Title: The Problem with Life: A House Biography

Summary: An entire take and adventure of House as a snarky teenager; his little neighbor Jimmy Wilson and the life and abuses they have to go through every day. It's hard being a kid in a world that's controlled by your father. And harder too, to get out. House/Wilson -- maybe friendship maybe more. A hint of Huddy. And of course, a look into the snark ass kid that made House who he is.

Authors Notes: Shit. I know I'm a bastard for starting so many stories all at once. But in my defense I'm having some kind of writers finale and can't help what muses may pop into my brain going from one story to another. On the bright side I'm still writing all the stories and have a good deal of chapters ahead of me...! Hooray! On the downside wow hey this isn't about Chase.

Anwyays. I tried to keep to everything exact to the series. Not just the exact age differences, but about time references, flashbacks and mentioning of Wilson and House's childhood throughout our favorite television series. I do my best on research whatever the fic, and hope this comes up to par. According to my research (mostly wikipedia) I've calculated House and Wilson to be eight or nine years apart. Which is actually pretty darn cool. Teenage House, kid Wilson, and a short guest appearance of Cuddy as well. Hope you enjoy. :)

I was outside playing ball with one glove and one fence. Hitting the thing at it over and over just to get it flying back into my hand. My dad was thankfully away, my mom cooking and calling from the window, her voice so sing song it could break your heart.

My head hurt. I knew the reason why and all I could do was think and pray for the next piece of something I could figure out and solve, a mystery within a mystery that was music. For now, a guitar playing it off in a string of rhythm and notes. I usually spent hours at the music store down the block, up until my dad would come home and beat the shit out of me.

Thump, catch, throw. Thump, catch, throw. Thump, catch.

I'd have to think of some more creative way to focus on the rest of the world. Maybe something that didn't involve an old baseball and the mitt attached to said cliche'. Maybe if I went into the garage I could pick out that bike dad got for me and ride it down the street a few hundred times.

Maybe while I'm at it I can put a bullet in my head. That'd be nice, but then again the only thing I could see coming from that is a wall covered in blood and my dad turning against the one person that didn't deserve all of that in the world. That and defile my corpse while croaking over his ruined musket collection.

Harder more deliberate thump, catch--and throw.

The fence standing as sturdy as ever; now marked up with rows of wonderful looking chips in the fading paint. I could've done this for the rest of the day; being tied to the tree at my side didn't give me a lot of options. I think if I just kept focusing with every toss I'd be able to figure out any puzzle in the world. You want to know why Einstein created the atomic bomb? Sure thing, just let me think it over for a bit. Want to know which teachers are having affairs? Which students are really being abused? Which of my life isn't a hectic storm of observations, closed off questions and constant, continuing cycles of me ending up right back here over and over and over again?

That last part I can't quite get into just yet. Or figure out. Or want to figure out. All I can think of is that I can't control that temper of mine and a part of me, ever defiant and stubborn doesn't want to. I like that part of me that bites back at every retort, gets me landed in situations just like this one. Sitting in the backyard for over a night and now half a day with my waist and arm tied to a tree with a pair of bruised ribs and a pounding head for all my troubles. It just goes to make me realize how much I'm not like my dad. A shining constant reminder of who I would never be.

Thump, catch, throw. Thump, catch---

"Hey...."

I glance upward from my situated position on the grass. Frowning as a voice pipes up from the other side of the giant fading white fence.

".....What."

A kid? I knew a family moved into the house next door, sure. Very unlike me to ever miss that sort of thing, not that I particularly cared. All it meant was that there'd be less barbeque's and less Mexicans staying up and blasting their music into the night while I got to sit here. My dad was apart of the military you understand; always saying they "had training far worse than this, and you should be goddamn grateful you get any at all--!!"

But here and now all I can do is sit here and think of all the other kids in the world who are just as blessed and "lucky". Frowning and giving the fence another thump, catch and throw.

"What are you doing...?"

I can't even imagine what this kid is doing outside here listening to me for, but I keep up with the rhythm, not missing a beat.

"Building a rocket ship. What are you doing."

"My mom says that you're that boy who got expelled from high school."

I make a face. He sure doesn't beat around the bush--as if I could only be so lucky. It's one of these kids.

"Yea, I bet your mom has a lot of things to say about a lot of people. She's that woman who keeps looking over the fence in our front yard and calling the police at ungodly hours. What are you, eight?"

