"What good was past life if nothing was wrought? Grand lessons in past should I have been taught. The future what boots it, living e'er on, If past hath not helped me, battles been won." - Ardelia Cotton Barton

1989

The sirens continued to get louder, snapping Elijah out of his head and back into the scene before him. Accidents like these always made him think of that day. About how his life had continued as if nothing had happened. Of how the park never quite looked the same. Or how the angle of his neck had been -

Stop. Stop thinking about it. Time spent on it now, wouldn't change anything. Better to just forget. Easier to just forget.

Funny, wasn't that just the family motto? When something hurts too much, or when something didn't fit into their "perfect" life, then they just forgot it. It's what he'd always been taught. The one lesson his father had ever bothered to impart on him, besides how to take a punch, of course. No wonder forgetting was so easy for Elijah. It's all he'd ever done.

Blinking out at the mess of cars on the street in front of him, Elijah noticed the buckled Oldsmobile turned in the middle with smoke coming from the hood. He hoped the ambulance was able to fight through the traffic soon, with the mechanical levers to pry the doors off; otherwise, there was no way the people inside were getting out in time for medical attention.

Elijah didn't have much time left to get to work, but he couldn't just walk by without checking everything out. Car accidents were his one weak spot. The one thing he couldn't ignore and pretend he didn't care about. It's what made him so suited for New York City. One of many reason why he had moved across the country all those years ago. No one gave a shit here. And that worked for him.

But things like this...maybe it was the stupid, innocent, little boy in him still, but he couldn't just walk by it. Looking around, Elijah saw a blue Buick near his side of the street up ahead with an older man trying to unbuckle his seat belt to get out.

Hurrying over to him, he forced the jammed door open, before reaching inside to tug on the belt as well. After several minutes, the belt snapped out, releasing the pressure on the man's chest, enabling him to breathe again. After the man's breath had returned, Elijah reached into the car to help lift his weak frame up, trying to keep him stable as he straightened up.

When Elijah first came into view, the old man stiffened, looking up at him. He hadn't even stood up all the way, barely hanging onto the car for balance, but he had enough strength to push Elijah off of him while shouting.

"Get your filthy hands off of me, you faggot!" he yelled, practically frothing at the mouth. "I don't need you touching me. Who knows where your hands have been! I don't want to catch your gay AIDs."

Elijah stepped back from the man, keeping a blank face, and nodding curtly.

"Sorry, sir," he said, mechanically. "Didn't mean to offend. I thought I was helping."

"Yeah, well I don't need help from the likes of you," he glared. "It's more dangerous having you touch me than it is staying in that car for a couple more minutes."

But Elijah was already turned, and walking away from him before he had even finished his sentence. He didn't have to stand there and listen to that nonsense. The same nonsense that just about every straight person was whispering about in fear.

It's not like it was anything new for him though. Now people shouted "faggot" at him, whereas before it had been "Chicano." If he was really lucky, though, he might even get both in the same breath. Those moments were special. Truly.

Some things never changed. People's irrational fear and hatred was definitely one of them. Yes, he was gay. Unlike before when people had hurled racial slurs of the wrong race at him...But it's not like they had bothered to check. It's not like he wore a sign around his neck that said, "I like dick. Please come comment about it." People always jumped to conclusions, never caring who they trampled over in the process.

Sighing, Elijah turned the corner shivering and tightening his coat against the winter chill. He really needed to get a heavier coat, because the weather was only going to get worse. Shaking his head, he wrapped his arms tightly around his body, and picked up his pace toward Saints. As if he ever had the money for things like that. The coat he was wearing now was three years old as it was. He was tired of living hand to mouth. Of always being hungry or cold. Granted he probably should have worn more clothing, but it was easier to get changed at work if he had lighter things on. It saved him money on laundry as well.

Rubbing his hands together in front of his mouth for warmth, he ran across another intersection barely missing being clipped by a bike messenger. A plastic-sounding horn came from behind, and Elijah flipped the biker the bird without even looking back. It really had been far too long living like this. He'd been in New York, barely staying alive since the age of sixteen. Since his father had kicked him out at the age of sixteen. It had only taken the bastard two years after his mother's death before he had packed Elijah's bags for him.

Not that Elijah had cared. The beatings that had started shortly after Karina had left home to find work, had only gotten worse over the years. Elijah liked to pretend that his mother didn't know. It made it easier to direct all of his hatred at his father. But she had to have known. What explanation could she have given herself when she came back late from the diner every night? How did she reason away the bruises and the bloody hand-towels?

