FicWad

FIVE

Two men were huddled round the table, nervously fidgeting, and the other anxiously pacing the small but homely kitchen. The two at the table glared obviously at the pacing man, smoking and murmuring to each other at the corner of their mouths. Gerard finally threw himself in the chair next to his brother, who immediately shut his mouth. Gerard's pale fingers twisted in his hair as he banged his elbows on the table childishly, the sounds emitting from his mouth much more mature, though.

"You've really done it this time, Way," Bob snapped, large hand slamming on the oak table.

"There's no way in hell I'm going back to jail when those twerps spill off to the police."

"We won't go to jail." Gerard's voice was muffled by his arms, but the message was clear. It contained useless insecurity and a false promise everyone knew Gerard could not possibly know or uphold. Their past was still fresh in their minds, as well as the short experience they'd had in a jail but three years ago.

Mikey's eyes narrowed as he thought of the ignorance in the prison, the inability to thrive. Being thin, he was immediately narrowed down and labeled as a bitch, but his muscles, though not visible, were quite powerful, and he soon earned a reputation, but that did not improve his stay in the least. He hated the routine, the impossibility of distributing pain without repercussion. His sick needs were never cared for and his love for pain was ignored in that cramped cell; his visitors only a third-rate lawyer, distributed to them by the state, and unhelpful when in trial. His mouth became a hard line reminiscing the guards, how he was in control of nothing, not even his own fate in those horrible months.

Bob cracked his knuckles menacingly, remembering how, even in his larger state, he was not the most muscular and did lose many fights with fellow inmates, whose passion was nothing but picking squabbles. It was captivity in it's harshest form: locked away in a small cell for most hours of the day, only allotted a certain amount of time in the courtyard; even then heavily guarded, though he could easily have snapped any of the dimwits who called themselves guards in half. He remembered though that it was where he'd met the brothers and they'd joined forces… A well-reputed team afterwards… Three men no one wanted to cross; even the toughest of them all. Bob's mouth twitched unpleasantly still, just recalling those harsh months.

"We're not going back," Gerard repeated, suddenly firm and serious, his rough edge back. "Those little bitches aren't going to get very far."

"How can you know, Master?" Bob seethed, sneering his friend's position with as much spite as he could. "You let them get away to begin with."

"I did," Gerard nodded, but he turned furiously to Bob, towering over the larger man. "But I fucking know how to get the shits back." Bob stood up, grabbing Gerard by the collar of his T-shirt and slamming him against the refrigerator.

"Do you? Or is this one of your stupid ideas that set us back ten paces?" Bob shouted. Mikey, angered by his brother, but more so by the physical rage Bob was exhibiting, stood up and pushed away the muscled man, standing barrier between his brother and friend.

"Hear him out," Mikey spat. "Your ideas are even worse. Who the fuck went along with it?" Bob fell silent, glaring at the brothers.

"Well, what's this fucking brilliant idea?" Bob snapped, glaring at Gerard who looked calmly back up. He seemed to have possessed his cool head and control, ideas blossoming in the short time of panic.

"We have outside contacts, boys," Gerard said, smirking as he lit a new cigarette, dangling it between pale pink lips as he fished around for a lighter. "Carter is still loyal to us… and Frank thinks to him." The lighters ignited, a small flame flickering, its orange hue radiating heat as Gerard placed it towards his cigarette and watched the paper and tobacco light up and slowly wither away, like the time they were wasting.

"Well?" Gerard asked impatiently, taking the first long drag.

"If it doesn't work, Way…" Bob said threateningly.

"What are you gonna do, Bryar?" Gerard pushed.

"I've got three murders under my belt already… Want to be the fourth?" Gerard fell silent, averting his eyes with quiet rebellion to the opposite wall. His eyes narrowed in remembrance of Bob's deathly past… and his own. Suddenly, simultaneously, the two men's eyes closed to the world and their minds zoomed into overdrive, recalling the fateful day in the crappy county jail.


"Back to your cell, bitch," Miller snickered, seizing the dark-haired man clad in the customary grey jumpsuit. He shoved the younger Gerard into the cell, banging his nightstick on the bars, laughing at the provoked convict. Gerard growled, vision red. One of those days, Miller would pay and Gerard would be there to collect the dues. Savagely, he cracked his knuckles, and grimaced. The shitty living conditions were getting to him, as was the mundane routine of things. What would it take for him to get out of this shit hole? Already, they'd separated him from his brother—a winning move in their favor, for, with them apart, they could not scheme, and two heads was always better than one. And, of course, he couldn't leave without Mikey, nor could Mikey escape without him. To leave one was to leave behind part of their soul.

"Who're you?" Gerard angrily turned on his heel, his rage built up to find someone would be packed in this rattrap with him. The piercing eyes of Bob Bryar gazed coldly up at him from the bottom bunk.

