FicWad

-I-I-I-

He frightened the nurses.

None of them ever spoke to the man; he never threatened them, never did anything but walk silently through the hospital corridors until he reached his destination. But nevertheless, his flesh-and-steel presence left them trembling with relief once he'd passed them by.

He knew this, but found no reason to alter the situation. The nurses and how they felt about him mattered nothing to him, so long as they did their jobs and left him alone.

Only one thing in the entire building held any importance for him, and even that had lost what value it had ever held.

He came at last to his destination, turning into the room without even any curious glances turned in his direction. This was his fifth visit in the past two weeks, and the personnel assigned to that floor had grown used to him.

Though admittedly, they would have paid him much more attention had they known he hadn't entered the building through any legal means.

But the bustling world of doctors and nurses outside had already passed from his mind. Instead, the man's attention was held completely by the contents of the room. Four limping steps took him to the end of the bed, his prosthetic leg clunking with each step. He picked up the chart that hung there, flipping easily through it, reading the results with a practiced eye. MRIs, EEGs... Nothing that gave him any new information, or changed what he already knew.

Finally satisfied there was no hope, he replaced the chart and turned to leave. A pity, really- the boy had shown such promise. And now he would have to go through all the trouble of finding another disciple to shape into his vision. Though at least this time he knew not to impose quite as hardcore a training regimen on the next candidate as he had on the last.

And with that, he left the room for the last time. Behind him, the abandoned, ten-year-old Odin Lowe, Jr., lay deep in the coma his doctors said he would most likely never awake from again.

-I-I-I-

a few days later

-I-I-I-

Ryan huddled in the back of his closet, his arms around his bent legs and his face buried in his knees. He wanted to cover his ears, to block out the shouting that penetrated easily through the apartment's thin walls, but he couldn't get his hands to unlock from his ankles.

He didn't know what had set them off this time, but it didn't really matter. It was always the same. Papa would come home drunk and, sometime in the course of the evening would begin to slap his mother around. Mama would send him to his room, then; Mama always did her best to protect him, even when Papa hurt her for it.

Ryan could feel the sting of his salty tears in the cut that was the result of one of the times Mama couldn't protect him.

After he was safe in his room was when the shouting would begin. It would get louder and louder; sometimes he hummed to himself to try and drown it out. Then he'd hear that horrible other sound, the one that left big black bruises on Mama for days afterwards.

His parents were still shouting, but the beating hadn't started yet. Ryan was glad- sometimes, if the shouting went on long enough, it wouldn't happen at all, and Mama wouldn't get hurt. At least, not until the next time Papa hit the bars after work.

The young boy's head came up in the darkness, his ebony eyes wide, as to his far too experienced ears the timbre of the shouts changed. They'd only been mad before- buzzing and strident, like angry bees. Now... now they were /ugly/, the way that dog last year had been ugly, the one that had foamed at the mouth.

Silently, he began to shake, and as the shouts escalated, Ryan at last succeeded in freeing his hands so he could press them against his ears. Terror was an icy chill that clenched his guts painfully, and he chewed his lips bloody as he heard furniture crash and his mother shriek in rage. It had never been so bad before...

Finally, the child resorted to his last defense. As furniture crashed again out in the living room, Ryan began to first hum, and then sing, the song Mama sang to him whenever he had a nightmare; her dark Asian eyes, his eyes, solemn and kind, while Papa lay unconscious in a drunken stupor. "'Tis a gift to be simple/," he sang in a voice that shook just as much as he did. "'Tis a gift to be free, 'tis a gift to come 'round where we ought to be.../"

The walls between them, the hands over his ears, and the song were almost enough to drown out the first shots. Almost enough that he didn't hear Papa's bellow of pain and shock, almost enough that he didn't hear Mama's sobs. It was almost enough that young Ryan Owens didn't hear the last, lone gunshot, as his mama turned the gun on herself.

Almost.

"...-and when we find ourselves in the place just right, 'twill be in the valley of love and delight..."

-I-I-I-

Ethan McCullough wasn't a brave man, despite his Irish blood, but he wasn't a particularly greedy man either. When the cyborg approached him and told him he would pay if the caretaker arranged for every new child that came to him to take a series of tests, it was more the menacing gleam of light off that hideous metal than the offer of money that convinced him to take the deal.

