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Concerning the bonus points: Darn, all I could think of was Clarissa Explains it all, and Tom Riddle from Harry Potter. >=/ Concerning Allamorph: Actually, my motive for your mention was double-sided: for one, I really did want the opinion of another reader, and I assumed you would post right behind me, and secondly, I wanted to acknowledge your mention in "The Chosen One" without making a post dedicated to it. No, I don't think you're following me, but yes, I'm sure you will follow me, as far as in critiquing this story goes. Concerning the Story, which is still phenom[b]e[/b]nal: At your writing caliber, I highly recommend not destroying any large work, as much as you might hate it. Dare I bring up Franz Kafka's famous anecdote to prove my point? The new segment is very good, I personally didn't feel it was rushed at all, at least not overly so. Though I would recommend rephrasing the first two sentences of the final paragraph, so as not to call attention to your feelings on your own work. It is my personal belief that most writers are literary self-deprecationists, and perhaps sometimes literary sluts, a title which, I suppose, may account for their self-deprecating tendancies. Fantistic work; I'm actually anxious for the next section. ^^

This is, again, fantastic work. Officially my favorite unpublished fantasy piece on the web (which may seem like a peculiarly narrow title, but I see a lot of it, absolute tons). I really like where this is going, and the skill you show in writing in general, specifically distancing the revealing of events and their actual occurance. Most web writers would jump directly to the disownment after it was revealed by Domminick. It's refreshing to see some patience. There was one thing that I dare nitpick: One, because you sometimes speak directly to the reader, the sentence, [I]"A great deal was asked about what they really did at Errant Gardens, which turned out to be many things[/I].", caused a slight confusion. I might recommend specifying that Arisa asked, and perhaps some mention to the conversation that followed, to better bring about the following sentence, [I]?I saw it, my dear, three questions ago, when you asked about pixies.?[/I] But that's really opinion-based. I may very well be the only one that bothered. What do you think, Allamorph? This is really great work. Phenominal.

I don't know how this managed to escape my attention for so long. It really is fantastic. I haven't seen work of this calibur on this board in quite some time, not in ages to be sure. I was particularly fond of "The Everwonder Compendium of All Possible Knowledge" quotes, and the small parts in which the author speaks directly to the reader (i.e. things like, "There are many things that shall be explained later, and others that shall not, because Virgil has his own story, but the main character here is Arisa."). The few problems I did have with this piece were all based on opinion; such and such a word choice didn't sound right, or some subtle cliche or other that really can't be avoided anyway, so I won't waste time nitpicking.

Ugh. Starting a story with its summary is never a good idea--I'm pretty disinclined to read something that I already know the storyline to, you know what I mean? Second, it's equally a bad idea to post work that you're not particularly proud of, or at least telling the audience that you're not proud of it. If you can't get excited about it, why should the reader? Maybe you're just bad at summarizing, I don't know, but I'll give you the benifit of the doubt, as a few of my friends and I are also terrible summarizing our work. If you post the first chapter, I'll read it, but I won't promise anything more than that.

Krist, talk about jumping the gun. Your introduction really doesn't merit a revelation like this, and I would almost assume that you're imagining this as you go along. There's also some problems with repitition and unvarying sentence structure. Some unnecessary things like " 'Hmm...' Arika said to herself. 'I wonder what that was about...' " Not as good as the intro...but I'll still read on if this doesn't go like another Harry Potter rip.

Overall, it's good; I enjoyed reading this and I would read more. But there were things that bothered me...There was a generic tinge that put me on edge, the whole most-popular-boy-in-school thing, for example, as well as the description of "long and straight brownish-red hair". Little things. But I liked the scene as a whole, so, if you post more, I will read it.

[FONT=Garamond][CENTER]The Existentialist[/CENTER] [INDENT]The concept of plausible reality is sketchy at best. A collection of neural impulses collected from the environment, processed and translated, altered and tweaked by our psyche gives is the idea of perception. Meaning, a series of chemical reactions is all that dictates what[B] is [/B] and what [B]exists[/B]. An outer environment need not exist for us to percieve one, and the reality we percieve need not always adhere to the one that is [B]truly there?[/B][CENTER]***[/CENTER] The grey sky made black silohuettes out of the surrounding towers, wavy and distorted, contradictory to the architectural laws of logic. I lay in the center of a halo of cobbelstone, though I percieved no light from which this halo could have been emitted, like being in the glare of an invisible spotlight. The night?or at least, the darkness which resembled night in this realm of absurdity which held no ?day? to contrast, absorbed what should have been a cloudy sky and made it oblivion, a floating void of grey and black that hovered over this realm like a dome, a writhing, ever-changing thing like the waves of a toxic ocean? ?Mr. Emon?? I hear a voice, familiar, but there?s nobody next to me. This voice pervades the time and space of my illogical reality, like an enourmus pressure, like light upon a receeding shadow. ?Mr. Emon, are you still with me?? The world is shaking around me with a deafening hum, derbis rattling and vibrating in my darkening cobbelstone haven, around which envelops oblivion. There?s a screech inside my head, and for a second I see light-- a cream-colored celing and a fluorescent light strip and then it?s gone, and the sky is bleeding and the serpentile towers swim up to meet the drops of oblivion and they dissapear into each other like individual black holes that fight for dominance in the sky and another screetch and peek at the fluorescent light and the two worlds become one, a liquid mixture of reality, shifting and contorting on the film of my perception and my halo is gone and oblivion converges on my being and I CAN?T BREATHE AND THE BLEEDING FABRIC OF OF EXISTANCE IS TEARING AND GNASHING AND UNRAVELING AROUND ME ?Mr. Emon, it?s paramount that you respond to your therapy. Our interaction is crucial if you wish to achieve mental stability.? Blackness?and the sound of my heartbeat. I can breathe again. I respond. ?It?s just ?Emon?? not ?Mr. Emon?.? ?Very well, Emon.? Am I at the psychiatrist?s office? ?In our last session you complained of dillusions, hallucinations, and a sense of alienation from the world?? I open my eyes, slowly, and see the fluorescent light strip and the cream-colored celing. I?m laying on a freudian couch. When did I leave the apartment? ??you also mentioned trouble in deciphering what?s real and what?s imaginary. Is that correct?? Is it? I don?t know if that?s right or not. What do I need to tell you that results in a fucking cure? You didn?t give me anything last time?just told me to come back?do I not seem desperate enough? No perscription, no diagnosis, nothing. It?s a lot like being told the peace of mind you?re looking for does not exist. Please act accordingly. Did I say that out loud? ?Mr. Emon?? ?Maybe you can help me. I doubt it, but I don?t know? It?s not something as simple as hallucinations; I don?t think it could really be classified. I hope I?m wrong, but I don?t really think so. Imagine, for one brief second, breaking all the laws of logic and physics and the world that would become of that. No, better yet, imagine that you are the only thing you know to exist in the world, and that everything else is the manifestation of your thoughts. Roll your eyes back in your head and walk inside the wrinkles of your mind?nothing?s tangible, nothing?s real, and reality conforms to your worst fears? My problem stems from the fact that I can percieve two paralell, yet opposing realities at the same degree of clarity, one here, and one...one inside my mind. I have no control over which reality I percieve and when, and slowly, I?m, I?m losing distinction?? ?Distinction?? ?I mean, the ability for me to decide which reality is ?real?, ?true?, a proper representation of the world around me. It?s not just common sense anymore, it?s not just a matter of logic and falacy, they?re both whole and complete, and perhaps completely real. Sometimes they even bleed into each other? And when you really think about it, when two individual realities can be percieved at the same degree of clarity, deciding which one is right is really just a matter of preference, isn?t it?? ?What are you talking about, Emon?? ?Are you even listening? Something?s bloody wrong with me! How do I know you?re not just a reprocussion of my condition? Is this even real?? ?Emon?? ?Damn it! You don?t know what it?s like to be there when worlds mash together?You shouldn?t have brought me here, interrupted me with this crap!? ?Just what, exactly, were you doing that was so important?? ?Before you came?? ? I watched the sky fall.[/FONT][/INDENT]

