The sun beat down on Alon's head, coaxing more sweat out of his scalp and back. After experiencing all levels of cold in Europe and North America, being smack dab in Southeast Asia didn't prepare him from the heat levels he was about to experience. He shouldn't have agreed to Markel's plan. At all.

It happened innocently enough. As soon as their leader recovered enough to stare at a screen for hours on end, he and Jaq broke into Primeva's records and revealed everything they needed to know about the trials, the laboratories, and yes, all the information about their families. Instead of focusing on the first two—which should be more important, by the way—Markel accessed the ancestral records of every trial who had been since the early 1960s.

Primeva had been keeping tabs on all the families for the sole purpose of tracking what information about the company and the Corrector were flying out of their mouths. Most of the field reports yielded nothing of significance, but it has always sat adversely with Alon. Sure, the database gave them a glimpse of the activities of the families since giving their children to Primeva, but it was also eerie to think that The Corrector had tracked them all these years, and that Primeva had legions of people—spies, essentially—tasked to carry out such jobs.

But, Alon decided to humor Markel and go along with it. An obscure part of his brain wondered how his life would have fared if he stayed where he was and the Corrector had not found him. Jaq had been a great help on that front. Before they finished that specific meeting, the blond girl handed each of them a bag full of everything they needed. From passports to phones to changes of clothes—they were all there. Which prompted Alon to think that maybe this wasn't the first time Jaq has done it.

She also told them how to get into most of the airlines, since the path they took across half of Europe wasn't the best way to approach their next mission. Alon did his best to get a ticket to the country his data said he was from. "Don't worry about Primeva tracking you," Jaq had added before they could leave for their individual journeys. "Markel and I will make sure you won't be found."

Which went to say a lot, being able to walk down the blistering streets without a care of who watched him from behind, from the tinted glass of high-rises, or from the murky windows of passing buses. Still, he pulled his hat down to hide his face. He could step out of visible light for all he cared, but Primeva might be tracking their ability usage as Markel had pointed out a few days before, so it might not be the best move.

The noise of the traffic, the chatter of passers-by, and the general business of the roads were enough to induce a swirling nausea at the base of Alon's head. He kept walking, tucking his hands into the pockets of his denim pants courtesy of Jaq. With his current attire, he fit right in with the boys who gathered around in small groups and slapped each other on the arm or on the back.

He passed a huge building resembling the high-rises of the grounds. The only difference was that this one bustled with activity and people and a thousand glittery decorations hung from every possible corner and landscape. Was this some sort of holiday Alon didn't know about?

The phone's screen lit up when he fished it out of his pocket. He scrolled for the quickest route towards the present address of a certain Cesar Despujol. The satellite map showed him into the deeper alleys after the enormous building. He'd reach the house in about half an hour of walking.

A colorful vehicle bustled past him, the driver shouting at him in a language he knew but didn't quite understand. Was the man telling him to scoot to the side or pointing something out from the side? He hadn't lived here long enough to figure that out on the fly. Instead, he gripped his bag and started running towards the immediate bend. Most people ignored him then, lost in their own worries and lives.

He usually could stomach traveling alone, but this was the shortest record of him wanting to go back to New York or Geneva. Hell, he'd take Venice too even though he feared falling off the side of the road and straight into the water.

Soon, he reached a dilapidated arch bearing the letters spelling his family's locality. He had no idea how addresses and cities worked in this country, so going to the specifics would be harder. The map was of no help either, with the satellite not able to go into the smaller and more obscure streets. No other choice, then. He jogged towards the nearest grailed window with goods hanging on it.

"Excuse me, do you know where Cesar Despujol lives?" he asked, for once, not being conscious if he was being understood. Loosening his tongue speaking his native language had never felt so refreshing.

A disgruntled woman from behind the grails with peeling red paint stumbled towards him. "Cesar, you say?" she rasped, showing off her yellowing and crooked teeth. She lowered faded spectacles from her graying hair to regard Alon. "He lives at the end of the road. At that run-down house. You'll know when you hear the children."

Alon wanted to frown, grab the woman by the collar, and demand Children?!, but he restrained himself. Instead, he gave her a small smile and ducked his head at her. "Thank you, manang," he said before following her directions. When he reached the said house, the store lady was right. Howls and squeals rang from behind the rotting planks of wood patched together with nails. The roofs were rusty and weren't even from the same squares.

