Hey guys, this is my first attempt at a HiNaBN fan-fic so please review and help me improve. I was a huge fan of HiNaBN and was just as devastated as I think most of us were when the last post came on that fateful Valentine's day and remained the last. Many a day, week, and even month were spent double checking to make sure I hadn't missed an update and I have since been placating my inner nerd by reading fan fiction, especially those by the ever talented Desdemona Kakalose. However, I noticed that even my secondary source of HiNaBN fan-girl hits was dying a death, so I decided to try and save it by giving a pop at the writing myself. Hopefully I've done okay.

About: We've all experienced the story through {…}'s eyes (him being the dashing narrator of the webcomic), but what I wanted to try was seeing it through Hanna and Conrad's eyes? After all, I feel these two must have an awful lot to say. This will initially kinda-sorta-maybe follow the original story of HiNaBN, but will stray when the story started to die off.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this story. All of them belong to the talented Tessa Stone, who, despite my initial grump at the lack of further updates, I would like to thank for giving us at least the beginnings of an excellent story.

Enjoy!

(* The word 'taps' in the 3rd paragraph refers to faucets. It's just the British term, which I felt more fitting for Conrad's POV. I will try to keep the spelling and word choice nationality specific, but being British myself I can't promise much)

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on. –Robert Frost

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, …

Conrad sighed for what felt like the millionth time (but which he knew to only be the fourth). Pausing from his counting of the ceiling's population of spit balls, he looked at his watch. Quarter past two. Sigh. His client was meant to be here fifteen minutes ago.

Leaning forward, he rested his hand on the table in front of him before panicking at the stickiness of the surface and retracting once more. He shuddered to think of sheer volume of nasty bacteria he assumed must be lurking, unseen, on the surface. Cradling his arm as though it was wounded he looked towards the establishments bathrooms and wondered whether it would be worth going to wash his hands, ultimately deciding that no, it would not. Not only would the heads of the taps* and the soap be covered in an assortment of microorganisms but the door handles most likely had urine, or worse, on them from those scruffy individuals who had decided hand-washing was below them. The thought made him feel faint and he found himself, yet again, looking at his watch.

"I'll give him five more minutes, then I'm calling him." he muttered to himself, pulling his portfolio closer as though to assure himself it was still there. This was the last time he was letting a client choose the meeting place he thought haughtily, as he looked around the dingy café. He was an artist after all and so was not accustomed to such dingy hell hole. Something in the back of his mind argued that his point didn't exactly make sense, but he effectively ignored that with a huffy sniff.

This was how many of his days had been spent since moving to the US, all those years ago. He had been promised that there was a larger market for graphic designers here, this being a country of mass consumerism, and this promise had not been wrong. However, he couldn't help but feel that the American attitude to business was somewhat peculiar. For one, Americans tended to be extraordinarily enthusiastic, which was scary in itself for an introvert like Mr Achenleck, but with that came a reduced sense of formality and, unfortunately, punctuality. Americans were always in a rush; except when you were.

Still, he couldn't complain. Working from home had always been a dream of his and for the most part he hardly ever had to actually meet a client face-to-face, except in situations like this where Mr Nelson had insisted; stating that he preferred to look a man in the eye while they talked (Conrad got the vague sense that he was dealing with a technophobe).

Looking down, he noted that Mr Nelson's 5 minutes were up. Frowning determinedly, he tugged his pocket's button open (one could never be too careful) and pulled out his phone.

"Hello, Mr Nelson?" He said, proud of his business like tone, "it's Conrad Achenleck, the graphic designer. I just wondered if you had forgotten about our appointment... Ah, right, I see. No, that's fine, another time then. Thank you, bye." Taking off his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose to fight off a forming migraine. Bloody marvellous, he thought to himself, and he didn't think of telling me he was 'otherwise engaged'? Huffing, he packed up his belongings, brought his empty mug over to the counter (he knew he didn't have to, but it was only polite), and left.

He fumed silently as he walked home, stopping only to glare at a homeless woman who shook her cup at him, before feeling slightly guilty and running back to give her some change. As he stormed through the streets of Sarasota, he mused quietly about how rubbish his day had been. Not only was he now out of his home, his safe zone, for no reason, he also had to disinfect his hand and clothing. On top of all that there was the black cat that had crossed his path in the morning, and that crazy woman who had followed him around for ten whole minutes ranting about how misfortune was upon him and that he should avoid rodents.

This day could not get any worse, he mused as he opened his front door, barely registering the muffled squeak from the corner of the room. He did, however, react when an arrogant voice said "And who might you be?"

Looking around the room in terror, his eyes eventually landed on a small purple bat. Shaking his head at the silly idea that a bat could talk he began to make shooing motions towards it. That was until the voice spoke again "Eek, how rude!"

There was no mistaking it, no matter how hard he tried to believe otherwise, Conrad had come across a talking bat. As he stared in shock only one thought crossed his mind:

Bats aren't rodents!

Well, there you have it; Chapter 1. It's set just slightly before the beginnings of the webcomic, so I hope I can't have messed it up too much. Also I couldn't find out where the story was set so I looked up the art college Conrad went to (Ringling College of Art and Design) which is in Sarasota, Florida, so I went with that. If you know where it is actually set (as in, not just a place another fan fic was set but rather where Ms Stone intended it to be set) do tell.

Please comment, rate, and review. (I'll give you cookies! Bat shaped ones!)

xKiwi