-Generation Z-

Claaaaw-thunk.

Faint on the wind, but easy on the ears, it came. With dew ripping scent from the lawn, birds supplying arbitrary trills, and the sky alight in a particularly wondrous, simmering twilight: it came. And with it's arrival, Hamilton barricaded his senses, successfully shutting it out.

Strenuous exertion for the mind was the equivalent of a blacksmith for his forgeries; Hamilton had found this a continual theme in his life, and the truth was entirely such then. His instincts were fine-tuned and his senses were keen to the rhythm of his surroundings. This way, he could draw close his eyelids to better his concentration on game strategy.

Low and squat in a position of scrimmage, perspiration splashed on his brow and laced though his hair, eyes shut, jaw set; the image of intimidation on the football field.

SPEED - STRENGTH - AGILITY.

In front, a growl, from behind, a snarl in response.

EYE OF THE TIGER - STING LIKE A BEE - NO PAIN, NO GAIN- THIS GAME'S MINE.

An almost victorious "HIKE!" and the game roared to life. Hamilton rammed forward into a wall of muscle, hardened to the density of cement from years of callusing work. But he himself was no pushover, and so the struggle began.

Now, this battle was one he'd fought on countless occasions in his life. The back-and-forth of evenly matched opponents, wrestling for seniority. Competition in it's most evident form. Yeah, something so familiar it wouldn't surprise him to be innate, that's football. It was even as if, in physical activity, he tapped into the knowledge of his ancestors, and in a moment, became entirely defined by the uniform he wore. It was glorious.

Over his own zealous hassle, he could almost sense the ball, and how it was grappled between sisters. His ally laboured to keep her grip on the pig-skin as her twin, Reagan, tackled her knees to the grass. He and she make eye contact, and she managed a sputter of, "Hammer!" before putting a twirl to the ball.

Hamilton's rival made to intercept the pass, but in a practised motion, Hamilton hurtled off his father's bicep and stole the flying object from the Cirrus clouds above.

From his mighty leap, he recovered in a quick roll, away from his gargantuan dad, into a low running stance.

Eisenhower charged his son, aiming to tackle.

Hamilton weaved, as if deciding where to escape, then at the last possible second dove under Eisenhower's legs, leaving him to grind into the soil as his son jet off behind him.

And that minute, that isolated second, Hamilton felt freedom. He was accustomed to it after all those years of breakaways, but he knew he'd never tire of it. In a mad dash for the finish, as chaos encircled, he lived truly in the moment; the ultimate impulse and the true glory of being a Tomas.

No difference was there because his father was chomping sod, and his sisters raged on in their own title fight; the chilling breeze ripped his track pants like waving flags, and the heat of his tire left him, so he could easily let himself believe he was the wind-

SPEED.

or the earth he barrelled over-

STRENGTH.

or the birds zipping about.

AGILITY.

He was all this and anything else.

The Holts' regulation goal post was seconds away, but his rapture screeched to a halt with a single word called from the porch, "SNACKS!"

Madison and Reagan went limp in their wrestle before screaming, "Snacks?" in perfect synchrony.

Hamilton watched, mind-boggled, as his sisters scrambled over each other to scamper inside. His mother beamed to him, "You two boys come in, now. You've got to fuel the engines!"

He groaned in almost physical pain as he saw his mom waving him in. Oh, but the real pain was the self-assured chuckle edging up behind him. Hamilton winched as his father's bellow grew, "I guess that's game, then. Can't do nothing about that."

Hamilton turned sharply, his smile polite and curt. "Yeah? Then who's won?"

Eisenhower grinned, "I did. I always do."

His nose wrinkled. "Sure about that? See, I was taught the team with the highest score wins, and Mad-dog n' me cleaned UP."

"Now, son," he took to his most condescending tone. "there aren't any winners or losers in good ol' fashioned family fun; ain't that the noise those Madrigals are always going on about?" Hamilton could hear the bitterness, or rather, not. Eisenhower had never acknowledged that his children were Madrigals agents. Come to think of it, he hardly acknowledged that weren't Tomas agents.

Hamilton rolled his eyes dramatically, "Madrigals want peace, not boredom," he remarked. "'Sides, we only say that so the others won't get mad when they loose Monopoly." he snickered and shook his head. "You haven't seen a brat 'til you've seen a Lucian have to sell his hotels."

"I'll keep that in mind, I guess." His father's grin was snarky and Hamilton noticed he still hadn't admitted defeat. Eisenhower flicked his neck to the side; a gesture to the house. "Go on inside, help your mom with the groceries. I'll stack this junk in the shed- looks like it might rain, you know."

Eisenhower's son gave a quick, automatic salute and transformed into a fleet jogger.

Through the den, and to the kitchen he went. It wasn't so much as familiarity, but an almost innate knowledge of his surroundings, that made this his hearth and home. Then, it's not as if he indulged in it, but could rather sense it subconsciously. After all, the warm embrace it held in store was a given, the furnishings were expected, and the memories littered through-out, in the scrape marks, and over the patched up walls were a birth-right. The only part of this he really picked up on, entering then, was how the floor was littered with sports equipment, as always, almost tripping him.

He grunted after stumbling. "Reagan! Pick up your stupid ballet slippers- they nearly killed me."

No response besides laughter sounded and Hamilton grumbled as he came into the kitchen.

