Any sense of urgency Jeice might have felt in learning the strange new techniques was swiftly squelched by the sheer monotony of life in Hell(he'd begun, like the others, to refer to the camp that way; it seemed all too fitting sometimes). Night and day were the sole indicators of the passage of time, and Jeice soon gave up counting the days. As Ghud pointed out, it wouldn't matter what day it was until they got out, and then it would be simpler just to ask someone. For the interim, time was a fairly useless concept.

Progress was gauged by ability rather than seniority. The pecking order was constantly shifting, determined by fights during training and challenges after hours. Any one of them was expected to defend his position at a moment's notice, and in this competitive environment Jeice thrived, feeding on the conflict as a means of escape from more dire thoughts.

He suspected the rest all felt the same; in the heat of battle it was possible to forget everything but the charged euphoria of power against power, the heady rush of physical pain. Fights were the focus of the chaos, a separate plane on which all could meet, removed from their individual tragedies: a purgatory in the midst of Hell.

Few structures of their lifestyle were fixed; an amorphous balance was achieved between changing elements, but within the boys' hierarchy existed one constant: Suiz. He was the leader without exception and without question. He rarely ever sparred, even during proctored training sessions, instead choosing to watch from a secluded corner, silent. Jeice tried it once and received several broken ribs from Mojak(their new overseer)for it; Suiz had watched the spectacle with a poker face, refusing to answer Jeice's questioning afterwards. Eventually Jeice was forced to accept it as one of those things he was not intended to understand.

He and Camber vied for the top spot beneath Suiz, both capable fighters in their own ways. Camber was fairly strong and he was older; a wealth of experience lent itself to his skill. Jeice was less refined, but possessed a nearly freakish power level for his age. Their matches were closely followed as the others bet on strength versus skill. Jeice resented the implication that he was unskilled, but derived a great deal of satisfaction from the expression on Camber's face on the rare occasions Jeice caught him off-guard; those were the fights Jeice won, often in a single, decisive strike.

Jeice was dimly aware of Cheada's presence throughout. He would appear without warning at practice, or waltz into their quarters after hours, ostensibly just to check headcount, but the way he looked at Jeice spoke of something else; Jeice felt the silent challenge behind that gaze, waiting to see him act on his long-ago promise. Jeice knew better than to make a move now, though; choking on his anger, he planned for the day he would be able to avenge his mother's death.

He did not expect Cheada to bring the conflict to him.

He'd just laid down for the night when Cheada arrived, making a beeline straight for him. Jeice looked up, confused, and with a sharp gesture for him to follow, Cheada left as abruptly as he'd come. Jeice followed, casting questioning glances at the others, receiving only shrugs except from Suiz, who bit his lip and looked away. Futilely reminding himself not to jump to conclusions, Jeice trailed behind his father until they reached the main arena, the one Jeice had damaged on his first day. The door slammed behind them with a resounding clang and Cheada turned, face shadowed by the weak overhead lights.

"Well, boy?"

"Well, what?" Jeice found himself unconsciously assuming a defensive posture. 'Don't be ridiculous, this isn't a fight…'

"Now is your chance, Jeice. Kill me." Jeice's surprise was twofold: one, that Cheada would be inviting him to attack, and two, that Cheada would call him by his given name. His father had been calling him nothing but "boy", "brat", and "weakling" since he'd arrived. Once he'd gotten over the shock, Jeice shook his head.

"I'm not ready. Not yet." Cheada gave a dry chuckle.

"I'm not here for your convenience, and there's no guarantee I'll stick around long enough for you to feel ready. I'm giving you a golden opportunity; and as a rule, it's best to attack when you can, not when you feel like it."

"Too bad. Are you going to beat me into fighting again?" Cheada sighed.

"No. If I have to half-kill you to get you to fight, then you're just as useless as when I first brought you here."

Jeice blinked, startled. He'd managed to convince himself that he didn't give a whoop in hell about what Cheada thought of him…but the acerbic comment somehow struck a nerve. He wanted to lash out, to attack, to prove his worth as a solider…

"It won't work," he said softly. "You can't goad me into it. You're hiding something, and I refuse to fight you until I know your motives."

"Coward."

"No."

"Weakling."

"Then why am I still here?"

"Jeice!!" he roared, taking a threatening step forward.

"It won't work, fath—" His speech cut off as Cheada's heavy booted foot buried itself in Jeice's gut; he doubled over and gagged, then pitched backward as Cheada dealt him a swift uppercut to the jaw.

"Then as of this moment," Cheada said in a low breathless hiss, "you are no longer my son. Get out of my sight; and if you ever call me 'father' again, I will kill you far more slowly than I did Lureine." For a moment Jeice could only stare, horror-struck, as the meaning of Cheada's words began to sink in; his body started to shake. As Cheada turned to leave, the last threads of Jeice's self-control snapped completely.

Cheada had been prepared for Jeice's initial attack, spinning and easily swatting the youth aside to tumble into a shuddering heap on the ground. Turning on his heel once more, Cheada strode away without so much as a second glance…and therein lay his mistake.

He felt the sudden explosion behind him and dodged instinctively, throwing himself out of its path. He flipped in the air and landed on his feet a short distance away, now facing the irate young warrior. In that tense moment, Cheada's entire being seemed to swell with rage.

"You!!" he bellowed. "You dare?!"

"You told me to kill you," Jeice rasped.

"And you didn't! You failed, utterly and completely, but that's not enough? You have to attack me when my back is turned like you were some pathetic cowardly mercenary? Have I taught you nothing?!"

"When the hell did you teach me?" Jeice shouted. "I saw you about three times a year! You never taught me a damned thing but I idolized you anyway. I respected you, kami alone knows why; you certainly never did anything to deserve it.

"And you talk to me of cowardice? You, who couldn't face his own family for more than a few hours at a time, who killed an innocent woman for no reason except fear?" Jeice spoke more quietly now, but his voice held the same strangled intensity.

"She was your wife, Cheada. What did she do to make you fear her so, that you felt she had to die? What did she know, that you had to silence her?" Jeice's eyes narrowed shrewdly, as though he were seeing something clearly for the first time. "How many others have you killed out of that same fear?" In an instant Cheada's enormous hand was clamped on Jeice's throat, drawing slowly and inexorably tighter.

"You're none to pass judgement, boy. I've never killed without reason. Unlike you, I consider the consequences before I strike out of anger, and you should be damned glad I do, or I would have killed you long ago. There's still a purpose left for you, though I'm beginning to doubt your suitability to the task."

"If it's my purpose," Jeice croaked, gasping, "why don't I know about it?"

"Because in this case it's what you are, not who you are, that matters."

"What am I? I have no connections: my friends abandoned…my parents dead to me." His voice quavered slightly.

"When the time comes you will discover what you are…if you're still alive by then."

"I'm not afraid of you." Cheada's hand slipped from his throat.

"Of course not," he said softly. "I'm not what's out to kill you, boy."

"Could have fooled me."

"Baka. I'm the only reason you're alive."

"I see no reason to thank you for that."

"Oh, no, I daresay you despise me for it. Go ahead…it won't make any difference." Jeice drew back from him, eyes sparkling with hate-filled tears.

"You were right, Cheada, when you said I wasn't your son. How could I be? You're not my father…you never were."