She couldn't have. There was no reasoning that away. But, let's not forget. The house was full of actors. The family motto was ignore or forget, after all. And Daniel beating the living shit out of Elijah a couple of times a week wasn't something to bring up in polite conversation.

Twisting his mouth into a grimace, he remembered his father's reaction to the announcement that he was gay - like incredibly gay. It hadn't been a pretty sight to see. Elijah hadn't gone to school the next week. In fact, he hadn't even left the house at all.

When his mother died months later, the beatings became almost unbearable. He was surprised he had even survived them. Two years of them.

It had been his sixteenth birthday when he came home from school, he'd found his father waiting for him with all of his clothes thrown into shabby bags in the front yard. His father had shoved a twenty in his hand and told him to get the hell out of his house. He was a "man" now, if it could be called that. It was legal for him to kick Elijah out if it was reported that he had been displaying "unmanageable behavior" - which apparently, according to Daniel, being gay qualified - and if he had proof that he'd provided clothing and $20. Of course that was the reason his father had given him the money. It would never be because of any concern for Elijah's well-being at all.

Hitch-hiking across the country in the early spring isn't something that Elijah would ever suggest. There were many a time that he had spent the night curled up on a bench in the park or at a rest stop. Anywhere really, that looked half-way safe after dark. After his father had kicked him out, there was no point staying in that small ass town. He'd had no friends to tie him there, and it's not like his teacher's had ever noticed him or cared. They'd certainly managed to keep their mouths shut if they had. It couldn't come as a surprise to anyone that he would drop out of school and leave, once they heard the news that he had been kicked out of the house. There was just nothing to stay for.

The whole town knew he was gay, and had never made a secret of how they felt about it. It wasn't an unpleasant place to grow up. If you were normal. And had a good family. And didn't care about the world outside of cars and beer and republican presidents. So basically, if you weren't Elijah.

That night, after he had grabbed his bags and left the front yard, had been one of the worst. There were still far too many to come, but Elijah remembered being cold and alone. He had had no idea what to do or where to go. And he was beyond upset because his father had refused to let him go inside and grab the picture of his mother in his room.

He had ended up in that park. The one from all those years ago. His mother had tried to continue their routine afterward, but after one or two times, gave up. It just wasn't the same. Elijah still always saw blood on the sidewalk when he looked down. The park honestly looked like it belonged to the ghosts that night. It was ironically fitting. The swings rocked back and forth from the wind, making creaking sounds, but the rest of the park was covered in a dead silence. Elijah had immediately gone to the monkey bars, setting down his bags and climbing to the top. He had lain back and stared up above at the stars. They were all so small and insignificant. And alone. Like him.

Being back at this park - even now with Elijah just thinking about the park - had some sort of pull on him. He couldn't understand it. Why Joseph should still haunt him didn't make any sense. He had only known him for a few hours. And sure, he had saved his life, and the scene afterward was probably traumatic for a fear-year-old, but after all the things Elijah had been through, why was it this specific thing that still made him hurt?

Elijah shook his head, trying to forget the past once more as he entered in the back door of Saints. Elijah didn't want to think of Joe. Apparently everything brought him back to that memory for some reason. A random car crash...thoughts of his life at sixteen and that last visit to the park...heck, even someone always being happy and grinning had brought it all back once. It was like at the drop of a dime, it could happen. Elijah never knew when to expect it or what. And he still couldn't figure out why. Why Joe? Why did it matter to him so much, when nothing else ever seemed to?

It had to be that at age four, Elijah had already considered Joe a friend. The lack of time he had known Joe hadn't mattered to that little boy. Joe had been his friend. His first friend. His only friend. The first person, and Elijah found out later what was to be the last person, besides his mother, who ever gave a damn about him or what happened to him.

Elijah took off his gloves and scarf, placing them inside his jacket which he hung on the peg next to the door. He went to his desk, sitting down in front of the lit mirror. He looked up, staring at his reflection.