"You don't know?" Gerard said brashly, arms crossed as he glared cockily at the considerably larger form.

"Enlighten me, bitch boy."

"Gerard Way." He smirked as Bob sat up, eyes widening in recognition; not fearful, per say, just surprised that this pussy was the legend man of whom Bob had heard many things of in his two hours in this rat hole.

"As in Gerard and Mikey Way? The Brother's Keepers?" Bob said, surprised. The Brother's Keepers had made the papers too, even in the isolated nowhere towns he temporarily resided in, but had not given specific names. But here, he had learnt their names within minutes of entering the library. They were an infamous little family, committing robberies of family-owned business owners of long-time grudges and sometimes kidnapping and raping the daughters of the owners. Bob had shuddered when he read of these crimes; even his crimes didn't match up to theirs. Raping fifteen-year-old daughter's to wealthy businessmen and women, stealing the fortunes, and leaving daunting messages with the petrified girls to never cross The Brother's Keepers again… He'd read of how three of the traumatized victims had killed themselves, unable to deal with the memories and the pain, the shock that came with your virginity being forcefully taken by greedy hands. He'd laughed at that—women weren't supposed to feel… They were supposed to just be there—ready to be taken by the dominant male superiors. He'd grown up in a county like that, where the women knew their place and never forgot it, where they were traded like cattle from one man to the next. Most, no, nearly all were deflowered by age fourteen, when they became women and their true responsibilities began. They were tame, accepting their role in society as vehicles of pleasure and cleaning and raising children if a slip-up was made. And to meet the man to match the face was an honor in Bob's sick mind.

"Bob Bryar," he introduced, suddenly intrigued and well mannered. Gerard smirked in realization—he wasn't a man… he was a Legend.

"Like I don't know," Gerard said softly, knowingly. "I read about you. Just because I'm locked up… doesn't mean I'm locked away. Newspapers come in and I know all." He paused, and added in the blanks of Bob's weak introduction. "You murdered three women… politicians actually. You allowed your name to be published, which is mistake number one. You pleaded guilty, and admitted, to the press, that you killed them because they were 'too outspoken' and 'far too independent.' Your motivations were looked into and your homely little village was found." Gerard smirked, knowing he had impressed his guest, a hopeful asset in his recent scheming.

"Well informed," Bob muttered, secretly pleased to be so known.

"I know all, Bryar. Every crevice and every niche, every guard and cell mate, it's allll locked away in here," Gerard hissed, tapping his head lightly. Like a library's Dewey Decimal system, everything was stored in a logical order in his mind, and Bryar had earned himself a shelf solely dedicated to him just from the reports. Gerard whistled twice, a low, grating sound, unlike any whistle Bob had heard. A tap was heard on the wall.

"Call for Mikey?"

"Obviously, idiot. I don't care how, but get him in this cell in five minutes," Gerard said, rolling his eyes for Bob's benefit.


Bob and Gerard's eyes fluttered open. Gerard scowled, slouching to the phone and tapping a long string of numbers. Finally, he heard the desired rings in the background and the click of someone answering the phone.

"Carter," Gerard said, smiling darkly. "How are you, man?"

*

"What we've gotta do is get the hell away from here," Emma said. They were still standing on the middle of the train tracks, and her heart was pounding rather faster than usual. Her adrenaline rush hadn't yet passed and she was glad. She might still need it.

"Yeah… But where? Dammit, we have no where to go." His breath was coming in sharp rasps, his chest heaving as he struggled to satisfy his need for oxygen.

"These tracks have to go somewhere and on the way here from… that wretched place…" She paused and hissed slightly before regaining herself. "I saw farms, the railroads going through a few of them." Frank nodded, and felt his heart flutter like it never had before when she took his hand in hers. It wasn't any of the cupped crap they'd done while running, when he or she had fallen behind, but the fingers laced and the grip firm.

The march down those tracks was exhausting. The panels of smooth wood and sharp rocks never seemed to end; they were the only things in sight. But, nonetheless, they trudged on, feeling the edges of the rocks dig into the soles of their bare feet and feeling the smooth texture of the wood temporarily soothe the burn. To each of them, it was a death march, and both saw different things as the struggled to find an end to the long walk.

Emma was comforted by Frank's hand and felt a strong sense of accomplishment walking the torturous route. She ignored the jagged rocks beneath her feet and through her peripheral vision, she saw semi-translucent sights of every obstacle in her life as she painfully marched past them, head held high, hand proudly molded into Frank's. She could see her Father, glaring as he drank from a whiskey bottle, wiping his mouth and slopping the drink down his tux. Emma abandoned the pain of losing her virginity to a man who had no right to take it. She saw her mother, who did love her, but was too important in society to pay her any mind. Emma pushed away the hurt of never having a mother to care for her, to let her grow up slowly rather than immediately. She breezed through a dank alleyway; the savored scraps of food now dust under her heels. Proudly, she stormed away from the man who dragged her from one ring of Hell to another. She happily and vengefully abandoned her hatred of Ray at the door, spitting at his feet in her mind. And Emma flew above the three Masters, whose selfish hands grasped at the air, trying to grab her and lure her back to where she never belonged. Emma left her pain, sorrow, and hate on those tracks as she trundled on, the prospect of a bright future making every step lighter, until she no longer felt anything but joy swelling in her heart.

