I CAN HEAR THE DEVIL CALL MY NAME , (tag: nell!)

This area of the town was hardly a good place for an old man to be hanging around, but there was something like determination in the colourless eyes of the senior as he cast a glare around the shady streets. "Somewhere around here..." His voice was weathered with age, but there was still some sort of sinister undercurrent that could send a shiver down the spine. His gaze locked on a certain alleyway just as he spotted someone slip into its shadows. There. That was where he needed to go. The hint of a smirk tugged at his lips as he slowly crossed the street and followed the man into the darkness. "You're looking for someone," he told the gathered men, none of whom seemed to be giving him the benefit of the doubt. Ah, well. They'd be grateful bastards when they had their catch and his damned grandson was no more than a stain on the family tree. "And I know where you can find him. His name's--"

"His name doesn't matter," one of the boys insisted, inhaling a long puff of cigarette smoke and slowly letting it out in a toxic cloud. Then he chuckled darkly. "At least... it's not going to once we're through with him. The police'll be lucky if they can identify the body." This seemed to satisfy the old man quite a bit, for the colourless optics glittered. "Good," he said. "What's in it for you, old man?" There were murmurs of agreement from the others--what did this old geezer stand to gain? "The boy is my grandson," he said, ignoring their genuine looks of surprise. "He's a shame to the family and I want him dead. That's what." The sneer deepened a little. "And of course, the payment we discussed..." This caused the unofficial spokesperson for the group to frown a little in displeasure. They didn't like to share their profits with anyone, really. But business was business. "Yeah, yeah. If your information checks out, old man, you'll get your cash and your grandson--if he really is your grandson--in a coffin to boot."

Patrick Dale smirked. "Perfect."

- - -

He always loathed leaving the building at night. Joshua was not afraid of the dark, but there was something about the inky blackness that the young man did not trust. The old saying, 'Whatever is there in the dark is the same in the light,' came to mind, but he knew it to be wrong. Murderers couldn't hide as easily in broad daylight. Gang members couldn't hide as easily. Come on, now, you're being ridiculous, he chided himself. He had left something in his car and needed to run down real quick and get it. There wasn't too much distance between the front doors of the building and where his spot was in the lot, so he was just being silly. He knew that, but he couldn't shake the feeling of unease. This place never made him feel comfortable. Hell, he didn't feel safe anywhere. The mansion had felt safe, but that was because it was a lavish and expensive home that they didn't know existed. They didn't know his identity--and thank the gods for that.

It was chilly outside thanks to the cold winter nights, but he pulled his warmth and heat around him to block out the cold. He could see his beige-coloured car in the parking space only a couple hundred feet away, and he started toward it with a little bit of a yawn. He wasn't too tired, but maybe he'd try to sleep after this. He'd studied for an hour already and he planned to put more time in tomorrow. For now he just needed to shut his brain down for a while. He missed his sister--seeing her again for such a brief period of time had actually made things worse, reminding him how much she relied on and adored him. She thought that it was his fault he was staying away.

Thoughts of Annabel distracted him just long enough for the older boy to creep up behind him, hefting the baseball bat in his hands. Josh turned a moment too late, gray eyes widening as he recognised the assailant. Oh god, he thought, his blood running cold. "Hello, 'kid'," the boy sneered, clearly still not having learned his name despite the fact that Josh was now nearly nineteen. "Been a while, hasn't it? Why don't you come with us? We have some catching up to do." Josh tried to back up, but he found that one of the guy's friends (a boy he didn't recognise, perhaps a new addition to the ranks) was blocking his path. "No need to be scared," the older male said sadistically. "You won't feel anything soon." He swung the bat hard, everything going black as it connected with his skull.

- - -

It was like a scene out of a classic psychological thriller. The warehouse was shabby and dimly lit by weak lighting around the room. There were boxes everywhere and spiderwebs lining the walls to suggest that it had been a long time since anyone had done some dusting. Graffiti--he easily recognised the insignia of the gang he had once belonged to--decorated the walls. He was tied to a chair, but unfortunately there weren't any nails within reach or convenient knives to slash the ropes and make his escape. No. There was only he and his enemies--they had caught up to him at last. Shit. Shit... This was not going to end well. The 'leader' of their little group was tossing the switchblade up and catching it in rhythmic movements. "I remember this," he reminisced cruelly. "We gave you it, didn't we, 'kid'?"