He honestly didn't recognize himself. He wasn't the scared little boy who had hid in the basement whenever his father was drunk anymore. Nor was he the sixteen-year-old who had contemplated the meaning of life on the top of the monkey bars before making life-altering decisions. He wasn't the boy who had hailed semis to get to New York City, or the boy who had finally gotten here with wonder in his eyes. He was also no longer the boy who had learned that life didn't change with a zip code change. People still didn't care, and life was going to be just as hard for him here as it had been before. He was none of these things. He had been at one point, but they were far gone from him, barely traceable to what he saw in the mirror before him. When Elijah looked in the mirror, he didn't know what he saw. He didn't know who he was. A man by now, yes. But he couldn't tell anything else about himself, because he hadn't really felt anything else about himself in a long time.

"Elijah," a shout was heard from behind him. "Get changed. You're up in fifteen minutes."

Elijah nodded to acknowledge that he had heard. He reached into the rack behind his desk to grab his uniform, and went into the back to change. Coming back out, he sat in front of his mirror again, trying to forced himself to see something. Anything. But, nothing. As his time dwindled, and Elijah still failed to see something meaningful in the mirror, he forced himself to focus on completely his daily routine. Which funnily enough, involved even more disappearing on his part.

Elijah focused on this, pushing himself deeper and deeper inside himself, refusing to let any of himself out tonight. It was the only way he could make it through most days at work. If he pretended it was someone else, not him. If he pretended he wasn't really there, then it was almost like he wasn't. It was like he was numb, floating. He could see everything, but it wasn't really him.

"Elijah, you're up!" the shout came again, snapping his eyes open.

Taking a final deep breath, Elijah closed his eyes once more and sank completely within himself. When he reopened them, there was nothing in the mirror to see. Not even the questions he had seen in his eyes from before were there. There was just nothing. But even more than nothing. There was a blankness. He calmly stood up from his desk, and turned around, ready for another evening at work. He walked to the connecting entrance of the front and back of the building, and waited for his cue to step out. When it was time, he naturally made the movement, without hesitation or steeling himself, as if it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

"I cannot believe you did that!" Dylan fumed as he hurried up the street block, trying to place some distance between himself and the dark-haired woman behind him, running to keep up. "You're unbelievable, sometimes, you know that?"

"All I wanted was a relaxing drink, Her- Helen," he corrected, quickly looking around at those passing. "Just one drink, and now I can't even have that. You just - I - gahhh!"

Dylan threw his hands up for a lack of words, and increased his pace even more in hopes of losing her.

"Please, don't call me that," she wrinkled her nose. "You know how much I hate that name."

"Well, it is your name," Dylan said snidely. He didn't care if he was coming off childish; he was pissed.

"Besides, it's not as if I can realistically call you Hera in public," he finished on a whisper. "If you hadn't noticed, that name hasn't exactly remained in style as of late."

"Di, I understand you're upset," Hera said, returning his glare upon the use of that name. "Oh, calm down! I said 'Di,' didn't I? No one knows what it stands for, you paranoid baby. For all they know it's short for Dylan. So don't get your nards in a bunch."

Dylan shot her another glare, expressing his discontent with her as a whole, that was increasing with every sentence coming out of her mouth.

"Now, as I was saying, I..." she trailed off upon noticing the withering look that Dylan was directing her way.

Sighing, she closed her mouth, letting her shoulders droop in dismay.

"I just worry about you, Di" she finally said, looking hesitantly up at him. "What you're doing isn't healthy."

"Oh, and I suppose a random one-night stand is so much healthier for me, is it Hera?" he threw out sarcastically, immediately regretting his tone when he saw her flinch and fold her body inward once more.

"Look, Her, I appreciate what you're doing, I really do. But stop trying to get me laid. It's not what I want. It's not who I want. At all. You know this."

"But, Di, he's not here," she said exasperatedly. "Coop isn't here this cycle. He wasn't with us when the rite was performed. That's it, okay? It's over this cycle. I don't know what you hope to gain from all of this."

"Nothing, Hera," he shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "Everything. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter what I gain from this, if I gain anything at all!"

"He's out there somewhere. He was in Southern California when he was a kid, that much I know. I was right next to him in my last cycle, Hera, right next to him. And I didn't even know."

"How can I...how can I have not known," he whispered brokenly.

"Hindsight is always clearer," she tried to say comfortingly. "It wasn't your fault, Di. Neither you nor Coop were fortunate enough to be around the rest of us for that cycle's rite. It's happened before to all of us - multiple times for some of us."

"I know," Dylan agreed. "It just seems to happen to Coop and I far more than it should."

"Looking back at all my cycles - now that I can remember them - there have been so many times that I didn't know who Coop was...that I didn't even know who I was."

