but it says here that they’re located in another California prison. The only way they could have been a part of the escape riot was if they were transferred in the last week. The system updates every week. If there’s any noticeable changes in their profile in a few days, I’ll give you a call.”

I let out a sigh of relief as my entire body filtered out the tenseness. I set the phone back on the receiver. Mom finally gave me some distance, as she had been hovering behind me the entire phone call. Her distress had shrank by multitudes, but I could sense that she was still worried.

“They - they must’ve been transferred in the last week, honey. We have to go —“

I grabbed her before she could rush away to another part of the tiny home. “Mom. I know the possibilities are scary. But they haven’t escaped,” I croaked. I was on the verge of tears not because of fear, but because I couldn’t help but mourn for the woman my mother used to be - strong, moving, and my protector. “Things are okay now. We have to let go and move on. Everything’s good now. You’re allowed to breathe.”

She jerked her hand away, scowling. Her hands gripped at her thin hair and she buckled over completely. She let out a mangled scream, shaking. “That’s not true. Please, Y/n, listen to me. The system hasn’t updated —“

“Mom,” I pleaded, grabbing her from behind and pulling her into a hug. “We’re okay. We’re fine.”

She turned and began sobbing into my shoulder. My heart ached, but I pulled her over to the small couch, sitting us both down. Her sobs were muffled in my sweatshirt. I let her drown in her sorrows, her nails digging into my back desperately. Oh, how my heart ached for the woman she once was. The woman who could climb Mount Everest without fear. The woman who could be attacked at work but survive the trauma.

“I’m so sorry, Y/n,” she cried. “I should have spent more time with you. I should have protected you from those devils. I wish I could now. I’m nothing but a burden to you.”

“That’s not true, mom,” I sighed. “I love you. I know how you feel and why you feel this way. It’s scary. When you were in the hospital, and I was scared shitless —“

“Language.”

I let out a sudden laugh. “S - sorry, sorry… I just don’t want to lose you. And I won’t. We’re safe now. We’re not victims. They’re in prison and we’re free. We shouldn’t waste time worrying, or they’d just be smug about it.”

“I know you’re right. I just have a bad feeling about it all. I can’t shake it off…”

“It’s stress. It’s PTSD. But it’s not them. They’re locked away in a prison cell seething. Let them rot. But don’t let yourself rot.”

“But - your poor, poor friends. Sidney, that other girl, that boy… All of your classmates, dead,” she heaved. “It could’ve been you next.”

“But it wasn’t. And it won’t be. Mom, we’re alright now. I love you so, so much.”

“I - I love you too, honey.”

She pulled away, wiping her tears with trembling hands. “I… I should get started on dinner. You must be tired. How about you put on Jeopardy?”

