"Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot,
To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come."

Robert sat in the bar, absentmindedly gazing at the Monument Island statue through the window beside him. My work here is done, he thought smugly, picking up Booker's abandoned beer. Curious, he gave it a whiff before gagging at the sour odor.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of heels on the polished floor. He ignored it and took a sip of the alcohol, coughing as it burned down his throat. He knew what was coming, anyway.

Robert leaned back leisurely, ignoring the sensation of being stared at. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, he heard her breathe out in frustration. With very unsubtle stomping feet, Rosalind walked into Robert's view, blocking out the entire window. Crossing her arms, she tapped the heel of her foot on the ground and raised an eyebrow. "Robert, we need to talk." Her tone made it clear that she wasn't in the mood for messing around.

Robert widened his eyes innocently. "What's wrong, dear?" he asked lightly. Rosalind pursed her lips at him, unimpressed. "You know what I'm talking about," she growled, her eyes narrowing. Robert shrugged, and then thrust Booker's drink at her. "Want some?" he offered, still trying to play it cool.

A vein in Rosalind's forehead bulged prominently. Oops, too far, Robert mused. She swatted his hand away and pointed at him, her index finger centimeters from the bridge of his nose. "What are you playing at, Robert?" she demanded, her voice a deadly calm.

Robert's eyes were nearly cross-eyed from staring at her finger. "Can't we talk about this like adults?" he pleaded, trying to worm his way out of the situation. Rosalind didn't move a hair. Robert gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Beads of sweat started to form on the back of his neck, but he was compelled not to answer. "You're hiding something from me," she whispered, and a look of betrayal flitted across her face.

Robert shook his head vehemently at her words. One of his arms snaked around his back, hiding his hand from Rosalind's view. "I would never hide anything from you," he replied boldly. He crossed the fingers behind his back.

There was a silence as Rosalind glared into Robert's eyes, searching for any cracks in his stature. A moment later, she lowered her arm, seemingly satisfied with his honesty. "Then what on earth is happening to this experiment? The constants we've come to have known are just…" She waved her hands around her head in bewilderment. "…gone."

Robert, now out of the frying pan, tapped his chin thoughtfully, holding back a sigh of relief. "If I were to theorize, based on what has happened thus far… those 'constants' were not indeed constants, but variables with an extraordinarily high probability percentage. When the main subject was changed – after all, we have been using essentially the same Booker each and every time – the percentages were modified as well. The only real constants are that there are a man, a city, and a lighthouse." He looked up and was relieved to see Rosalind nodding slowly in agreement.

"Of course, this is all inconclusive. It's not as if one of us knows how this will turn out," Rosalind responded, chuckling at the thought. "That would be absurd."

Robert smiled back and nodded, choosing his next words cautiously. "Of course, that would be terribly absurd." He crossed his fingers even tighter.

"Well, shit!" Booker swore loudly as he zipped forward on the skyrail. Monument Island was literally right on top of him, and he had no idea how the hell he was getting off of this thing. A quick glance below informed him that he was in for a painful drop, unless he was lucky enough to hit some of the bushes at the entrance.

Calculating his velocity, he let go of the ignition button on the Skyhook, going from maybe what seemed like fifty miles an hour to a straight drop down, just barely missing the garden. "Oh – "

With a dull thud, he landed squarely on the cobblestone path in front of the door. He managed to shield his head from the impact, but it still felt like getting hit by a cannonball.

Booker groaned blinked several times, trying to clear some of the stars from his eyes. His back felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, but otherwise he felt pretty intact. Gingerly, he staggered up, feeling pain blossom between his shoulders but he quickly shrugged it off. "Hopefully I never have to do that again," he grumbled, wincing.

After a few minutes that consisted of him clearing his head, Booker looked up to view his destination: the picturesque statue that towered above him.

Of course, she'll be at the very top, he groaned mentally, almost feeling the soreness that was going to be in his legs. An idea occurred to him suddenly, and Booker cupped his hands around his mouth. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel," he bellowed, his voice echoing in the air. "Let down your hair!"

Nothing responded to his plea. No plume of hair tumbled from the tower. Booker shrugged, defeated. "Well, it was worth a shot," he sighed, trudging towards the entrance.

