Drew Hughes, in those excruciating hours that passed him by, felt nothing but dread. It was sinking sense of 'the worst to come' that set his teeth on edge. But, he was unaware of his teeth, and even further unaware that he was sleeping in a pool of sweat on a moth-eaten mattress in a hidden place that deep down—somewhere—meant a great deal to him. He was aware of only this; he saw two boys that he remembered. One from the mirror, one from the heart. He relived memories that had tortured him so much in his life that he had chosen to forget them. And finally, after all the years of wondering who he was, he remembered.

***

Recorded in select books was the name that a powerful family had once tried to erase. It could be found in stray travel journals from visitors to Ban-Ken in the eventful year 2753, or in news articles and historical records from surrounding town libraries, or, most notably, in the anonymous accounts of those that Ban-Ken's hero had touched. Infamous, it was recognized across the country, but frowned upon in the state of Kentucky. A name, that when uttered in the presence of the great city's lord or lady could warrant dire punishment.

Berthold Shir.

Born in the early 50's to Lady Elaine, as her second son, it was well known that he was not like the average infant. The Lady was ruthless in her efforts to preserve herself, and when she and her golden child—the ever-surprisingly-bright and at the time problematic Pallis—were taken ill by Ban-Ken's rapidly increasing level of radiation, every and any method at acquiring a cure was desperately attempted. Young lord Pallis, six years old, faded faster by the month, then by the day, and by the time his brother arrived, he seemed no longer living at all. His skin was gray and snaked with dull and struggling veins, his eyes yellow and red and glazed when he found the strength to open them. The boy wanted to die. He could not walk, nor chew his food. He had given up months ago, kept alive by the force of his fierce mother and her abundant servants.

He slouched in a soft leather wheelchair, oblivious to the doctors and the nurses, and the howls of his mother in labor. She was stronger than him, but still dying. It had been a year and a half since the plague had been detected in her system, and if it weren't for the frequent care and the LifePreserver™ (an unsold and heavily patented and protected device of her laboratories' invention) on her wrist, she would have passed long before even reaching mid-term.

If the new son could not cure them, then he could at least act as heir to their family's grand business kingdom when Pallis inevitably ceased, and she followed.

He came into the world crying. A soft, bleating cry that, if there had been time or a caring mother, would have melted hearts. Lady Elaine barked and shook her fists at the private nurses and the head doctor to take the newborn away immediately and test its blood. It. It was an experiment, and long after its birth, nurses whispered of how Lady Shir did not hold the child the way a mother would, the way a mother should. The father, the faceless unknown whom no-one dared speak of in fear of punishment, had held the infant and smiled and wept, until a blow to his head knocked the smile from his face and he fell. Dragged out by guards after a blow to his head, the nurses never saw him again. The public never saw him at all.

The infant's blood was tested right away, and the Lady's eyes gleamed at receiving the results that she had wanted. The first cure for Ban-Ken's plague thrived in his veins, and she took it.

The Lady ordered that Pallis be injected first. The syringe went in, and Pallis shivered when it withdrew. His eyes opened, his head raised. He peered meekly at his trembling self, then smiled.

"Warm," he said. Then, in the blink of an eye, his demeanor changed drastically. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair and, as though struck from behind, jolted forward in his seat. His hands shook fervently and his teeth chattered. "Mother!" he cried.

He screamed. His spine arched and his head slammed against the back of his chair, fingers splaying in the air. He clawed at his chest, tearing the crisp fabric of his shirt and exposing his scrawny chest. Over the bumps of his ribcage, spreading over his sternum and down to his naval, something moved beneath his skin. He wailed and dragged his nails desperately across it, tears streaming down his pallid face.

"Make it stop!" he screamed. "Please! Mother! Stop!"

His skin burst with a sickening pop and a bloodcurdling hiss. Pungent yellow oozed from the long and rugged wound, and blood sputtered out. A faint steam rose, and the blood dried almost instantly. Pallis fainted. The wound bubbled.

A nurse opened a window.

"What was that?" Lady Elaine demanded, throwing her arms in the air. She swung her legs down from the private infirmary bed. "What happened to his chest? Is the plague still with him?"