“Yeah, no problem.” I squeezed her hand reassuringly one more time, letting her disappear into the small kitchen. I turned on the television and began flipping through the channels. Jeopardy was on.

~~~

I slung my purse over my shoulder just as knocking sounded from my front door. Mom was in the bathroom and I already told her I was going out with Sally and Purdue. I know that she never approved of them, saying they were shallow and uncouth, but… well, I agreed. We met at the local bar, which said enough about our friendship as it was. To say the least, it was the only place we hung out.

I pulled on my shoes and swung the door open. As expected, Sally was driving her expensive sports car that I’d actually worked on a few times. She was very irresponsible and very rich. Purdue had taken the passenger seat, the window rolled down. She was waving at me with her neatly pedicured hands.

I checked my purse for everything one more time before joining them. I slid into the back seat, slinging my arms around the front where Purdue was. She clasped my hands.

“I can’t believe that crazy mom of yours lets you go anywhere,” Sally complained. “My parents are even worse. No idea why. What is it with this generation’s parents being total clingy psychos?”

“Maybe it’s because you’re the reason this car has a permanent dent on its hood,” Purdue sneered.

“It was only a few times! Not my fault I was a little drunk.”

“It’s directly your fault your fault that you were a lot drunk,” I added. “I fear for my life every time I get in the car with you.”

“Ditto.”

Sally pouted and began driving. The local bar wasn’t too far away; it was only a few blocks’ drive, which is why after a night of drinking, I preferred to walk home, especially with Sally at the wheel. Purdue was at least a smidge more responsible than her.

When we entered the bar, we wasted no time warming up with shots. We spared no small talk; it hurt, but we all knew that we didn’t care enough to drawl to one another about our personal lives. ‘How was work?’ or ‘Have you gone on any dates recently?’ were questions that had not once passed any of our lips. It was alright, though; our mutual friendship served one purpose and one purpose only. We were drinking buddies.

“You know, that guy over there keeps looking at you.”

Sally and I peered over our shoulders. A few seats down the bar was a young man with straight black hair and tan skin. The way he held his glass displayed class and soberness, but his clothes were casual and made him blend in with the crowd of rednecks.

He was making eye contact with us - more so, with Sally. I looked back to my glass of bourbon, paying the man no heed. Sally, though, was seemingly entranced with the handsome stranger.

“Don’t tell me you thought he was looking at you for a second, did you, Y/n?” Purdue giggled, swatting my hand playfully from a seat away. Sally was sitting between us, but Purdue’s long arms and two inch nails scratched my skin.

Sally bit her lip, downing the rest of her beer. “God, and here I was, thinking that you two ugly bitches made me look so bad guys stopped being interested,” she giggled.

I rolled my eyes at her drunken arrogance. “Well, from one ugly bitch to another, why don’t you go talk to him?” I recommended, waving at her dismissively.

Purdue nudged her shoulder. “Yeah, bitch. Go get yourself a man, why don’t you? The plastic surgery’s clearly done you some good.”

Sally gasped, feigning offense, but hopped out of her seat. Purdue and I watched eagerly as she strolled toward the mystery man. I ordered another round of drinks while we waited for the pair to stop flirting and join us again - if they would, that is. I noticed that every time I glanced over at them, though, the man’s glance shifted to me, a glint of amusement in his eyes. I could only hope Sally wasn’t making a fool of herself over there.

“Hey,” Purdue spoke up. “You’re quieter than usual.”

I shrugged. “Just home stress. Even alcohol can’t stop me from worrying about my mom.”

She tilted her head, scooting to sit next to me. “I mean… if you ever need to talk about it, I’m here. If you don’t mind me asking… What exactly is she so mental about? It’s like she’s completely looney. Doesn’t even work.”

I had to withhold myself from rolling my eyes. “She’s not looney. Just traumatized. Being stabbed in the abdomen and her only remaining family, aka me, almost dying to gore-obsessed psychos has left her scarred. We keep going in circles. Every week it’s like she’s brand new and recovered, and then all it takes is one thing - a glance at a knife, an open window, the ringing of our phone - to send her spiraling back into despair.”

I was surprised by Purdue’s affection as she squeezed my hand. “It’s going to be alright.”

I strained a smile. “Yeah. I know it is. It’s just hard to make her know it, too.”

The conversation dimmed once more. Our stares returned to the man and Sally. She confidently had her arm around his shoulders. I could tell by her mannerisms that she was attempting to pull him over to us. How thrilling, another stranger to join our midst.

The man rose to his feet while Sally eagerly clutched his arm and pulled him our direction. His gaze was glued to me as they approached. I sent him a glare, going back to my drink instead.

“Girls-s-s, this is Daniel,” Sally cheered. Purdue scooted closer to me as the pair sat down beside us. I yawned in reply while Purdue sent a cunning, seductive smile, placing her hand on Sally’s shoulder.

“Lovely to meet you, Daniel. A shame I didn’t beat her too it —“

“Shut the fuck up, girl. You’re the one who told me to get his ass over here,” Sally slurred. She was always the first one to get drunk. It baffled me how she could get all that after a couple of drinks.

Daniel grinned at us. “Hello. Daniel Johnson. You ladies having a fun night?”

“Woo-o-o, damn right we are, hottie —“

“Sorry about her,” Purdue interrupted, knocking Sally upside the head. “She’s a light drinker. I’m Purdue.”

“No, but I might need a ride home after this.”

Purdue and Daniel shook hands. I could feel Daniel's stare burning into the side of my head. I couldn’t help but down my drink.

“And who’s this pretty lady?”

Purdue smacked my arm, shaking me out of my thoughts. “Y/n, I know you’re a moody bitch but be nice. Sally’s one-night-stand’s trying to make small talk.”

I quirked a brow. “Well, you already know my name thanks to Purdue. Nice to meet you, Daniel. Well, not really, since your business isn’t with me.”

Purdue’s glare was burning my flesh, but I remained cool and composed. Sally, as though sensing the tenseness through her drunken state, suddenly slapped Daniel’s back. “Hey, be my one-night-stand. Let’s ditch these lo-o-osers.”

Daniel laughed, clutching her hand. “I barely know you, Sally. Besides, your friends seem nice. Y/n… Haven’t I heard that name from somewhere before?”

“Doesn’t matter. You can take my name and shove it up your ass —“

“Let’s play truth or dare!” Sally shouted, gaining the attention of some surrounding visitors. I cringed. Whenever we played truth or dare, it always went to hell. But two drunk girls are more stubborn than one half-sober one - and now, a creepy stranger -, so there’d be no reason to argue with them.

Purdue clasped her hands together. “Oh really? Fine then you hoe, you’re goin’ first. Truth or dare?”

“Only if you go next, girl. Dare, obviously,” Sally answered. “Give me, like, a hot one. I want to make out with this sexy guy.”

“You flatter me.”

There was something off about him. Maybe it was his composure, or maybe it was my mood. But he was at a bar, and he wasn’t flirty, light-hearted, or dead drunk. Who the hell came to a bar just to just be hot and mysterious anyways?

Purdue snickered. “Fine, fine. I’ll make your wish come true. Sorry, Danny, but this ugly toad’s going to make out with you now.”

Sally wasted no time, swinging her arms around Daniel’s neck and pulling him into a passionate, slobbery make-out session. He was exuding discomfort, and for a moment, I thought ‘same.’ Even Purdue and I exchanged knowing glances. Her conniving, toxic smiles weren’t directed at me anymore.

Daniel finally push Sally away. He had lipstick smears all over his face and he was quick to snatch a napkin and wipe his face. Sally had an irreplaceable grin. “Purdue, you’re doing a dare. I don’t even care. How about - how about…” She paused for a moment. “I don’t know. Y/n, bestie, help me out here!”

I hummed, placing my head in the palm of my hand. “Well, that dare was boring as fuck, and I know Purdue ain’t no pussy, so… Hey, how about you call that previous fling you had? Jordan, wasn’t it? Sound all depressed and sad and tell him that you miss him. The guy absolutely worshipped the ground you walked on.”

Purdue grinned. “You were supposed to give me a dare. Nothing would pleasure me more.”

She searched through her purse, eventually pulling out her clunky cell phone. She scanned her contacts before clicking on ‘creepy stalker sexy guy.’ She turns it speaker so that we could hear it ringing, even over the yelling drunkards surrounding us at the bar.

The thing was… I kind of wanted to wipe the memory out of my head. By the end of the phone call that went on way too long, I just ended up feeling bad for the guy. Purdue broke the man’s heart by leading up with fake flattering compliments and ‘I miss you’s just to laugh in his face and tell him he was only worth his dick.

Man, I was friends with assholes.

Purdue hung up, a sadistic and satisfied smile on her face. She turned to me again. “How fun. I always love it when I make a man cry.”

Daniel didn’t emote in the slightest while Sally was roaring with laughter clinging onto the man for dear life. I thought it was strange that even though us girls kept ordering drinks, he didn’t even touch one of ours, keeping completely sober.

Good on him… But that’s pretty shady.

“W - wait, it’s Y/n’s turn to go now! After that, there’s no way you wouldn’t do a dare, right girl? As long as you don’t make out with my man,” Sally encouraged, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Daniel’s nose scrunched. “I wouldn’t mind a kiss from a pretty girl.”

Both mine and Purdue’s jaws dropped while Sally was losing it in the way that drunk girls do. Limply beating his chest, she cursed at him before finally pushing away. She stumbled into Purdue’s arms instead, sobbing incoherently about how ‘u-ly bi-thes aw-ays tee her man.’ Now that was rather amusing.

“Well, Y/n, truth or dare?” Purdue sighed, Sally having passed out on her shoulder, even though she was still standing.

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Daniel, you made her faint. I’m fucking tired, so… I’ll just go with a tru - truth.”

I regretted it instantly when Purdue, the sick bitch she was, developed a smirk. She suddenly pushed Sally over her and forced Daniel to catch her before she tumbled to the ground completely. Daniel was becoming obviously annoyed with every passing second, but we both knew he couldn’t abandon his night duty of keeping a drunk flirt from breaking a leg.

“Well, you know, I’ve always wondered… I’ve seen those two guys’ faces on the news. They’re both pretty cute.”

My stomach began to churn. She couldn’t mean… She wouldn’t go that far, would she?

“A simple question, really. Out of what’s-their-faces, Billy and Stu… who’s more fuckable? Like, I know they were murderers and everything, but they were your friends. No way in hell you didn’t have a wet dream about one of them before the whole almost-killing-you thing.”

I clenched my fist. My mind went blank. Daniel was staring at me, too, as though he’d finally recognized me. This was karma for setting that poor guy, Jordan, up, wasn’t it? But this humiliation was far, far worse. You’d think the woman, as cunning and clever as she was, would know when she was going too far.

“…Are you seriously asking me that?”

She waved her hand dismissively before pushing an entire bottle of beer toward me. “Answer or drink. You know the rules. Or are you too much of a pussy to be honest with your best friend?”

I chuckled dryly. “I guess I am. Bottle’s up.” I snatched the bottle, toasting. I went to drink, and Purdue looked oh-so disappointed.

Before the lid could meet my mouth, with one swish of the arm, I began pouring the bottle all over her. She let out a scream of fury, but I relished watching the alcohol stream down her caked face and staining her white cry top.

Calm and collected, not paying anyone else any heed and ignoring Purdue’s screaming in my ear, I grabbed my purse and walked away.

[ythmir-writes]

A Thousand Mended Seams ch03

fandom: Ikemen Sengoku character: Ieyasu Tokugawa

brief summary: Ieyasu goes to fix a Ward. But something seems to have been waiting for them.

A Thousand Mended Seams masterlist: prologue // chap 01 // chap 02

other works // ao3 // ko-fi

no warnings

Chapter 3/?? – Dousing

      When Ieyasu and the others had first migrated to the City, all of the City’s Kapitans – or the Liga, as they were collectively called – had welcomed them.

      On three conditions.

      Not because their reputation preceded them but more because that has always been the arrangement; all Cities must receive back the protection they give. Those were the rules, and the City had named its price. Services to be rendered; bodies to be kept; favors exchanged for further favors.

      The third condition was special. Tailored in a way for the unique conditions of their group: Ieyasu Tokugawa, famed sorcerer, potions master, and third unique timeshifter, the Stag Duke who Remembers, must paint the City’s wards.

      Embarrassing titles aside, Ieyasu had jumped at the recognition of his talent and the rare opportunity to practice his craft on such a large scale. How many magicians in this day and age could claim that they were singlehandedly tasked with such a grand project?