Panting slightly, Booker leaned his body against the wall as a brief respite. How much farther was there? It felt like he'd already walked the entire length of the building three times in a row. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he staggered into an elevator, punching the button angrily. As it gradually ascended upward, Booker suddenly put his hands on his knees, a knife of pain arcing through his mind.

Why was he here again? Why are you here? a voice asked, assertive and demanding. To wash away the debt and wipe the slate clean, he answered automatically, like second-nature. He wouldn't choose to come here for any other reason.

Right?

The ding of the elevator jolted him from his thoughts and the doors slid open with a hiss. The room beyond was tiny and dimly lit, with various drinks and snacks lay strewn around.

Impulsively, a thirsty Booker picked up a canister of coffee and shook it experimentally. Not a single drop fell out, but a plume of dust did billow off of the top. He threw it aside, a bit peeved, and then stood puzzled in the middle of the room. Well, now what?

"You a bit parched, Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker jumped about a foot into the air, banging his knees together. He whipped his body around, ready to throw a punch into his assailant's face, and found that it was only… Robert. Of course it was.

Booker eyed him warily. "Where the hell did you come from?" he asked, his voice pitching high with incredulity.

Robert grinned charmingly like his usual self, undeterred by Booker's hostility. "You looked a bit worse for wear, so I brought you a pick-me-up." He pulled, from absolutely nowhere, a massive bottle. Its contents glowed an eerie yellow, reflecting onto his skin. It looked less like alcohol and more like toxic waste from an industrial factory.

But Booker was thirsty, dammit, and he hadn't had a proper sip of booze since who knows when. He felt his self-control crumble at the sight, and the question of how exactly Robert snuck up on him dissipated. Hungrily, he eyed the mysterious drink, noticing that there wasn't a label anywhere. "What's this called? I've never seen it before."

"Oh, it's a special Columbian brew, called Infusion," Robert replied enthusiastically, stressing the name. A glint shone in his eyes. "Go on, try it!" he urged, tossing it underhanded at Booker.

He caught it effortlessly and tossed it from hand to hand, feeling its heavy weight as the liquid sloshed around. Booker racked his brain, thinking of over a hundred different reasons as to why drinking this would be a bad idea. Then he realized that if he were to die now… well, it would probably be more of a blessing. With practiced ease, he unscrewed the cap and chugged it down eagerly, waiting for the familiar burn down his throat, followed by the blissful buzzing sensation in his head.

It tasted like piss.

Booker gagged, trying to salvage his taste buds, when a sudden pop went off in his eardrum. Immediately, yellow waves appeared in the borders of vision, yet disappeared just as quickly. Coughing, Booker whirled upon Robert angrily, throwing the bottle at him. Robert lazily moved his head to the side as the projectile flew by and harmlessly struck the elevator door, littering the ground with glass shards. "What the hell did you just give me?" Booker bellowed, hands clenched.

Robert shrugged, surprised at Booker's heated feedback. "Something that'll help," he answered vaguely, maddening the already irate man even more. "Although, it seems that it affected you more than before…" his voice faded away thoughtfully.

"I should murder you for this," Booker hissed, adrenaline pulsing.

Robert absentmindedly began picking at his fingernails, disinterested. "You won't," he stated confidently, not the slightest bit frightened. Like it was a widely known fact.

"And why not?"

"Because I'm a friend," was Robert's simple answer. The honesty in Robert's tone was genuine, but still…

"That's questionable." Booker crossed his arms defiantly, staring down the smaller man. The only people that he considered as friends were those who had saved his life more times than he could count, and definitely not those that gave him disgusting beer.

"Friends help each other," Robert insisted, not letting the matter die. "I'm helping you out of your debt."

"Well, I'm not your friend," Booker retorted haughtily. He could feel his patience running out. Hell, a debt sounded better than spending Saturday nights with this man.

"Well, I guess you're, as your kind would say, 'shit out of luck.'" Robert let out a sigh of despair, slumping his shoulders. "Now you'll never find out where the girl is."

Booker ran a hand through his hair irritably. If only he had his gun with him, then he could just force Robert to tell him what he needed to know. "So basically, you're bribing me with information to be your friend."

A miniscule smile stretched across Robert's face, making him look smug. "Precisely."