"No. I'm nine."

I think this kid is giving me a worse headache than before. Hitting the round baseball a little harder, trying to predict just how long it'll take for him to go back crying into his house and never bother me again. I'm counting on sixty seconds, but I'll settle for one-twenty.

"Great. Nine. I can see why you'd be out here instead of out playing baseball or catch with your overly nonexistant dad. But maybe your mom can teach you." The silence that followed only tended to encourage my ultimate goal of the last five minutes, pushing it a little further in words I can only hope will get through to a moron nine year old kid. "Then again she's never home either unless it's off looking at mailmen and spying on her neighbors, right?"

"I...don't think so...She's. Really smart. She's a nurse."

"A nurse, huh."

"Yea...and my dad isn't nonexistant....just. Um..." He seems to lose whatever motive of words he has to talking with me. Good. But still, I'm berating myself for not going a little harder as this doesn't qualify as anywhere near breaking the kid and having him run off crying. I roll my eyes, counting it as a small victory at least. Hitting the fence, catching, throwing. Hitting the fence, catching, throwing. Hitting the fence---

Missing. Shit.

Shit, goddamn fuck--all the worst words I can possible think in the span of two seconds as my hand slips and the ball misses by a mile. I look behind me and curse out loud, struggling to stand up.

"Fuck---." Watching as the goddamn thing rolls maybe two feet out of my reach. Growling under my breath and struggling with the ropes without a lot of success. That ball was pretty much the only thing I had to distract my onslaught of absolute boredom and misery and it's just like me to let it go flying after a while.

Sighing, I find myself slumping back to the ground. The ropes not exactly letting me do much on maneuvering anyways. No way I'd get that thing back any time soon now. Great.

"....You okay?"

I grimace. What is that kid even still doing here, I can't imagine.

"I thought you left."

"Uh...no. Um. You okay?"

"No. I'm not."

"....Well. Is there...anything I can do?"

"Yea, you can get me another baseball."

Why won't this kid just go away. I felt like I'd have to double my efforts, at the very best he seemed like one of those little punks that got beaten up in the playground and at worst the kind of mommy boys that barely left home and lived in a perfect flippin' home with values and white fences and those cutesy little dogs that were so loyal it made you want to barf. God please don't be the second.

"I have a softball."

Rubbing my face with my only free hand, trying to sound at least not as frustrated as I was. For the kid's sake maybe as well as mine. After all kicking his ass was probably not going to happen from this point where I sat or with the current situation. And as much as I hated those puke godawful perfect families, the best thing for me was to stay away from it all.

"That's. Brilliant. But the names are the areas in which they differ. Throwing a softball makes it a lot less likely for it to come bouncing back."

Explaining this feels just as painful as I thought it would. Maybe I can just talk it out with the kid and convince him to bring me some brownies from his house and toss them over in a plastic bag.

Actually, food sounds really good right about now.

And you know so do brownies. And an actual bed, that'd be a nice thing on my little wish list. Ah well, you win some you lose some, you manipulate nine year old kids until they share their lunch money with you.

"You know what you can do though, little Tommy?"

"My name's Jimmy..."

"Yea, Timmy, whatever. You can bring me out something to eat. You know, snack time and all that. Close to nap time just...with a lot more food."

"Uh--I'm in sixth grade."

"What. I thought you said you were nine."

"I am..."

I shake that last little part off with a dismissing thought, continuing on with my previous train of thought.

"Right. Well. Think you can get me some dinner, Jim?"

"Sure. But it's Jimmy.... What's your name?"

"Hm. Greg. Greggory House. I thought your mom would've told you that by now."

"Well. She was going to come over to your house and...drop off some cookies. For...your family."

Oh dear lord. Just have to hold in there a little longer and get this kid to do his little thing, eat something before dad gets back and have a great day tomorrow when I get to start my new school. That's all. All I have to do. Just focus. ....Okay.

"Uhuh...yea. That sounds wonderful. How about you go get those cookies now."

If I listen for a second I can hear his little feet trundle on off through the grass. Sighing a breath of both exhausted frustration and wondering how that little energetic spitfuck even got to talking with me to begin with. If he'd heard right from his mom obviously he was curious which should mean I'd be able to break that curiosity with some well timed insults. If that didn't work out there was always just getting food from him.