      However, after the joy of being commissioned had settled down, Ieyasu had thought it a rather unusual request.

      In the usual course of protecting and setting barriers for a city, it was the local magicians that painted the wards. They were the ones who had the flavor of the city at the tip of their tongues, or rather hands, after all. And they were the ones who knew best how to bend and curate the magical protection unique to a location.  

      When Ieyasu had mentioned his doubts to Nobunaga, that he might not be the best sorcerer for the job, Nobunaga had only smiled and told him to just do his best. When Ieyasu had added that the Liga asking their group to set up necessary protection was only the Liga being more indebted to them – and dangerously so – Nobunaga’s smile had only widened, told him not to worry about it and leave it at that.

      So Ieyasu had left it at that, and proceeded to do his best and beyond – painting all fifty-six of the City’s wards at strategic locations to create a web of protection so intricate that should the time come that they glowed at the same time, the City would become a sparkling gem.

      Ieyasu had taken two whole months to complete the project and by the end of it, nearly swore off any chalk, charcoal, ink, and spray paint for half a century. To make sure he would not need to touch any marking instruments again unless it was completely necessary, Ieyasu had made the wards as permanent as magically possible. It had taken just a tad bit more time but it made them stronger and just a little bit more smudge-proof than most. It was his life’s greatest work to date.

      So it was curious how anyone could tamper with them – much less prevent him from sensing that something was amiss. It was not impossible (nothing was truly permanent after all) but it did mean that there was serious magic involved.

      Ieyasu worried about that.

Mitsunari seemed to worry about it too, his hands uncharacteristically fidgeting at moments while they rode the bus.

      When they reached the block where the grocery was located, Ieyasu could feel a few wisps of magic in the air; something hot, burning, with just a hint of something electric, and the sound of popping bulbs.

      But as they entered the parking lot, suddenly nothing. Just empty space.

      Ieyasu chewed his lip again, pushing his hands deeper into the pockets f his coat. Sensing nothing was much more concerning than sensing too much at the same time.

      He was not sure what he expected to see waiting for them but Masamune and Hideyoshi in the middle of an empty parking lot standing idly and chatting while waiting for him was definitely not on the list. It made a rather casual scene, and it looked as if the ward being smudged was not an emergency enough for the Liga to raise an alarm.

      Masamune waved from where he stood and Hideyoshi turned around to greet them.

      “What’s this?” Ieyasu asked as they came within earshot. “I heard ambulances, police cars – this doesn’t look like an emergency.”

      “I did say that part was over.” Masamune said, pocketing his phone.

      Hideyoshi sighed, crossed his arms. “The hubhub is over and done with. But our job isn’t.”

      Ieyasu gave their immediate surroundings a sweeping glance. There was no signs of any struggle, none of the drunken fighting that had supposedly transpired. As a matter of fact, apart from the four of them, nothing seemed to exist within twelve feet from where they stood.

      “What happened?” Ieyasu finally asked.

      “Werewolf pups. Long night. Some sort of initiation? Ritual? A newborn Were?” Hideyoshi looked at Masamune, who in turn shrugged. “Their oldest was in charge and he was being pretty vague. Stories were completely inconsistent.”

      “Clearly drunk, too.” Masamune added.

      “In any case, the pups were sent directly to the police station for questioning and possible detention overnight.” Hideyoshi continue. “They’re not in any state to be wandering about.”

      At that, Ieyasu raised his brows. He had half-expected the culprit to be strong and old magic, not were-magic. “Werewolves?” He asked. “Smudging my ward?”

      “Pack magic?” Mitsunari sounded partly shocked partly curious.

      Masamune raised his hands, equally baffled. “We’re not sure either how it happened. They didn’t have an Alpha with them. According to the pack, one thing led to another and then one of the pups slid down across the cement like it was ice. Next thing they knew, she had paint on her paws when there shouldn’t be and then there was only pain.”

      “Ahh.” That would explain the ambulance Ieyasu had heard when Masamune called.

      Part of the formula that gave the wards their permanency was how any disturbance or tampering could not be made by simple physical means. No matter how often the wards could be painted on, rained on, marked upon, or even slathered with concrete and made into a busy parking lot on, the Ward stayed. Like stubborn graffiti, or tough grime. Or really old chewing gum stuck on a wall.

      If anyone attempted to disturb it, the Ward would react defensively. Mostly depending on how much of the Ward was affected. Like a good punch to the gut, if the Ward had not been completely nullified. Violently, if it was completely erased. The point wasn’t so much as to stop the ward from being tampered – that was near impossible – as it was to make sure Ieyasu would know who to look for.  Traces of his magic from the erased Ward would stain whoever did it and Ieyasu, along with possibly Nobunaga, would follow the trail to ask some very serious questions.

      Ieyasu looked around the parking lot a second time. Nothing. No trace of anything. Like something had gobbled up –

“Did the werewolf pup die?” Mitsunari asked.

      “Nah. Had to be rushed to the hospital though.” Masamune said. “She got concussed. Thrown what, fifteen meters? Ward shot out some really fierce lightning too. The Kapitan here made sure the Alpha was on their way to reach the pup.”

      Ieyasu could imagine how it had happened. “Did the Alpha ask for reparations?”

      Hideyoshi made an impatient sound. “If anyone should be asking for reparations, it should be you. It’s your ward. Commissioned by the Liga, no less.”

      Hideyoshi was right, however Ieyasu found the idea of claiming reparations from a were-pack tedious. It was not like he could not fix the problem to begin with.

      But something did not feel right, like he was missing an obvious clue. “To smudge any ward discreetly without the warder knowing, you should know it’s there in the first place.”

      His three friends nodded. That was basic knowledge.

      Ieyasu chewed on his lip again, looking around the parking lot as if the perpetrator would unwittingly try to come back while they were there. “The wards’ locations are not public knowledge. No one except us and the Liga know. How did the werewolves know where it was? How could they smudge it without me knowing?”

      “They claim it was all an accident.” Hideyoshi’s eyes told Ieyasu he did not believe it. “We suspect someone might have accidentally tampered with it before the werewolves got their hands on it. We’re requesting the tapes. We got eyes there, there, and there.” Hideyoshi pointed to the streetlamps that had security cameras. “Whoever could have done something to it, consciously or not, would have been recorded.”

      “It’s a good thing too the place is currently closed.” Masamune said. “Can you imagine the collateral damage a shocked werewolf pup in pain could have caused? Without an Alpha trying to calm it?”

      Hideyoshi and Mitsunari’s frowns meant yes, they could. And so did Ieyasu. It was not pretty or even relatively safe for anyone who was not part of the pack. It would be a longer night for all of them if that had happened.

      “Nothing to be done about what didn’t happen.” Ieyasu then said. “I’ll start on the ward.”

      “How long will you need?” Hideyoshi asked.

      “Depends.” Ieyasu began to walk fifteen steps to his right, counting as he did. “But seeing as the werewolf pup isn’t dead and we don’t have the City’s packs howling for blood, I’d say maybe twenty.”

      “Mitsunari and I will get the tapes.” Masamune said, heading for the store, quickly followed by the other.

      “Be careful!” Hideyoshi shouted at them.

      Ieyasu stopped just a short way from another street light, its bulb broken, probably from the Ward’s reactions to being disturbed. He knelt down on one knee, and began poking at the concrete with two fingers, trying to feel for the center of the Ward.

      Before being cemented over, the entire block had once been just a small empty park, a splash of green in a city transforming into a sprawling metropolis. Back then, Ieyasu had simply walked towards the middle of it all, found a good rock, sprinkled the ingredients over the soft, fresh grass under it, and the Ward had come to life.

Right now, it was not going to be just as easy.

      Ieyasu found the center about two feet from where he started, a minor zing that raced up his arm and went all the way down his spine and up again towards his nape. Tiny crackling sounds, electricity snapping at air, and then there was a warm glow as the Ward recognized him and his magic.

      Ieyasu pulled with his mind, coaxing the Ward to resurface. Slowly, the place where he knelt glowed with a bright teal color, as if neon lights had flickered open beneath the ground.

He brought out his supplies: a small paint brush, a small bottle of ink, a pack of mint candies, a parking stub, and three used cigarette butts. Back then, it had all just been flower seeds, bird feathers, and maybe drops of sweat and tears. All of them, even magic, had to keep up with the times.

      “What’s the diagnosis?” Hideyoshi asked.

      “It’s smudged all right.” Ieyasu said. “Almost a third is all that’s left, just wiped out clean. Werewolf magic is strong, pack magic stronger, but not erasing-wards-with-a-simple-swipe-of-paws kind of strong. Even with a full moon. Or several.”

      “The Liga wants to know if you can fix it.”

      “With my eyes closed.” Ieyasu answered, bemused. “Did they really ask that?”

      “Yes. You should’ve seen the look on the Kapitan’s face when they saw what caused all the alarm.”

Ieyasu frowned. Why doubt his abilities after everything he has done?

      “We got the tapes.” Masamune called out as he walked back towards them, with Mitsunari in tow who in turn was grasping his backpack tightly with both hands, smiling brightly at them.

      “All right.” Hideyoshi said. “It’s your floor now.”

      “You might want to stay back a little.” Ieyasu placed the pack of mint, the parking stub, and cigarette butts in the middle of the Ward, covered them with the plastic bag, wrapped it around thrice. Then, he dipped his brush into the black ink, took a deep breath and –

      The sun searing into his back as he walked across the lot, long lines at the cashier and even longer queues of vehicles snaking around the small space, the smell of newly painted pedestrian crossing, paper bags rolling empty in the wind, a crash of  – I can’t believe you forgot to get tissue rolls again! mum said I had to wait in the car it’s inhumane to leave a pet under this weather and didn’t I tell you to park it nearer do you know how much two bags weigh – gum chewed until the mint turned into ash and there was nothing but the lingering smell of cigarette smoke and the pairs of eyes that watches watches watches you enter and cross and leave and don’t forget your coupons and your receipt sir please –

      Ieyasu gathered the sensations into him, channeling them through his body, turning them into energy and magic and pushing them back out again into his brush as he wrote the protective seals that formed the Ward.

      That was all there really was to Warding; take the rules of life around an area, those repeated actions done again and again and again, those that form life through repetition, and became rituals in their own right – and gather them and mix them and pray they help keep the place safe.

      Take a parking lot, for example. Walk in any country, any city, any small town anywhere in the world, and grocery parking lots basically worked the same way. You got a parking ticket, or stub, depending on where you were in the world, you chewed on gum when you waited, maybe you have a cigarette or two or three – because damn the line is long and there’s plastic everywhere and did you forget that corned beef brand your mum told you to get and were you even counting your change? Little things that were universal. Little things that make up the experience. Little things that, if you knew how to capture them and knew how to bend them, you could create a ward to protect it all.

      At least, for sorcerers, that was how it worked. You found magic in life. You breathed it. And you channeled it to work for you.

      But you have to know how to listen to it first.

      Ieyasu opened his eyes and was just about to put in the final seal to finish the ward but suddenly, something hissed – at first a whistle then before any of them could pinpoint where the sound came from, it turned into a loud screeching roar.

      “Get away!”

      Ieyasu felt more than saw Hideyoshi – ever alert, ever careful – pull him back with a gesture of one hand. Then the concrete underneath both of them caved down nearly three feet, to avoid whatever it was that had swiped at them from above.

      A frustrated screech, the sound of train wheels magnified several times and the urgent thud thud thud of metal on metal.

      “Incoming!” Mitsunari alerted them.