Booker felt his anger deflate at his words. Robert, despite his odd antics, did genuinely seem to want to help him. He stretched his fingers out, loosening the tendons. "Okay, I'm your friend," he grumbled, rolling the word around in his mouth experimentally. "Now how do I get to the girl?"

Robert rolled his eyes in exasperation. "How about you use the lever sitting right in front of you? I simply cannot imagine what that could do," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Biting back a fiery retort, Booker turned around, and lo and behold, there was an honest to God lever there, just waiting to be pulled. He gave it a satisfying yank and the wall behind it suddenly moved apart, revealing itself to be a one-way mirror. Light flooded into the room, making Booker squint as his pupils adjusted. And beyond that…

Booker felt his breath hitch in his throat at the sight. She – the girl – was alive. A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded his body. It's not like he was expecting her to be dead or something, but he certainly wasn't expecting her to be painting a bloody picture of the Eiffel Tower. Well, that certainly makes life a bit easier, he thought. On the other hand, this meant that he had to stay in this damn city even longer.

Robert stepped up quietly next to him, also watching the girl. "She's certainly something for the eyes, isn't she?" he queried jokingly, winking sideways at Booker.

Booker shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Robert, she looks like she's a minor," he said uneasily.

Robert smirked at the other man's edginess. "Oh, please," he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "She's twenty-something. Totally legal. Believe me," he continued, nudging Booker with a shoulder good-humoredly. "Her father would absolutely murder me if I even touched her, let alone if she were under eighteen."

Booker's eyes became unfocused. For some reason, Robert's words made his thoughts muddled. "Um… sure," he replied, head spinning. Was this the second time something like this had happened?

He directed his attention on the girl to compose himself, slightly mystified by the delicate strokes of the brush against the canvas.

Suddenly, Robert grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him so that they were face-to-face. Before Booker could object, Robert spoke. "Don't fall for her," he growled, his voice sounding angry for the first time since Booker had met him.

Booker shook his head in confusion, trying to wrest himself from Robert's surprisingly strong grip. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The girl. Don't. Fall. For. Her."

Booker's eyes widened in shock as he grasped what Robert was saying. "No, no, no, no. Wait, what? Why would you – "

Why ask what, when the most delicious question is when? Booker's sight blurred, Robert's face becoming fuzzy and distorted. Where had he heard that from? Goddammit, a third time? his subconscious grumbled irritably.

Robert's voice grew louder, a beacon of light in Booker's jumbled mind. "It is absolutely imperative that you do not become emotionally attached to her. Do you understand?" He shook Booker roughly at the end of each sentence, who flinched as he regained his awareness.

He raised his hands in alarm. "Christ, okay!" he cried, hoping that was enough to free himself. To his relief, Robert released his hold, lowered his arms and folded them neatly behind his back. "What the hell was that all about?"

"I must apologize for that," he said sincerely, a far cry from his earlier behavior. "My sister wanted me to relay that message to you."

Booker massaged his shoulder, restoring the circulation there. There were definitely going to be some bruises forming there. "Did she want you to manhandle me, too?"

Robert grinned a bit guiltily and patted his friend's arm apologetically. "That might not have been excluded from the job description," he admitted sheepishly. "But I've heard that you shouldn't blame the messenger."

"So why does your sister care?" Just the thought of the woman in question made Booker's mood sour.

"To be quite frank, I believe because she's never been touched by a man." Robert deadpanned, his face completely devoid of emotion. Quickly, his poker face broke down and he began snickering like a grade school student. Somewhere, Rosalind was throwing a fit.

Booker snorted and cracked a grin. His new friend was – God forbid – growing on him.

"Also, since we're friends, I figured I could be a wingman for you." Robert waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Booker chuckled softly and shook his head, scratching an itch on his stomach. "Sorry buddy," he said apologetically. "But I'm just here to get my debt paid."

The other man's face fell. Booker clapped him on the shoulder strongly. "Hey, cheer up mate. Why are you so concerned, anyway?"

Robert wavered, appearing hesitant to respond. "Let's just say… that tragedies like these make for a pretty good show," Robert answered carefully. His whole body had become taut with tension.

