Chapter Four

The Training Files

Uploaded on 3/13/07

~One~

"Explain to me again why we're doing this," Boyd said, his voice and expression devoid of emotion. He stood near the wall by the door, watching the rookies charge at each other over their respective mats. The room was filled with echoes of grunts and impacts, and the ringing clash of metal for those advanced enough to be using weapons. The walls were filled with every weapon imaginable on mounts that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, while a rack in the back corner was haphazardly covered by discarded clothing and coats.

Lenny looked over, mildly annoyed. "Look, I already told you." He pointed to the room, "this is the fighting room. It's where people train. You need to train. So I brought you here." He gave Boyd a look that clearly said he thought he was stupid.

"I understand the mechanics of the space, as well as your intentions," Boyd answered in his soft, dead voice, honey brown eyes idly tracking a man as he was cut deeply by his partner's sword. Blood sprayed and his startled cry stopped his partner in his tracks. No one else paid any heed, but the man's partner flicked the blood from his blade and moved quickly over to place pressure on the wound until they presumably sought medical help.

"Then what's the problem?" Lenny demanded, ignoring the fights. He walked past Boyd to a wall of weapons, already looking it over for something appropriate to give him.

Boyd finally turned back to his 'tour guide,' expression not changing in the least as he saw Lenny idly study a set of knives with serrated, glinting edges. "Why am I training at all?" He asked the question as if he were wondering why clouds drift sedately through the sky, and not discussing intensive fighting lessons. "I was under the impression that it was the serial killer's job to fight."

"Right," Lenny said flatly, giving Boyd the same look from before, "and what if he was stuck with someone, or got injured? The fuck'd you do to finish the job? Gloom the target to death?" Boyd calmly watched as Lenny put the knives back on the wall in disgust then pulled out a scythe and hefted it in consideration. He looked over with a mean smirk. "Guess we could give you a cloak and let you walk around with this. Maybe some of 'em'd be on enough shit to think you really were Death and die of heart attacks."

He waved the scythe menacingly, but Boyd didn't even blink, turning to look at the rookies again. "If that is what you wish," he said unconcernedly.

Lenny scowled and shoved the scythe back on the wall. "You're one boring fuck, y'know that?"

"We are but the products of our environments," Boyd murmured, "and if mine is devoid of life, how am I expected to be anything but death?"

Lenny stared for one long second, wondering if the kid was serious. But his expression was still as dead as it had been since they had met weeks ago, and his body language remained as utterly relaxed. Even when someone screamed quite abruptly in the room, Boyd did not even flinch. He just turned his blank gaze in that direction and watched as the man was carted away.

Hell, the kid was fucked up. But Lenny figured that probably meant he'd get along well with that psychopathic monster they were letting loose. And if the kid was killed; hey, it's not like the world was missing out on much.

"I don't even wanna see you two interact," Lenny said suddenly, turning back to the wall.

"Someone killing and someone dead." Boyd twitched one shoulder in a shrug, a minute gesture but more life than he had shown in quite some time. "Appropriate, if nothing else."

Lenny rolled his eyes and took a step back from the wall to look around more. "So what're you best at? We'll have to try a lot of weapons to see what your style is, but do you think you're more of a blade kind of guy, or bludgeoning?"

Brown eyes looking the wall up and down, Boyd scrutinized the weapons available and very seriously considered his body type. He knew Lenny was asking the question more as a test than anything. The weapons master probably already knew what Boyd would end up with; he just wanted to see what he would say. He likely wanted to get an idea of how aware Boyd was of his own strengths and weaknesses.

But Boyd knew very well that he was a lightweight. He was terribly average, as well. Not really strong, not really fast, not really graceful and not really coordinated. But he knew that if he were to focus on anything, it would be momentum, balance, deception and speed.

After a moment, he asked softly, "Do you have any ninja wire?"

Lenny glanced over, a little startled, but after a moment of silence there was a slight smirk that pulled at the side of his lips. "'Course we do, idiot." A lighter emotion tinged his voice. Satisfaction? Amusement? Was he impressed? Boyd did not care to analyze the situation, and only tilted his head down in a fractional nod when Lenny said firmly, "You probably ain't gettin' any, but follow me."

---

The breath was nearly knocked out of him when he hit the ground, and for a moment Boyd was too dazed to do anything but lie there staring at the ceiling. Everyone else had long ago left, even Lenny despite the fact that he recently had been putting in extra hours. But the man who was assigned weeks ago as Boyd's teacher had stayed, so he had as well.