      Ieyasu saw the car, a small dark spot in the sky becoming bigger and bigger, and then his line of view was blocked by Hideyoshi again, who had moved in front of him, arms moving upward. As if summoned, the lights from the remaining streetlamps all flew towards the car, impaling it before making it explode into harmless chunks. Bits of car parts rained down in a noisy clack clack clack.

      “Another one!” Masamune shouted, tracing the arc of the car with his ancient katana. Ieyasu clicked his tongue. Masamune would use any excuse to wield his sword again and a flying projectile was enough of one. Masamune swung in a lazy arc, blue light pulsed from his sword and cut the second car in half, which fell in a loud crash.

      “What the hell is going on?” Ieyasu shouted, scrambling to his feet. The magic of the ward was slowly ebbing from his mind. If they did not act quickly, he would have to start the ritual again. That was the downside of being a sorcerer; it was pretty hard to concentrate on doing magic while you were being distracted by projectiles. “Mitsunari?”

      Mitsunari was looking towards the other side of the parking lot. “I’m seeing one spirit. One very big and angry spirit.”

      “What kind?” Ieyasu asked.

      “Anger, movement, a solid core, the desire to sleep and wreck havoc. Poltergeist or Kanaima.” Mitsunari said, squinting. “I’m not sure which from here.”

      “Why is there a spirit?” Hideyoshi asked over the sound of another car falling in bits and pieces around them. “There was absolutely nothing in this parking lot when we got here! And we disturbed nothing. Nothing!”

      Ieyasu gritted his teeth, an odd sense of déjà vu filling his tongue.

      “I’m not sure either.” Masamune was poised to strike. “But oh boy I’m not going to wait to find out!”

      “Wait!” Ieyasu tried to hold Masamune off but it was too late. Reckless, aggressive, so very very sloppy in watching his back, Masamune shot off like a bullet towards the spirit.

With a frustrated grunt, Ieyasu held out his hands. “Mitsunari!”

      “Here!” Mitsunari did not need any other instruction. Mitsunari, purple-eyed and pale, whose soft features belied the fact that he was the most precise sorcerer among them, who saw with cat’s eyes and spoke to foxes, who needed only flick a wrist and there was wind beneath Ieyasu’s feet and he flew towards Masamune who had just barely reached the spirit –

      “Kanaima!” Masamune announced. “We got ourselves a vengeful spirit!”

      Ieyasu landed with a grunt, shifting his knees to soften his fall, his hands touching the ground. Instantly, teal colored lights zigzagged towards Masamune, coating him in a ward for protection.

      And it was just in the nick of time. Masamune had raised his sword to strike but the kanaima had roared and it sounded like trains colliding in the underground. Hot and angry smoke billowed towards them, and both men braced themselves against it.

      More smoke blew from the holes of what looked like the kanaima’s mouth and eyes. Its entire body was black liquid, dripping and dripping like oil and tar and muck, and every time it moved, something seemed to spark inside it.

      The kanaima arched towards them, raising its hands and swiping at them, howling in a garbled tongue. Masamune deflected the blows with his sword and tried to strike back. But no matter how much he cut, his blade did nothing to the kanaima, which simply roared again, irritated that it could not pin Masamune down.

      “This is what you get for being reckless!” Ieyasu shouted at him while he searched for his bag for his left-over containers.

      “We all need exercise!” Masamune shouted back.

      “Masamune! We are literally going to be sucked into a vortex of doom if you’re not careful!” Ieyasu wrapped his hand around a bottle, prayed fervently it was his extra round of blessed water, and took out his hand from the bag. “We got one shot –”

      Then as if it had had enough, the kanaima slammed down its hands. The ground shook violently, large cracks cutting through the parking lot and Ieyasu staggered for even footing. Somewhere a pipe blew and water hit him square on the back, soaking him and blurring out the sound of the kanaima’s screams.

      Ieyasu wondered if the night could not get any worse.

      Masamune charged, sword glowing in golden light, and managed to cut one of the kanaima’s arms, sending the spirit in a frenzy all over again. Ieyasu scrambled to his feet and then cursed under his breath. The kanaima’s torn arm simply dissolved into steaming pool of black tar, smelled of despair and death. Then the kanaima regrew an arm. Two. And then three and four. And Ieyasu raced towards Masamune, pushing the bottle of blessed water in his hands.

      “One shot.” He said through gritted teeth. “Dead center in that glowing bit right there. Make it work!”

      “Three.” Hideyoshi squeezed in, suddenly beside them. “Mitsunari and I have extra.”

      Ieyasu whirled to see Mitsunari several feet away, hands planted on the ground and doing his best to counter whatever earth shattering chaos the kanaima was doing.

      Thank all the gods for Mitsunari –

      “You’re the only one unprepared.” Ieyasu hissed, would have shook Masamune if they were not so busy running from the kanaima’s reach. “I told you to always always bring condiments – !”

      “Focus!” Hideyoshi peeled away from them, pointed at the kanaima, holding his wand now and blasting a beam of light at it. Hideyohsi’s spell tore a hole through the monster’s shoulder for two seconds, before it filled up again with blackness and the night. The kanaima aimed for Hideyoshi – missed – and Hideyoshi rebutted with two more beams of light.

      All the while, Masamune was going for the kanaima’s left, flanking him.

      As if sensing their teamwork, the kanaima’s gaze shifted towards Masamune then back to Hideyoshi. It screamed and grew three more pairs of long, spindly arms.

      Masamune swore. Hideyoshi doubled his efforts. In response, the kanaima grew in size, as if gathering more energy, and turning them into more arms and legs than they could bother to keep count.

      Ieyasu planted his hands on the ground, called on his ward, and got to work.

      They say kanaimas were vengeful spirits. Those who died violently come back with murder spewing from their hands, and unanswerable questions where their hearts had once been. Anger. Sadness. A dying scream stifled too soon, too abruptly. There was no appeasing a kanaima. There have been efforts over the centuries; pity always the soul that cannot move on. But all efforts to calm kanaimas have failed. Some debts can never be erased. There was only retribution or death.

      Ieyasu’s eyes stung with wind and water but he kept his gaze on the ground. He tuned out the kanaima’s screams, focused on warmth, protection, and guarding light glowing below him, drew out the symbols with the mixture of dribbling mud and broken concrete.

      No one knew exactly how to recreate a kanaima by choice, what kind of death had to be suffered, what kind of wish so ardent for the victim to be brought back and chained ever after. Some say that to become a kanaima, you had to be killed by one, sucked into its abyss, drained of all blood and magic and  hope. It went without saying that none of them had any intention of letting each other go down that path.

      But there was another entry on the kanaima, a footnote he had read once, lifetimes past. Ieyasu scoured it in his memory, lifting it from other memories, something about a desire, a wish, a craving –

      And as Ieyasu remembered, it all made sense. The emptiness. The déjà vu.

      “Mitsunari!” Ieyasu called upon his friend again. How many times had he relied on him tonight? How many times in so many lifetimes? He could fill a ledger, maybe more. Maybe he should make sure to watch the damn tapes next time with Mitsunari to compensate.

      “Lord Ieyasu?” Mitsunari was beside him, smelling of burning hair and lightning.

      “Kanaimas are vengeful spirits but there is one thing we’ve forgotten about them.” Ieyasu wrote feverishly on the ground, fingers almost splitting in effort. How in the ever loving hell did Nobunaga ever manage to do sorcery while talking? “They aren’t so much victims as they are often spectators. Made to witness those they love die and be lost before their eyes.”

      Mitsunari’s eyes were trained on the kanaima, watching out for Hideyoshi and Masamune, but his ears were all Ieyasu’s.

      “This kanaima was triggered by the Were.” Ieyasu said.

      “When the Were was rebutted by the ward, the kanaima must’ve seen it.” Mitsunari followed his reasoning. Frowned. “But it does not make sense, Lord Ieyasu. This kanaima is nearly fifty years old. Its vengeance is older – and the pup was a new were, maybe only in its teens.”

      “I know. But this is my ward.” And at those words, the ward beneath them glowed, as if proud of its ownership. “A ward that no one should know about except for us. A ward that has been repeatedly attacked and attacked and attacked until – ”

      Ieyasu was unable to finish his sentence. One moment, he felt Mitsunari’s hand on his shoulder. In the next, underground pipes burst out from below them, shielding them both from hot smoke and tar.

      Mitsunari grunted with effort, curled his fingers and then opened them, and the water turned sharp, piercing, and pushing back the kanaima, its spindly limbs flailing.

      Ieyasu was drenched to the bone, his teeth nearly chattering. He could hear Hideyoshi and Masamune close in on the kanaima, fierce magicians attacking and trying to pry open the defenses of an unrelenting spirit at its moment of vulnerability. Ieyasu needed to match them, needed to finish the ward quickly so he could at least be of some help.

      Ieyasu rekindled the sensations he had grasped earlier in his head. The everyday details of ordinary people walking to and from the grocery, the waiting and hunting for parking space, the rush of afternoon sales, credit card points, loyalty card points, vouchers, the smell of a typical Saturday afternoon when groceries were packed to the full and you could not even squeeze in to just get into the counter please just this one item ma’am, my daughter needs this she’s going to die please just let me in line I’m just buying one item one item ­why can’t you let me –

      Ieyasu breathed through the kanaima’s seen memories – forced to witness repeated acts of hurting and pain – held himself up above its sorrow, and let it go.

      That was why it was very important for the local magicians or sorcerers to do Warding. They who knew the ground and the air and the walks of life and who spoke to the soul of the city and to whom the city talked back. Not fresh immigrants, not a group of six wandering magicians and sorcerers with the crest of an ancient name branded on their backs.

      Then again, none of them were strangers to the city anymore.

      Perhaps that was why at the moment, the Ward somehow felt stronger. More sturdy, like a wall of doubly reinforced steel. Ieyasu was no longer just a commissioned sorcerer but a living, breathing, part-of-the-city-kind of folk now, and it gave his magic an extra kick.

      “Don’t worry about it.” Nobunaga had said. And Ieyasu hadn’t. And Ieyasu didn’t. And maybe Nobunaga had seen that this might happen; that they would stay this long were still here, it was easier to fix them.

      Perhaps this was a sign that Ieyasu should touch up on the rest of the wards. He should discuss it with Nobunaga soon.

      With a last swipe of his fingers, Ieyasu finished the last stroke, sealing the Ward into place, breathing and willing protective life into it, grasping the tiny threads of what made magic alive in a simple parking space for a local grocery and concentrating them into the defensive circle that now pulsed again with magic.

      The ward glowed with its fresh seals. Alive. Almost sizzling.Guarding the place anew. For a few seconds, Ieyasu regarded the glowing Ward with a sense of pride, tracing his bloody fingers around its edges, feeling the magic fuller and more vibrant now.

      At almost the same time, Masamune had thrown the blessed water into the kanaima’s vulnerable center, that hot pool of anger and hunger and frustration, and it sizzled on contact. The kanaima howled in pain, thrashing its many legs and arms in an attempt to inflict as much pain as it had just experienced.

      However, Ieyasu’s ward was in place and the kanaima could now only do very little. For every attempt the kanaima made to destroy, the Ward answered back with equal fervor, striking at the kanaima with particularly powerful bolts of lightning.

      Lightning?

      “Everyone out of the water!!” Ieyasu shouted at his friends.

      Thank the gods none of his friends were that stupid. Even before Ieyasu could finish what he was saying, Masamune nimbly leapt into the air, higher than what was humanly possible. Hideyoshi pointed his wand below him and he and Mitsunari were lifted up on dry land. And Ieyasu –

      Ieyasu was damn well near swimming, drenched from head to toe –

      Three things happened very quickly.

      First, the lightning, fat and angry and very difficult to follow, lashed out towards the kanaima in retaliation to it striking the ward. The kanaima wailed in screeching agony, a screaming tearing sound of metal against harder metal.

      Second, Ieyasu had closed his eyes and braced himself for the inevitable. What was another death for a timeshifter if it meant his friends and the city was safe? And vainly hoped that the ward was smart enough to bounce back from him unharmed. His ward. His sorcery. It was impossible (magic never really recognized masters) but men faced with death often thought impossible things.