"This is new to us, too, M'Lady," whispered a blue-lipped nurse. She checked Pallis' pulse, then inserted a needle into the vein just over the crook of his elbow. The needle was connected to a hand-held, wireless machine that shared resemblance to a staple gun, with a pale green screen at its top. Withdrawing the needle, the nurse read the screen. Her shoulders sagged in relief. "The antidote has been accepted." She pressed her hand over her heart, overwhelmed by the possible implications for the future of their plague-stricken city. "It worked! The plague is cured!"

Lady Shir quickly took her own injection, and suffered the same pain. The doctor observed critically, drawing a pen and notepad from the pocket of his uniform light green coat. When the Lady's wound closed, an ugly strip running up her arm, he pursed his lips and scribbled a note.

He gestured to Pallis with his pen. "May I?"

The Lady exhaled through clenched teeth, pressing her head into her pillow. "Can you explain it?"

"It looks," said Dr. Edmund Jacobs, his brows pinched as he knelt before the boy, "as though the radiation—the plague, that is—is... is being burned, in some manner. I'm not quite sure what it is... These wounds are a result of heat escaping, I think. The blood boils and the wound closes over almost immediately. I've never seen anything like it. It's fascinating. I'd like to see it through a microscope."

"Bottle it and send it to the labs."

"Excuse me?" Jacobs looked up.

"Bottle the cure and send it to the labs. I want it tested, and I want it fixed, and I want it sold," Lady Shir said. "A cure that causes scars will sell, but one without will sell better."

"I can't take that much blood from an infant, My Lady. It could kill him."

"I want samples in the lab, Jacobs, or you and your family will be kicked to the West End before you can say you're sorry. Do you understand?"

The doctor bowed his head and stood. "I... will make it happen. My Lady."

He muttered a few words to his second-in-command and hastily withdrew, rolling Berthold Shir with him in a cart. Berthold survived the withdrawal of blood, assisted by a generous blood donation from the doctor himself, and was placed in a nursery. Nurses and retired test subjects of the Shir manor nurtured him, and his curious older brother visited often. Meanwhile, his blood was studied and replicated into a safer cure, which was distributed to those working at the manor, and sold for outrageous prices to those outside. No-one in Ban-Ken could afford it.

The child grew with a fascination towards books, and as he grew out of the nursery, he spent much of his time in the library, running small hands over the spines of bound paper reams that he did not know were a privilege. Pallis helped him to read when the child's tutor wasn't around, and reach the books on the higher shelves. The pair soon developed a bond. By two-and-a-half years of age, Berthold learned to read my himself, encouraged always by his beloved sibling's constant smile.

***

August 17th, 2758

Berthold lay on his stomach on the carpet. It was green, like most of the interior decor and uniforms in the house. Laid open in front of him was his very favorite book, which since finding it a few months prior, he had read almost twenty times over and remained utterly enthralled.

Pallis, eleven years old and confident that he would live forever as a Shir family descendant, sat in his velvet chair by the window overlooking the tobacco farm, a cigarette between his teeth. It was a cherished part of his schedule to spend afternoons in the library, keeping an eye on his younger sibling and enjoying a destressing fix of nicotine.

He too had read this book of Berthold's. In fact, he had read it multiple times out loud to the boy, because of how he enjoyed seeing his sweet face light up with genuine joy every time. However, he was uncomfortable with it. He was concerned that it gave the boy bad ideas, and their mother agreed.

"Do you think I can change my name?" Berthold asked. He was wearing that damned red blanket cape of his, as if it made him a hero, like the fantastical one illustrated in The Fantastic Tales of the Guardians.

Pallis tapped ash out the window. He cleared his throat, a little surprised. He was always smiling. Always. "Why ever would you want to do that?"

"Because my name is stupid and ugly," Berthold said with a frown. "I don't like it. I've never once read about a Berthold."

Pallis's smile wavered briefly, but returned, musing. He shook his head and drew on his cigarette. "It's the name you were given," he said, almost laughing. "You should be thankful for it. Haven't you ever learned the names of the servants here? Some truly do have unfortunate names. I once met a servant named Toothpick. How unfortunate is that? You name is a gift. As is mine. Treat it as such."

"Pallis," Berthold groaned, rolling onto his back. He threw his hands up into the air. "I've already chosen the name I want."

Pallis, confused, lowered his cigarette. He winced and jerked his hand back up after feeling it burn over his trousers. "What?"

"I want to be called Drew," Berthold continued. He raised The Fantastic Tales of the Guardians. "Like in my book."