Booker narrowed his eyes. "Who said this was going to end in a tragedy?" he retorted, his brief spout of camaraderie gone.

Suddenly, Robert relaxed, making Booker wonder if he had just imagined it. He raised both his shoulders and widened his eyes innocently. "A tragedy? Who said that? I certainly didn't."

"If you don't stand for something you will fall for anything."

- Malcolm X

The heavy book struck him squarely in the face, flattening his nose with a muted thump. Booker groaned and blinked his eyes blearily as the sound of heels echoed across the room. Well that escalated quickly. For a moment, he was content to just lie on the ground, ignoring how badly he had fucked up this mission.

That is, until she started kicking him. He grunted as sharp jabs of pain spread across his abdomen.

With surprising agility, he jumped to his feet and snatched her by the wrists. "Would you – would you just quit it?" he barked over her furious screams.

The girl began pushing and shoving, but only managed to knock him back a few steps. "Who are you?" she snarled, trying desperately to break his grasp.

"My name's Booker DeWitt," he said automatically. "I'm a friend." Trust me; you don't want to know any more.

"Are you real?" The terror in the girl's face was replaced with a look of awe. Booker, sensing the danger had passed, released his grip. He noticed that his fingers had left a red mark on her unblemished skin. He almost apologized, but the sting on his ribs convinced him otherwise.

Meanwhile, the girl reached out to lightly touch his cheek with a shaking hand. Booker eyed her pinkie a bit warily, wondering what the hell happened to it. "I'm real enough," he answered curtly. The faster they got out of this godforsaken tower, the better. He grabbed her arm by the elbow roughly.

"Listen here, uh - " Booker stuttered to a stop as he realized that he didn't even know her name. Damn, this was not going well. She cocked an eyebrow at him, a small smile forming on her lips. "Yes, Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker set his shoulders, and spoke in a professional tone. "Miss, I'm here to get you out – "

A high-pitched whistle interrupted him, the sound making his ears protest in pain. The girl's large eyes widened in panic, and her mouth morphed into a perfect "o".

Booker swung around to face the threat, but the sound was coming from… a statue?

Steam poured of two pipes in the back in rhythm with the whistle's tune. "No, wait!" the girl shrilled, her voice struggling to be heard amid the ruckus. "I'm getting dressed!" Booker opened his mouth to ask what the hell she was talking about, but it occurred to him that her words were directed at… the statue. He scratched his head in confusion.

The girl turned to him with an apologetic expression as the whistling died down. "Sorry about that," she said, not even the slightest bit fazed. "He's very possessive."

Booker turned to look at her with a strange expression on his face. "Um, you got strict parents or something?" he asked cautiously.

She snorted derisively, hugging her body with her arms. "Oh, how I wish! I don't have any parents," she replied softly, her voice trembling a bit. Booker felt his heart soften a tad – he could relate.

Hesitatingly, he reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said clumsily, patting her a bit tentatively. "I know those kind of things suck, but I need you to focus. Focus on getting out of this tower. You understand?"

The girl sniffled, and then took in a shaky breath, raising her head to meet Booker's eyes. She nodded with determination. They held the eye contact for an unnecessarily long time, mainly due to the fact that Booker – damn, he sounded like a sappy fool – was just lost in them. There was something that he just couldn't put a finger to, and the longer he gazed into their icy blue depths, the more of a connection he felt to some lost memory. He narrowed his eyes as a name drifted into his consciousness. Anna?

The girl shifted a bit uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and then she yelped, jumping away. "Mr. DeWitt – you're bleeding – "

SCREECH.

Booker clapped his hands over his ears, screwing his face together as the sound washed over him. The girl let loose a scream, fanning her face with her hands. "He's coming! He's coming, he's coming, he's coming!" Her hands began to wave wildly, and if Booker were in a different situation, he would've laughed at how deranged she looked.

Booker backed up a bit as her arms nearly whacked him in the face. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, ears still ringing. "Hey, calm down, Missy!" he ordered sharply. She froze abruptly, her eyes boring into his. "Now give me a straightforward answer: who is coming?"

She gulped, but to her credit remained composed. "Songbird," she whispered, half reverently and half despairingly.

