06

Don is awake before he opens his eyes. He lets them remain shut, trying to figure out the situation he's in. For one, he isn't in his own bed. His bed is layered with thick blankets with folds and creases everywhere to preserve the heat. All he can feel on the bed he's currently sleeping on is a thin sheet of cloth between him and the actual mattress.

It's cold. Quiet. There is a gentle light shining on his eyelids. As far as he can tell, there's no one in the room. He allows himself to shift positions and feels a dull throb of pain in his left thigh as soon as he moves it. His eyes fly open. "Agh.. what the--" He tries to raise his head, but it immediately starts aching too. "Hell..." he mutters, leaning back into the bed.

Memories of the meeting and ambush flow slowly back into his mind, worsening his headache. Great. Now he knows what happened to his thigh, at least. If he remembers correctly, he also got grazed on the left shoulder and the right hip. As soon as he acknowledges it, the respective wounds start stinging, as if raising their hands for attendance. Just great.

Having enough of being injured and helpless, Don abruptly pushes himself up, regretting it immediately after. His head throbs heavily in protest. Shut up, he growls at the unwelcome nuisance.

His vision clears, allowing him to properly examine his present setting. He's in an air-conditioned clinic, with curtains spread by his bedside. Sunlight escapes through the blinds, making the room possess an almost ethereal ambience. Don blinks at it, eyes adjusting. He's been here before.

He looks down at himself, assessing the damage. He's in a blue patient's gown, with bandages on his wounds. The bandages on his shoulder and hip, he can feel, aren't so huge, so they must be healing fast. However, the bandage on his thigh is wide, tight, and stained reddish-brown.

His breath catches in his throat. He stares at the freshest patch of red and feels the world spiral around him. An invisible force constricts his throat. He turns away so quickly that his sight goes spinning.

"Focus,” he murmurs. His throat feels scratchy, causing him to swallow. Broken out from his previous trance, he takes a deep breath and decides to stand up before anything else untoward happens.

Therein lies the rub.

As soon as he's on his feet, his left knee collapses on him, and he falls to the ground with a loud clatter. The wheeled stand of the curtains rolls away, threatening to topple over. Don holds on to his bed, cursing under his breath. "Of all the hapless situations I've had the luck to embody..."

"This is by far, the worst I've seen on you," a voice completes. Don looks up to see a person at the door. Ah, perfect. "But it's not as hapless as it looks," Doctor Gareth resumes.

The man steps in, carrying a clipboard. He surveys Don with his eyes, raising an eyebrow. "I told them," he says, walking in. "They didn't listen."

"Is that so?" Don scowls, trying to get back on his feet.

"I told them to leave sticky notes that said 'Don't stand!' all over the place. Or put a cane by the bed because you were probably going to anyway. But no. They're all like, 'You aren't the head of this operation anymore, Gary!' 'Piss off!' I'm like: Excuse you, doc, I've treated this patient eleven times. You bet your ass he’s getting up."

Eleven? Don thinks. Has it been eleven? He's never cared to keep count.

Gareth kneels down to his right side, then puts Don's arm around his shoulders. He holds Don by the waist and pulls him up. Don makes a wry face at the sting in his thigh, but does his best to ignore it. He steadies himself on his feet, trying to keep balance.

"How long will I have this limp?" Don grumbles.

"It's temporary. Give it a week without any more sneaking out of bed, and maybe it'll disappear. The injury's combined with your malnutrition and naturally weak physique to make this limp so bad. What happened to you? You're soo light compared to last time!" the man teases.

A week? Don considers. Not good.

"Congrats, Don. You've topped your first wreckage," the doctor says in his ever-jovial tone.

Don straightens. "You do not mention that name in public. Everyone refers to me as--"

"We're not in public, My Lord Bakunawa, moon-eater and dragon of the seas. I get the drill." Gareth walks him out the door. The hallway is bereft of people, but spilling with sunlight. Don squints. It's just like how he remembers it.