Pallis shook his head, taking another puff of smoke. He rubbed his forehead, then straightened out in his chair. "Mother simply won't approve. And neither do I." His expression became stern, his smile close-lipped and smaller. "That stupid book is giving you too many fantasies, isn't it? First it was the cape, and now your name? You're going to want a suit of armor next. A sidekick, a valiant steed! Berthold! Wearing a cape doesn't make you a hero, and calling yourself Drew doesn't make you the so-called 'Chosen One'. Please."

Berthold puffed out his chest, unfazed. "Well, in the words of Calovar Hughes, heroes aren't made in a day." He had taken the quote from the book's muscleman character, the sidekick to Drew Mancou, The Chosen One. "One day, though, I'll get there. I'll slay a dragon!"

Pallis laughed. "Dragons don't exist!"

The child hopped up, almost tripping over his cape. He scooped his book into his small arms and grinned. "Maybe you just haven't seen one! Call me Drew! Come on, Pallis, Drew! Not Berthold!"

Pallis sucked again on his cigarette. "Not around mother. We'll both get scolded."

"Just you and me?" His eyes gleamed.

The older boy felt his heart swell. He scrunched up his face, controlling himself, and sighed. He beckoned. "Come here. Drew."

Berthold squealed and bounded over to window. Pallis put a hand over the boy's shoulder, and Berthold—Drew—sensed that he was not receiving a hug or a hair tussle. His smile wavered, but his eyes remained hopeful. His gloved hands anxiously fingered the pages of his book.

"Berthold," began Pallis.

"Drew."

He sighed. "Drew. Drew." He squeezed the boy's shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "I love you, I do. I love you very, very much. And that is why... That is why I have to tell you that..." He grimaced, and glanced away, taking a breath, then a puff of smoke. With another long sigh, he returned his gaze to Drew and kindly smiled, holding his cigarette away. "That at some point, every boy needs to grow up."

Drew pouted. "But, Pallis—"

"No," Pallis said, "Listen." He leaned forward. "You spend all of your time reading fiction. Fiction. Here you are reading all about knights and super powers and... and bazaar nonsense! Berthol—Drew! Augh, Drew." He shook his head and dragged his hand down his face. "It is nonsense. Fiction isn't real. That means that there is no such thing as dragons, or fairies, or wizards. There is no such thing as heroes, Drew." Pallis reached out to pluck at the knot of Drew's cape. Drew stood very still, tears welling in his eyes. He held his breath and turned his nose away from Pallis's cigarette. Pallis lowered the cape and pulled it into his lap. "It's all just giving you grand ideas, and you are getting attached to those ideas. You need to get your head out of the clouds, Drew. In the real world, everyone lives for themselves. We don't slay dragons or rescue princesses. We make money, we make titles, and we make our names go down in the books that matter; the nonfiction. Get your head out of the clouds, Drew, there is no such thing as heroes." His smile was thin, nearly absent, eyes hard and stern. After a moment, he swallowed, feeling the sweat under his collar as he looked at the bright red face of his little brother. He kneaded the cape, then reluctantly held it out again. Drew snatched it, stuffing it under his arm with his book.

Pallis rose, pursed his lips. He spread his arms. "Drew?" He turned and took a lungful of smoke, then smashed his cigarette out in an ashtray, and spread his arms again towards the boy, bending over slightly.

Drew's jaw clenched. He glared at the floor and smacked one of Pallis's hands.

"Fine," said Pallis. He straightened his tie, then his back, and looked down on the boy over his nose. "But, one day, you'll come to realize it, and the sooner the better. There is absolutely no such thing as heroes. You are just the same as the rest of us."

Drew's face fell, but he offered no response.

Pallis, pink in the ears, gave the boy a stiff pat on the back and pulled a lighter out of his pocket. He flicked out a flame on and off repeatedly as he stalked off. The sounds of his footsteps diminished into the distance, and the thud of the heavy library doors announced his exit.

Drew raised his head. He set his book on the coffee table and, staring down at it, pulled his cape around his shoulders. He lowered his eyebrows and scrunched up his nose. No, he thought, tying the knot. No, I refuse to be just the same.