      Third, something tall and dark had intervened, stepping into the circle of the ward harmlessly, and with a wave of an arm, deflected the lightning meant for Ieyasu, finding a way to turn his impossible thoughts possible.

      Ieyasu looked up, and gasped with relief.

      Nobunaga Oda stood in front of him, his black coat swirling around his feet in a way that no coat should ever move. Wisps of shadow and black smoke drifted around his ankles. He looked for all the world as if he had just came out for a stroll, a picture of casual perfection amidst the chaos around him.

      Nobunaga extended an arm to help Ieyasu up. Ieyasu accepted it without fuss and was lifted with what looked like barely any effort. Then, Nobunaga turned his attention back to the kanaima, adjusting his black gloves as he did.

      The kanaima had not yet lost its fight. It shrieked again, aiming for the two of them now. It struck out with all of its remaining limbs and Ieyasu would have braced himself, would have answered back with an attack of his own, except –

      Nobunaga was there. And his ward was restored. There was nothing for him to fear.

      Ieyasu’s ward glowed at the approach of danger, ready to protect. Nobunaga paid it no heed and instead began to walk towards the kanaima. His coat billowed wildly even if there was no wind, and shadows as dark as moonless and starless nights, darker than the kanaima itself, lashed out to deflect the spirit’s attacks.

      Where the kanaima’s limbs were heavy lumber, Nobunaga’s shadows were whips, extending nimbly and cracking like thunder. More and more shadowssnaked out from Nobunaga’s coat, more than the kanaima could counter, more thanthe kanaima could possibly even follow, more than it could possibly defenditself from. Its wail – then angry and frustrated – turned sorrowful, panickyand almost almost as if it was afraid.

Ieyasu gripped his wrist with his other hand.

      The kaniama was right to be afraid.

Nobunaga did not relent in his attack as he approached. His shadows struck the kanaima repeatedly, some pining it down, some seemingly tearing at it with a hundred unseen hands. Until it was reduced to lie spread-eagle on the concrete, until it had shrunk and shrunk down to only three feet tall and looked less and less like the destructive spirit it had been just moments earlier.

      It tried to crawl away wailing, but there was no escaping its inevitable end.

      Nobunaga stood over the kanaima. His shadows climbed into the air, twisted together to form a huge curved blade, and came down striking the kanaima straight in its abdomen, straight through its faintly glowing light, putting it out of its misery. There was a flash of bright light. Then silence.

      And just like that, the kanaima was gone. Lifetimes of pain, lifetimes of being an unwilling witness, reduced to nothing in a mere instant.

      And not for the first time tonight, Ieyasu felt a pang of something that hurt. He wished there was a better way for them to go, an easier way, a less painful way. But then, where would all that anger go? Where would all that pent-up frustration be channeled into if not in a final display of aimless destruction? A plea for a swift death.

      Ieyasu wanted to sit down, and think for a while.

      “Lord Ieyasu, you were amazing!” Mitsunari immediately exclaimed, turning back to look at him, beaming with a sense of wonder. “Your performance with wards is top-notch as usual.”

      “I was just doing what I normally do.” Came Ieyasu’s automatic response, deflecting Mitsunari’s wide-eyed praise. He felt nothing like amazing and Ieyasu was sure he among all of them was the one who least looked like amazing.

      “It appears I arrived just in the nick of time.” Nobunaga said. His shadows were gone, his black coat unmoving as all black coats should.

      “Yes you did, Lord Nobunaga.” Mitsunari turned his attention to the other man, and Ieyasu mentally thanked him.

      “Lord Nobunaga!” Hideyoshi approached them, all smiles despite being out of breathe, tucking his wand into his inner breast pocket. Masamune was close behind, sword hidden wherever it was that Masamune tucked his weapons.

      “We weren’t expecting for you to come.” Hideyoshi continued, almost vibrating with joy.

      “I was on my way home and thought something was not right.” Nobunaga said. “But it looked like you were handling it.”

      “Sure.” Ieyasu grumbled, running his hand through his matted hair. “And I am a perfect example of someone who was handling it, all right.”

      Hideyoshi and Masamune had only soot and a few scratches as proof they disabled a kanaima. Mitsunari looked pristine, his bag not even riddled with any dirt. And Nobunaga – well, he looked like he always did. It would be unfair to Ieyasu to compare himself to them.

      Nobunaga chuckled. “You do look a little worse for wear.”

      Ieyasu shrugged.

      Mitsunari’s smile had not dimmed. “I wish I had my camera.”

      Ieyasu shivered. “There’s nothing worth recording.”

       “Give yourself some credit.” Masamune slapped Ieyasu’s back and Ieyasu almost toppled back to the ground. “You did in a short time what other sorcerers or magicians do in an hours. Maybe even more.”

      “They just need more practice.” Ieyasu deflected again. “Besides, we all did our part.” Ieyasu gave Nobunaga a pointed look. “Some less than others.”

      At that Nobunaga chuckled again. Hideyoshi choked in disbelief.

      “Of course. The Duke Stag who Remembers, can do it all.” Nobunaga teased him.

      Ieyasu hoped the heat in his cheeks was fever and not him blushing at compliments; he never did like that nickname. Too many responsibilities. “Whatever. Look, it’s done.”

      And it was. The ward was slowly fading back into obscurity, sinking into the concrete. Ieyasu regarded it one final time before turning back to his friends.

      “I’m still confused though.” Masamune said. “Why did the spirit attack us?”

      All eyes went to Ieyasu and not for the first time tonight, he felt a little bit overwhelmed at the attention.

      Ieyasu would have adjusted his coat if it were not wet and sticking to his skin. “Kanaima’s are vengeful spirits, yes. They’re animated by something that caused their deaths – it fuels them to seek out and execute retaliation.”

      But those were basic stuff. Ieyasu dug further into his mind. His friends waited for him to carry on.

      “There was a footnote on the kanaima that I’ve read.” Ieyasu continued. “I think around the industrial revolution when the scientific approach to understanding spirits became more aggressive. Someone noticed that the kanaima’s weren’t just the angrier cousins of poltergeists – more like, as part of the consequence of a successful revenge, they don’t move on. They’re forced to see more and more acts of cruelty, pain; the consequences of their action. And they can do nothing to stop it. Again and again and again.”

      “How does the ward fit in?” Hideyoshi asked.

      “The kanaima must’ve thought the ward reacting to being erased against the Were was a trap. Or something similar.” Ieyasu shook his head. “I don’t think it has anything to do with the ward though. The kanaima simply reacted to the Were being hurt.”

      “And it thought we were the perpetrators?” Masamune asked.

      “I think so. I repaired the ward. The kanaima attacked as soon as I touched it.” Ieyasu turned to Nobunaga. “Which reminds me, we need to look at all the other wards, reinforce them. Someone or something was able to poke at this one.”

      And prevented me from sensing it. Ieyasu wanted to add but he did not want Hideyoshi to panic any more for tonight.

      “We’ll put that in the agenda.” Nobunaga looked thoughtful. “But for now, I think we all deserve some rest. It’s been a long night.”

      Ieyasu gave him a sidelong glance, wondered how much Nobunaga already knew.

      “Right.” Masamune clapped his hands twice. “Now we’ve saved the city again, yes. Congratulations! We have to celebrate!”

      “We still have to tidy up.” Hideyoshi reminded them.

      Masamune flinched. “Can the Kapitans do this – just this once? Like, can we please just go home right now?”

      Ieyasu surveyed the parking lot which looked nothing like how it did when they had first arrived. And someone had to do a lot of explaining with the wrecked cars. He could already imagine the paperwork.

      “Please take clean-up seriously.” Hideyoshi frowned at Masamune. “I’ll be heading over the nightwatch HQ and have someone look over the tapes. Then there’s a report we’ll need to make for the Liga. Ieyasu, I need your statements so –”

      Masamune made a face. “But we can literally do that in the morning –!”

      Ieyasu sighed as the two bickered about which task had to go to whom, when to do the appropriate task, and how Masamune did not again bring at least the basic condiments to work. Ieyasu looked at Nobunaga, who in turn was looking up at the night sky, somewhat pensive, as if he was trying to trace something above them.

      Ieyasu looked up as well, saw the stars as they usually were, and was just about to ask what Nobunaga had been looking at when he felt Masamune grab him by his neck, pulling him in for something resembling a hug.

      “No. And no. Both of you can do that in the morning. Like, after resting and waking up.” Masamune said. “Ieyasu here needs his beauty rest – ”

      At those words, Ieyasu felt ready to fight again. “What does that even mean –?”

      “It’s been a long night for all of us – especially Ieyasu.” Masamune mock-frowned at Hideyoshi. “And I call for a late night snack for all of his hard work at the restaurant tonight. And of course, Lord Nobunaga’s here!”

      Nobunaga was smiling. “I think I can use some late night snack.”

      “Lord Nobunaga!” Hideyoshi placed his hands over his face.

      Ieyasu rolled his eyes, tried to put as much as his heart to make it as believable as he could. “You want us to celebrate by making me work again?”

       Masamune gestured. “I mean, who else is gonna –”

      Mitsunarialmost raised his hand, “I would be very happy to – ”

      “No.” Ieyasu grabbed Mitsunari’s arm before Hideyoshi could, pulled it down. “Let’s not go there again.”

      Mitsunari angled his head. “But Lord Masamune can’t go into the kitchen and you’re tired Lord Ieyasu and we can’t have Lord Nobunaga cook so it’s only natural – ”

      “I’ll do it.” Hideyoshi and Ieyasu said at the same time.

      “We will order takeout.” Ieyasu hastily added. “You can just,” he struggled for the words, “rest.”

      Mitsunari looked surprised. “But I don’t feel particularly tired.”

      “That settles it then.” Masamune grinned from ear to ear, dragging Ieyasu and Mitsunari along. “We’re celebrating working hard and hard work!”

      “We have not yet decided on clean-up!”

      It had taken a call from Nobunaga for some other local agents of the nightwatch to help with the cleaning. Then after much debate, decided only by a flip of a coin, they stopped by a local burger joint for takeout, moved on to buy drinks (juice for Masamune), and walked back to their apartment which was three floors above their restaurant. They ate and drank for the city, for good health, for their successes, and for the gods to continue smiling kindly upon them all.

      By the time they finished, the sun had begun its climb from the Sierra Madre. Ieyasu wanted nothing more than to collapse in his bed and sleep the rest of the day away. The moment his head touched his pillow, he was gone and Ieyasu Tokugawa dreamed of teal colored wards and a woman running hard to catch up on him.

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Should Two Children Be Imprisoned For Plotting To Kill Their Classmates?

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Should Two Children Be Imprisoned For Plotting To Kill Their Classmates?

In Washington state, a 10- and 11-year-old were sentenced to years in a detention facility after being caught with weapons and claiming they were going to murder other kids at their school. Where is the line between a childish game and a real threat?

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Illustration by Adam Setala for BuzzFeed

Colville is in Stevens County, far eastern Washington state. A town of 4,600 people, it is a roughly 12-block center where a scattered rural population can come for necessities before returning to farms and homesteads. There is a hospital, a post office, a courthouse, and a border patrol station, as the town is only 50 miles south of Canada. The proximity to the border, and its relative isolation, mean that visitors without clear business are likely to be regarded with some skepticism. Checking into the Selkirk Motel, out-of-town guests are asked their age, town of origin, and purpose of visit with open suspicion, and have their ID checked multiple times. The local drug trade suggests that this is not so extreme a precaution. In residential areas of Colville, the houses are uniformly one level, prefabricated, often in pastel shades of green, blue, and yellow. It is not unusual to see a deer wandering through the streets.

In this far-flung, sparsely populated, wintry town, Fort Colville Elementary is a hub of activity and color. In the entrance hall are bulletin boards with headings such as “Spotlight on Character,” “Principal’s Award,” and “Be a Buddy, Not a Bully.” A poster with a rainbow of columns declares the “Six Pillars of Character” to be trustworthiness, respect, responsibility, fairness, caring, and citizenship. The library is decorated with children’s drawings of their favorite books — Holes and A Pizza the Size of the Sun. Giant versions of origami cranes hang from the library ceiling. At reception is a rack of winter clothes under the “Coats for Kids” program, secondhand donations for children from poorer families.