I liked that second idea a little better as it kept me from starving and kept him a good distance as long as it was just talking and giving with nothing else between. The plan was gold and technically sort of really like taking candy from a baby. A nine year old baby but ta-mah-toes toe-ma-toes.

Sitting for a while, I relax back against the stump of the tree. Flexing my arm a bit and looking up through the branches to the graying sky high above. Thinking about the things I'd missed in the last high school, people who for whatever reason admired me and even whispered admiration in the halls. As a proud loner of the halls, an observer; I could realize the attraction. Spikey brown hair, blue eyes with a ridiculous ability to piss off every teacher and principal in the whole school. And yea, that's right we actually had two principals. For the record I always figured they were just overpaying each of them with no real point.

With this knowledge in mind, one would come to the obvious conclusions that I was kicked from my long term, three years in school because of some sort of comeback, act of violence or smuggling of drugs. You'd think that, yea. But the reality was something completely different.

I'd been bored. And in pain. Maybe not physically, but it was enough with every lecture about dumb people who were revered throughout history who really probably were just as idiotic as the next guy and ended up taking the fame. I looked off the hall and noticed something I had only seen a few times before, the secretary of the principal out of her office and looking as nervous and uptight as the bad outdated dress she wore.

Upon further viewing I noticed the papers she'd tossed into the trash can, which in itself was odd considering the fact it wasn't recycling and the woman was the head of the comity for recycling to begin with. I remember seeing her in all her waving signs and "spirit" yelling in chapel about clean earth and all the resources for blah blah blah.

At the end of this story is me, that kid who knows everything there is to know about everything and just doesn't care enough to pursue it. Looking into an embezzlement fraud in which one of the principals was scamming the school board out of thousands and thousands of dollars. I was caught by the other principal whom I'd gone into see with the information and who promptly and clearly concerned told me to bring in the information for a meeting the next day. After leaving the documents with him with a shrug and a thank you, I'd gotten a call the next day to go to the principals' office.

At which point both of them were waiting with both of my parents.

And both of them telling a story in which a teacher I had in second period had had her tires slashed and I'd been spotted by them doing the deed by the principals themselves leaving home.

I guess it just goes to show you how well you can trust people. And how easily it was to get on people's wrong side with enough truth.

"Is pizza okay? I got some diet coke too if you want it."

Looking up, I heard the kid rap his hand against the fence. Really, as if I could just open the fence and let him on in. I don't live behind the fence, jesus.

"Yea, sounds great...how about you toss them on over."

"Oh--well. What if I came over there and ate them with you...?"

"Uh. No. You see I have a...terrible, terrible disease. ConstantJimvitice. If you did that you could catch it by just touching me. Don't want that, do you, Jimmy."

"You---you do? That's horrible. But. Then, my mom says sick people get a lot better with company. Maybe I can be really careful...!"

I practically wince at his godawful enthusiasm.

"Hmm. Sometimes it's not enough to be careful. Got these...blisters all around my arms and face. Could just. Blow up at any moment."

There's a few seconds where that punk kid is thinking and then a few seconds more he's tossed the plastic bags and coke over the fence. Relieved, I'm able to reach both of them. Impressed at how well the kid pitched those without landing them over my head. I'd have a whole new shiner and bath of ice to worry about if I'd missed the random bags of food and drink sitting around in the backyard by the time dad returned home.

Which in itself is just ridiculous as all of hell.

"Thanks."

Opening the bag of cold pizza, I eat it as if it's the best thing in the whole world. Pizza in itself is probably one of those foods I'd be happy eating forever in some dark, dank underground cavern. Maybe I'll make myself one of those some day and call it the House Cave. Wear a suit with gear, get an unbelievable amount of money and save the world with my powers of healing.

After stuffing the pizza in my mouth, I manage to dig a hole and bury the bag in the ground. Doing the same while chugging the diet coke as fast as possible. Enjoying to hell the caffiene and sugar I'd usually find myself without unless I could con someone at school out of a buck or two.

"So, your name is Greg?"

"That's what I said."

"And...your last name is House?"

"Yep. Again."

"How old are you?"

"Older than you."

"Well....yea...but."

"Seventeen."

It's fair enough I answer his questions, sitting back after burying the evidence of the crime and enjoying the few moments where I'm not hungry as all of hell.