That was grand, Vicky, great writing, even though you haven't had much experience in the first person (which, by the way, if you hadn't stated in the introduction, I would have never guessed). Quite remarkable work, especially on a subject so many people can relate to. You expressed the silent aggrivation on the bus perfectly, and the character was vague enough for everyone to feel affection for. I won't bother micromaneging any of the mistakes that you could fix with a simple reread (there were only one or two anyway, really matter-of-opinion mistakes), it's the whole that counts, and really, I loved it.

[FONT=Lucida Sans Unicode]Name: Borarium Gender: male Personality: Fueled and perserved by hatred, so vast that it has sated his appetite for anything else but that hated, a feeding, growing thing which has consumed Borarium's whole like a sickening bog of cancer and disease. A hate so passionate, so heated by the fires of Hell that Borarium has gone silent, almost apathetic to the appearance out of a sheer loathing that man has never felt. Appearance: A charcoal black demon with white horns that point back and tilt up behind his long ears. His eyebrows are white, though they are not of hair, but ash instead, and his eyes glow white with the intense hatred in his soul, and his raven wings that shed burning feathers when he flies, never depleting what seems an inexhaustable amount of deathly black feathers that seem to baulk the light of the sun itself. A magmic black rock expanse of his skin forms something like leggings, and his feet bare tremendous claws that grind into the gravel upon which he walks. Side: Hell Aspect: Strength Weapon: One large obsidian-tinted sword[/FONT]

[FONT=Garamond]Name: David Morte Gender: Male Age: 19 Appearance: David wears the mosk of youth and individuality, favoring artistic clothing he designed himself to much of anything else. He's tan with a clever face and messy black hair that sticks up in tuffs about his head. Story-Snippet: ...what awoke Kevin that night was not his reoccuring paranoia, but instead a faint, throaty sound, like the growling of an angry cat. Slowly, with the heaviness of slumber he went to the window, and as he had before, turned on the outside light. The patio furniture remained undisturbed, but the noise continued, groaning now, perhaps a cat had been injured. He was about to turn off the light and go back to sleep, when he noticed on the edge of the halo created by the outside light, a fleshy shape, almost like a human, but somehow...wrong. Whatever it was, Kevin decided that the growl had resounded from it. Even in the dark, Kevin could make out the shadows cast by mud and grime caked onto the thing's arms and legs, which spasmed in jerky movements as it made its way across the yard. Something shined on the thing's face where its eyes might have been, though the creature was too far away to tell for certain. Something about it, something unexplainable made the hairs on the back of Kevin's neck stand up, but as disgusted as he was, he couldn't help but watch the thing wander across his yard. The midnight cold created a mist on the window, and Kevin reached up to wipe it off, just enough to see the thing more clearly. It was stranger than he had first percieved, disproportioned, and strangely hunched over. But as Kevin examined it, he realized suddenly that it had suddenly stopped moving, and without looking, Kevin sensed that it was now entirely focused on Kevin himself. It jerked around to face Kevin, revealing to him that what he had seen shining was wire, a thin metallic wire that barred its terrible eyes, and a grate across its gaping maw. Kevin started and immediately switched off the light so as to hide himself. For a minute, there was silence, even from the throaty groaning he had heard. The thing seemed to have run off. Kevin was about to turn back to bed, but just before he could, he felt something against his face. A warm, moist something, that Kevin recognized almost immediately. Breath.[/FONT]

At one time, who spoke in group therapy was dictated by the passing of a small, plush ball. The wards figured nobody could actually kill themselves with a small plush ball. Then somebody did. Now, people were directed to speak when the therapist turned to them and said, "How are we doing today?" The "we" thing had creeped me out for a long time, since a patient had asked that, "How are we doing" and as I said fine she turned to me and screamed, "SHUT THE !@#$% UP!" and then continued to calmly talk to herself. The therapist turned to me and asked, "how are we doing today" and I pointed to myself and made sure I was apart of this, "we". She nodded, and I began. "I'm fine today, thank you." I said in my most pleasant, fake tone. "And on the subject I'd like to say that my particular...illness has caused some, ah, minor setbacks in my art career." Minor setbacks. I was spewing bullshit like a septic tank, and the therapist accepted every word, probably more focused on what she would do after work, or how she would escape if one of us started going nuts. To tell the truth, I wanted to tell the therapist everything my insanity had caused, about the partial disownment of my family, about the end of my proper life, about the would-be suicide attempt (had I been able to find a bottle of Tylenol in my apartment), about how I would happily live the rest of my life blind, if it meant never seeing those demons again. But instead I made my entire life story out to be a few "minor setbacks" and grinned as she grinned and in that moment, lying to the therapist in a mental facility, I got the strange feeling that I would be the perfect symbol for modern society. "Very good, Kevin. Thank you for sharing." I didn't know whether or not she had even heard what I had said, or had just pretended to. Maybe she just didn't care. "And, can I ask you just what your condition is?" She continued. I swallowed a lump, and made up my mind not to mention demons. "I, ah, have occasional dillusions." I said at last. I thought maybe the therapist would ask me to expand on that, but she accepted it and turned to the next person, my gut tightening at the "how are we doing today?"