Part of it seemed to be that David Nakamura was simply obsessed with improvement, and would have remained in the training room all night on his own anyway. He was Japanese-American, and with a huge grin told Boyd the first day they met that his heritage had nothing to do with his skill at martial arts. He had been training for years, and was working on teaching the new recruits since Lenny did not work nearly as well with people as he did weapons.

At around 5'7", David was just a little shorter than Boyd, and his dark eyes and mop of black hair often seemed quite contrasted to his bright white grin. Once, he tried going into his history to Boyd, telling the story of how he met his wife and where his son was born, but Boyd looked at him so blankly that he just laughed and never bothered going into life stories again. He generally wore sweatpants and a tank top that showed the toned muscles he had acquired with years of work, and today was no exception. He liked to tease Boyd, because he was never seen without a long-sleeved shirt, and no matter how hot or soaked in sweat he became, he never once so much as rolled the sleeves up.

Keeping up with David's enthusiasm was not the only reason for staying. Boyd also had relatively little time to become a decent fighter, and he needed all the training he could get. Six months sounded like a long time, but it was nothing, really. He would just be getting a feel for fighting by the time he was set upon the world. Beyond that, the six months included all the other training he was scheduled for, including basic medic skills and general espionage maneuvers.

Not that it mattered, Boyd thought distantly to himself as David's cheerfully grinning face appeared in his vision. He was entirely expecting to be killed within the year once he left with Sin, whether he had training or not. He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he would be self-sufficient as an agent in so little time, no matter how many hours he spent training.

"Sorry 'bout that," David said easily as he pulled Boyd to his feet with an out-held hand. "Thought you'd block."

"I intended to," Boyd murmured softly as he wavered in place. He looked to the ground to get his bearings, watching his feet come fully into focus again.

"Tonfa giving you trouble?" David asked sympathetically as he stepped back a pace and fell into a fighting stance.

"Mm," Boyd agreed, glancing around for his weapons. Seeing them tossed to the side where they had fallen from his grip, he stepped over and achingly picked them up. His entire body hurt, and frankly he had never thought he would see so many bruises on his body at once. But he was improving at least, even though he had been practicing for just about three weeks. He was determined to be decent at this by the time he formally met Sin. If nothing else, he may need some defensive skills in case the man ever went berserk on him.

"I dunno," David was saying, doubtfully eyeing the tonfa that Boyd swiped from the floor. "Those don't have that great a range. How long you stuck with 'em?"

Boyd looked down at the weapons, considering them. They were basically a Japanese set of nightsticks; common police batons used to subdue the disorderly. Although they worked well for simple defense, and were quite effective when trying to beat a person when they were down, they were not made to stand against weapons like staves or swords.

However, the regiment Boyd was placed on dictated that he be given a range of weapons to use until he was decent with them. This way, regardless of where he was or what weapons were available to him, he would have at least a basic to intermediate understanding of it. Or so the theory went. Boyd did not particularly care, but he felt it made more sense if they gave him a primary weapon and style, with supplemental types only after he proved proficient with the first. As it was, it seemed he would be poorly equipped in any situation, and would have to rely on escape more than anything else.

On the other hand, Sin was supposed to be the actual killer. And any mastery of weapons Boyd needed was theoretically only to hold off enemies until he received back-up. Even if that did not become the case, it did not matter. He could not bring himself to care; his emotions had become vague and indistinct since his friend Lou's death, and he often had to concentrate to even know what he felt. Apathy made it incredibly easy not to worry about what Sin actually would do once they were out in the field.

"Until I am capable, I suppose."

David waited for Boyd to elaborate but nothing was forthcoming. He shrugged and hefted his rattan stick into a more comfortable position. The staff, about the length of his arm, did not look particularly intimidating, but with skill it was a lot for Boyd to defend against.

"Wasn't Lenny gonna teach you Eskrima too?" David asked curiously as he sized him up.

Boyd shifted, watching David alertly but otherwise seeming very bored with the entire situation. "He intended to, but he has been preoccupied."

"Well, you'll love it once you start. One thing about those Filipinos," David grinned as he danced back a step almost playfully, "they sure know their martial arts."

"I understand that it was taught to villagers en masse," Boyd murmured, suddenly moving forward and testing the offense of the weapon. The older man easily evaded, but Boyd was not discouraged. He was slowly coming to understand the range of the tonfa without having to watch its every move.