Booker smirked and relaxed a bit. "A little old songbird, huh?" he said cockily. "I'm sure I can handle – "

SCREECH.

The tower groaned as one of the walls crumpled in on itself, impacted by something huge. Booker watched, frozen to the ground, as one section of the wall was completely ripped away, littering the ground with debris. The screaming of warped metal filled his ears, which felt like they were about to fall off.

Booker instinctively reached for his pistol, only to grasp on empty air. He blew out a frustrated breath. Damn rockets.

SCREECH.

A huge yellow orb occupied the hole in the wall, surrounded by worn brown leather. Almost methodically, the yellow orb was gradually replaced by a blood-red colored orb, which slid into place with a satisfying metal click.

No verbal explanation was needed. Booker hightailed it towards the door, leaving behind a very bewildered girl, and probably some of his dignity. "Fuck that, let's move it!"

The girl squealed as a gush of wind knocked her over as soon as she stepped outside. Her hands scrabbled at the slick ground, struggling to find any hold. Like a puppy on ice, Booker thought off-handedly, laughing quietly at his own wit. An earsplitting screech from that damn bird brought him back to reality, and it sounded close. They were going to get mauled because this girl couldn't keep her footing for more than five bloody seconds.

Booker, reaching a decision, hurried over and roughly picked her up bridal-style. She yelped in surprise and weakly pounded on his chest as he began a steady ascent upwards. One of her fists knocked the air out of his stomach, causing him to stop and double over. "You're not helping!" he snarled, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

"Put me down!" she demanded, her loud voice reverberating painfully in Booker's ears, but still he ignored her.

Legs pumping, he climbed up the path until they reached the very peak.

Booker stood exhaustedly, feeling like he had just conquered Mount Everest. Other than the wind pulling at their hair, there was no evidence of the leather beast. Booker frowned: had he only imagined it? The way things were going, he wouldn't have been surprised.

The girl peered at him from his hold. "So… what now?" she inquired, her once well-groomed hair now a disheveled mess.

Booker shifted his weight nervously on his feet. "Um, I don't know," he admitted honestly. Carefully, he helped the girl to her feet, ignoring the scandalous looks she gave.

She put her hands on her hips, not giving him any respite. "What type of knight-in-shining-armor are you?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

Booker, who was examining the empty air below the tower for possible escape routes, shot her a loaded look. "Honey," he said, his voice laden with contempt. "You are in the wrong fairytale. Do I look like a damn knight to you?" He gestured to his tattered and worn-out clothing, covered in dust and sweat stains. "Knights are noble little bastards; the whole chivalry thing and serving the king and God knows what else." Booker shook his head in disgust, though whether at the concept or at himself, even he didn't know for sure. "I haven't done jack-shit for others."

The girl's glare softened, a little surprised by his degrading speech. "If anything, I'm the second-hand drunk thug that was just a bet to see how long he would last," he muttered ruefully. He looked down below to the Earth, and saw nothing but clouds and blue. Would he feel the pain of his body striking the ground before he died?

"Well, coming to rescue me was pretty unselfish," the girl offered halfheartedly, trying to lighten the conversation. Bless her soul – she didn't know a loss cause when she saw one.

Booker grunted in acknowledgement. "You think? We'll see about that." It certainly wasn't enough to save him from hell, but it was… something.

He looked up at her suddenly. "Do you trust me?"

"No," she answered immediately, with no hesitation. Shocked by her bluntness, she covered her mouth were her hands, shooting an apologetic glance at Booker. Booker simply nodded adamantly and waved away her unspoken words, not hurt by her truthfulness. He wouldn't either.

He sighed dramatically instead, plopping down on the ground in a heap. "Well, we're shit out of luck then." He patted the ground next to him as an invitation.

She eyed him with apprehension. "Are we just going to sit here?" Her expression was a textbook-perfect picture of disbelief.

Booker met her gaze unwaveringly. "Until you trust me, yes."

The girl hesitated for a minute or two, trying to think of other options. She even looked over the edge of the tower, to which Booker was a little offended to (he didn't look that menacing, did he?). Gradually, she sat down next to him, carefully maintaining a safe distance between the two. Booker leaned his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the first rest he'd had in a very long time. He would have fallen asleep right then and there, if the girl hadn't started singing.