Downstairs, near the fifth-grade classrooms, is the office of the school counselor, Debbie Rogers, and a paraprofessional in charge of discipline, Richard Payette, whom the children call Mr. Richard. (Many students also know him from Sunday school.) The room doubles as an indoor games area for children who might prefer not to be out on the playground, with Lego, Jenga, and board games, or for when it’s too cold to play outside. Rogers describes her role as “one part social worker, one part mom, one part counselor, and one part discipline.”

Guns are a fact of life in Colville. They are used in hunting season for deer, elk, and bears, as well as for fending off coyotes or cougars and protecting livestock. Even more normal for a child than packing a gun is carrying a pocketknife. Rogers says it’s not uncommon for a knife to be brought to school accidentally; they’re often used for farm work. The parents are informed, the weapon confiscated, and one such incidence of forgetfulness is tolerated.

Around 7:30 a.m. on Feb. 7, 2013, Payette went as usual into the lunchroom to supervise, greeted by the din of children eating breakfast and filing in from school buses. A fourth-grader approached him and said a fifth-grade boy, David, had had a knife on the bus, which he’d brought into school.

Payette searched David, his sweatshirt and pants pockets, but found nothing. The boy protested innocence: “Knife? I don’t know anything about a knife. You’re talking about a butter knife?’”

He then led the boy to the hall and opened his backpack, again finding nothing. He went into the classroom, and asked his teacher, Mr. Jones, if he could look through the student’s desk. Mr. Jones replied that David hadn’t been in yet but a boy named Adam — both boys have been given pseudonyms here — had, and the two had been spending a lot of time together lately. Payette took Adam’s backpack off the hook and opened it. Inside he found a knife with a 3-inch blade, a .45-caliber semi-automatic handgun, and a magazine containing seven rounds. That day, David was 11 and three months; Adam was 10½.

The police and the boys’ legal guardians were called. Officer Scott Arms of the Colville Police Department interviewed both boys, each in separate rooms, Adam with his father, David with his grandfather. Arms first asked David if he understood why he’d come.

David nodded and replied, “Because I was planning to kill a girl in my class.” He explained that the girl had been picking on him and his friends. The plan was for Adam to be the “shooter” and for David to be the “knifer.” Adam answered similarly, saying the girl had been rude to him and his friends. The officer felt both boys seemed without remorse or emotion. He pressed Adam, making sure he understood the implications of this, and Adam said, “Yes, I just want her dead.” (The boys’ confessions to Scott Arms were later ruled inadmissible at trial, as Arms did not explain to the guardian of either boy that it was they, rather than Adam or David, who were responsible for waiving Miranda rights.)

Adam also spoke with Debbie Rogers about the plot, expanding on the planned scale of the violence. “No, you don’t understand, there’s more to this,” he said. “There’s other kids, we were going to hurt other kids.” He told her some names, and then picked out more from a class list, six in all. Adam’s revelation about the horrific scope of the plan might have been a child’s honesty, but it might also plausibly have been empty, if unsettling, bravado. David chattered freely about his plan, as well as the physical threat he posed, on the day of his arrest (he tapped on the glass of the in-school suspension room to motion a detective closer, before informing him, “I just want to let you know,” as he raised his fists, “that I’m in tae kwon do and can really use my hands, and when you take me out of school you better put the handcuffs behind my back”), yet, unlike Adam, he mentioned only one intended victim in all of his interviews.

The district sent out an auto-call to parents. Teachers’ phones began ringing, emails piling in, parents arriving, some furious, some just wanting to speak to their child before afternoon classes, others to check them out for the day or for good.

When David’s grandparents and guardians Tamera and Gary were called to the school, Tamera presumed David had been injured on the playground, or that his bus had been in an accident. The scene that greeted them when they saw David detained was stark. “There was no chair, no desk, nothing in there,” says Gary. “It was a just a white room, with plastic walls and a door with a window in it. He’s sitting in there all huddled up in the corner.”

Tamera did what she could for David as she waited for her grandson to be taken to processing. “He had said he was hungry,” she recalls, “so I asked them, ‘Can I have his backpack? He has some snack food in his backpack.’ They said, ‘Sure, we checked the backpack, there’s nothing in there.’ I got the food out, gave it to him, gave him the book to read, said, ‘Go ahead and eat your snack, let’s read a book.’” She took the backpack home with her. Adam and David were then driven to juvenile processing and would be charged the next day with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder.

A few days later, she remembered the backpack, and went to clean it out: “That’s when I found the notes,” she says.

“Dear David

I’ll show you the steps and I ma have changed plans. So Just Read my steps and tell if Im right or rong.

how I got this

Step 1 we ride the bus.

Step 2 stay in class until I say.

Step 3 during frist recess we go to the bathroom and get are masks on.

Step 4 we boit out side and run tord her nad you, me kill her and get are Freedom.

Step 5 we run up to the upper field and run tord my house.

Step 6 if the cops catch us put your hands up and get ready for pan.[pain]

Step 7 Be ready to go to Jail.

Plese write back

P.S. we shoud do it on tomaro.”

When children plan out a murder step by wicked step — when they bring a gun and a knife and an ammunition clip to school and speak openly and plainly about their intentions — their judgment, rather than being an academic, psychological question, must be decided absolutely in a courtroom. Knowing or unknowing, scheming or confused. How do their upbringings, however good or bad, exculpate or implicate them? The state has to determine beyond doubt a 10- or 11-year-old’s capacity to fully understand their actions; an infinitely complex problem becomes a yes or no question. When a guilty sentence is handed down, as it was for both defendants in the Colville case, it is unclear whether it serves to rehabilitate, or merely punish.

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Whether — and how — juveniles can be determined to be criminally responsible has a complicated history. One of the first modern lawyers to write about the legal status of children was the English politician and writer William Blackstone. In his Commentaries on the Laws of England, published in the 1760s, he argued that “the capacity of doing ill, or contracting guilt, is not so much measured by years and days, as by the strength of the delinquent’s understanding and judgment. For one lad of 11 years old may have as much cunning as another of 14; and in these cases our maxim is, that ‘malitia supplet aetatem’ [wickedness determines age].” Criminal court was the only suitable forum for such a child, even for a precocious 9-year-old, and penalties could be applied with the same readiness. Ten is still the age of criminal responsibility in England.

However, the United States’ first juvenile court, in Cook County, Ill., in 1899, was progressive and welfare-focused. The basis for the court was the doctrine of parens patriae, or parent of the country: Something had clearly gone amiss with the raising of a child if they were now on trial, and it was the duty of the court to remedy this with the attention and care of a benevolent guardian. In 1923, the Children’s Bureau published Juvenile Court Standards, expounding on these high-minded principles regarding the legal treatment of children. In each case there should be a “scientific understanding of each child,” that “treatment should be adapted to individual needs,” and “there should be a presumption in favor of keeping the child in his own home and his own community, except when adequate investigation shows this is not in the best interests of the child.” It was republished without alteration each year until 1954. By the 1930s, in most states, children could not be prosecuted in adult court until they turned 18, and in Arkansas, California, Colorado, Iowa, and Wyoming, it was 21. Parens patriae had triumphed.

In the 1980s, the national mood began to turn against treating all children as vulnerable, in response to a rapid increase in juvenile arrests and concerns over “superpredators” — hyper-violent children, beyond the reach of rehabilitation. In 1978, New York passed the Juvenile Offender Act, which allowed adolescents from 13 to be prosecuted for murder, and have the same sentence as an adult. The law is now similar for juvenile murder in Oklahoma, Illinois, and Georgia, with a lower limit of 10 in Kansas and Ohio. In the 1960s, the Supreme Court also made changes to ensure a more robust due process for juveniles, but this was still part of the shift toward making the juvenile system more like a criminal court. In nine states during the 1980s and 1990s (Arkansas, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, Iowa, Louisiana, Michigan, Missouri, and Rhode Island), legislatures gave juvenile courts a tougher mandate — to punish, to hold accountable, and at a younger age. Even when suspects are still tried as juveniles, the consensus became that it should be to mete out penalties that were proportional to suffering caused, rather than putting child development above all.

Under Washington law, children aged 8 to 12 are presumed to be incapable of committing a crime, and the burden is on the state to prove otherwise. Factors that must be considered in order to prove capacity include the nature of the crime, the child’s age and maturity, whether the child showed a desire for secrecy, whether the child admonished victims not to tell, and acknowledgment by the child that the behavior was wrong.

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Illustration by Adam Setala for BuzzFeed

The Chewelah Casino is a low, hangar-like building in the midst of farmland, decorated with a pattern of glowing suns, and one of the few meeting places off U.S. Route 395 between Colville and Spokane. David’s grandmother and guardian Tamera is intelligent and engaging, but her voice radiates stress.

Gary sits beside her, a solidly built man with a thick gray mustache. He occasionally interjects to back up a point in a gruff, kind voice, less voluble than Tamera but no less shaken by David’s situation. Tamera speaks of David as a boy who doesn’t lie, who had no violent tendencies. He was a dreamer who loved fantasy games and make-believe, who still left baby teeth out for a dollar from the tooth fairy, who pet shelter kittens, who carried moths outside.

Gary and Tamera wryly describe their family setup as The Brady Bunch (Gary adds, “We just didn’t get the housekeeper”). Each had brought three children from their first marriages when they married in 1990. They’d nearly been empty nesters when Tamera’s daughter, who had a shaky grip on sobriety and lived with a meth-smoking partner, had been unable to care for her son. After four months, Tamera claimed custody. Grandparents becoming guardians is not uncommon in Stevens County, as parents in the intervening generation are lost to drugs and attendant problems.

Tamera and Gary had a knack for changing diapers and mixing formula, and a cheerful competence with raising babies, but took a refresher course in parenting trends they might have missed. They and David learned baby sign language, so that he could signal his needs, curtailing tantrums as he became a toddler. A psychiatrist at the trial later spoke of Gary and Tamera as “sensitive and motivated” in their caring for David and how the mix of experience and time had uniquely prepared them for this “re-parenting.”

David started school at Loon Lake Elementary, then moved to Valley School after third grade, for its better academics, and finally moved to Fort Colville Elementary, as Tamera worked at the Colville courthouse. David’s family lived just a few blocks from Colville’s Main Street, on a road lined with cedars. American flags were dotted on front porches and a tire swing hung above the lawn opposite. David began to be bullied, or at least excluded, by other children for the first time at Valley, and Tamera got a call from a parent of a friend of David, who had told her “he was so unhappy, he wished he would die.”

Tamera links some of David’s difficulty with his peers to having been raised “around adults.” “Things that children do — push each other, call each other names — he found that very hurtful,” she says. But at Fort Colville Elementary, he seemed happier, inviting 10 classmates for his birthday party at a bowling alley only three months before Feb. 7.

Adam’s situation was different. His family lived out of town, on an isolated road called Old Dominion. He had been homeschooled from first to third grade, but then entered Colville under difficult circumstances. A grandfather who lived with the family had recently died from kidney failure, and his father was frantically busy caring for a wife with progressive dementia, working as a driller, and keeping track of eight children, of which Adam was the youngest.