"Simple style for quickly teaching skill-less people some deadly shit, yeah." David grinned a bit wildly. "Weapons-based but just as effective empty-handed, and anything goes. Biting, scratching... Whatever it takes, that's what a guy does."

"Sounds like barroom brawling to me," Boyd said with a hint of contempt, but he was unable to embellish his thought when David abruptly jumped at him and swung the rattan stick heavily. Boyd fell back, an impressive dodge at such close quarters, but he tripped over the edge of the mat and stumbled to a halt. David slammed the rattan stick into him, and with a loud, pained groan, Boyd almost dropped his tonfa as he held one hand protectively against his side.

David only smirked and stepped back. "The whole concept of war's a bit like barroom brawling though, isn't it? Get the other guy before he gets you, and forget how undignified it all is in the end. Hit him with anything and anywhere; who cares as long as you're the one standing in the end?"

Boyd shook his head slightly to get the sweat out of his eyes, and to try to convince himself to move. He wanted to give up for the night, but he knew perfectly well that David had at least another forty minutes of training in mind, and Boyd refused to leave early. He had to get better. He had to be decent. He couldn't do that sitting around in his bunker, curled into a ball, shivering under thin blankets. The longer he trained here, the more time he had before he was lost to the sleepless, aching oblivion that his nights had become.

"That," Boyd said with less of a wheeze than he expected after the last hit, "is exactly why humans are disgusting."

David shrugged easily. "I'd say it's more that we're just who we are."

"No." Boyd shook his head this time to get the blond wisps out of his eyes that had fallen from his ponytail. "We are who we've made ourselves become. It was humanity's greed, ambition, and total disregard for empathy that brought us to this point." He paused, glancing briefly down at the tonfa resting in his hands.

David shifted on his feet to keep his energy going but he did not bother stopping Boyd; he just watched him. "Oh?"

Boyd did not look up from the weapon; he seemed pensive. "We cannot blame this dismal life on nature or the inevitable progression of destiny. We as a species have chosen this outcome, this era where the strong rape the weak, who then turn rabid and murder all the innocents around their oppressors as revenge. We have only ourselves as people, as humans, as supposedly the only 'logical' creatures on Earth to blame." Boyd narrowed his eyes slightly, a mild, unnamable emotion appearing in his expression even as his voice remained as toneless as ever. "'The irony of war is that it uses man's best to do man's worst,'" and the way he spoke conveyed it was a quote.

"I would argue that there is nothing 'reasonable' in war, but it would be futile. War and domination are as innate in humanity now as the sun rising through the sky is inevitable in nature. It has happened a myriad of times before. And it will happen just as many more in the future."

David raised an eyebrow, his eyes sharpening on Boyd's features. "Didn't know I'd wandered into the Lecture Hall," he said dryly, though he did not seem upset at the delay in their practice.

"It is not a lecture," Boyd answered as he rolled his neck and shook his arms a little to get the circulation moving. His side screamed at him at the movement, but he did his best to ignore it. "It is an observation of humanity, and an accurate one at that."

David grinned, and suddenly attacked. "If you insist."

Boyd hissed as his most recent wound was grazed by his tonfa in his attempt to dodge. "I do," he murmured, and it was the last thing he said until they stopped training two hours later. David was attacking sharply and quickly, barely giving Boyd time to recover before he had to dodge something new.

By the end, Boyd was exhausted, about to fall over, and in more pain than he had been in his life. As they gathered their weapons and placed them back on the wall, David clapped Boyd blithely on the shoulder. Boyd's knees buckled at the suddenness of the movement and he grit his teeth at the pain that erupted like fire on his upper torso.

David did not seem to notice as he enthused, "Great job!" and strode out the door. He was halfway down the hallway before his voice called back, "Oh, and don't get too used to this schedule! Next week you start medical training too!"

Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a steadying hand on the wall, Boyd waited in the silence until he was certain he could make it back to his room.

"Congratulated for improving combat skills, with the intention to become a murderer who aids a serial killer," he murmured wryly to himself, shaking his dangling side-bangs from his eyes and trailing a hand along the wall as he started walking. "I admit I never would have foreseen this."

He paused, closed his eyes and tried to let the pain and world pass him by, tried to regain that sense of grounding darkness he held protectively inside himself so he never had to bother with being hurt again.

"Then again," he whispered to himself as he turned down the next hallway, thinking of everything he had lost over time, "I have never been that strong with predictions."