I do still miss that baseball I'd had though.

"So...uh. What do you do for fun, Greg?"

"Well. There's sitting outside and enjoying the sounds of your sultry voice."

"Sultry...?"

"Look it up."

Before the kid could keep up with the line of steady questions, the back door to my house shut with a thud. Causing me to turn around and bristle almost immediately. Whenever I saw my father it was almost this instinctual reaction of hate and anger, something I did try very hard to keep in, but sometimes found itself slipping out and proving even further just how different we really were.

Brown hair and eyes colder than mine he walks over to me, standing for a second.

"Come on, son. Time for dinner."

Dad and his punctuality. I glare, cold and hard even while he works the knots from the tree, getting back to his feet. His voice as strong as ever, gruff with command like I was one of his soldiers being forgiven after a crime of war. I always hated that I was one of his soldiers, it dug at me to the core sometimes.

The ropes loose I rub at my wrist, getting to my feet without a word. Biting my tongue but keeping my gaze sharp as ever. His voice held a sense of "well you are a fucked up stupid man, but you've earned my forgiveness". Just as and after every work of punishment that goes on in this house. Just as I'm so lucky to have not been in the wars he has, the place and the trainings.

Timmy or whatever his name is stays quiet behind his fence; maybe he can feel the heat radiating from me while I'm led back inside. Or maybe he started talking as soon as I'd gone into eat without realizing I'd gone inside at all. I wouldn't blame the kid for being too deaf to hear my father's few words.

"Now, don't be late."

My mom is helping me get my jacket on just after setting up a brown lunch bag on the table. It's a lot bigger on me than it was when I was expelled a month or so ago and I don't hide my disdain of the idea of heading off to this new school. Maybe I'll meet new people but then maybe I'll just fail out of most of my classes like before.

She's rushing around and making sure it all goes "great" and everything, just like she always does. Voice singsong and sweet as it can be; I know mom tries to hide it but she could possibly be even more miserable than me. In fact I think she's stuck to this delusional world dad has set of military principals and work more than he has. Putting all of it into being the perfectly supporting mother and vanishing or looking away if there's ever a punishment to be done.

There are times I want to rip her down from her fantasy world and into the real one, but most often all I can feel is grief at the idea of anything happening to her. Because I know she is a mom and a wife and she is what she thinks she needs to be. She's like another part of my world with icing and chocolate that doesn't mix in with the rest of the madness. Like an angel perched in heaven while I'm here stuck with hell. I never knew how to really react to that or to stop from defending her. Even to myself when I'm furious at her.

"I know, mom. It'll be great. Don't worry."

"You'll be good?"

I sigh slightly, looking to her with what I'm figuring is a supportive smile. I do try.

"Yea. I'll be....good."

She hands me my lunch and kisses me on the forehead. Placing her hands back together and smiling her sweet, but tired smile. Leaving me to head off to the bus that should be picking me up within the next ten minutes.

Mom was always just as punctual as dad, but in her defense it was really him who made her that way. I started out the door, grabbing my backpack on the way and heading off down the sidewalk. At first I don't realize it, standing there in front of the house of that kid I'd seen the other day, but then looking over I hear him. I wouldn't have been able to recognize the squirt as I had no idea how he looked, but upon hearing that godawful cheery little voice it fit well with the kid's appearance.

He was a scrawny little shit. And to be fair, so was I. Brown hair, brown eyes. Jewish, I'd wager. Beaming little smile and an older kid who I was assuming was his brother. Now him, him I had seen before walking home. Watering a garden and smiling with a wave to his little "nurse" mother.

Who knew if the nurse part was even true though. The kid could've been just making that part up for all I knew. The older kid, though not as old as me; patted the kid's head and headed back to the house. I could only guess as to whatever reason why.

"Hey. Kid."

After standing there for a few seconds; gym shoes, white socks and a blue and purple back pack; he looks up a little confused. And...then after seeing me he tilts his head with a frown, even more confused.

"Greg...?"

"Yea. What are you doing here."

"Going to school..."

I look off a little annoyed for just a second. Glancing down the street.

"You. Do realize this is the bus for high schoolers right."

"Uh. Yea...I thought you had blisters all over your face."

...Whoops. Forgot about that. I keep going without a missed beat though, looking down the street again for the said bus to arrive and take me on my merry way. Maybe I could go back and correct the kid's mom in time from saving him on boarding the wrong bus.