Name: Borarium Gender: male Personality: Fueled and perserved by hatred, so vast that it has sated his appetite for anything else but that hated, a feeding, growing thing which has consumed Borarium's whole like a sickening bog of cancer and disease. A hate so passionate, so heated by the fires of Hell that Borarium has gone silent, almost apathetic to the appearance out of a sheer loathing that man has never felt. Appearance: A charcoal black demon with white horns that point back and tilt up behind his long ears. His eyebrows are white, though they are not of hair, but ash instead, and his eyes glow white with the intense hatred in his soul, and his raven wings that shed burning feathers when he flies, never depleting what seems an inexhaustable amount of deathly black feathers that seem to baulk the light of the sun itself. A magmic black rock expanse of his skin forms something like leggings, and his feet bare tremendous claws that grind into the gravel upon which he walks. Side: Hell Aspect: Strength Weapon: One large obsidian-tinted sword

[IMG]http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y111/Rainwolf_Graphite/BOMBSHELLSdrop.jpg[/IMG] [COLOR=DarkOrange] [FONT=Lucida Console]The year is 2029, you stand in the streets of London, smack dab in the center of a war between France and England. You move with the shadows of the street, professionally, using techniques you never learned, yet come so natural it?s as if you had been here since you were born. The primal instincts of fear and self-preservation have long since been wiped from your brain; when a mortar shell ignites the cobblestone not twenty yards in front of you, you regard it almost mechanically. A class 2 Mortar using 12 pound shells that struck the ground at an angle of about 85 degrees. They?re close. They?re almost right in front of you. You know that they?re your enemy, but you have no idea who they are. Another mile in the shadows, and you come on a platoon with two mortars. Bingo. You?re twenty feet away, they see you and open fire. Hell of a time to remember: you?re unarmed. Wait, let?s go back just a bit. It all started with Aritech. The Aritech Corporation is the leading weapons development industry worldwide, with clients among Russia, Germany, even the United States Government. Two years ago, in an attempt to find test subjects for new war time developments, they petitioned the American supreme court to gain control over the rights of high security convicts on death row. This would mean a complete abolishment of the death penalty, as well as millions in tax dollars returned to the public which would have otherwise been spent on prison fees. The world supported them with resounding applause. To them, Aritech was a saint, taking these terrible people in and giving them a place in their own corporation. The supreme court voted unanimously to give them their rights. As did the courts in Russia. And Germany. And, well, you get the idea. The public had no idea what kind of a hell Aritech had in store for them. Don?t be angry at them, they just haven?t met you yet. Six months later, four men went to the supreme court with a claim against Aritech. Hahaha, settle down, I know you want to kill them. I bet your blood boils just thinking about them, and what opportunities they stole from you. The four men, each convicts, who had been sentenced to servitude under Aritech, claimed that Aritech had framed each of them for their crimes, in order to gain their rights and servitude. The court battled for months, in a show that had the whole world on their feet. But that?s exactly what it was, a show. The four men were hired by Aritech to propose this claim against them, and in the final weeks of the case, call themselves frauds. One of the four men went to the stand, and confessed that he had actually killed his wife, and that he and the others had just blamed Aritech for it as a sort of payback. The four men were fakes from the start, and they became the laughing stock of the world, and Aritech remained a saint. Of course, it was all a ploy by Aritech to disprove any further allegations against them. If four frauds accused Aritech of framing them for murder and were disproved, nobody on Earth would believe another accusation of the same kind. This way, Aritech could safely do exactly what it had been accused of doing, framing young men and women in order to gain their rights and servitude. Sound familiar? I suppose this marks the end of your life, or rather, the beginning, depending on how you see it. You weren?t so different from any of the others, framed for murder, convicted, sold to Aritech. It happened all over the world, to hundreds, thousands even. Aritech was building a convicted army of innocent men. And you were all set to be one of them, another worker in the mindless masses of Aritech slaves. But you were chosen for something great. A new project, a biological training program to bring about the fearless soldier, cold to the world. Robotic in every way except that you were still alive. You were injected with twelve million dollars worth of nanomachines, and put to sleep for fifteen years. A fifteen year mental program that wrote war tactics directly onto your cerebral cortex, so advanced, that a twenty foot dash unarmed in London under heavy machine gun fire is just the mark of another new day. And in your new life, there is no hope of peace, or rest, or any future worth looking forward to. [FONT=Palatino Linotype]:SIGNUPS:[/FONT] The battle simulation on the streets of London end with a thud, as the last mortar operator falls to your feet. The voice that had narrated your past suddenly takes on the body of a middle aged blonde man in a suit. He smiles. [B]?The day is the 5,474th, or fifteen years minus one day, if you prefer. As you could have guessed, today is the final day of your fifteen year hibernation. You?ll be awake shortly, though where you will find yourself is of some mystery, even to me. Let?s go over your memory readouts, to check for any signs of amnesia. What is your Name, do you remember? How old were you when you went into this hibernation, fifteen years ago? (Don?t worry, the comatose suspended the natural degradation of your body, meaning you?ll physically be about the age you were frozen at.) Tell me what you look like. What is your nationality? Tell me of your personality. Tell me, what crime were you framed for? You chose a weapon at the beginning of your hibernation, the use of which you were to be specially trained for. Can you tell me what weapon that is? And tell me a little about yourself, your past. Alright, everything checks out. Post minus ten hours to wake up. Good luck, soldier!?[/B] You don?t know why, but the first thing you notice when you awaken is the time of year. It?s autumn.[/FONT][/COLOR]

Name: Jack Mont the Dirty Traitor Age: 27 Gender: male Bio: When a big-time bandit kills a sherrif, they take his badge and use it like a fake ID in neighboring towns. Each bandit gang feeds their horses blue-dyed hay, so when another bandit needs to steal a horse, he knows not to mess with the ones with blue teeth. These are bandit secrets. Jack Mort knows 'em, because for seventeen years of his life, he too was a bandit. He didn't have a family or nothing, no real noble cause for his career. He was just another scumbag varmit, but God damn he was good at it. When a partner in his gang tried to cut Jack Mort out of his share for a bank job they did a few years back, Jack Mort got real pissed and went to the sherrif. "I's a gonna help you catch this rattlesnake who done cheated me, and you's gonna take down 'dem wanted posters in return." Fact and negotiation blurr together if you're a sherrif with Jack Mort's pistol aimed between your pretty eyes. But Jack Mort wasn't the lucky sort. Some damn bounty hunter beat him to catching his former partner, and Jack didn't have anything else to barter the sherrif for his freedom. 'Till he heard about the Foxcrest Boys in California, that is. Description: Jack Mort's got a clever face, and forearms that look to come to reckon in a bar brawl, though he ain't no muscle boy, either. Man's got one of those fancy hats, straight brimmed with one side flipped up, dirty brown like his wearing chaps. Blue jeans and a cloud grey shirt, too. Weapons: Jack Mort and the gang he belonged to trainrobbed a french armory transport when he was twenty three. He got this purty little sawed off shotgun with three rotating barrels out of the deal, along with a six-shooter with a foot long barrel. Accurate at a hundred yards. Reward: His freedom