***

That evening before dinner, Drew crept into the off-limits West Wing of Level One Below, slipping from the elevator with a heavy exhale and a gasp for air. It had been the suspense and fear for being caught out-of-bounds that had once compelled him to hold his breath during the elevator descent, but it had become more of a ritual after the past year of secret misadventures.

The guards on that level were friendly to him. He always visited around the same time to catch them on their shifts. As retired test subjects, guards Lip and Sponge kept things in order in the West Wing of Level One Below in the exchange for resources and the privilege to a dorm. When they were not at their post, they resided in the East Wing of the same level, which offered small and bare living quarters for the handful of test subjects too tired to be tested on, but still fit enough to work menial tasks. Around two-hundred test subjects were retired every year, and of those, only about thirty were be selected to work. The rest were let go, and their lives ended just as they had began; under the influence of the Shirs.

"Oh ho!" Sponge exclaimed, pointing the tip of his axe at Drew, and stumbling a step under its weight. "Who goes there?"

"Must be another one of those pesky intruders," Lip muttered. "Best have him killed, eh, Sponge?"

Drew giggled and slipped past the axe to give each of the old geezers a hug. Sponge was the younger, at sixty-two. Lip was eighty-seven, and nearing the end of his working life sentence, having been retired from the labs for almost twenty-five years. In another three years, he would be taken to the ground level, where the incinerator awaited. Drew was blissfully unaware of what happened on the ground level.

"Can I see Dad?" the boy asked hopefully. There were times that the guards would firmly say no.

It was a rule, set by his mother, that he was not allowed to see his reclusive father. She worried of the influences they had on each other. Drew ignored her concern.

Sponge and Lip exchanged glances.

"Anyone know you're here?" Lip asked.

Drew shook his head. "Nuh-uh. And I promise I'll be out to catch dinner on time, so Mother and Pallis won't suspect a thing."

Lip shrugged. "All right."

Sponge took the West Wing's suite key from his waistband. He rapped his knuckles on the large door and called to the man inside, "Thumbtack? You've got a visitor. Make yourself decent."

They heard a grumble in response.

Drew straightened his sweater-vest and Sponge opened the door. Lip gestured inside with a sweeping bow.

"You know where the lights are, Your Grace. You father just seems to ignore them."

"There's no light in this godforsaken pit, Lip," Thumbtack scowled from the dark within.

Thumbtack was frequently reminded of the same rule that his son was under; to never see the other. But, though there were times that he refused to see the boy, the forbidding rule was never the reason why. Thumbtack had long lost his fear for punishment, after having decided years ago that they had nothing left to control him with.

During his life in the Shir manor, he had been through a lot, and it was not uncommon for him to sink into depressions and unpleasant episodes of post-traumatic stress and agitation. Drew was oblivious to his situation, but knew well that his father was not a very happy man.

"Ah, cheer up, geezer," Lip said, batting his hand in the air. "We brought you a little sunshine."

Drew flicked on the lights.

Thumbtack, startled, pupils shrunk at the sudden appearance of light, sat up in his armchair. "Berthold!"

He rubbed his eyes, then the rough growth of whiskers on his jaw. He hurriedly hid his silver flask behind his back and fumbled to button his shirt. He matched the second hole to the first button, and followed through with buttoning the rest, giving him a further disheveled appearance.

"Berthold!" he exclaimed. He spread his arms. "Come, come!"

Thumbtack had the shaggy legs and ears of a goat, left uncovered. Blunt, sawed-off horns poked through a thick mat of tangled, curly hair. His room, a mostly bare and prison-like environment, was littered with shed fur and hair. There was little furniture, no windows, and the only supplies he had were issued to him in certain amounts at certain times. Nothing more. He was privileged to have this to himself.

Drew straightened out indignantly. "No, no, Dad."

Thumbtack's ears pulled back and his eyes grew suddenly wide with worry. He pulled his arms to his chest and gulped. He was easily panicked.

"It isn't Berthold, anymore."

The poor man's first thought at this was, what have they done?

"It's Drew. I'm changing my name."

Thumbtack relaxed, sinking into the well-worn depths of his chair. "Drew," he repeated, thoughtful. He blew a stray curl out his eyes. "Drew, like in that one story you were telling me about?"

Drew nodded and bounced over. He wriggled onto his father's armchair, squeezing into the space between Thumbtack's thigh and the chair's arm. He gesticulated as he explained, "Berthold's an ugly name, so I've decided to change it. Well, except for Mother. Pallis said I shouldn't tell her, or I'll be in trouble. But, I want everyone else to call me Drew. It's much better."