He didn't have a good feeling about this, but he approached the hovel. Coops with roosters lounging inside flashed in his periphery. The gravel stirred by his boots when he paused by the lip of the fence. "Cesar Despujol?" he called. Calling a man he never met "Father" might be too weird for the first encounter.

A woman in a sleeveless tank top and faded shorts strode out. She stuck her feet into the rubber slippers waiting by the porch. Her gaze landed on Alon, and she shook her head, waving at him to go away. "What address is it?"

Alon blinked. "What?"

The woman, who could have been his mother, provided how similar the shade and luster of their hair were, stuck a hand out. "Show me the parcel," she said. "You might have gotten the address wrong. We don't have any pending deliveries."

"Wh—I'm not here to deliver anything," Alon defended. Was coming here truly a bad idea? He'd have to take it up to Markel later, anyway. "I'm here to see Cesar Despujol. My father."

That seemed to hit some nerve in the woman. "Where did you get my husband's name?" she asked, suspicion suddenly rising in her tone. "Are you the police?"

"No," Alon said. "I just...want to know about my family, and they pointed me here."

As if understanding what he meant by that, the woman, which Alon confirmed to be Marcela Despujol according to the records, stepped back and turned back to the house. "Cesar!" she yelled with a voice so loud it might have set Alon's hearing to when he was eighty. "Get the kids out of the sala! Now!"

A bluster of scuffling inside the house. Marcela jerked her chin at Alon, indicating him to follow her. "Have a drink at least," she said. "We don't have much to offer you. It's the lean season."

Alon followed her inside the house, noting the single bulb hanging from the exposed lines hammered into the makeshift ceiling. A man sat on a wooden stool, throwing a worn towel over his shoulder. He seemed to be absorbed in fixing something mechanical whose pieces lay scattered on the floor.

"Cesar, this is that boy," Marcela said, slapping her husband on the shoulder. "He made it back somehow."

The man, Cesar, glanced at Alon who stood awkwardly in a house that didn't feel his. "What do you want?" he asked. "Are you here to exact support money? 'Fraid we've got nothing too. Feeding all these kids is hard enough as it is."

"I...don't want your money," Alon declared. Jaw had given all of them enough to last them the rest of the year. "I just want to know why you...gave me away."

Another stool scratched across the wooden floorboards. Marcela urged him to sit on it with a nod. As soon as he did, a tall glass of orange juice slid towards him. He took it tentatively, ducking his head at her the second time.

She took a seat on the varnished bench and sighed. "I wouldn't recognize you for what a boy you've become," she said. "Life back then was hard. We had no choice."

Cesar set down his screwdriver and faced them. "You were just a few months old when they came to the baranggay," he said. "They told us they'd take care of you if we couldn't. It was a hard decision, but we have to wake up to reality. We're not financially stable enough to feed another mouth other than ourselves."

And yet, just a few years later, they retracted their decision and raised children, anyway. Was Alon supposed to just accept that? "So, you don't want to have anything to do with me?" Alon asked. As loaded as it was, he didn't come here to beg a family who had thrown him once to throw him out again.

Marcela averted her eyes, boring holes into their brittle floorboards. "I wish we kept you. I really do," she said. "But, as you can see, we have enough mouths to feed as it is. We can't afford another. And with how you appeared out of the blue, I suppose you've found quite a life for you too. Have they treated you well?"

The pain was evident. Perhaps, the regret, too, but it wasn't enough to convince Alon this was what families do to each other. And what a stupid question. Has Primeva treated him well? If biologically-enhancing a child without their consent and then later sticking him into a murder-spree counted as 'well', then, he'd have an answer.

"I'm alive. That's all there is to it," Alon answered. He set the glass on the stool and ducked his head at his biological parents for the last time. "Thank you for your time. I hope it all works well with you."

With that, he marched out of the house. His parents didn't try to stop him either. They probably had no idea what to do with him as he appeared out of the blue. Of course, anyone could claim they were someone's lost child. It was no wonder they didn't recognize him. They weren't anything to him either—just names on a record and a database. And yet, when he was a considerable distance from the dilapidated arch and the deplorable street altogether, a tear escaped his eye and a small sob followed.