[B][FONT=Garamond]So yeah, we were the kids in Major Tom?s gang. I?m not saying I?m proud of it, especially not now, but that?s who we were, and there?s no changing that. We all had our stories when we came needing a fix from Major Tom, and no matter who we were, he gave it to us, shot us up himself with some good stuff to wipe away all that muck and fuss the doctors keep calling ?memories.? Yeah, we were junkies, all of us, in too deep to see the sun anymore, but Major Tom took care of us, gave us what we needed, place to crash, some grub here and there, and a fix when we needed it. We were his kids, we needed him. We didn?t have anywhere else to go, no families , no social workers to take us in and straighten us up, hell, junkies like us weren?t even welcome at soup kitchens. But Major Tom, he saw us like humans, took care of us, that?s why none of us freaked out when he came back from the Apple one day with some hot stuff?I mean hot. Stolen from the mafia itself, and lots of it, too. We were all scared they?d come for it, break down the door and put a slug between Major Tom?s big blue eyes, but he told us it was safe, the dons wouldn?t even notice it was missing. So we relaxed, shot up, and months went by without a whisper from the mafia. It was all going so well, but then one day, Ziggy, Anne Orexia and I walked in on Tom, swimming in blood, a rose by his perforated head. The mafia got him. Major Tom is dead.[/FONT][/B] [B]Sign Ups: Name:[/B] [B]Nickname:[/B] (old songs, mental/physical conditions, druggie references, be creative. This is what other players will refer to you as.) [B]Age[/B] (13-25) [B]Appearance[/B] (no pics, please) [B]Personality Biography[/B] Mine: [B]Name:[/B] Jonathan Gett [B]Nickname:[/B] Skull Boy [B]Age:[/B] 17 [B]Appearance:[/B] Sunken eyes, thin cheeks, pale as bone, skinny enough to pass for a cancer patient (though even Skull Boy can?t hold a candle to Anne Orexia), Skull Boy earned his name. Though he did look a little healthier when he let his black hair grow out, in thick messy tuffs that fall around his forehead. His dress varies, except for the purple long-sleeve flak jacket he got from his grandpa, or something like that, and I don?t even know if the dude?s still got eyeballs behind them shades of his. Guess that?s what happens when you?ve been doing smack as long as he has?light tolerance goes right out the window. [B]Personality:[/B] One thing you have to know about Skull Boy, he doesn?t smile. I mean, he?s not like cold or stoic, not like Nightingale was, but he just doesn?t smile, even when he laughs. Freaks you out at first, but it?s like when Gooney used to freak out at three in the AM and turn on all the lights, it?s just something you get used to. And Skull Boys cool, pretty laid back, and one of the better kids to get in a tight spot with. I?m telling you, the man just doesn?t loose his cool. He gets pretty hot tempered when he?s needing a fix, though. [B]Biography:[/B] Skull Boy?s last foster parents became meth heads almost a day after Skull Boy, 12 at the time, was adopted. They used the cash they got for taking in Skull Boy to dope themselves up, didn?t even bother feeding the little guy. His parents got high and violent everyday, taking most of it out on the other kids they adopted, putting them in boiling water, holding their heads down in the bath tub, well you?ve heard about the crap meth heads do. That?s why Major Tom didn?t use it, never handed it out to anyone. But compared to Skull Boy?s half-siblings, Skull Boy had it pretty good. He was beaten from time to time, but that was it, nothing serious. The other orphans adopted by the meth heads were killed off for the tortures they endured, but, and I don?t know why, Skull Boy never saw the hell the others did. Maybe the meth heads liked him, I don?t know. After two years in that house, starving and hurting and all that, Major Tom found him and took him in. The meth heads never looked, and never filed a report. Just kept taking the money they got for adopting him, and kept shooting meth. Skull Boy?s been at Major Tom?s ever since. Oh, and what did he do before he was twelve? Skull Boy?s the only one who knows that.

A little bit of my world cracked as Lady Kurushi let the final words drop from her mouth, [I]I see demons.[/I] It was perfectly clear, and for a second my mind rushed with frenzy, seeing the obvious connection and the faint hope that I didn't let my parents down by going nutzoid. But it stopped as soon as it started. I thought to myself, [I]don't get caught up in this crap, Kevin. Demons are a long renown catholic symbol, I'm sure more than one person has professed to seeing them. Hell, you've seen a dozen people who went insane from loneliness profess to seeing ants, and they're completely goofy! Stay seated, don't make a move, and whatever you do, just shut up, shut up, SHUT THE HELL UP!![/i] It wasn't until I saw Lady Kurushi's querying eyes staring into my own that I realized I had spoken the last words aloud. Shit. "I mean," I tried to save myself, "we all know your insane, there's no reason to point it out. I mean, ha, uh, I mean none of us would even be here if we all weren't insane, so uh...don't trouble yourself about it. The wards wouldn't have put you in multiple housing if they didn't think it would be safe." A dead lie, my last roomate was testament to the ward's apathy towards who was in solitary and who was in multiple lodging. There was nothing more I could say, anyway. There was another silence, until one of the others, I can't remember his name, turned back to Lady Kurushi and asked, "Wh-what 'demons' per say? Are they like... um..." And suddenly I was ignored, everyone turned back to Lady Kurushi and the sudden turn of events. I couldn't stand watching them all play part in the end of my chance to be sane again, so I got the hell out of that room. They could go ahead and set themselves back days, ah, years, thinking that those demons were real. They could all live in the God damn asylum for all I care. But I knew my demons were just insanity, so I distanced myself from their dillusions as much as possible. I took my bag, thinking how that painting would be dead testament to my own line of bullshit I just spewed, and walked out of the room. It wasn't until our room was just a small hallway behind me that I stopped, and delved into my bag to see my painting again. I hadn't put it inside a folder, I had deliberately kept it out of a folder, yet there it was inside a folder, neatly handled with a lady's touch. I could have screamed.