"You know, as a medical professional, I would advise you to return to your bed, but as an individual with common sense, I know it's useless because you're an idiot."

"Do you ever stop talking?" Don snaps.

He can see Gareth smile from the side of his eye. "Only when people make me," he sing-songs.

"It's serendipity for you that I require your aid, else you'd be forcibly humbled," Don informs him. From what he can tell, the buffoon of a doctor is leading him to the mansion's kitchen. Tyodoro Lorenzo, the politician who inhabits the place, has a contract with Manaul, so the organization has the right to use the mansion as a sanctuary. With the headquarters in its deteriorating condition, the whole organization must be in the mansion right now. Still, there was no one else in sight.

"Does it hurt when you compose sentences like that? More than the obvious physical pain, I mean," Gareth quips. "That's a lot of effort for a threat. Is it because you're too scrawny to use muscle that you use so much words?"

Don rolls his eyes. "If there is someone between the two of us that uses too much words, it's you, Doctor. Is your futile attempt of being loquacious there to hide the fact you're an utter failure?"

They did indeed reach the kitchens. Curiously, there still wasn't a soul in sight. There was always someone in the kitchens. One of the kitchens, at least. Before Don could comment on the fact, Gareth had said something incredibly insipid once more, causing another petty argument. Gareth was the one to cook the food because, in his opinion, anything Don had the idea to consume was 'stupid' ("Instant noodles? Really?") and Don had 'no inkling on recuperation'.

By the time they finished arguing, Gareth had already made classic chicken soup and laid it out on the small kitchen table for Don to eat. "Bon appétit!" Gareth says, throwing out an arm for audience impact.

Don, the audience, did not acknowledge his stupidity. He pretends to examine the soup critically, although he’s already starving. Finally, he puts a spoonful in his mouth. It’s heavenly.

He relishes in the taste of his meal. “Where is my consigliere?” he asks. Gareth sat across him, head supported by his right hand. He cringes. "Who?"

"Icamen," Don answers patiently, too satiated to be unkind. Gareth scratches his chin and shifts to lean on his other elbow. "Icamen! Er, she's alright now, don't worry. Up and about, spouting orders and trying to fill your space while you get better," he smiles nervously.

Only after he empties his bowl does Don realize how suspicious the answer was. It seems that the doctor would rather lie by omission, so perhaps what he said about Icamen being healed is true. Gareth is probably Icamen's idea of a distraction to keep Don from doing anything. She always did care.

"Her concussion wasn't that severe, I suppose, if she got up in less than a day," Don tells Gareth to keep him from sweating like the terrible liar he is.

The older man looks at him, sincerely bemused. Only after a few seconds did he reply, "Uh, Don? You've been out for like six days. Icamen woke up on the third."

"Six days?" Don chuckles to himself. He was in the middle of drinking a glass of water. A moment passes and the glass drops to the surface of the table.

"Six days?" Don exclaims, smacking the table. "And you only think to tell me now? Good God, has Manaul disintegrated? Have the crime rates plummeted? Did Layan get their weapons? Mother of my mother, I've been out for so long..."

"Don, relax! Icamen's got it handled!" Gareth stands in alarm.

"Why have I been out for six days?"

"The sickness took a bit of time to treat-- Calm down!"

"Sickness from a bullet?" Don scoffs.

Gareth gives him a look. "Yes, Don. That's actually possible. But, no. From an arrow."

"An arrow?" Don repeats dryly.

"I'm not kidding. Guinto shot you with a poisoned arrow even if they had hi-tech firearms. It had a tracker, apparently, but Icamen made sure that was disposed of. Don't fuss!" The doctor hurries to Don's side of the table to coax him to his feet. "Alright, no more panicking for you. It's bad for your everything," he says soothingly as he helps Don up the way he did before.

"I can do it myself!" Don lies, pushing Gareth away. His left leg wobbles dangerously but he takes a step nonetheless. She’s been in charge too long. They have yet to come across a soul. "Tell me where she is," he breathes.