~Two~

Boyd barely missed a fatal swipe from the sword, and it was only his quickening reflexes that saved him from impalement through the leg. As it was, the tip sliced cleanly into his thigh, making him pull back with a strangled grunt. He stumbled, finding it difficult to stand on the leg, distracted by the pain and the warm blood flowing over the hand he pressed desperately to the wound. He looked blearily over at David, who merely smiled and tilted his head to the side as if to say it was his own fault for being so slow.

Feeling a wave of dizziness and nausea overcome him, Boyd fought it off viciously when he saw David charge for another attack. He could not bring himself to pull his left hand from his thigh-he didn't want to lose too much blood--but his right arm was still free. Flipping the end of a nunchaku over his forearm, he slammed his arm up to block the swipe, then pulled back quickly and swung it around in his grip to hit David's blade on its side. The sudden movement jarred David's arms long enough for Boyd to dance in and attack with the nunchaku whipping toward him. But David was already recovering and the last attack had stretched Boyd's muscles painfully.

Jumping back, Boyd narrowly avoided another swipe, and was only able to stop the one aimed at his unprotected left side by a wild and ungraceful flail of his right nunchaku. His leg almost completely buckled under him, but he caught himself before he fell. Although he succeeded in forcing the blade away, it was mostly luck.

Boyd whipped the nunchaku to his right again, unable to keep from bruising his side as he caught it between ribs and arm. He was getting so much better, but half his mind was screaming about the blood he was losing and how much it hurt even to breathe, and he couldn't think on any level except reacting to attacks on his life.

Hair streaming into his face, Boyd panted heavily and watched David warily with eyes that even then held little emotion beside pain. David took a few steps back, stepped idly to the side and waved the sword in a lazy arc, then feinted forward a few times just to watch Boyd tense and wince due to his wound.

It only took this happening twice for Boyd to realize exactly what David was doing.

Playing with him.

David knew damn well that Boyd was about to fall over, stubborn need to continue or not. Boyd had only average stamina and his pain tolerance was a bit above average by now but still nothing all that spectacular. In all, he was acceptable as a fighter, a fast learner no doubt and quick to adapt, but he had no strength behind his strikes and as swift as he was to dodge, he was still ungainly at it. David could have killed or maimed him three times that night alone, though to be fair Boyd had successfully avoided two other situations that also could have proven fatal.

But fighting was fighting, and out on the field there would be no one to pull a sucker punch so blondie could live to see another day.

"Your technique is still terrible," David said idly as he circled Boyd. "And your stance needs a lot of work."

Boyd's breathing was audible and husky. He was fighting so hard to keep his eyes on David, but he found it difficult to track anything right then. Little black dots were floating at the edges of his vision, and it was all he could do to keep the pathetic-sounding whimpers inside. He made no move to acknowledge David's words, but he had no doubt the man knew he had heard. That was what this was for, after all. A test of his abilities after his first month.

He was not dead yet, but there was always tomorrow.

David suddenly shot forward, dropping to a crouch and with a swirling kick he knocked Boyd's knees out from under him. The motion was too fast for Boyd to even know what was happening before he slammed to his back on the ground, jarring his body so painfully that he cried out without realizing it. Everything was white for a moment, his mind incapable of interpreting the sensory overload, and when he was able to blink back to reality, he was surprised to find tears clouding his vision of the sword held inches above his eyes.

"I could have killed you right there," David murmured, smiling darkly down at Boyd who only stared back. There was a small amount of thrill David had felt at watching Boyd's features contort in pain, and even more at his startled scream. He looked like a fucking doll so much that any reaction was like winning a battle with the god of apathy.

Letting the dark smile become self-satisfied as well, David lowered the sword until the tip rested gently against Boyd's cheek. Boyd tilted his head away weakly, but the tip followed until he stopped. He just watched with wary brown eyes as David dragged the tip down toward his jaw line. "If I wanted, I could easily kill you right now, too." David's voice was even softer; he looked almost entranced with the power he held.

Boyd did not stop watching David's face, even when the disturbingly awed look stole over his features. When the tip of the sword dragged gently down the side of his neck and lingered near his collarbone, he finally decided to distract his fighting mentor. "I need the medic," he said simply, voice soft so as not to upset the sword more than he had to.

David watched the tip for a moment longer, then suddenly seemed to snap back to himself. Looking up at Boyd's muted eyes, he half-nodded and had the sword safely away and sheathed between one thundering heartbeat and the next.