It was perhaps the strangest thing I had yet encountered in that asylum, when my painting supplies suddenly found themselves in my lap. When I was a...privilaged child in my fathers mansion, servants would do things for us constantly, and we repaid them all with a nod, and told them what their next task was. It was rare that somebody did something nice for me that they weren't paid to do, and I'll admit, I didn't really know how to respond. "Thank you...very much." I said to the girl whose name I later found to be Lady Kurushi (that being how my father had taught me to refer to people). She seemed satisfied with that, smiled and turned away, but I still felt I had been a little ingrateful. That's the problem with obsessive paranoia, you never know if you did anything right, and if you just so happen to have proof that you didn't screw up, you don't believe it. Paranoia feeds on itself, I guess. The paint supplies seemed almost holy in my hands. I hadn't seen them since I went to the asylum, and the thought of painting again sent my heart into my throat. But if a ward, a meaner ward than the one Lady Kurushi knew saw me painting again, well, I wouldn't chance having them confiscated again. I set them in my bag, feeling something like hot breath on my face and the feel of a demon nearby. "Excuse me, may I look in your bag?" Said the man whose name I later knew to be Sir Alnoto. Shit, I thought, did he want my paints? Nevertheless, I aquiesced, and after examining it, he handed it back to me without touching my paint. Thank God. Night came, not without a bizzare show of Lady Kurushi's apparent madness (which reminded me that, even though these people may be nice, they're insane, and should not be taken as friends, or let anywhere near my glasses) and as soon as the lights went off I took my paint supplies and hid in the bathroom, where I could paint with the light on without disturbing anyone. It had been so long...the art criticts had at one time known me as Mr. Blue Sky, for the optimism shown in my work. I decided almost immediately that I would try to live up to that name, and not portray any sign of demo- I mean, my dillusions, in my work. I started easy, just the black outline of a cloud, my fingers resting in their familiar places on my brush, feeling old talents revive in my stroke. The "demons" seemed to crowd around me when I painted, as if feuding with eachother over which would be portrayed in my work. None, I thought, just a cloud. I finished the outline of the cloud, and smiled at its simplicity. A yellow-pink tinge would give it the appearance of sunset. I turned to dab my brush in the yellow, and when I turned back, my cloud had dissapeared, and in its place sat the outline of a haunted humanoid face with bug eyes and its lips sewn shut with metallic wiring. I almost cried. I didn't want to continue with the monster slowly emerging from my mind, but I felt almost controlled, forced to continue. Soon the demon that had ran across the floor stood before me in all its glory, struggling to push itself out of the painted bloody mouth of another demon, a purple one, with fingers portruding from where its eyes should have been. Immediately I ripped the painting from its canvas, tore it to pieces, and flushed it down the toilet, streaks of paint trailing into the water. Try again, I thought, though I'm not really sure whether that notion was my own, or just a demon's desires melding with mine. I really should tell you something, having all the knowledge I do now, as I write this. I wanted to be "cured" so badly of these demons...I still do, even knowing everything I do, and had I known that that canvas, over which I had spent the better part of the night painting and destroying and painting again, right until the moon gleamed directly above, had I known that the painting I had completed at the zenith of that night would seperate me from the perfect life of sanity and...this, I would have destroyed that canvas the second it fell in my lap, and slapped Lady Kurushi for giving it to me. But what happened cannot be reversed, and so I shall tell you about the painting I had completed that midnight. It was beautiful. It was a demon, of course, as I was physically incapable of painting anything else. It was bright red, and held itself in a fetal position, almost like a heart. It was the most melancholy thing I had ever seen, hands from hell tearing below it, and tears of blood falling from the demons cringing face. It was so tragic, I wept, I wept at my work and swore never to destroy it, despite it being a demon. I hid it inside my bag, and crept into bed, trying not to disturb anybody. A melancholy demon that didn't belong in hell. In a sense, it reminded me of myself, and of everyone in that asylum. God, I want to be cured.

Kevin Welters The minute the droog...shit, I mean, ward walked in (my first roomate, not the one who ate my glasses, but an older one, used that term to refer to the wards. He talked in nadsat, and ran is outstretched fingers into the wall for attention. He got lots of attention.) and told us the news, my head filled with all sorts of paranoia. What if they had sprayed poison on our clothes? It took a lot of tax dollars to keep us here, or at least, to keep us alive in here. "Ummm..." I started, "I'm fine in this, thank you." The ward looked at me strangely. He said, "I personally don't have a problem with that, but it's regulation. The difference in clothing is how we tell high security solitudes from you in multiple lodgings." "Would it be possible to make an exception?" "Sir, you're going to get thrown in solitude again if you're seen walking around in those clothes." "Er..." I started thinking about everything I'd need to test my clothes. "Alright. The clothes I arrived in are still here?" "Yes, they're all here." "Can, can I borrow a magnifying glass, a blacklight, and a pair of tweezers? I just want to..." "Sorry, no go on the tweezers. I have a report on you that says no breakable hazardous items should be in your proximity. Hey, are those glasses-" Quickly I spun on my heel to hide my face. "Just the clothes then, please." I said, feeling my abdomanen. If he confiscated my glasses, I'd actually have to take that girl's advice about the lubricant and an extra-baggie... He didn't, though, instead took the following order for clothes from the other boy in the room and left. My clothes came in my black backpack, but much to my dismay, my paint supplies had been removed. I'll have to thank my former roomate for that, I thought. My eyes glanced up to my roomates. The girl's bra dissapeared under the fresh shirt she wriggled on, and the boy had busied himself with his own. It hadn't occured to me until then that I had completely ignored them. I was brought up aristocratically, ignoring the servants as they went about their daily tasks. I guess my upbringing was showing. My bag was filled with blue jeans and an artistic white shirt ridden with skulls and roses. Shit, I thought, my painting clothes, what I wore when my sanity wasn't debatable. Didn't I have anything more respectable? I had just taken out my blue jeans when something happened that I had thought 90 mgs of Prozac and shit had taken care of. Nothing terrible, just clack clack clack, across the room an invisible demon ran, through one wall and out the other. I couldn't see him, per se, but I felt him. God, I want to be cured so badly.