"You can't see her!" Gareth blurts, holding Don firmly by the right shoulder. "I lied to you! She didn't really get up yet. She's in a fragile condition, I didn't want you to worry--"

In a swift movement, Don snatches the fork from the table and holds it against Gareth's throat, right under his adam’s apple. Gareth's eyes widen, shocked enough to undo his clasp on Don. The crime boss shrugs him off, takes him by the shoulder and presses the fork harder against Gareth's flesh. Don levels him with an intense glower. "How determined are you to lie to my face, Doctor?" he says through gritted teeth.

Gareth swallows, sweating profusely. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. "S-surely you're-- You're not really going to do this...?" he manages.

Don's eyes narrow. "You're expendable. No hard feelings," he adds in a cheerful tune, although he barely smiles.

Gareth's face falls. He takes one more look at the fork and closes his eyes.

*

There is a room in the mansion that so baronial, it could be mistaken as a temple of worship. It is kept up by huge marble columns with angels sculpted in fine hand. On any special occasion, the walls would be covered with banners and curtains, and the floor with elaborate carpets. There would be small round tables everywhere, all covered in red sheets and a sumptuous choice of viands. And on the platform, there will be a golden seat for the esteemed host.

Today is not one of those special occasions, so the chairs and tables are stacked on one side, the carpets rolled up, and the curtains taken down. But the presence of the golden seat is never to be doubted. Upon that seat is the heir to Manaul's throne, chin raised and eyes promising nothing less than the most severe verdicts.

The middle of three tall wooden doors swings open with a bit more than a low groan. Then enters the one who claimed her birthright and stole her crown. The heir's gaze does not soften, and she does not bother to raise her voice. "I expected you a bit earlier," Icamen says from the high seat, her voice carrying easily to the other side of the room.

Don lets go of the door's handle to slowly limp forwards. "Sorry I'm late. Took me long to find you," he answers in a somewhat hoarse voice. He does not mean to say much to her, as there is already a lot explained by the mere scene he has entered into.

"You look like a mess," Icamen observes with a little smirk growing on her face. Instead of a hospital gown, Don wears a loose nurse uniform with crumples here and there. His hair is disheveled. There’s a pistol in his hand, but they both know he won’t use it. "Get back to bed, Boss. I'll handle things while you sit this one out," she says in the casual tone she normally uses on him. Don can almost believe that nothing has changed. But the greedy glint in her eyes has yet to vanish.

Don limps past the stone angels without an ill word. The seraphs stare in utter silence, unable to intervene in what was always bound to happen. Don stops when he is only three feet away from the platform. He remains standing.

"Big chamber. It could fit the entirety of Manaul," he drawls out, examining the area. "Just you in here?" he asks.

Icamen's jaw tightens. "Yes. Just me," she replies. There is a brief silence before she adds apropos of nothing, "I thought that wound was healed."

Don's head makes the slightest tilt to acknowledge his left shoulder, revealed by a drooping sleeve. The bandage is freshly stained with crimson. Don does not look at it. He takes two slow breaths. "I had trouble asking for directions," he says curtly.

*

Gareth's face falls. He takes one more look at the fork and closes his eyes. Don waits for his answer, believing to have won. There, he was mistaken. Quick as a whip, the doctor twists the fork out of Don's hands. He shoots his other arm above Don's injured shoulder, then brings it down in a quick chopping motion.

"Ack!" Don cries, staggering back against the table. He clutches his wound, hissing.

"Go back to your room, Don. Doctor's orders," Gareth says monotonously. He doesn't look anything like an accommodating doctor anymore.

Don scoffs. "What kind of doctor takes advantage of his patients?" he says sardonically.

"I'm a mafia doctor." Gareth slams a kick against Don's side. Don falls to the floor, his back hitting the table.

Despite the situation, Don cackles breathily. "Then you've violated at least two oaths! Hippocratic and Mafia! Though we're much less like a Mafia now..."