"Fair enough," was all he said as he pivoted and strode back to the weapon wall to put away the sword. He did not bother to help Boyd up or show any sympathy. This was a crash course in fighting, not a place to be babied.

Besides, he highly doubted the psycho would give care about the kid, so why get him used to it when soon enough he'd have to drag himself everywhere alone anyway? It would be crueler to get him used to that when he would ultimately just die in the field when he expected help that he would not receive. David left the room without looking back.

It took a good seven tries before Boyd was able to roll himself over and stumble to something approximating a stand. He remained hunched over, his hands pressed protectively against his thigh, his fingers sticky and hot with blood. He could feel the blood soaking its way through all his clothing, making the fabric cling to him with a disgusting feel. He had to lean against the wall for support as he made his way down the relatively short trek to the medical office.

It felt like hell, though, with an eternity held between one step and the next.

People walked past casually as he stumbled along. It was not that they did not notice, but it was a common enough sight between the training room and medical entrance, so there was no need to pay it any heed. Even so, while Boyd watched the ground carefully to monitor his feet (he did not presently trust them to follow the muddled directions his mind was sending), he could not help listening to the not-so-quiet whispering of two men as he approached.

'Who the hell's that?'

'Blondie? Give ya one guess.'

'...Bulldog's kid?'

'Yep.'

'No shit. I heard he got called in for some intense training.'

'I heard he'll become an assassin.'

'Ha! That scrawny thing? Looks more like a hooker than a fighter.'

'Yeah but I heard he was called in to work with that crazy guy they got locked up on fourth.'

'Yeah? What kinda fucked up person'd actually agree to shit like that?'

'The kind raised by Bulldog Beaulieu, I bet.'

Soft laughter. 'No shit. If I had that bitch for a mom, I'd prob'ly try for indirect suicide too...'

A muffled chuckle. 'Same here. Get yourself before she sinks her teeth in you.'

'Heh, no wonder her kid's a fuckin' psycho. He prob'ly makes a good match for that freak.'

'Wanna take bets on who whacks who first?'

'No way, man. The kid'll do himself in before that crazy fuck even gets a chance.'

'Fuck, whatever. You still owe me a drink if one of 'em kills the other.'

'Deal. But only if I get to choose the place.'

Boyd shut his eyes, his expression perfectly blank as he finally turned down the last corridor. He felt the men staring at him as he passed, but he did not even acknowledge them and they trailed off into another topic after he went by. If Boyd felt anything at what he heard, it did not show in his voice or face as he entered the medical facilities and calmly informed the woman on duty of his injuries.

He let himself be led into a private room, the only expression he showed being pain from his wounds. The nurse tried to get him to change into a hospital gown but he refused to take off his shirt, even for her to examine him. Insisting that he had no wounds on his torso that needed attention, and that he would just walk out if she did not relent, she finally just let him have his way.

He spent the next few hours being prodded and stitched up by a doctor then lectured on the proper way to care for his treatments and ways to avoid further injuries. Boyd nodded and murmured affirmatives or denials in the appropriate places and left as soon as he could.

When he made it back to his room, he got in the most comfortable position he could manage and dry-swallowed some painkillers. When his eyes finally closed in exhaustion, the only thing he could think about was how he was supposed to look in on Sin the next day.

No formal meeting was set until closer to the completion of his training, but for some reason Lenny wanted Boyd to see the man before then. Sin would not know Boyd was there watching, which made it even worse in Boyd's opinion. The idea made him feel voyeuristic, but he had to go if he was ordered there.

Besides, he reasoned sleepily to himself as he tottered on the brink of dreaming, would it really be so bad to get an idea of what to expect when they finally met?

...Some part of him distantly wondered if Sin would like him as company, or if it would be awkward and uncomfortable.

He could not bring himself to care even if that ended up being the case.

With a pained sigh, Boyd finally fell into the deep darkness he dreamt of every night. It was better than the nightmares of laughter and teasing, though.

He would rather embrace all the barbed shadows of the world than remember what it was like to simply smile and laugh with someone he cared about, and mean it.

~Three ~

Boyd realized eventually that one reason he could not sleep was because the facility, in some cases, was completely overzealous. Case in point: he trained for hours only to return to a room set aside for him that was too cold for him to properly sleep. He spent the night shivering under a cover only to learn in the morning, when all things seemed clearer and he could understand machinery better, that the vents were completely open and the air-conditioner had be to sending a disproportionate amount to his room because everywhere else felt warmer.

