This Prologue is necessary to kick off the story; there is Jibbs-y goodness and Team Antics aplenty to come.

Petty Officer Clara Knightley sighed and rubbed her forehead as she turned to the bar in her kitchen and poured herself another small glass of gin, growing increasingly exhausted with the incessant arguing currently taking place across her dining room table.

"Oh, I know exactly what's been going on, Elton—"

"You've completely lost it if you think—"

"Oh? I've lost it, I'm crazy? Suppose I ask Clara, she won't lie to me; she's never been as cruel as you are to me,"

Clara resisted the urge to groan as her sister and her sister's husband turned to face her defiantly, expectant eyes demanding her input.

"Well, Clara?" Lydia Speare demanded, crossing her arms and turning her nose up at her husband Elton.

Petty Officer Clara Knightley took a drink without saying anything, pulling at the neck of her uniform. She was uncomfortably hot.

Clara did not know why Lydia was suddenly under the impression her sister was sleeping with her husband; Clara did know that it was absolutely false.

"Lydia, I don't have time for this, I've got to report in twenty minutes," Clara said exasperatedly, shaking her head.

Honestly, she didn't understand why Lydia and Elton Speare were even married. To everyone who knew them, they appeared to violently hate each other. And they perpetuated that assumption by loudly and petulantly fighting with and picking at each other over every single thing.

"Clara, I'm your sister, and I'm in need. The navy can wait," Lydia whined, throwing a vicious glare at her husband.

Clara loosened the neck of her collar some more, trying to steady her eyesight. She took another drink. They were actually making her ill with their petty bickering.

"I find the Navy more frightening than your attempt at a guilt trip—"

"Oh, I see. You're going to avoid me? Don't you dare leave this house! Are you sleeping with my husband or not—"

Elton slammed his fist down on the table and stood up.

"This is ridiculous! For the last time, I'm not sleeping with your sister!" he roared, throwing up his hands.

"Elton! KEEP QUIET, no one asked YOU—"

"You shut-up, Lydia, you're lost it if you think—"

"You always yell at me, you're so abusive—"

Clara put her head in her hands and moaned, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. She tried to take a deep breath and felt her throat blocked, as well as her naval passage. Panic rose in her, and she tried again. Her hand fell to her throat; she couldn't breathe.

She gasped and looked up, waving her glass, trying to distract the childishly fighting couple in front of her. Elton and Lydia were too busy screeching (and in Lydia's case hurling napkin clasps) to pay attention to the asphyxiating woman before them.

Clara's eyes slowly darkened and she fell into a blurry state of unconsciousness. The last thing she remembered was letting go of her glass before her head smacked against the back of the counter.

Lydia and Elton Speare stopped shrieking at the sound of shattering glass and looked down at the owner of the house they were fighting in. Both remained silent, impersonating goldfish for a full five minutes before:

"YOU KILLED MY SISTER!"

What's the verdict?

Alexa