"I know," Hera said resentfully. "Yet another wonderful perk of living in the human world. Really, I don't know why we didn't do it sooner."

Dylan laughed bitterly, "Yes, because it's been so much fun."

They continued walking in silence side by side now.

"So, you're serious then?" Hera finally asked, breaking the heaviness. "You're really going to go back there and try to find him?"

"I don't see what else I can do," Dylan replied evenly.

"I'd hoped that he would subconsciously need to move to a big city. It's where we always ended up together after all. But I've been in New York for two years, Her, and I haven't found him. I've got to try something."

"Di, you...you do realize that even if you do find him, he's not going to know who you are," she said hesitantly. "He's not going to remember you or anything before his current cycle."

"Yes," he responded after a moment, resigned. "I'm aware. But even if he doesn't know...I know."

"I remember. He's still Coop, Her. Elijah is still Coop. And all I know about him is that he was a sweet little boy, and that may not be a lot, but it's enough. I know who he was that day, and I know who he is deep inside where Coop is hidden."

"And I may never get him back - the Coop that I know. But he'll still always be Coop for me. Regardless of whether he remembers or not. I'll spend the rest of this cycle trying to get him to love me if that's what he needs. I'll do what I have to do. It doesn't matter to me. He does. Nothing else."

"Gods," she said sniffling. "You two always were like this. Once you got over yourselves and got together that is. Why do you two have to be so devoted and determined? You always make the rest of us look bad."

"Cripes, Hera," Dylan said chuckling. "You make us sound sickeningly perfect. You've seen us at our worst; you should know better than that."

"That would be because you are perfect," she said as if it should be obvious.

"No, we are not," he continued, full out laughing now. "Don't pretend that you don't remember what Coop gets like when he's angry or hurt. He's a full on bitch, and you know it. Even he knows it, and owns it, honestly. He's bitchy, superior, judgmental, uptig-"

"And you love him," Hera finished smirking.

"Well, yes," Dylan rolled his eyes. "I never said I didn't. That still doesn't change that he is all those things. And don't even get me started on myself. We're far from perfect, Hera."

"If you say so," Hera supplied, humoring him. "But the fact is, I was talking about you two together, not separately. I'm well aware of all your flaws, Di."

Dylan shrugged his shoulders, making a noncommittal noise in answer.

"And that's what scares me, Di," Hear picked the earlier conversation back up, much to Dylan's annoyance. "If you do find him, you'll be so focused on him and your attempts to recreate what you guys had, that you'll sacrifice your own happiness, and, quite possibly, health this cycle on something that may never happen. I just don't want to see you waste it all."

"And that's the part you don't get, Hera," Dylan made sure to answer calmly, realizing not for the first time, that Hera didn't understand. That she might never know why he had to do this, because she had never had what Coop and he had.

Her relationship, if you could call it that, with Zeus was a joke. Part of Dylan felt sympathy for her for not having that type of love, but the rest of him secretly resented her for the calm and ease with which she was able to live a cycle without Zeus.

"It's never be a waste. Ever..."

"Gods, I could really use that drink now," he said pointedly, scrubbing his hands tiredly over his face.

"Well, whose fault is that?" Hera asked waspishly. "You're the one that ran out of there, and refused to go back. Come on, if we turn around now we can be there in twenty minutes."

"Whose fault? Hera, do you really want to be asking that," he said looking sideways at her. "If I seem to recall, I ran out of there because a boy who couldn't be too far past puberty had basically thrown himself at me. And at your encouragement!"

"If I had wanted to get laid, it wouldn't have been that hard for me to so, and it certainly wouldn't have been with a boy. I'm surprised that after all this time, you still have no clue as to what my type is."

"Or do you just think that I'm so desperate, I wouldn't notice?" Dylan said shaking his head. "No, we're not going back to that bar after you forced me to humiliate that poor kid. Look, there's a bar up the road. See, where those flashing lights are?"

"You mean the cockroach infested dive over there?" Hera said disdainfully. "No, we're not going in there. You cannot make me go in there."

"Oh, Her, stop being a snob," Dylan chuckled. "It's not that bad. It's just a bar. Not every place we get a drink from has to be an upscale restaurant or a night club."

"I don't see what's wrong with that," Hera sniffed. "At least they're clean."