"I am not a kid," Joshua protested. It seemed weak considering they indefinitely planned to kill him--what did it matter how they addressed him before the murder? "But you're not going to tell me your name, are ya?" the boy sneered. Seeing as Josh said nothing--he only glowered--he smirked. "Didn't think so." He paced a little in front of Josh and then tossed the knife up again. "You have your dear old grandfather to thank," he told him with a sneer. "He really didn't seem to be fond of you. What did you do, kid, hide his false teeth?" The group of boys laughed at the joke, but Josh didn't find it funny at all. "No way," he said. "No member of my family would ever-"

"Oh yeah? His eyes are gray, you know. Like yours. His hair's going gray too, now. He's shorter than you. He's got a scar on his forehead. Sound like your dear old gramps?"

"No," Joshua replied, but it was a lie. They seemed to know that he was just in denial, for they certainly didn't press the issue for long. Instead, the boy in front of him was playing with the knife again. Joshua's switchblade, the knife he'd carried with him since was was only thirteen years of age. It had only been a while before he'd started the Academy that they'd given it to him. "Seems fitting we should use this blade to fuck him up a little, eh, guys?" This got general approval from his friends and made Josh feel sick to his stomach. "Is it sharp, kid?" Josh just glowered silently at him, so he shrugged. "Well I guess we'll just have to try it out, won't we?" Joshua tugged his arm violently against the restraints, surprised when they actually loosened. Out of pure impulse and fear, he made a grab for the knife. His fingers closed around the open blade and in the next moment agony exploded throughout his hand. With a yell of pain he released his grip just as one of the boys slammed his arm down against the chair and redid the binding, making sure it was tight this time around. Seething and shuddering with the agony, moisture collecting around his lids, Joshua had never known pain of this calibre before. Josh tried to curl his hand into a fist when the boy reached for it, but he simply bent his fingers back with a warning, "If you do that again, I'll break them all one by one, and you wouldn't like that, trust me." The pain was too much for him to even respond and he could see the blood coating his palm.

It would have been more sensible to squirm and scream and struggle, at least if you had been randomly kidnapped and didn't know your assailants. But Joshua knew that all of these things would have been useless. If these warehouses were the same ones that he remembered from youth, they were all the way out past the town. They were so unsightly, a stain on the landscape, that he didn't blame the cityfolk for building them so far out of range. And struggling would be a bit stupid. There were about six or seven of them, all armed. He could see guns in a few of their belts and one was still casually hefting the bat from earlier. So he just relaxed his hand and tried not to show any signs of fear despite the fact that his heart was hammering against the walls of his chest. They're going to kill me. The fact that he knew this did not come with any sort of inner peace. He didn't have any of that 'accepting death' bullshit. He didn't want to die. Agony exploded in his hand as the older male dug the blade deep into the open wound in his palm, making him tense up and hiss with pain. "Fuck!" he snarled, the hot blood coating his palm. It looked bad. It felt bad. He could see red and he couldn't seem to move his fingers. He felt sick.

"You don't have to do this," he insisted. He was scared now, truly. Were they going to draw this out really slow and then slash his throat? Would they make smaller incisions and just let him slowly bleed out with agony? "I didn't have a choice, the cops wouldn't let me go!" He knew this was pointless but he was trying it anyway. "I won't say anything. I'll tell them I cut my own hand, I swear. They won't find out." He was actually telling the truth, too. If they let him go he'd be too terrified to turn them in to the police. "If you get caught you'll all go to jail, but if you let me go--"

"Save it," the boy chuckled. "We're not going to get caught because we're not going to let you go. You live alone, kid. We watched you for a couple days. No one'll care when you go missing." It stung to think that way, that no one would give a damn if he just disappeared. But it's true, isn't it? Perhaps Annabel and Patricia, but who else? He didn't really have any close friends. He had people he spoke to and people he got along with, but his list of cell phone contacts was bare.