As soon as he understood the problem, Boyd had closed all the vents he could reach in protest, with movements that were as calm and detached as ever despite his weariness. It was unclear if the room just happened to be set that way, or if someone entered it while he was not there and opened all the vents as a joke.

He was well aware that his presence in the facility was... controversial, to say the least. No one quite knew what to think of him, a fact that was reflected in the meager social interaction he had so far. He was the son of one of the highest authorities in the facility, and he was to be the partner of a rumored monster shackled on fourth. He had no experience related to being an agent, and he was entirely too deadpan for most people's tastes.

When he ate in the mess hall, it was not as though he was ostracized or sat alone in a corner dejectedly. Instead, he sat in the middle of a table of rowdy men, all stumbling over each other to get their own opinions and stories out. The women in the facility seemed to fall into two categories: those who sat apart in their own female-only corner and leaned across the table to fervently discuss whatever topic gave them such serious expressions, and those who pointedly sat in the midst of the chaos, belching and swearing as much as the rest, as masculine in her mannerisms as possible. Of course, there were all manner of people there. Quiet ones, serious ones, ones who looked likely to rip the intestines right out of the stomach of whatever fool interrupted their meal, and more.

Boyd was one of the quiet ones, who sat calmly at his place and reacted neither to the accidental jostling from those around him nor to the pointed looks sent his way. He gave absolutely no reaction to anything said, either, be it a snide comment regarding his mother, or a joke about his mildly feminine looks. He saw no reason to respond, truthfully.

In entire honesty, these men who spent their days running around mocking 'Bulldog Beaulieu' actually knew more about Vivienne than Boyd did himself. He had only seen his mother, actually seen her in front of him, maybe a few dozen times that he could recall in his entire life. As for speaking with her, the number fell even smaller. Even when home, she was somewhere else in her mind, and had very little time or patience to spend on a son so easily ignored. The few times they directly interacted were not particularly good memories, either.

Not that Boyd really cared. The concept he had read about, of a doting mother who watched her offspring like a hawk, sounded rather stifling. Why would he wish for a woman so overbearing that she ruled every aspect of his life? Boyd had never minded his family life until it had interfered with Lou, and even then it was more an inconvenience than anything.

As for his feminine looks, he knew very well that a person from afar could possibly mistake him for a girl. He did not particularly care to dwell on his androgyny either, as again it was simply something that existed. A fact of life. Not something to be worried over any more than it should be debated. Simple acceptance and accounting for it in the future was the only remedy he cared for.

Still, whether Boyd knew his mother or not, the men knew her very well. This seemed underscored every time they interacted with him. In some ways, it was quite awkward. They clearly did not know how to treat him; if they teased him, would it get back to his mother? Would the Bulldog tear into them next time they saw her?

She was, Boyd had learned since entering the agency, notorious for her detachment, her constant and cold ability to put her goals above all else, and her ruthless dedication to her job. She was not 'by the book;' she was the book. She would fire the neediest of people for something as minor as a misplaced stapler, and she would show no signs of remorse afterwards. As alienated as she made everyone, they also seemed to be in some sort of perverse awe of her. Her nickname grew from her relentless tendency to worry and gnaw everything to death, like a bulldog with a new bone that does not stop until even the last splinter is destroyed. This single-minded dedication was impressive, even if she was not loved for it.

In overhearing the stories, Boyd came to realize that he had a bit in common with the woman who gave birth to him. They were both detached, and both had it in them to be capable of great cruelty and coldness simply through their practicality and arguable lack of empathy.

The thought should have given him unease or comfort, or at least a sense of detached curiosity, but he felt nothing. He simply acknowledged the fact and moved on. Even so, he did not often ruminate on his own lack of emotion until something occurred that brought it to his attention.

Today, this revelation was due to his future partner in crime.

Three men and Boyd were required to watch examples of Sin's brutality and get an idea of how he interacted. This amounted mostly to short surveillance videos of when he got loose in the Agency. The worst was the one they just finished watching.

In the video, Sin was walking through the facilities silently, not looking intimidated despite the guards surrounding him as they headed toward his cell on fourth. The captain in charge of the operation, whose name was apparently Stevens, kept talking to Sin disparagingly, insulting and ridiculing him. They moved to put Sin in his cell, and Sin suddenly yanked the Captain in with him. There were terrified screams, and the Captain ordered the door be locked behind him so Sin could not escape. The guards did so and scattered in terror, but not before Sin could be seen ripping Captain Stevens' throat out with his bare hands.