All of Adam’s brothers were known to law enforcement. Adam idolized his eldest brother, Eric, who had recently been sentenced to 25 years in prison for the murder of a 63-year-old in a botched robbery attempt. The brother closest in age to Adam, Andrew, seemed to regard Adam particularly as something of an apprentice. He would drive Adam around town, teaching him to case houses, look for bicycles to steal, find out if the family owned a guard dog. Earlier that school year, items had begun to go missing from Adam’s classroom. Some were hardly noticed: a library book, a textbook, a composition notebook. Then came iPods, backpacks, a flute, and a $695 clarinet. Debbie Rogers had Adam in her office for bringing a pint bottle of rum, one-third full, to school around the same time. She pressed him on the stealing, and he admitted it, saying the items were hidden under his bed. Andrew was selling them for him on eBay and had told him to take the instruments back to school, because they were too valuable.

Debbie Rogers was extremely concerned by Adam’s desire to emulate his siblings’ path, even before Feb. 7. “Adam kept saying over and over, ‘How do I go to jail, how do I go to jail, what do I have to do to go to jail?’” On July 25, 2012, having turned 10 a few weeks earlier, Adam was found in the parking lot of the Colville Walmart, in the driver’s seat of his family’s pickup truck. He admitted he had taken the car without his parents’ knowledge.

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Illustration by Adam Setala for BuzzFeed

A week after the incident, a packed public forum was held in the Colville High School auditorium. The school board invited parents to share their reaction to the event, as well as suggest changes to school policy. Teachers stood on stage, fielding praise, blame, and general lingering anxiety. Several parents asked if teachers could carry concealed weapons into the classroom. The superintendent, Michael Cashion, replied that he would “entertain it as an option,” but also added that teachers might not be ready to undergo the training required to allow them to “level a weapon at a fifth-grader and shoot them.”

For weeks afterward, students were constantly coming to the counselor’s office, talking about the boys, or, more often, a memory it had prompted of violence at home. One third-grader at recess shortly afterward noticed a car parked near the playground with a few people sitting in it, and became terrified that they were waiting in the parking lot to kill him.

At a Feb. 27 school board meeting, Debbie Rogers, Richard Payette, and Justin Sanders, the fourth-grader who had told Richard Payette about David’s knife, were honored with a Colville School District Commendation Award. The gold-starred certificate praised his “acting quickly” and preventing “tragedy.” He was given a standing ovation and a golden apple.

“I was really proud of myself, and it was also kind of sad,” Justin commented in a bashful monotone as he was filmed by local news, rushing his words together as he repeated his story.

“The whole town is proud of this boy,” Principal Allen said. “Without his first step, we don’t know what would have been next.”

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Illustration by Adam Setala for BuzzFeed

After spending two months in detention in Martin Hall, a facility for juveniles awaiting court appearances 20 miles southwest of Spokane, the boys appeared in court for a capacity hearing. They wore beige prison jumpsuits with handcuffs, a chain around the waist, and leg irons, which jangled as they took their seats. Adam was much taller than David, and very heavy-set, with the frame of an adolescent, but far less confident in conversation than his friend. A mop of lank blond hair fell forward into his eyes. David was brown-haired, skinny, and long-limbed.

The state, led by prosecutors Lech Radzimski and Tim Rasmussen, laid out an aggressive case for the capacity of the two boys at the time of the conspiracy. Their contention was that the “taking of another human being’s life is intuitively wrong” and a boy “of any thinking age” knows its seriousness. (The incriminating statements the boys made to Officer Arms were allowed in at the capacity hearing, potential Miranda violation notwithstanding.) As for secrecy, a third student, Chase Lee (also a pseudonym), had been aware of the boys’ plan, and had been promised $80 not to tell anyone.

Both boys’ family histories and discipline records were pored over in the courthouse — they included missing homework, swearing at recess, lateness to class, pushing two girls into a snowbank, and an incident in October 2012 when Adam, David, and two other boys had put a jump rope round a girl’s waist and pulled her across the playground, “scaring her to the point of tears.”

The idea that David’s discipline records somehow related to her grandson’s ability to stand trial for a murder conspiracy incenses Tamera: “I mean, he had late homework in the fourth grade — most fourth-graders have late homework.”

Two experts who interviewed the boys also testified. Many anticipated their perspectives would exonerate them; this was not the case.

Psychologist Dr. Clark Ashworth stated that both boys were aware of what they had been planning to do, and what its implications were. Adam understood his actions were wrong, Ashworth said as an example, because of his acceptance of the possibility of jail time. He had said: “We’ll probably go to juvy like a year or two or something. I wouldn’t go for a death sentence because nobody got hurt.”

The boys also talked to Ashworth about a sexual component of the plan. He had asked about the seriousness of what landed his brother in prison and Adam responded that murder is “the baddest crime that I know of.” Adam then said that a worse crime would be to “kill a girl and then rape ‘em.” David confirmed this, and when asked to define rape, said, “It’s forced sex. It’s not about sex, it’s about strength … It’s illegal.”

Psychiatrist Dr. Alan Unis, with more qualifiers, broadly agreed with Ashworth’s opinions. He felt that Adam’s abilities, which were average at best, had been impeded by being educated in a home while his mother was neurologically deteriorating. Adam’s writing was particularly telling, he said: “One of the things that helps us think in a sophisticated way, analytically, critically, is when we write things down … This boy’s written language is appalling.”

Unis questioned Adam’s ability to comprehend his own plans or consider their consequences. Adam had also voiced the strongest expression of remorse to be heard from either boy to Unis, saying, “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about what I did, and I play it over and over in my head and I wish I could have the opportunity to tell those people how sorry I am.” Unis granted the possibility that Adam was “prompted” but averred, “It came out very, very spontaneously, and it sounded sincere to me.”

David was hyperactive and verbose in his interviews. He swore, spoke at a rapid clip. His opener to Ashworth was, “Well, I can kick back and laugh. What do you want me to talk about? If you need me to talk about the events that happened a few days ago, I’m all ears and mouth.” When asked if he had told his grandparents about the plan, David said he hadn’t, “‘cause they would tell me not to kill, but I don’t want to listen to all that student speech about killing is wrong, you’ll be arrested. I don’t give a crap.”

Ashworth said he seemed to be manic. When showed police photographs of the school and weapons, David expressed disappointment at there not being a photograph of the knife, as that had been his — blue-black with a spider design on the grip. When Ashworth asked David whether it was a good enough reason to kill the girl because she was annoying, he replied, “Well, the way the other boy and I see it, but you don’t, no.” He said the plan was “actually good to me, and bad, but mostly bad for the real world cause I had a feeling that I’d get arrested.”

Dr. Unis also spoke of David’s mania, saying, “He had a lot of the symptoms we see in kids with bipolar mania … an inappropriately bright, happy mood, incessant motor activity, expansiveness, grandiosity. And then the rapid speech, and of course the problems with sleep.” Unis underlined that one of the factors most in David’s favor was Gary and Tamera’s devotion, but added that in the four months before his grandparents took custody of David, there could have been circumstances beyond their control.

David’s mother is on a battery of prescribed psychiatric drugs, including Abilify, Lexapro, Trazodone, and oxycodone. Tamera recalls there were no such pharmaceutical safeguards in place when her daughter dropped David off with her in 2001: “She was untreated bipolar at the time. She just couldn’t handle raising a baby because babies, they cry and they make noise and they’re messy and they require you to give up sleep and they require you to — you know, at that point in her life, she could not. And she was in a bad relationship, there was some domestic violence. And she called me and said, ‘Can you come get him?’ She had some serious health issues going on. It was a lot of things with her all at once.”

David’s paternal grandmother, Meri, also submitted a letter to the court about her son, Gordon, David’s father, and his extensive mental health history. Gordon had been in and out of psychiatric facilities and threatened suicide even before adolescence; by 28 he was dead of what Dr. Unis euphemistically called “the consequences of untreated bipolar illness.” Unis stressed the increased likelihood of David having a bipolar disorder. He said one parent with the illness increased the chance of a diagnosis for the child tenfold, and two equaled “a grave risk.”

Judge Nielsen summed up the capacity hearing by stressing its uniqueness in Washington state law. Boys this young, with unbroken voices, a crime this serious, with a planning phase for weeks ahead of time, was horribly exceptional. But the evidence was weighted to suggest their understanding of the crime, and of the finality of death. There had been no intimation by either boy that there would have been a last-minute course reversal, and that, if Payette hadn’t found the knife and pistol, the plan would have gone ahead, clumsy, short-lived, but nonetheless lethal. Capacity had been found, and the boys were fit to stand trial.

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Adam’s case was settled in just over a week with a guilty plea — his lawyer, Helen Dee Hokom, did not visit Adam in detention prior to making this decision, did not attempt to raise a mental health defense or to suppress any evidence. The sentencing hearing came a month later.

Dr. Kevin Heid, a pediatric psychologist called by the defense, spoke out in favor of leniency. Adam was impressionable, damaged, and desperately sought out a sense of belonging, with a dearth of reliable adult figures in his life. Juvenile detention would introduce him to experienced criminals, antisocial personalities, and generally lost adolescents. “Adam did not have the cognitive ability to problem-solve his way out of the plan. That would be a concern, but that is different, I believe, than a morality issue, or an empathy issue, or an antisocial issue. It is a cognitive issue,” Heid testified. The reality was that the psychiatric hospital setting Heid wished for his patient was simply not a funded option within the Washington system. Treatment would have to be at a juvenile detention facility, not in a clinic or the community.

The prosecution invited Tracie Case, the mother of the intended victim mentioned in the note, to speak. Her husband stood behind her with an arm on her shoulder. She addressed herself to Adam, who was sitting a few feet away with his lawyer, handcuffed.

“She loves horses and the color pink,” Tracie said of her daughter, her hands clasped and her voice tremulous. She maintained steady eye contact with Adam. “She wants to get married and have kids of her own, and to be a famous pastry chef when she grows up. And if you two boys had had your way, she would have never grown up. She would never have had the chance to make her dreams come true.”

“You were willing to take that away from her, take her away from me,” she continued. “Life is all about choices. We make good or bad. There are consequences, and you have to pay those consequences.” She was nearly overwhelmed with tears by the time she folded her statement and stepped down.

The standard range for a conspiracy to murder charge for a juvenile is two years, but prosecutor Rasmussen was pushing for a sentence between five and six years, meaning until Adam is 16. His rationale was that by then there would be no question that Adam could be prosecuted for other crimes as an adult.

“Adam is dangerous because he doesn’t feel toward other people the way most boys do,” he argued. “There is something missing in him.” He spoke of the “evil” in Adam’s heart that day, and commented derisively on the parade of experts the court had seen: “All of these people concentrate on what Adam needs and what can be done for him to help him understand what he did was wrong. He already understands that it’s wrong to kill a person, he was just going to do it anyway.”

Finally it was Adam’s turn to speak for the first time. He was already crying as he stood: “Like my dad said, I’m sorry, and I’m also sorry because I know this is a bad thing that I’ve done,” he sobbed as his voice trailed off. “And, that this…is not a usual thing for a person my age to do…”