"We shall reach the summer land,
Some sweet day, by and by;
We shall press the golden strand,
Some sweet day, by and by."

Her voice, soft yet crystalline, soothed his tormented ear drums that had been ravaged from the hellish noises of before.

"By and by, some sweet day,
We shall meet our loved ones gone."

Booker opened his eyes and stretched his aching body. "You're a helluva singer," he said admiringly.

The girl jerked in surprise. Clearly, she thought he had died or gone into a coma. "I thought you were asleep." Or that.

SCREECH.

Showing impressive reaction speed, the girl jumped to her feet in distress. "He's coming, he's coming!"

"Yeah, yeah, I got the memo," Booker grumbled drily. He calmly stood up and dusted off his pants, a bit uselessly since they were so ratty.

The girl grabbed his arm, shaking it roughly. "Why aren't you doing anything?" she squealed, looking like she was about to wet herself.

Booker looked at her with amusement. "Do you trust me?" he queried again, his tone steady.

She rolled her eyes impatiently. "Oh dear God, okay." She ran both of her hands down her face, and then released a shaky breath, trying to calm herself down. "I trust you." Booker looked over her head and saw what appeared to be a dark shape headed towards them at a fast pace.

"We're friends?" It was coming closer with every second. Even now, he could see the murderous red glow of it eyes as it located its prey.

"Yes, yes, yes – we're friends!" She was near-hysterical, tears welling up in her eyes. Booker felt a little guilty for provoking her like this, but it wasn't his fault she was guarded by a damn persistent monster.

"Good," he said, satisfied. With a single fluid motion he wrapped a strong arm around her petite waist and lifted her up like a sack of potatoes. Not wasting any time, he jumped off of the tower, leaving only the girl's horrified screams trailing in their wake.

Overhead, the bird screamed in fury as it crashed into the location they had just been at, unable to stop its forward momentum. Pieces of debris began to fall, narrowly missing the freefalling couple.

"Are you crazy?" the girl bellowed, still managing to look furious.

Booker grinned wildly at her, and maybe with a tad of insanity. It occurred to him suddenly that he didn't even know the girl's name, and now they were falling to their probable deaths. She was right: he was a terrible knight-in-shining-armor.

"Hey," he barked on an impulse. "What's your name?"

She looked at him with bewilderment at the randomness of his question. "E – Elizabeth."

Booker nodded, making sure to remember the name. It was a bit degrading to think of her as "the girl" all the time.

Struggling against the wind resistance, he reached out with his left arm, activating the Skyhook. It began to spin wildly, searching for anything magnetic to cling to. This plan was a gamble, and he knew it. But if there was anything Booker DeWitt could excel at, it was gambling.

Nevertheless, with each passing second, the dread in his gut grew, overtaking the earlier cockiness.

Suddenly, he felt their momentum shift more to the right, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. The skyrail came into view quickly, a long glittering hallelujah to his woes.

The impact of them colliding into the rail made him black out for a few seconds as he took the brunt of the force. His arm slipped around her body, but immediately straightened itself. If she goes, you go. Their breakneck pace slowed down considerably to a much more manageable and comfortable breeze.

For a few moments there was silence, as Booker took in their surroundings. They had broken through the layer of clouds, and now he could clearly see the destination their rail was taking them to: a shimmering oasis of water somehow suspended in the sky. Battleship Bay.

A small movement at his chest reminded him of the bundle that was nestled there. Booker glanced at her with concern. "You okay?"

For a moment, there was no response as Elizabeth hid her face from view. Finally, she spoke. "You saved me," she said, her voice muffled by his chest. Gradually, she tilted her head so that they were face-to-face. Booker was astonished to see tears – happy, joyful tears – flowing down her cheeks.

Booker's face split into a genuine smile, probably the first since he had arrived in the city. "That's what friends do," he said, thinking back to Robert's words.

Damn, he really was growing on him.

I apologize for the long wait for this update! These really do take a long time to write, and it doesn't help that I prefer to proofread them about a hundred times. Still, I'd rather publish something that I'm fully satisfied of, and not something that I have misgivings about.

Thanks to all of you for the huge amount of support I got for the first chapter. It really means a lot to me, and I hope you continue to enjoy this story.