Almost immediately after that, the screen flipped off and a light came on in a room they could see through a two-way mirror. Sin, who did not know he was being watched, was being interviewed by a psychiatrist, a man who seemed more interested in his own smooth questions than Sin's answers. Boyd was hardly listening to exactly what was said, but the others were still wide-eyed after the short videos and now turned those expressions to Sin in the room across from them.

"He's a sick fuck," one of the men whispered in horror for the fifth time in the last half hour.

Boyd had not acknowledged him the first time, and had no intentions to do so now. He sat calmly in his chair, leaning back in a languid, boneless position while he stared at the mirror.

A mug of coffee slowly lost steam near his lax fingers, but he did not reach for it. He awoke feeling more in the mood for tea that morning, but none was available. He was given coffee, as if it were a logical alternative. Boyd decided not to point out that coffee was to tea as motor oil was to gasoline. They were both liquid made for the same vehicle, but they were most certainly not interchangeable.

"You said that before he even said anything," one of the other men said with just a hint of irritation. Without even glancing over, Boyd knew he reined in his anger simply because he agreed. It was in the hush of his tone and the tension that could be felt from his pose.

"Yeah, well, it's true," the first man insisted, whose name Boyd vaguely placed as 'Jason.'

"They just call him 'Monster' up here I heard," Eddy said. Boyd remembered Eddy's name quite well as he often told pointless stories very loudly, and everyone around him yelled his name in exasperation to shut him up.

Jason shifted and the second man complained he couldn't see until Eddy hissed for 'Allen' to shut up already or the Monster would hear. Boyd did not bother looking away from mirror, his dark gaze studying the man who would be his partner. With Sin's black and red hair, his height, and his pale green eyes, he was a very distinct person. Combining that with his strength, cold-blooded ability to kill, and his off-putting sarcasm, he seemed as though he were making himself be a very difficult person to be around.

One of the men moved abruptly, distracting Boyd briefly from the interview. Initially, he was a bit bemused to find three other men in the viewing room when he had assumed he would be alone or with a supervisor when overseeing the therapy session and videos. As it turned out, Boyd was one of several candidates for the position, though he was currently the most likely choice. The other men were present as back-ups in case Boyd failed, and also so they could understand how Sin worked.

For instance, Jason was very adept at repairing and maintaining weapons, and he would be Boyd's tutor for the same topics. Eddy had initially trained as a field medic and was allowed in the background mostly due to his insistence and apparent morbid curiosity. Allen was a jack-of-all-trades, who also happened to have an affinity for technology. The three made a good combination of assorted skills, but Boyd had little to offer on his own other than his intellect, and unemotional analysis.

The session drew on, and after a few minutes it was as if Eddy could no longer handle staying quiet through what he was hearing. "So... What d'you think of him?" He looked around in forced nonchalance. No one answered at first and Eddy looked over at Boyd. "Boyd, man, you haven't said a word yet. You that freaked out by him?"

Lifting one shoulder in a languid shrug, he said nothing until it became apparent that Eddy would not stop staring at him unless he spoke. "His gaze was steady," he said emotionlessly.

Allen looked over abruptly, taken aback at the seeming non sequitur. "What?"

"His gaze was steady," Boyd repeated in his soft, dead voice. He glanced around the room a little distractedly.

Eddy looked back at Sin, then to the blank tv, then to Boyd, as if to remind himself that they had just seen something so horrific as the captain's death, and, yes, Boyd truly was that unconcerned. "The hell's that mean?" Eddy demanded after a moment.

"His gaze did not travel the room as most people unintentionally do when speaking," Boyd explained, sounding bored. He slowly tracked his gaze back to the three of them. "Neither did they alight with any emotion except intensity through the entire discussion. He had no nervous ticks or facial expressions, even when speaking of his parents. He did not even glance away when recalling his early childhood. He was obviously lying, and the manner in which he did it leads me to believe he was mocking the therapist by doing so. Furthermore, he showed no signs of remorse or disquiet when discussing the killings. He is quite adept at what he does, as well as being at peace with his lifestyle."

Eddy stared at him in disbelief, waiting for Boyd to show some sign of emotion or at least acknowledge how wrong Sin was. When Boyd only watched them blankly, Eddy looked to the others, who echoed the amazement.

"The man's a monster!" Eddy sputtered. "He'll kill anyone, and you're all calm and shit, calling him peaceful?"

Boyd looked back through the window at Sin. "He will not kill anyone," he said firmly.