Kevin Welters [I]I want to be cured. I want to be cured.[/I] That's what I remember thinking when my former psychotic roommate grabbed my wrists in one hand, and a fistful of my hair in the other. he was staring into my eyes with an intense hatred that sane people just didn't get. His left hand wandered around my head, clutching hair and face, my ear, and finally the frame of my glasses. He was insane, and as much as I wanted to believe the demons I saw were real, I had to accept the reality that I was just like him. (That was a lie I told just now. I don't actually "see" demons. I feel them when they're near me, and their images implant themselves on my brain after their departure.[wait, that too was a lie. I don't see or feel demons. There are no demons. There are no demons.]) God, I want to be cured so badly. My roommate removed my glasses, still keeping my wrists bound in his right hand, and examined them. Then he put half of them in his mouth and chewed it, the glass breaking and cutting up his gums, lodging in between his teeth and dicing the tip of his tongue. He might have swallowed some. Then he spit up a bloody mess of broken glass into his free left hand (but not without getting a considerable amount on my legs) and with new found glee darted across the room. I sat disgusted and petrified right in my place, and watched him try to slit his throat with tiny pieces of perscription glass. He howled in terrible gurgling pain, and the wardens rushed in to stop him. I don't know whether that roommate lived or not, but he doesn't matter. I told you that so you could see why, even though I was blind without them, why I was no longer permitted to have glasses (not that it was my fault my roomate tried to kill himself [or did actually kill himself, I don't know] but the wards don't care about blame, just punsihment). I wanted to do everything they wanted me to, anything to speed up my recovery and all that, but I couldn't go anywhere without my glasses. My dad would only visit me on special request, so I asked him to bring me a new pair of glasses, the kind that fold at the bridge into a small bundle the size of an avocado seed, and three plastic baggies. The wards couldn't stop my dad from giving me my glasses, but they would confiscate them the second I was out of the visitors area. One baggie would protect the glasses from the gastric juices in my stomach, and two baggies would stop the metal frame from tearing up my esophagus on their way back up. You get the idea. The hard part was waiting until the wards deposited me into my new room and left to let those glasses come back up. I vomited for about two minutes straight until my glasses finally came up in the toilet. I should have asked for four baggies, 'cause they came up with blood. I scooped my glasses out and washed them off in the sink, opening the barred window so the bathroom wouldn't stink for too long. I remember thinking at that point, thank God the room was empty.

[SIZE=1][FONT=Tahoma]Name: Louise Dion Age: 44 Gender: Male Ethnicity: French/American Appearance: Louise Dion is a terribley unattractive man, whose cracking lips are a constant scowl and beady eyes are constantly sunk in an all-too yellowey pale face. His nose and chin are long and pointed, like two arrows directed towards some imaginary spot in front of him. He dresses formally and dignantly, suits and baulder hats, with black hair always in a mess. Personality: Louise Dion is a petty, terribley spiteful person who is unreasonably condescending around the office. He thinks himself incredibley intelligent, more so than anyone else in the office, and often tries to prove it by deliberately leaving annonymus rants and essays in the copy machine and uncrumpled set gently on top of the trash cans, always annonymus, because he is far too chicken hearted to take credit for his "brilliance." The novels he reads, or at least professes to, always great and difficult classics like Paradise Lost or Stephen Hawking's Universe, constantly litter the staff room, again, deliberately. Louise has yet to forgive Joshua Williams for leaving the wet ring residue of a beer bottle on one of his favorite books one day while sitting in the staff room. Louise has sworn vengance upon Joshua, though his vengance is pitiful and meaningless, ranging from a bump or nudge in the office to taking and hiding different unimportant documents. Louise has enacted his vengance a dozen times without Joshua's taking notice, making Louise all the more spiteful and hostile. God knows how he gets any work done, between writing deliberately misplaced rants and plots for vengance. Family: Louise's family is neither dead nor in contact with Louise, except on particular holidays in which Louise is obliged to visit. Information: Louise Dion is secretive, to the point of being more obsessed with secracy than the objects which he keeps a secret. He is a very shallow, petty person, and has little to do in his spare time except read, rant, and keep it all a secret. A failed English professor and unpublished novelist, he blames the world for his miserable predicament in life. His job at the office affords him what apartment he could get, next to, as fate would have it, or rather, as God's sense of Humor would have it, one of the most nosey old hags Louise had ever met. (One time, while sleeping in his bed, Louise heard the calamorous sound of a power drill used on the wall seperating he and the hag, which just so happens to boarder his room. The source of the noise, he found, were two freshly drilled peep holes in Louise's wall, and on the other side the old hag's unflinching eyes.)[/FONT][/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][FONT=Verdana]Name: Kevin Welters Age: 26 Gender: male Appearance: Blonde hair and green eyes, every bit of Kevin's aristocratic upbringing is written on his expressive, dashing face. As much as he tries to hide it, Kevin's posture and the way he carries himself speak years of being lorded over other people. Reason admitted: Found wandering naked in Times Square. Diagnosed with Schizophrenia, Paranoia, and heavy avoidant disorder. Bio: Kevin's were the dimmest two persons to ever graduate high school. They were educated, of course, even used their money to hire the best teachers in America, but over time, it seemed that every ounce of their former intelligence had quickly drifted away like the morning breeze. They did everything that they heard rich people are supposed to do: buy yachts, buy bigger houses, buy caviar, even if they didn't really enjoy any of it. When Kevin was born, everyone knew he would be doomed to the same rich and dumb fate as his parents before him. However, even at a young age he began shocking his teachers and professors with the depth of his thought and vastness of his curiosity. He had a great appreciation of the arts, and decided almost at once that he would some day be a painter. His adolescence in Mells Private Academy found him an outcast, not because his peers were generally hostile to him, although they were, in fact, very hostile, but because Kevin failed to acknowledge their presence. He'd roam the campus, reading intently and never looking where he was going, colliding with doors and walls on a regular basis, or talking to himself, more passionately and intently than he ever spoke to anyone else. But something changed when he was 25, living in New York away from his parent's estate, an artist, as he had intended. Knowing the wealth and reputation of his name would give his art an unfair biastry, he worked under the alias of Mr. Blue Sky, a name he stole from an old ELO song, and let his art reflect it in every way: blue skies over cotton clouds, bashful lovers on first dates, sunflowers. But suddenly and drastically, his art changed: mutilated children, blood on padded cells, suicides, and worst of all, demons.[/FONT][/SIZE]