"Shut up! Just shut up, Don! I was going to spare you of this, but seeing as I'm just 'expendable' to you, what's the point?"

Don tries to sit up. "Very well, Doctor. Seeing as I'm in no fit state to take you on, I might as well forfeit. Take me away," Don relents, the mirth leaving his expression.

Gareth looms over him, eyes remaining dulled and hard. He kneels down. Don seizes the bowl on the table and shatters it against Gareth's head. The man stumbles backward, disoriented. Don leaps forward, keeping the strain on his good leg.

"You sorry bastard," Gareth slurs, fumbling to his feet.

"Language, Doctor." Don grips the kitchen counter for support. On different sides of the kitchen, each take their own weapons. Gareth lunges for the knives. Don grabs, with rags in either hand, the pot of scalding hot soup.

*

"The doctor wasn't very helpful."

Icamen's eyes narrow. Her gaze slides to the side nonchalantly. "I thought you liked him."

Don hand twitches at his side. "I don't dislike him," he supplies. He walks forward, keeping his limp trained. A step on the platform has Icamen straightening. She holds his stare, neither of them wishing to look intimidated in the least.

"So the family has come to a decision?" Don asks, referring to Manaul. It's been a long time since he called his organization 'family'. Probably due to the fact it never felt like one.

"For someone who brags of tact, your approach has a lack of strategy. You should--"

"Stop dancing around the issue. I asked you a question," Don commands loudly, an austere expression on his face. Icamen blinks slowly, seeming to break from her cold act.

"I wanted to wait until you were better for this, Don," she sighs, finally sounding like the Icamen he knows.

"You always cared, didn't you?" Don growls, voice dripping with enmity. He knew the day would come. He had hoped it wouldn’t have to. But for all their little jokes about treason, now it stares him in the face.

Icamen almost looks sad for him. Pitying. "That doctor was one of the few that opposed our verdict."

"Which is?" Don cuts in.

All emotion drains from Icamen’s face until there is only tantalizing pride. "I am the new Bakunawa. And there is no space in Manaul for another."

The mere picture of her sends regret in pools. Regret that he hadn’t killed her earlier. “I treated you as an equal,” he snarls.

Her glare is relentless. “On the throne, there is no such thing.”

“Thought as much.”

Icamen grips the arms of the chair tightly, on the edge of her seat. But Don does not do anything sudden. He turns around, towards the door, and limps back where he came from. Icamen is quiet, brimming with suspicion, as Don can imagine. But how stupid can he be if he let himself be consumed by wrath and attacked her right on the spot?

Don stumbles right before the doors. He hears a shuffle of clothes across the hall. Perhaps it's Icamen standing up in concern. "I'm fine," he says aloud, sparing her a glance. She is standing. The sight gives him a twang of melancholy. "By the way. You dropped this," he says dismally. He takes something from the garter of his pants then hurls it all the way to the stage. Icamen's eyes lock onto its trajectory, realizing just in time for Don to scurry off.

Answer: Very stupid.

The grenade explodes behind him, making smoke erupt through the doors. Don takes hold of a gurney, planting his bad foot on its frame and using it as a skateboard. There is no dignity in this, half of him thought. The other half tries not to enjoy itself too much.

He knew every way out of the manor. Ordeal: So did they. He hears Icamen shout a muted command. Two men spring out from the hallway ahead of him. Don restrains his impulse to shoot. "Karyll! Dre! You can't seriously be supporting her madness!" he calls out, putting his foot down to stop the gurney.

Karyll draws out a machine gun and shoots. Don uses the gurney as cover from the rain of bullets, rolling to another corridor. "That's exactly what we're supporting!" Karyll shouts. "You've gone soft, Boss!"

Don is pressed against the wall. He scoffs. "Do you call a public execution of enemies soft?" he says with distaste. His eyes scan the area wearily. His ex-subordinates are clearly out for his blood. There's a chance of regaining their loyalty. If only he knew why they were rebelling.