Eddy's expression upgraded to outright incredulity. "He's killed five men alre-"

The slightest shake of his head, doing little more than shifting his hair around him, and Boyd continued in his neutral, dead tone. "You misunderstand. He will not kill just anyone. Clearly he is a killer, but there is a method. He has his reasons."

"Reasons?" Jason demanded, coming out of his shocked silence. "The guy's a psycho! He's got no reasons!"

"He has rules in his own mind regarding who does and does not deserve to die," Boyd calmly disagreed, thinking about the video he had just seen and how perfectly in control Sin looked. "While he may not appear to feel remorse at these murders that does not automatically make him an unreasonable person. In fact, I would say the opposite. The man sitting before you is frighteningly reasonable. He appears entirely rational to me, of peaceful and calm mind; a person who is in complete control when he commits the murders."

Allen shook his head once, a violent, angry motion. "Fuck his 'rules', man," he said in complete disgust, "this guy's already killed a lot of people, and tortured even more!"

Boyd made a soft sound of dissent. "I don't believe it is 'torture' so much as... playing, perhaps. Or indulging in idleness on his behalf. Perhaps he enjoys the act as much as the kill."

"What the fuck," Jason said, staring at Boyd as if he had not seen him before. "How can you act so calm about such an asshole? That fuck's insane! He's a menace to society!"

"I would not place him as a menace to society, though certainly he is a danger to anyone falling within the parameters of his rules. Furthermore," Boyd said neutrally, watching Sin, "in his present state, he is far safer and less disturbing than he could be."

He could feel the other three staring at him very intently but he did not return the favor immediately. Eddy murmured, "You're shittin' me," at the nearly same time that Allen said, "The hell are you saying?" Jason, apparently, was struck speechless.

Boyd looked over finally, and in his expression there was intense seriousness that they had not seen before. His voice was soft when he replied, little to no inflection, and certainly there was no emotion in his eyes regardless of what he said. Yet there was no doubt he truly believed every word he spoke. "You begrudge this man his identity as a human being, as a fellow example of your species, simply due to his lifestyle. You call him 'monster' and mark him in your mind as something subhuman, likely akin to some violent animal. But as disgusted as you may be by him, do not be fooled.

"He is as human as you or I. His rules are his own, perhaps subject to change over time or perhaps not, but they are undoubtedly clearer cut than the 'morals' that most people live by. A person with morals may decide one day that something is wrong--perhaps to steal money from their workplace--but the next, they may deem it acceptable due to extenuating circumstances. Their child is sick, their friend was just laid off, they really need medicine for their mother. Anything will do for a justification if they wish it to be.

"Just as much as they account for good in the world, morals also allow for raping and pillaging, bullying and destroying. Yet while the average man's capabilities may change day to day, Sin's will remain constant. He is forthright in his mannerisms, and his rules are the foundation of his lifestyle. I highly doubt he will deem a person suitable for his brand of murder one day, and the next, with nothing changing save the date on the calendar, suddenly someone he wishes to kill. A person like him lives a strict lifestyle, like a dietary regiment that cannot be properly understood by a person with subjective morals and emotions justifying their every action."

Silence greeted him, the three men staring with wide eyes and a complete, temporary inability to speak.

Boyd paused, his attention drifting back to Sin. "Is there no water fountain in this entire building?" he asked idly, the very slightest hint of exasperation in his tone. "If I cannot have tea, I would at least prefer something healthy to drink."

"I can't believe you exist," Jason said softly, to himself for all that it was spoken aloud.

"It is precisely that lack of imagination or acknowledgment of the breadth of humanity that holds you back," Boyd said, idle words for a limited mind.

Stunned silence filled the room again, three sets of eyes watching Boyd's every movement as he looked down at his cold coffee. He sighed softly. "I suppose I will have to find the water myself." He stood and walked out without bothering to look at the other three, his expression and intonation never once truly changing.

The room remained silent long after he left, while Jason, Allen and Eddy stared at each other without knowing what to say. As the moment stretched to awkward tension, Eddy let out a slow breath and shook his head to himself.

"Fuck," he said quietly, truly subdued for the first time since his initial reaction to Sin, "I'm glad that kid won't be my partner..."

"They're both monsters, aren't they?" Allen asked, almost to himself. "Monsters of inhumanity."

If the room was quiet that time, it was because they all agreed, and not because they were stunned by the cold cruelty of a quiet teenager with dead brown eyes.

Continue to Ch 5 ~ The Meeting