"You are not going to die from going in there," Dylan sighed, looking sideways at her. "What is this really about? It cannot honestly be about the cleanliness of a bar."

"S a rrp pup," Hera mumbled under her breath, sneering her nose and crossing her arms indignantly over her chest.

"A what?" Dylan shook with laughter. "Hera, what just came out of your mouth was not English. Or any language for that matter. You don't even have alcohol as an excuse. What is the problem?"

"It's a strip club!" Hera huffed in exasperation. "It's a gay strip club!"

"Hera...this isn't news," Dylan said, raising his eyebrow at her.

"What?" Hera blurted, looking up at him quickly. "You already knew?"

"Of course, I knew, Hera..." Dylan paused, wondering where this conversation was going. "The sign clearly says Saints...I really don't know how anyone could miss that. And I honestly don't know how you could think I wouldn't know what Saints is after living in New York for two years..."

"Though how you knew, I have no clue...I'm actually disappointed. I was looking forward to seeing your face when you find out," he finished, laughing lightly once again, and shrugging his shoulders away when she swatted him.

"B-b-but if you knew, then why were you insisting we go there," Hera stuttered.

"Because it's the closest place that serves alcohol?" Dylan stated the obvious. "I thought that that was what we were in search of after all."

"Well y-ye-yes, b-but-" Hera continued to stutter.

"Hera, are you seriously going to stand there, stuttering and blushing like a school girl?" Dylan asked amused. "You're twenty-six years old. You're acting as if you've never seen a penis."

"SHUT UP, Di!" Hera yelled, looking surreptitiously around them at those passing who had turned when Dylan had said "penis."

"Oh my gods, Hera," Dylan bent over with laughter. "You're not honestly that bothered by cock, are you? I mean, I know for a fact you're not a chaste-"

He broke off gulping down breaths through his laughter at the scrunched up glare Hera was giving him.

"No, that is not it," Hera emphasized each word with a smack to the back of Dylan's head. "But thank you so much for your delicacy, Di. Really? Cock? Could you be more crude? Don't answer that!"

"Well, then what is it?" Dylan asked, wiping the tears from his eyes, trying to calm his breathing.

"You may not need to get laid, but that doesn't mean the rest of want to live habitually as monks!" Hera finally spit out in frustration.

Dylan chocked on his laughter, coughing all the remaining air in his lungs out. He looked up, his eyes bigger than saucers, at the tiny woman in front of him radiating with embarrassment and aggravation.

"What?" Hera snapped, churlishly.

"Nothing," Dylan said emphatically, trying to keep his face straight. "I still don't see how this has anything to do with going into Saints..."

"Di," Hera said looking at him like he was incredibly slow child. "You don't understand why going into a club where partially naked, handsome, young men, who are all gay, will be dancing suggestively all around us would be a problem for my...my...frustration? It just means I once again will be going home alone!"

"I...You...Okay," Dylan said searching for words. "I hadn't thought of that...I didn't realize it had been so long since...yeah...um...I thought Poseidon had tried to...uh...well...what I mean to say is-"

"I wasn't interested," Hera took pity on Dylan, who was shifting and scratching his neck uncomfortably, and cut him off. "Poseidon tries to, as you phrased it, every month or so, and funnily enough never succeeds. You'd think he'd get a hint."

"Well, I mean, there's probably only three more dancers for the night," Dylan said checking his watch. "After that, the floor should open up completely for dancing. You wouldn't really have to endure too much-"

"How do you know when they stop the strip show?" Hera asked bemused.

"Well, I don't," Dylan squirmed nervously. "I'm just guessing from normal time standards in clubs like these. Not that I would know what those are either!"

"Uh-huh," Hera said watching him closely. "Fine. Whatever, we'll go in and grab some drinks. Maybe dance some. But I'm blaming you if this doesn't turn out well."

She turned and left Dylan behind, heading across the street toward Saints, forcing Dylan to scramble and jog to catch up to her before she went inside.

They entered the club together, passing the bouncer after numerous questioning looks were thrown Hera's way. The place was crowded, with lights bouncing everywhere and techno pulse music pounding through the speakers. The words to the song were exactly distinct from this far back, but the general theme to the music was incredibly sexual.

Dylan could see a red-haired dancer up on stage awkwardly gyrating in front of various men holding dollars out in the air. Dylan shook his head in dismay. The kid couldn't be barely more than eighteen. He was a child! Granted he was only twenty-one, but that didn't really count for everything. Not when you had been alive for forever. Seeing boys up on the stage wasn't what he had come in here expecting. Though why he should be surprised, he didn't know.