But on the other hand, Frank felt heartbreak and loss again. He could see his father's passing, his mother's downward spiral as she willingly took up a life of paid sex and drugs. He saw the pimps and the clients; sometimes the ones he was forced to serve. Frank could see his mother's suicide, the sight of her hanging in her bedroom, the pain of losing something who had once been there. He watched the last pimp dragging him from the house and shoving him to the warehouse only a few blocks from Emma's. He painfully stole through the days of his first Master, the very last night when he'd smashed the beer bottle over his head and, finally, the warehouse owner had taken Frank back, only to immediately resell him to the Way brothers. But, when Frank consciously remembered Emma's hand in his, he seemed to regain strength and he raced past the days of whips and other painful sexual tortures. He too flew above the masters, suddenly content in the world, but even more so when his gaze landed upon the pasture, a faint green line on the horizon.

Emma saw it at the same time as Frank, and the two shared one excited look before breaking into a sprint, the anticipation pumping through their veins and driving them faster as they pursued the green line that represented, to them, hope. They could not run fast enough, and it seemed like hours, though it was only mere minutes, until their feet touched damp grass.

Without any hesitation, Frank and Emma impulsively rushed through the pasture, slipping on the dewy ground and savoring the cool wind caressing their faces as the fled. A red barn lay within sight, but further along was a whitewashed house, with a hospitable air. Emma slowed down, gripping Frank's arm.

"Should we risk it? We aren't too far from Bob's… they could still find us," she said nervously, emerald eyes suddenly darting around in her anxiety. It seemed as though the exhilaration of stumbling upon the farm had worn off, and dark reality had set it.

"We aren't too far, but for now it's enough. They expect me to call Carter, but I'm not going to give them that saving grace," Frank said.

"Who's Carter?" Emma's curiosity momentarily sparked, and she awaited the answer. But no words passed Frank's lips. The only hint was a scowl that overtook his usually frightened or, as of the past few hours, happy expression.

"It's a long story," he said finally, the venom in his voice apparent. "I'll have to tell you, but now's not quite the time for it. We have more… pressing matters than Carter." Emma simply nodded, understanding the difficulty to speak of certain things; though she comprehended not the situation he was referring. Both delved into a moment's silence, and Emma broke it, for, once again, their predicament set in and she began to feel uneasy.

"Are we really going to follow through on this?" she asked, taking a step back, as though the porch was an intimidating beast, ready to snatch her and deliver her back to her former Master.

"We have no choice," Frank said gravely, taking the lead and understanding he had to put on a brave face for her sake. "It's this or we get caught… quicker." He added that last part under his breath, but Emma still heard and her hand shook in his. Frank raised a tattooed arm, and let it hover above the door. He contemplated his options, and, though he didn't want to, he looked at the situation from an outsider's point of view.

They were a little bloody and beaten, out of breath and holding hands. They were barefoot with the appearance of tragedy. Dirty, obviously, their clothes torn from the scaling of the tree and the running through the brambles. Would he open the door to two ragamuffins? He sighed, knowing the horrible answer, but brought his fist down on the door anyway, deciding it was best to see what would happen. And if they weren't offered any hospitality, they could keep going. The farther, the better, he thought glumly. But could he take any more running or walking? He was hungry, thirsty, and mentally and physically exhausted. They needed this house to take them in for the time being.

And, as heavy footsteps were heard, both held their breath, feeling anticipation clawing to the surface as the heavy wooden door slowly creaked open…





Who's going to answer the door? And who's this man, Carter? Well, I hope your intrigued and I hope this makes up for my long absence, but I've been so busy! I really am sorry, guys! Anyway, that's only a PART of the Master's past. Care to know more? I hope so, because there are going to be a lot of flashbacks, and a lot more writing now that my inspiration is back. But, I'm cutting this short because it's nearly eleven and I'm dead tired, Happy Thanksgiving, guys! I'll post as soon as I can... so stay tuned... xoxo Violet

ps. Don't forget to R&R!! I really appreciate them and the feedback's wonderful! Oh yes, there may be another story up soon. I'm still picking away at that idea, but that's in the future... Again, R&R! :P
P.S. If you click the title, notice how the chapter ratings are 5, 3, 5, 3, 5... Don't rate chapters 2 and 4. The pattern amuses me very much... :)