Name: Jon Skele Wild Job: Reaver Origin: Hell Appearance: Jon Wild is discolored pale and pasty, to the point of leading to illness. In fact, the pathetically thin frame of his body and the sickly paleness of his skin have awarded him numerous shocked glances from those believing him to be a step from death. His face is clever and birdlike, with jetting cheek bones and a chin and nose that seemed to point to a spot about four inches in front of his thin, scowling lips. The apparel of Jon Skele Wild is strange, and always eccentric, detailing skulls and roses and modernistic expressions of love and hate that hang from his frame like they would from a wire hanger. The only constant of his apparel is a beret, dirty brown to adorn his head. Tufts of his auburn brown bangs stick out across his face, giving him a look that could almost be called surreal. Personality: Jon Skele Wild is secretly mad, but to everyone else, he is cool and confidant, a confidence that opposes his appearance like night and day. His voice is passionate and sonderous, full, like his eyes, of all the fires of hell. Biography: Before his first death, Jon Skele Wild was a revolutionary in Venice, though never the rebel leader he had dreamed of being. He wrote the speeches for the leader, as well as negotiated all terms with opposing powers, yet never appeared to the public himself, so ashamed he was of his sickly face. One month before he died, the revolutionary group which he was apart of all congregated in the center of town, where the police secretly waited for them. The current leader cowed before the government force, and watched all his followers shot or arrested for treason. But Jon kept his head, and at last came to the microphone to lead the revolutionaries to overcome the police. It was his greatest victory ever, and the signing of his death warrant. The government now saw him as the leader, and with the help of the preceding revolutionary leader who was jealous of Jon Skele Wild's success, assassinated him. In death, Jon forsook everything moral about his life, so consumed with revenge and hatred he was, and chose the life, or rather, half-life, of a reaver.

Interesting, though could use a little work. Might I suggest, since Part one was locked, editing your post to include part one above part two? Also, you might be better off introducing Lina's time and environment before introducing her, you know what I mean? I'd like to read more, it's rather interesting so far.

I think the first paragraph is beautiful, though could lead into the second paragraph better then it does (i.e. it was raining the day...). The last paragraph needs a little work as well; just in the way that the final recognition of their wings could use a little more...punch? Other then that, I think you have a short story or a novella on your hands, but a novel is a little much. If you post more, I will read it. I really like this beginning.