That was the way things went, wasn't it? Especially in this decade. Gay men were kicked out of their homes all the time, because of the stigma that went along with confession. Men. Boys, really. And when your own family won't accept you for what you are, how can you expect the world to? And the world didn't. It just kicked them while they were already down. Jobs like these were sometimes the only things these boys could gain. And they had to take what they could get to survive. It was just incredibly sad to see. Even worse was to see the complete lack of concern or unease with these situations the men crowded around the stage had.

Shaking his head, he grabbed Hera, who had become distracted by all the lasers and movement around her, dragging her by the arm toward the bar.

"Helen," he shouted over the noise, switching back to her current name now that they were in an easily overheard area. "What do you want to drink?"

"Just get me a gin and tonic," she said, dazed, staring around in fixation.

Dylan ordered the drinks, bobbing his head and tapping his hand on the bar to the beat of the music while he waited. There was lull in the music, which meant a change in performer, and then the music that came on made Dylan smile. He still couldn't quite hear the words to the song, but he knew the song well enough to recognize it by the beat. If he thought the previous song had had a sexual theme to it, then this one was just dripping with sex. He hoped whoever was dancing to it was considerably better and more comfortable than the boy who had just left. Whoever it was would need to be able to pull off blatant sex appeal and lust, otherwise the song would be a complete waste.

The bartender handed him his beer and Hera's gin and tonic after he had handed him the five dollar bill. Damn, prices of alcohol. He turned around toward Hera, and attempted to hand her her drink.

When she didn't take it, he looked up. She was still staring in fascination at something in the club near the stage.

Laughing to himself, he poked her to try and get her attention. But she just continued to stare.

"Helen!" He shouted, trying to be heard over the crowd. "I know this place is distracting, but at least wait until you're tipsy to blatantly stare."

Nothing.

"Helen, I have you're drink!" he said agitated. "Helen, Hel- oh for the love of- HERA!"

She turned as if someone had electrocuted her, blinking up at Dylan with the biggest eyes he had ever seen.

"What?" he asked confused. "Did you change your mind? We can leav-"

"Shut up, Di," she said quickly.

"Wha-" Dylan started indignantly.

"Shut up, and look up at the stage!" she said, trying to force him around toward the dancer.

Dylan turned his head, rolling his eyes at Hera's fascination with the dancers. They were just dancing in less clothing than the rest of the people in the club.

He eyes finally reached the stage, and took in what was up there. The dancer had just come out and started to the song that Dylan had heard playing a few seconds ago. His head was turned to the other side of the club looking down at the men before him, reaching down for the bills being thrown at him.

Dylan still hadn't managed to see his face, but from what he could see, the club had picked the right dancer for the song. His hips swiveled to the beat, and you could feel the lust pouring off his body, and by connection all the men salivating around him.

Dylan didn't get it. Yes, he was a fantastic dancer, and his body was sleek and toned. But why was Hera so insistent on him looking up at him? He looked back over at Hera in confusion to see her looking at him expectantly. When she saw his confusion she rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Seriously, Di?" she huffed. "You are so blind sometimes."

She gripped his head and turned it back around toward the dancer. At that exact moment, the man on the stage turned around toward the men at the front of the stage continuing his dancing, and turning his head completely forward, lifting his eyes up for a split second.

In that split second, his eyes met Dylan's, and time froze. A second multiplied into hours. Or so it seemed. The contact ended almost as soon as it had started. And the dancers blank eyes left Dylan's once more continuing on their circuit through the club, before he looked back down at the men throwing all his effort into pretending to be into what his body was doing.

The beer and the glass holding the gin and tonic in Dylan's hands dropped from his grip, falling slowly toward the ground. The impact echoed in Dylan's ears never fully leaving, and the movement at his feet could be felt throughout his body. The glass from both shattered and spread out across the floor in front of him.

There was movement from the people around him as people leapt away from the glass and from him. They seemed to be moving in slow motion, barely moving inch by inch, when really they must have jumped quickly for them to have avoided the glass shattering on the floor. Dylan heard a squeak come from next to him. It must have been Hera. Dylan didn't know. He couldn't register anything that wasn't right in front of him. Hell, he could barely register what was in front of him.

It was Coop.

Elijah.

It was him.