They took off his shirt to marvel the scars under his ribs and taunted him about that night when they'd tried to beat him to death the first time. "We fucked up there, leaving you to die," the frontman acknowledged with a shrug. "Who'dve guessed the kid was resilient? But we'll not make that same mistake." He first ran the blade lightly along the already formed scars, reopening them. Then he unexpectedly lashed out with the blade and caused a deep gash in Joshua's stomach. A yell of pain burst from his lips as he cringed forward slightly. "I'm sorry, did that hurt?" He didn't sound sorry at all, his voice almost giddy with sadistic delight. He put his hand under Joshua's chin and forced their eyes to meet. "I'll bet you're regretting everything you ever did to wrong us now, aren't you?" Joshua wanted to use his powers to save himself, but he knew that starting a fire would ultimately get him killed, as well. An element could certainly murder its master if you weren't careful. The smoke from the burning building would choke his lungs and asphyxiate him.

He gasped when pain suddenly lanced through his cheek, the knife slashing through his skin with ease and leaving a deep cut in it's wake. He could feel hot liquid start to slide down his face and saw it join the blood that was soaking his chest. His attackers only laughed as he clenched his jaw and screwed up his expression against the pain. Blood loss was beginning to make him feel more and more dizzy and sick by the minute. It was hard to keep his head held high and defiant when he barely had the energy to lift it. How much longer...? He didn't want to die, but as of right now unconsciousness would have been bliss. He hadn't yet gone into shock from the pain and this was more than a little worrying for he could feel the agony and it did not help his mental state of being. "Here," the leader said, tossing the switchblade to the younger boy that had stopped him from backing up in the parking lot. He looked young--maybe thirteen or fourteen. Not much older than Josh had been when he was with him. Poor, stupid kid... "Have a bit of fun with him, newbie."

The sound of a siren pierced the silence unexpectedly, and instantly the entire group tensed. "Shit!" the ringleader swore. "Cut his throat and run for it," he ordered of the kid, then bolted after the rest of the boys toward the exit. Joshua glowered at his soon-to-be-killer. He could see himself in the wide eyes full of fear, though they were blue rather than gray. He would do it, though. He'd do it because he wouldn't want the gang after him. There will so be hard feelings, he thought bitterly. Or not. There won't be any feelings soon... The boy hefted the switchblade. Josh closed his eyes, not wanting to see it coming. Maybe it would kill him quickly. Maybe he'd choke and drown on his own blood, instead. Oh dear god. Not a nice thought to be having.

Pain exploded across his collarbone, followed by the sound of the knife clattering against the stone floor of the warehouse and heavy footsteps pounding out of the place. Josh was almost hesitant to breath, but when he did, he was surprised to find that his airway was... clear. No blood, no slashed throat. He missed, the boy thought, incredulous. As of right now he didn't know whether this was good or bad. Now it was just going to take him even longer to die. Breathing heavily, he decided on a last ditch effort to do... something. Staring at the rope that bound his right wrist to the chair, he called forth the fire and watched as it burned through the restraint. Normally the drain would have been almost nothing, but he felt a wave of dizziness strike him. "Fuck..." In his pocket he was quite surprised to find a phone--his own, of course. His first instinct was to call his parents, but he realised with mild dread that he didn't have their number. He couldn't call the cops. He didn't trust them. Then who...?

He glanced down and saw the single number on his phone: Nell... great... He'd forgotten that they'd exchanged numbers for studying. He didn't know if he could trust her, but he didn't really have a choice. He weakly hit the 'talk' button and listened to it ring. He didn't even wait for a hello. "Nell... I need--I need your help. I think I'm going to die..." He sounded rather out of it--hell, he was out of it. He mumbled the rough location of where he was. "Don't... don't tell the cops... please... I just need... an ambulance... maybe..." He didn't even know if they could make it in time.

SOMEONE CALL THE AMBULANCE THERE'S GUNNA BE AN ACCIDENT