Though admittedly, the money didn't hurt.

It wasn't long after the stranger approached him that the tests brought results. True to their agreement, McCullough called a special number, and told the gender-unspecific person on the other end of the line his name.

The man came back the very next day. McCullough met him at the front gate of the orphanage, a nervous smile fixed on his face. "Hello again, sir! How very, ah, nice to see you again..."

"Where is the boy?" The man's voice as he tersely interrupted sounded like nothing more than a bucket of rusty bolts.

The caretaker twitched. "I... of course." He waved his hands, beckoning the stranger forward into the compound. "Right this way, Mister, ah..."

"Doctor." The terse reply gave away no more information than that, and for a brief moment McCullough hesitated, torn between self-preservation and the sudden conviction that he was doing the Wrong Thing.

But then the doctor looked at him with that cybernetic eye, and he knew with a sinking feeling that he no longer had a choice in the matter. If he'd ever had one.

"What is the subject's name?" the doctor asked, and Ethan held in a shiver of disgust. Damn it, the ''subject" was a nine-year-old boy! Didn't that mean anything?

No. Not to this man. "Ryan Owens," he replied against his better judgement. God, what had he gotten this child into?

"Age?"

"Nine." The caretaker restricted himself to as few words as possible, afraid of what he might say if he let his mouth run loose.

"And his situation?"

"Not good." McCullough shuddered at the look he was given. There was nothing overtly threatening in that gaze; it was merely mildly annoyed, but nevertheless it sent chills down his spine. "His father abused both him and his mother. The mom finally got tired of it and capped him before shooting herself. The kid was hiding in his room, heard everything."

"I see." The cyborg's voice was unaffected, but for perhaps a certain thoughtfulness. "Show him to me."

Ethan McCullough nodded unhappily. "This way."

-I-I-I-

No one would have been able to see it on his face, but Dr. J was pleased. Very pleased, in fact.

The boy was perfect.

Owens stood before him, chin up and eyes down. He was small for his age group, but the kind of small that brought the word "wiry" to his mind, rather than "delicate". Though, many would still look at him and see only that sweet innocent face, which would be to his benefit. The boy was attractive, almost pretty, with those Asian eyes and honey-toned hair; that would make certain things easier for him. But he wasn't eye-catching; just the balance needed for an agent. And his abusive father had already begun his training, in a way.

The boy was already used to obeying those who hurt him.

"Did he bring anything with him?" the doctor asked the man next to him, hiding the contempt he felt for anyone so weak.

McCullough nodded, a nervous twitch beginning in one eye. "A bag of clothes."

"Go get it." J turned back to Owens, obviously already having dismissed the caretaker as unimportant. "Boy!" he barked harshly, bringing the child's frightened eyes up to his own. "You will be coming with me. Is that clear?"

Owens didn't answer, his eyes practically petrified even if his face was blank. The doctor's non-metallic hand flashed out, crashing against the boy's cheekbone and sending him to the floor. He made no sound, which almost made J smile. "When I ask you a question, you will answer 'yes sir' or 'no sir'. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Owens answered quietly, trembling a little even as he tried to stay absolutely still so as not to trigger any more anger.

J nodded, satisfied. "Get up." The boy quickly obeyed, scrambling to his feet.

There was a noise behind them, and they turned to see McCullough standing in the doorway. "I, uh, I have his things..." He held out a small bag of belongings, staring wide-eyed and astonished at the slowly reddening mark on the child's face.

J sighed internally, realizing the man had felt a sudden burst of altruism and was planning on calling the police once they'd left. He grabbed the bag from the caretaker, tossing it at the boy, who caught it with a display of reflexes that again nearly caused a smile to spasm across the doctor's face. "Mr. McCullough, your efforts on the behalf of myself and my associates are much appreciated," he said formally, mockingly, as he reached into a pocket.

Afterwards, Owens stared, shell-shocked, as J unemotionally wiped the blood off of his face and returned his gun to his pocket. "Come," the doctor commanded, stepping over the blood-soaked body. "Don't dawdle."

He turned to look at the terrified boy over his shoulder, fixing him with that horrible, fanatical stare. "I have much to teach you."