Thumbtack raised his eyebrows and pulled the boy onto his furry lap. He wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "I get it. I don't think much of my name, either," he chuckled.

Drew looked up at his father, admiring his eyes as often he did. The man had one green and one blue eye, and both were impossible to read, for whenever the boy was present, they gleamed and invited him to speak and to share and to entertain. They were loving. But, behind the gleam that came only so often as the appearance of his son, his gaze was dull—a constant, looming, resigned dread often brought on twitches and nervous tics.

"Hm," said Drew, studying his father. He had rounded features, giving him a naturally friendly facade. Puffy rings of pink and blue under his eyes made him look sad, as though he hadn't slept for days, and as though he had cried instead. But he always smiled for Drew. "Why don't you change yours, too?"

"Oh, Drew, pal... Only Lip and Sponge use my name."

Drew reached around the man's waist and snatched his silver flask. Thumbtack winced and his left hand began to fidget nervously, fingers drumming and tapping erratically on the chair arm. He always half-heartedly tried to hide the flask when he saw Drew, ashamed, but the boy still found it.

"It's okay." Drew put his hand over Thumbtack's anxious tip. His fingers reluctantly stilled.

Drew flipped the flask upside down and pointed to the etches on its base.

T #1185 Gr. B

The Gr. B stated Thumbtack's class of breeding. Group B was a group of lab rats raised to replicate Professor Polcene;s original fauns as accurately as possible, inside and out. Members of the group were particularly easy to recognize, always having animal features.

Drew poked the letter T. "I think your new name should stat with T, so that it still fits with this. Right?"

Theodore uncomfortably shifted, pulling himself out of the sunken cushion and sitting further back. "Well—Well, ah..."

"Don't worry, Dad, we'll keep it between us. And Lip and Sponge, too, if you like!"

The man rubbed the back of his neck. "I... I suppose, it couldn't hurt. What are you going to call me then, Drew?"

Drew paused, rubbing his thumbs thoughtfully over the flask. "Theodore," he announced confidently. "How's that? Instead of Thumbtack, Theodore."

Thumbtack's smile appeared, brightening his pale face. "That sounds very good to me. You'll be the heroic Drew, and I would be honored to be your trusty sidekick, Theodore."

Drew pressed the flask into its owner's hand. "You're not a sidekick, Dad!"

"No?" Thumbtack hid the item again. "What am I, then? Damsel in distress?"

"No, Dad. You're the hero." The child nuzzled into his father's chest, wrapping his arms around Thumbtack's frail ribs. "I haven't gotten there yet."

Thumbtack flushed, at a loss for words, and returned the embrace. He pressed his cheek gently against his son's head, uncertain whether to be proud of his boy or flattered by him, or both. It was a rare thing for subject #1185 to be graced with kindness. "Thank you, Drew. Thank you."

They were quiet for a while. Theodore lightly rubbed the child's back. He kissed his head and ran his fingers through his neat, downy hair.

"Don't be late for dinner, now."

Drew nodded and slid off Theodore's lap. "Should I bring you anything tomorrow?"

"No. No, no." Theodore shook his head, protesting with his hands. "You mustn't. It isn't safe. There have been more... more visitors lately. Be careful, Drew, okay? I don't want you to be in any trouble."

Drew frowned. "Visitors? I though the West Wing was off limits!"

"Only to those who I wish it were open to, I'm afraid." Theodore mildly smiled, hiding a grimace. "Off with you, now. If you get caught here, it'll be bother our heads."

"O-Okay!" Drew scurried to the door, waving backwards all the way. "Goodbye! Goodbye, Dad! I love you!"

"I love you, too, pal." Theodore watched the boy leave, sinking back into the pit of his armchair. His eyes pricked with tears. He feared that his dear, sweet Drew would not stay innocent for much longer. He was a part of the Shir family, after all. The man sighed and stared at the light switch by door. He looked down at his legs and rubbed his hocks.

"Lip," he called. "Sponge! Could ya get the lights?"

Sponge peered in, lips pursed and brows pinched. "Are you in that much pain, Thumbtack?"

Thumbtack buried his head in his hands. "They said it will be over soon."

"Over how?"

"I'm afraid I.. I don't know."