"Yea, they come and go. So what are you heading to high school?"

"There's a middle school program there too...my mom usually home schools me, but this year I wanted to go to a---"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Home schools you?"

"Yea. Me and my brother--"

"Home schools."

"Yea...well. Only recently. I skipped a few grades and--"

"....As in. Cookies and math with a home made board."

"Um. Well, I guess me and some other kids who lived on our old block."

".....And. You're nine and going to a high school that offers middle school classes. With high schoolers. Does your mom just want you to get beaten up or does she just hate you."

I'm genuinely looking at the little punk and this kid doesn't seem to have any idea on what to say. Opening his mouth for a moment and shutting it, seemingly more on the confused side. All i can think to do is pray for the best and wonder to myself how a woman who is both a nurse and teacher can be so ridiculously and recklessly dumb.

That goes the same for whatever brilliant force of God decided that it might be a good idea to toss middle schoolers in with a bunch of high schooling druggies. The place we were going to was marked as one of the best of the district grade point average wise but upon further research you'd realize how easily each of the brochure's points skimmed passed any drug and violence issue.

If you don't brag about something being a great percentage and go so far as to try to make it seem nonexisting, generally that means it's probably a very, very bad percentage. Meaning I was prepared for a school filled with idiots who cheat their way through each grade and punch people out for giving the wrong impression. Me, I could take on two guys with nothing buy my fists and a good bit of kicking.

This kid however--I could only further imagine how often he'd be strung up to the flag pole at the front of the school. I guess it only took someone as deeply thinking and simplistic as me to see a gaping huge hole of logic in this situation.

Sighing, I look off back towards the kid's house.

"Look kid. I'd go back to your mom, tell her you want to keep doing homeschooling or set yourself back to the third grade. That way you can be in a normal middle school that isn't here."

"Well, I know what to expect..."

"And what's that."

"I used to get beaten up a lot before my mom got me into homeschooling."

"Oh yea, and I'm absolutely sure that the other five year olds were terrible and awful to deal with."

"It...was actually...--"

"Don't care. Just. Trust me. Alright."

The bus came down the street, humming in rhythm and pouring grey fumes into the air as it came to a stop. The sign popped foreword where inside you could clearly see the very uninterested and grumpy face of an overweight Mexican driver--anything but enjoying his job.

I give the kid a look and with just a quick raise of my brows, step onto the bus. Smelling like left over sandwiches and stale stench of fading puke. The entire contraption vibrating underneath me while I made my way down the center passed rows of different kids who all for some reason assorted themselves not just by grade but culture too. You had the peppy ones clustered in two rows and then the darker, grudging kids, the smart ones, the jocks who were at the very front. Fortunately I didn't care about any of them. And by just glancing I could tell just what they were doing or thinking or why they were where they'd ended up.

High school was a messy but oddly humorous thing. Filled with little teenage kids and their little teenage lives that didn't go out of their little teenage classes filling up on useless teenage knowledge they'd never learn or know or care about ever again. Slouching into an empty seat at the back, I stared off toward the ceiling. Waiting for it to get a move on and head off towards my new school. Which oddly enough seemed and appeared so far--exactly like my old school, give or take the less impressive bus and bus driver.

I didn't see the kid getting out when we arrived, so figured that to be a good sign. Heading off to my first class and getting there deliberately ten minutes late. When the teacher offered to introduce myself I went ahead and told everyone the facts, standing before a class of kids who seemed to be filled with suck ups and a few slackers.

"I'm Greg House. I was expelled from my last school because I shanked someone in the street parking lot. And take meds to keep me from going crazy. So. If you'd like to see me or hang out with me or anything of the sort, I'd be sure to remember the meds aren't that affective and I may very well just snap on any of you."

My smile was not deterred by the teacher's stern glare or the class who seemed suddenly much more interested and confused. Predictably as teenage kids happened to be, a stream of whispers ended up breaking out while I took my seat at the back of the class. Tossing my bag to the floor. The teacher got up front, gave a forced smile and started class.

I think she was noting all the ways she could get me into detention from just that statement alone. Despite that fact, it didnt' end up happening. And when I got to my next class, the teacher only welcomed me with a "Greg--it's good to have you at our school."

"Oh yea, I'm grateful for this second chance. It was a relief to hear the teacher I stabbed ended up surviving."