There's a laundry chute on the other side of the floor. With his frame, he could be able to crawl into it. But there's something he needs to do first.

A door opens. "Honestly, Boss," Dre's voice pops up from beside him. Don jumps, holding out his pistol. "Outlawing prostitution was a bit too far," the man finishes.

Oh.

Don pulls the trigger. Dre dodges then shoots forward with a knife in hand. Don bends backwards, the knife lightly grazing his cheek. "If that's your mindset, then I can't change it!" Don grabs Dre's outstretched arm, turns, and yanks it over his shoulder. Dre is flipped over, his back crashing against the hard floor. Don aims his gun at Dre, but does not shoot. Instead, he sits on Dre's torso. "You should've come at me with a gun." He brings down his pistol to wham it against Dre's head, knocking the man out cold.

Ironically, it was Icamen who taught him all that.

The sounds of footsteps draw near, and they're more than Don can take alone. He creeps into the door Dre appeared from. The room, like any other in this place, is bathed in sunlight from the window. Don opens the window, draws the curtains, then jumps behind a messy desk.

Someone walks in from the opposite door. "Where are you, Boss?" he hears Karyll's voice mutter. Footsteps scurry to the window, and that's when Don decides to pounce. He grabs her from behind, covering her mouth with an iron grip. She puts up a fight, elbowing him painfully in the ribs, and it takes all of his strength not to lose her. He locks his arm around her neck and sticks his pistol to the side of her brow. "Shoot them, or I'll shoot you," Don whispers up from behind her.

Karyll steps into the corridor, Don close behind her. The back-up miscreants Icamen has sent spot her, then spot him. "Fire! Fire!" the man in front gestures, but Karyll's machine gun is already prepared. Her weapon roars as she takes them down. They only get to fire strays.

"Good girl!" Don chirps, ready to knock her out. But she whips around and turns the gun on him. Don dodges, flat on the floor, then seizes her legs. She falls backwards, firing at the ceiling. He tries to wrestle the gun out of her hands, but she's stronger. She writhes and thrashes, struggling to get a good aim at him. Don pulls out his pistol and shoots blindly. The bullet rips through her throat. Karyll drops the machine gun, spurting a fountain of red.

Don jolts away from her, mouth shut firmly. He wipes at himself blindly before taking the machine gun only to find it low on ammo. He tosses it to the side. A pistol would have to do.

Don stands up and limp-runs to the room he woke up in. Everything hurts, but he has to find something. Left turn, he recalls. Right... He scrambles into the room, toppling all the trays, and opening all the cabinets.

Where. Is. His. Cellphone?

All his dealings. His programs. All he's worked for. They're all in there, ready to be hacked open. He has to find Gareth-- He would know!

Don takes the wheeled curtains as the gurney’s replacement. It’s considerably harder to maneuver, but he can manage. He passes the kitchen, but his ex-subordinates are swarming there and rise after him. There's no chance he can find it now. Don fixes his mind on escape. The laundry chute is nearing.

A bullet hits the wheel of the curtain stand, causing him to crash into the floor. The chute is within sight and reach. Don sets aside his pains and crawls.

"Forgetting something?" a familiar voice asks. Don shoots to his feet to see Icamen, her grin dripping with malice. The gunfire stops to acknowledge her. "I thought your prized possession would pass onto me, along with Manaul," she adds.

Don's eyes widen upon seeing it dangling from her hand by a keychain. The keychain is of a black king chessman. The last boss bought it for him. Without pause, Don swings up his gun and shoots it. Icamen jerks in shock as the dead phone clatters to the floor. The gunfire restarts and Don lunges for the chute. With only one thing left to do, he's glad he decided to keep extra grenades in the emergency cabinets of each room when he was still in power.

He pulls out another grenade from under his shirt and takes the ring off. Hauling it over to his terrified usurpers, he breaks into a wobbly run. A second before it explodes in their faces, he dives into the laundry chute and disappears from Manaul.