Marked For Death | klangst

Sixteen.

Lance was dreaming. Well, it was more of a nightmare, but dreaming nonetheless.

He was on a beach of some sorts, hot grains of sand getting in between his toes. His jeans were rolled up to his mid-calf, and the shirt he was wearing was a simple white tank top -- one that revealed his lean, yet toned, arms and covered his not-so-toned abdomen.

Sunlight poured on his face from high in the sky, the star bright and warm. The water -- mere feet from him -- sparkled blindingly, giving the impression of liquid opal or sapphire. Lance tilted his face towards the sky when he paused his admiration of the water, relishing in the heat he hadn't felt for such a long time. He closed his eyes, making sure to absorb every single ray, every single drop of sunlight that he could before it all went away, before he woke up.

Just then, a little girl of perhaps eight scrambled onto the beach, giggling and carrying a woven basket with several flowers laying within. From what Lance could tell, they looked like various kinds of daylilies and geraniums. Behind her was an older boy, maybe about eleven. He, too, was laughing. Oddly enough, they both looked very familiar.

Yet, both fell silent when their eyes landed on Lance. The little girl released a small shriek, dropping her basket of flowers. Instinctively, the older boy stepped in front of the girl protectively, holding up his arm to shield her. Lance could tell by the look of the boy's face that he was a bit frightened as well, and didn't want any harm, but would do what was necessary to protect the little girl.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, trying to mask the quiver in his voice by falsified bravery.

But something clicked in Lance's mind. He recognized that voice. He remembered always asking his brother for piggy-back rides, and never being able to say no, he complied with a hearty laugh. "Marco?" Lance croaked, his throat tightening with emotion. "As in Largo Margo, who's not... largo anymore?" Wait... Did he go back in time or something?

The boy looked taken aback -- stunned. "How did you...?"

"It's me, Marco! It's Lance!" he tried to tell him, but the look of bewilderment and caution never left Marco's eyes.

"I don't know any Lance," he said, stepping away. The little girl followed his lead, still hiding behind Marco's arms.

Lance laughed. "Okay, very funny, but the joke's over. C'mon now," he told the two children, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What's wrong with you, you crack-pot?" Marco asked, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know you, so I suggest you leave before I call the rest of my family -- and trust me, you'd rather not deal with them."

Lance blinked in wonder. "What's wrong with me?" he asked in return, taking a cautious step forward, trying to convey that he'd never ever hurt them. "What's wrong with you? I don't get it... I mean, we're brothers! You have me rides on your back when I was four. We pretended we were pilots soaring above the highest clouds. We made airplane and spacecraft noises, too! You gotta remember that, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're rambling on about. I only have one brother, and his name is Landon," Marco told Lance, his skepticism growing palpable. He picked up the girl's basket of flowers and handed it to her kindly, never once breaking eye contact with Lance.

Lance, however, did. His breathing became shallow and rapid as his heart skipped a beat. Who the quiznak was Landon? "This doesn't make any sense..." Lance puzzled, scratching his head in utter confusion. He sunk to the ground, the sand clinging to the fabric of his jeans and the short hairs on his legs. "You're my brother... And she -- Veronica, oh gosh, she's grown up so much -- she's my sister. Along with Sasha and Luis..."