The man too, didn't seem to know how to react. Going for the lines of thinking I was making a joke so he forced a very uncomfortable laugh while I made myself situated there as well. The time lunch rolled on by I was pretty well known as a freaky kid with issues so more over everyone was leaving me alone.

I really liked it that way. I might have the physique of a scrawny kid, but when fighting came to fighting I was usually pretty good. Might as well avoid that altogether though and keep with lies and words on settling into this place.

Lunch was served on a long tray pressed up at the back of the room--mac and cheese, chicken, cheese burgers, fries, and salad. Woman with hair nets and a few older, rugged looking men splashing or dropping each onto trays. Different from my old school, but also so similar it was hard to tell I was somewhere else at all. Kind of sad how similar everything always was in this respect.

I'd managed to get a few bucks off a backpack of smaller kid and got a coke while dumping out the lunch I had from home. I felt sick staring at it and for all of a few moments genuinely considered throwing it all out. In fact, that's just what I was going to do.

Setting the coke aside I gathered up the apple, sandwich, banana and crackers together--shoving them back into the brown bag they'd come from. Tossing it into the trash can a few feet away--hitting with perfect accuracy.

"....Were they spoiled or something?"

I shift my gaze--abrupt towards a girl standing near my table. Smiling with a book against her chest and a lunch bag in one arm. Her expression was more one of amusement or curiousity than anything; and it captured me almost instantly. I felt myself staring a little too long, shaking it off with a more narrowed look.

"Uh...yea. Who are you."

Brushing a strand of black hair, she smiled a little more tentatively, slipping into the chair in front of me. Leaving me to keep staring--and not just at her eyes. She wore a cheerleading uniform--something I already knew on instinct meant that she was apart of a clan of over worried, super hot, brainless young girls.

I wasn't sure if that was my type or not.

"Lisa. I know the things you said in those classes are a lie."

Lisa. Who names their girls "Lisa". I looked at her while sitting back a bit. A little straighter.

"Oh yea? What makes you think that."

"Because...I overheard the principal say you were caught slashing a teacher's tires."

"Hey, I pulled a knife on my last principal."

"No you didn't..."

She was very sweet. A little too sweet, but also intelligence while looking up towards me. Dark eyeshadow and very bright blue eyes. Yet what she says does catch my interest more than anything, sitting back further against my chair.

"And what makes you think that."

"You're sitting at an empty table, alone."

"....And this means..."

"There's only two reasons someone would tell every class that they stabbed someone...Either they want admiration and fear or they want to be left alone. If it was the first, you'd be out with the bullying street kids over at the other table." I stare at her a long moment. Just sort of looking. Impressed and confused both at once, figuring there's more to the little observation that she's taking out here. She smiles, looking down as if about to confess a little more. "That, and...

If you really had stabbed someone, the school never would've let you come here."

Now I'm even more impressed. But--warily so. Looking the girl up and down, chewing on my lip with quite a bit of thought.

"....Well. You're smart. Lisa. Strikes me as a little odd with you being a...cheerleader."

"It's an after school participation that looks good in my resume to college."

Lifting her head, smiling as if proud for a moment. And though not a lot gets passed me I still can't see what's very proud about being a cheerleader. I guess the girl was proud about her success, for something to prove. Working the system to get to the top.

I nod my head, gruff but easily. Still studying as she got back to her feet and gathered her lunch.

"Anyways...it's nice to meet you. If you'd like some advice, I'd ace the tests you can and put extra thought into the papers for most of the classes. Most of the teachers here will give you points for just making it seem like a lot of effort even if it isn't. And a lot of colleges like that sort of thing too."

"Is that so."

"The higher level classes are actually easier than the lower grade ones too. So...if you have a chance to go into honors, I'd take it."

Another polite smile, and the girl starts off. Leaving through the cluster of riled and noisy kids into the crowd. Ultimately towards a table filled with cheer leaders.

Lisa.

What a weird girl.

Well. I hope people enjoy the presense of Cuddy, because that is probably the last we will see of her. I meant for this to be primarily a Wilson/House kind of fic but couldn't help myself on throwing in Cuddy there too. Damn. You know that thing where a character takes over your brain--well blame it here.

Anyways, reviews are always welcome, and hopefully here's to getting loads more chapters to come very soon.