OOC: This, I think, is the first story I've ever written front to back. I've started a lot of stories, volumes could be composed just listing the story concepts I've gotten bored of, but this is the first one I actually outlined, wrote, and rewrote, beginning to climax to end. It consists of about three parts, and this what is posted is half of part one. A good story or not, I'm damn proud of this, if only because it's finished. :p Some things you should probably know about this story, first. You'll encounter a lot of religious references, but God help me I'm not trying to bible bash, even in the least. The morale of this story, is even the best intentions lead to impure actions. It's a story of warning. Also, when I first dreamt up this story, it took place in Heaven. I changed it for obvious reasons. But knowing that it origionally took place in Heaven goes a long way to seeing why Michael, Illinois, the fictional City this story takes place in, is so wacked out as it is. Also, as much as I tried to avoid this, you might see my religious refferences as being...immature? I'm probably not knowlegable yet to write this story, but I really tried to at least seem mature about it. Anyway, here it is. Part 1:1 to 1:4. Enjoy, o my brothers. [COLOR=Navy][FONT=Garamond][SIZE=2][CENTER][B][U]Of Swords and Fallen Angels[/U] [/B][/CENTER] I always laugh when somebody asks me fore directions to city hall in this city. I point them to the Michael Angelous Christian Church in the center of town, but they never understand. Welcome to Michael, Illinois. PART ONE ?In news today, the three Holy Brothers Club organized a search party for young Kacie Dellow, age 10, who was reportedly abducted yesterday afternoon by the current Satan.? So reported ?The Word,? the only news station permitted to broadcast in Michael. ?Volunteers of the search are currently pressing authorities to grant a search warrant to Satan?s Mannor, where the young victim is suspected to be held.? At any given time, The Word only reported one of three things: the war against Satan, the goodness of the citizens, or the atrocities of the devil. Welcome to Michael. Beside the central highway leading into Michael was an enormous towering monument, depicting the Angel Michael after whom the city was named, with sword held high and caption reading, ?Michael, Illinois. The City of Swords and Saints.? This monument, the highest tower of the Michael Angelous Church, and The Word radio tower stood tall above the city, like gods of mesh and steel. Those three towers were the tallest in the city of Michael, though a few yards shorter stood a close fourth: the tallest spire of Satan?s Mannor, which stood outcasted on the outskirts of town. Welcome to Michael. As the story goes, some hundred years ago, a wealthy man came to Michael and built his dream castle upon a foreboding hill. Every day the gates of his mannor were barred and sealed, but every night they opened just wide enough to permit a mass in flowing black cloaks into the castle. The Citizens of Michael told strange tales of the barbaric pagan rituals conducted within that mannor, rituals which, though never truly proven to exist, earned the wealthy man the title of Satan, and his castle the title of Satan?s Mannor. Nobody truly knows what actually went on in that mansion, and the secret died with the wealthy man, who left no heir to claim Satan?s Mannor. But upon his death, something very bizarre happened. Before the government of Michael could reclaim and demolish Satan?s Mannor, another man, claiming to be the heir of the wealthy man, took up residence inside Satan?s Mannor and proclaimed himself Satan. The rituals, though, did not continue, and the wealthy man?s predecessor devoted his reign to the enigmatic performance of Evildom. A performance further perfected by the Satan who proceeded him. As did the Satan who proceeded him. As did the Satan who had lived in the Mannor at the beginning of this story. Outraged at this lineage of evil, the people of Michael declared war upon Satan, devoting the news to informing all of their daily battles. And oh, what a dramatic city was birthed. Welcome, friends, to the City of Michael. *** Allow me to introduce myself. If you had ever been to Michael Illinois in better times, you might have seen us drifting down the street, like a mist of purples and velvets. Six of us in all, plum-clad in flowing coats and golden buttons. As far as the mundane world was concerned, we were like the ghosts of a memory. We were the Society of Cards, and I was their leader. My name is Jonah Bellinado, but they knew me as Night. Flanking myself in our natural order were Jackie, the woman of my love, and Penn, my dearest friend. Jackie and Penn had known each other long before I knew them, and a strong sort of sibling bond had formed between them. They were almost twins in mannerisms, and I suppose it was because of this blatant reflection, that Jackie had chosen to gift her heart to me and not to Penn. Truly, had fate not intervened, I might have liked to marry her. Jackie was tall and make-up like pale, with ruby red lips and straight black hair. She looked almost surreal, in how foreign and how beautiful she was. Penn was pale, though not to the extreme that Jackie was, and sported a crew-cut head of dark brown. Two or three paces behind Jackie and Penn flanked three of whom I cared little for and tried less to hide it. I do not recall either their names or their faces, for they each wore a white mask depicting a different suit of cards. It was by these suits on their masks that I referred them, and they referred to themselves. They were Spade, Heart, and Club. The masks were of my decree, such was my distaste for them, and I suppose the suit on each is how we came to be known as the Society of Cards; after all, none of us really actually cared for card games. In any case, whether I disliked them or not, it seemed at the time that we, the Society of Clubs, would never be apart. Sad, for I must begin this story just when that happened?at the beginning of the end of the Society of Cards. *** The evening upon which I choose to begin this story was particularly cold, even from inside the Café at the Edge of the World, dubbed such by yours truly for its desolate location at the edge of the city, behind the worst residential neighborhood and bordering an infinitely large meadow and forest. We had sat in the Café at the Edge of the World on hundreds of occasions, it being our place of meeting after we had each concluded business in our own lives. We never spoke of our own real lives, actually, it was sort of an unwritten rule between us. Jackie and Penn conversed with each other at one end of the table, while the Three of Masks joked and horsed at the other end, attacking each other with sugar packets and wet coffee spoons. I sat in the center, reading silently over the coffee I had been served. The small café was empty save us and the poor man who run it, who in these late hours of inactivity sat in the back and watched TV until closing time. The Café at the Edge of the World never housed many customers, which is why I suppose we had chosen it to frequent every few nights. ?That?s not what I am trying to say!? Argued Jackie, who had been conversing with Penn about god-knows-what. I had stopped trying to follow their conversations years ago. They were a lot like commodious background noise when they spoke, and I don?t know why, but it was comforting to hear. Jackie had just momentarily raised her voice, catching my attention, before launching into some explanation, about beauty in the eye of the beholder or something of the like. I peered up over my book, I can?t remember which one, to see the cream-colored clock hanging on the cream-colored wall opposite me. It was late, slipping into the little hours of the morning. ?Come on, then.? I said aloud, getting everyone?s attention. ?Time to get on our ways home. Penn and Jackie each looked at the clock, surprised at how time had escaped them, and agreed. We kindly paid our dues and left, into the cold and breezy night. As soon as we stepped outside, I laced up the golden buttons of my coat and crossed my arms. It wasn?t freezing out, but still cold enough for one to see his breath. We as a group traversed back into town, following the one cracked and broken street that led to the small café. The sky was a reddy-gray, glinting with the first hint of a rising sun, and in the distance I could see the tallest spire of the Michael Angelous Church silhouetted on the horizon far ahead and to the east of us, and directly ahead to the west, looming ominously closer, stood Satan?s proud Mannor. On many days we had walked by the steel, barbed and locked steel gates of Satan?s Mannor, and sometimes even stopped to gaze up and admire the intricate masterwork of stone and mortar and superstition of which Satan?s Mannor had been constructed. When a moon lit the sky, the dark structure shone like obsidian, revealing the edges of the artistic carvings within the stone, carvings which depicted the swords, saints, and sinners of our time. Even without its history, Satan?s Mannor well deserved its title. The Satan that had been residing in the foreboding structure at the time was growing old and nearing the end of his reign. We all knew it, and in a way it was sad. It had been exactly one year to that night, since the gates of Satan?s Mannor had been permanently locked, Satan having reduced to a hermit shell of himself, as his predecessors had been reduced. The only sign left of Satan was a shadow that sometimes moved across the lone, flickering light that emitted from the window of the tallest spire on Satan?s mannor. That, I suppose, is why the Society of Cards and I were so shocked upon that night to see the gates swinging ajar in the wind, bent and broken as if forced apart by immense weight. We stood and peered at the wreckage of those gates for only a moment, hardly enough time to ponder it, when the answer presented itself. Suddenly the sound of an explosion, much like the cracking of thunder though terribly close and terribly loud, ignited from within Satan?s Mannor. I turned abruptly, scared as all hell, and saw the highest window of Satan?s Mannor ablaze with smoke and light. There was something like a scream, which mingled with a cheer of victory from below the window inside the courtyard, followed by the squealing of wheels on pavement, and a moment later a pair of headlights stormed down the path from Satan?s Mannor and burst through the gates, almost spinning out as it disappeared into the night. And all that followed was a heavy, shocked silence, except for the small sound of a crackling fire, and a the small, barely audible sound of something like moaning. I think it might have been Spade, or maybe Club behind me. I hope to god it was one of them. *** ?What the hell just happened?? The question echoed between us a dozen times over, from Jackie, from Penn, from even myself, as we as a group moved away from the mannor, pressed by some primal instinct, as fast as we could without sprinting. We all constantly looked over our shoulders, for what I don?t know. It was only when the Mannor had been reduced to a small silhouette behind us, far enough so that we couldn?t see the smoke billowing out across the reddy-gray sky, that Jackie decided to reinstate the question. ?What the hell was that?? She asked, quivering with cold and shock. Nobody could answer her. She looked at me, and I shook my head as to say I didn?t know. In retrospect, I think it was pretty obvious what had happened, though none of us wanted to say it. There was a long silence. ?Should we go to the police with this.? She said. ?No.? I responded, quicker than I had wanted to. I didn?t anymore associations with what had happened than what associations we already bore. ?I mean,? I tried to continue, my heart in my throat, ?we don?t know what happened. And I don?t want the police to think we were involved.? There was little agreement, though a little something in all of us wanted to go to the police as fast as possible. ?Let?s keep out of it, alright?? Another small agreement, followed by a heavy silence. ?Tomorrow in the library as usual, then?? Asked Penn at last, recovering his composure inch by inch. I nodded, and gave a quick smile. ?Until then.? From there we parted ways, each going to their own home. Usually upon parting to go home at this time, Penn, Heart, and Spade would go North to their homes, Jackie and Club would go east, and I would go west to my own apartment. But this night, Jackie accompanied me westward. I was thankful for the company. ?Night, I really don?t like this.? Whispered Jackie to me. ?It?ll be alright.? I said, trying to soothe her, though I had no idea what would follow. ?That man, Night, that man was looking at us really strange when we left.? I looked at her dumbfounded. I had seen light in the window, and I had seen the car, but I hadn?t actually seen a man. ?You mean, you saw a man in the car?? I asked nervously. ?No.? she said. ?When that explosion went off, there was a man across the street looking out of his livingroom window. Didn?t you see him?? I hadn?t. I wanted to be sick.[/SIZE][/FONT][/COLOR]