The judge, in a quieter voice, thanked Adam, saying he appreciated the difficulty of speaking up. In his sentencing, Nielsen acknowledged the many, many stressors on Adam’s life, and his extreme youth. But whatever the childish, nonsensical, unworkable aspects of the conspiracy, a substantial step had been taken toward the plan when Adam zipped his gun into his backpack, and hid David’s knife alongside. Nielsen issued a ruling of a minimum of 168 weeks, or three years, up to a maximum of 260 weeks, or five years, keeping Adam in detention potentially until the end of his junior year of high school.

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Tamera was determined to take David’s case to trial. In the meantime he was held at Martin Hall, where he was placed often in solitary confinement. After four isolated months, Tamera says, “he started showing psychoses, he started seeing things that weren’t there, he would hear voices.” On June 18 she decided to post his $100,000 bail — a figure she found outrageous. “We have an 11-year-old child who has no money, he has no car, he has no bicycle, he has a skateboard, that’s his only method of transportation other than me, and they won’t lower his bail.”

She homeschooled David as they awaited the trial. In September, she and Gary moved to Chewelah, midway between Colville and Spokane. The move was partly so the court might be more likely to allow David to go on trips outside the home.

Throughout our conversations, Tamera has remained tough, but her composure breaks as she talks about David’s bail conditions: “I had asked them if I could take him on. I said, if this is all the time I have with him now, for three or four years, I want to do some things with him. Take him fishing, go to Silverwood, which is an amusement park just over the border in Idaho, and they said no, that he was a flight risk.”

The trial might result in more unpleasant facts on the record but it would also mean a full hearing for David on a mental health and immaturity defense, without being lumped together with Adam. It meant another psychologist would have time to evaluate David, and Tamera bailing him could ensure his care, as well as show the court that David being out of custody for months at a time was no threat.

Both his grandparents and his lawyer wished to show that David was a sensitive boy given to daydreaming and alter egos, detached from reality, not to be held accountable for when games spun beyond his control. This tendency to imagine and invent was only compounded by the bipolar diagnosis that had emerged from his scattered energy, and rapid-fire responses, in the earlier psychiatric interviews.

“He’s not a normal 11-year-old boy,” Tamera says to me, carefully. “He doesn’t live in the real world, he has his own little world that he’s in, and he connects with our world but he’s not in it.”

The prosecution did, of course, present more damning testimony at the trial that October, like from Chase, the boy David and Adam had intended to bribe. Chase shuffled closer to the microphone than other witnesses, speaking softly. He proceeded to tell the court everyday details of fifth-grade friendship (“I never hanged out at their houses”), mixed in with unnerving detail of the plan all narrated in the same wrenchingly matter-of-fact, childish voice. For some weeks Chase had known of the boys’ plan to get revenge: “I’m pretty sure he mentioned handcuffs and raping … He just told me that he was going to use handcuffs the day before. He explained rape was getting somebody naked purposely.”

On the morning of Feb. 7, Chase came in from the bus with David and Adam, who passed a knife back and forth, which Adam then slipped into his sweatshirt pocket. Chase earnestly testified that as he walked to class with Adam and an ebullient David, he had apparently told David to “come clean and stop doing what he was going to be doing.” He claimed David shrugged him off, saying, “No, I want to go through with this.”

Melody Youker, a case manager at Martin Hall, also testified. She spoke with amused affection of David’s hyperactive persona, and said that when he first arrived, he “kind of bounced around, rattling on the doors. Seemed pretty upbeat.” She also revealed that, on the day he spoke to Martin Hall at his intake assessment, David had reeled off, unbidden, incriminating throwaway lines. He asserted that if he found out who “snitched” on him, he would kill them, and that he was having “a day,” because he was here and the girl was still alive. He also boasted that he had been “the brains of the operation.”

However, when cross-examined by Donald Richter, David’s attorney, Youker showed she could be an asset to the argument that David was a dreamer, in the grip of a manic episode, utterly incapable of distinguishing between fantasy and reality. She described David as having great difficulty focusing, and generally summed him up as an unusually hyperactive, intelligent bookworm. David also liked playing characters, in a way that most children his age had grown out of; particularly he wanted to play any character “with a sword.”

Youker testified that in May, David had told her he had a secret, and that if he told her, she couldn’t tell anybody: “And so he told me that when he goes to sleep at night, he leaves his body and goes into his wolf body. And he was concerned — he wanted help with this, because the wolf body was getting out of control. And he wanted to be able to control this wolf body.” As Melody explained this to the court, David began to drum his fingers on the desk, continuing throughout the rest of her questioning, and stared hard at the witness box. David had also told Youker that when he speaks to someone new, he sees words and numbers hovering around them, telling him what they’re about and how far he can trust them. Youker’s number was high, around 698.

Youker’s testimony also touched on how isolated David had to be kept in Martin Hall, due to his small stature, outsized estimation of his own strength, and how ill-disposed other inmates were to an upstart, precocious kid, lost in his own world.

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Jerrie Newport, a juvenile probation counselor for Stevens County, drew up a report that was intended as a balanced look at the perspectives of all adults in the case, and to guide the court in its sentencing. Newport revisited Unis and Ashworth, who reiterated David’s likely bipolar disorder, and the need for lifetime mental health treatment. The most damaging assessment of David in the report came, in fact, from Newport herself, perhaps all the more damning because it was a lay opinion, in persuasive prose, that amounted to a woman who had been thoroughly unsettled by a boy she regarded as dangerous.

Newport had been charged with seeing David once a week while he was on bail, accompanied by his grandmother. Most weeks were uneventful, but on Sept. 19, Newport noted an incident that unsettled listeners. Tamera spoke to Newport about plans they had when David got home, at which point David slammed his palm to his forehead and said loudly, “What the…!”

Tamera calmly asked David what he intended to do, and in a low, warning voice, David replied, “Going back to sleep.” He followed it with, “When I get home I am going to break something.” When Tamera asked what, he replied, “Something I can break. Like a box.” She offered that she had a box he could vent his frustration on if that’s what he wanted. With his head lowered, David looked up at Tamera through his eyebrows and said — in court, as Newport related the story, she adopted a flat, affectless, Village of the Damned tone — “Well, excuse me, but could I borrow a knife?”

Judge Nielsen stated that he accepted David’s bragging assertion at Martin Hall, of being “the brains.” That he was “a leader, charismatic.” He returned to the doctors’ suggestions, that detention, if coupled with treatment, would mean not only community safety and “possibly punishment,” but an improved prognosis, rehabilitation. He spoke warmly of David’s grandparents, singling out Tamera as a “thoughtful person, highly skilled,” but that he feared she could not always be there to curb David’s more worrying instincts. Though he admonished, “I don’t, in saying all this, mean that David is an evil person, I don’t believe that for a minute.” He understood David’s grandparents wanted to continue to raise him, “but I have to weigh things here as a judge in the middle of a community.” Nielsen finally handed down a sentence of three to six years, meaning David would also possibly be held until his junior year.

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In February 2014, though, Adam was re-sentenced. The court agreed with an appeal filed that his first lawyer had been incompetent, violating his due process rights, that Adam had not properly understood the consequences of his plea bargain, and that his capacity was far more in question than had been previously argued. The sentencing focused heavily on Adam’s exemplary behavior while at the detention center for convicted juveniles, Echo Glen, and brought out fully what had been expressed to me by everyone I interviewed: that Adam was a follower, that he would never have been inclined to violence on his own. His counselor testified that everyone at Echo Glen loved him there and recognized his smile. Debbie Rogers and Richard Payette spoke in Adam’s favor, as did Superintendent Michael Cashion, who said, “Colville schools are ready to serve Adam, whether it be tomorrow, or a year from now,” the “tomorrow” part of which somewhat surprised the courtroom. Adam’s sentence was altered from a maximum of 260 weeks to 129 weeks with 36 months mandatory probation, meaning he could be released by 2015.

It’s yet to be seen whether Colville, and the boys, will be best served by the earlier release of Adam, and the potential six-year detention of David. Adam appears to be thriving at Echo Glen. As he told the judge, he has moved on to the “seventh- and eighth-grade math books.” When he’s released, he will be returning to a house in which a brother who trained him in thieving still lives, and where for six years he was cared for and then homeschooled by a mentally declining mother. However, Adam’s father, who leaned over the bench at his latest sentencing to say, “It’s up to you now,” loves his son, and wants him home.

There is another unanswered question, which underlies the entire case against Adam. It was never clear why the Stevens County welfare and education system was satisfied keeping Adam off the books and being “taught” at home, why at a time crucial for his development he was out of public school for three years, left with an unwell parent. If an attitude of parens patriae had been adopted far earlier, Adam might have been saved three lost years before Fort Colville.

But is it best, then, for a boy like David, who, the court now seems certain, devised the plan, to spend time in a facility with other, older children with multiple offenses? Should he in fact be kept at home in Chewelah, with Tamera and Gary, who would adhere to suggested therapy, a behavioral or medical regime? But then there would be no proportionate punishment, no consequences. As prosecutor Rasmussen put it, “I don’t have much faith that he will be successfully treated … We will see him again when he gets out.”

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Echo Glen is a dot in the eastern Washington wilderness, the nearest landmark a body of water called Icy Creek. It is a one-hour walk to the nearest town, three hours to the highway. Tamera tells me David was supposed to be housed with smaller, younger inmates, but in fact only one dormitory matched this description, and Adam was there, so to keep the boys apart David had to bunk with offenders who were 15, 16, and 17, whom she describes as being “as large as full-grown men.” There had been violent fights in the dorm, though none yet that had targeted David. Tamera’s voice rises in exasperation: “I figure in this country if we’re going to start arresting 10- and 11-year-old babies then we either need to build separate facilities for them, to not put them in with the bigger kids, or we need to not arrest 10- and 11-year-old babies.”

A counseling program that had been promised began five months after David’s arrival, and would last only 10 weeks, due to lack of funding. Tamera and Gary see him every other weekend, for a total of four and a half hours. Recently a staff member, in response to David’s resolute attachment to his fantasy world of wolves, swords, and quests, and his perceived distance from the other inmates, had made the decision to take away his books, Legos, a 500-piece wolf puzzle, and a Star Wars poster. When Tamera asked whether this was a disciplinary move, she was told no, that David simply spent “too much time” in his imagined world, and that he “wouldn’t come out and play with the other boys” — no mention was made of the four- to six-year age gap between him and his roommates, or the willingness of other inmates to engage with David. Tamera says, shakily: “It’s really hard to know someone is mistreating your child, and you are completely powerless to do anything about it.”

While bailed out, Tamera tells me, David played with neighbors’ kids, saw his old baseball coach, and studied. Tamera also saw the whole case against her grandson, the beginning of criminal proceedings in the first place, as deeply flawed, mistaking a child’s hare-brained imaginings for a sinister plot.

“It’s not really a credible threat,” she says. She later adds, “You’ve got two boys going, ‘I’m the tough guy, I’m the boss.’ Of course, they’re 10 and 11 years old — they’re both going to say that. I don’t think either one of them felt they could back down, ‘cause they didn’t want to wuss out in front of the other. So nobody said, ‘This is dumb, we’re really not going to do this, we’re just pretending.’”

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