The twins only contribution to unpacking was the ketchup and relish for their hot-dogs. Hamilton gave them the custom noogie on his way but they didn't seem to notice at this point.

Hamilton started for the plastic bags resting on the island, Reagan and Madison saw this and immediately began bickering over who's to steal his snack, and Arnold bellowed up at them, as if fighting for it, too.

Mary-Todd was smiling in the presence of this fluster. She then flittered through the mail, and the smile sunk into dreadful solemnity. Her eyes were wide with fear as she looked to her dear son. "Hamilton, you've got mail ... it's from West Point."

The scene shuddered to a stop. The sisters looked on in sudden awe, and helpless swirls of resentment, reverence, and dismay for the moment that'd been a joke all their lives stirred in their heads. Arnold the dog, who'd been taught to snarl at the mention of the school, couldn't do as much as whimper in the sombre anxiety.

Hamilton took it upon himself to silence his qualm, and hide his trembling. He felt he abrupt urge to quell the tension and fear of his family, but had so much trouble just processing the reality that he couldn't muster much more than a mutter, "I'll read it alone."

He left with the letter, but the silence still ensued.

Eisenhower began his accent up the porch.

Two figures stood in two doors. One eclipsed the window of the sitting room, the other encased the light of the kitchen. One sank. The other's heart followed, after silent conversation.

Eisenhower's stride was stiff and hurried, but terror was truly what carried him.

By the time he arrived, Hamilton's desolance had already reached a peak, as he'd finished reading. Hamilton brought up his head to his father's falling features and it took all his strength to speak in a dying voice. "I'm sorry, Dad."

Eisenhower gazed before him and saw not the valiant young man he raised, but a small boy with a guilty expression. The sight welled his eyes more than the letter could, because he knew that little boy. It'd been a while, but the wound never really healed, and Eisenhower still felt so incredibly sorry. The most horrifying thing was, he wasn't watching a mirror anymore.

Eisenhower moised forward mechanically, and took a seat beside his son. Silence clawed the air from their throats and the words from their mouths. Each boy felt so blameworthy.

Spontaneously, in a fit of agitation for everything, Eisenhower slapped his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed as firmly as he could.

Hamilton looked at it, questioningly, as if it were alien.

Eisenhower's mouth drew into a straight line, the silence still victorious in clenching his teeth, before he exhaled shortly through his nose, shook his head slightly, and patted down his hand again. "... It's okay. Son. It's- not your fault."

In a surprised and grateful tone, Hamilton replied, "Thanks, Dad." and watched a tear roll down his father's cheek, he realized, for the first time.

The father and son sat there for an unbridled second. Then, Eisenhower broke their gaze and scowled to himself. "Nuts to West Point. They don't want you, sucks to be them. You'd have been a real good cadet. You'd have gotten so many honours they'd have a hall just for you, even." he nodded. "... Real good cadet."

Hamilton smeared his few tears back into his eyes, sputtering in a bitter chuckle. "Truth is, Dad ... I never, ever wanted to be a cadet." Eisenhower studied him. "I was just doing it ... well, you know, the Tomas they- ... they need to know we can. I mean, they're still so stubborn, and scared maybe 'cause- ... I dunno, mayb- ..." he grunted a breath in exasperation.

"You can say stuff." He said it in an encouraging tone, like one might say 'Go on.'

Hamilton double-took his glance, deciding whether or not to, but ultimately, his frustration won out. "It doesn't matter. All I mean is they don't respect us. I used to think the clue hunt would be enough- but even if we did win, I don't think they'd really care. I thought ... I'd make things right. If I fixed things at West Point, became a good agent, it'd sort of, make up- I guess?- for ..." he sent a wayward glance at his dad. "everything.

"And I after I saw what it meant to you- when I suggested West Point for college- I knew I was doing the right thing. And you know I'm not a sappy guy, Dad," he was laughing in nervousness. "but I knew it was right in ... well, you know where."

"... You can say stuff. I couldn't." Eisenhower became detached, before turning on his son again. "Never talk bad about your grandpa."

"What?"

"He was a real American hero, just never do it, okay?" Hamilton nodded, slowly, confused. "He was such a coward. He never paid me any attention and never gave me a reason. I mean, I know, why, but-" Eisenhower choked back his words suddenly and forcibly. He started again. "After your grandma ... he got quiet. Can you see that? A quiet Holt." he scowled again. "Ain't natural."

Honestly, Hamilton could. He would never share that with Eisenhower- but not in fear for himself. Eisenhower wasn't a failure as a father, and there shouldn't be any lingering doubts otherwise. Hamilton realized this was the first time he needed to protect his dad. In the past, the most he felt obligated to do was defend his honour. Now, looking after his father, the man held in such reverent regard all these years, felt odd, maybe uncomfortable, but undeniably necessary. "Why'd you tell me that, Dad?"

"Because I needed to. You need to know ... what can happen now."

Hamilton didn't understand. He never would.

"I- ... knew you didn't want to go." They looked at one and other again, the strangeness of the open conversation blistering the sturdy view they had of each other. "To West Point. I knew."

Hamilton knew his father wasn't just saying that for comfort or condolence. The truth had been discovered before- maybe it'd been the lofty tone he'd used suggesting the school, the lack of true enthusiasm expected, or maybe something along the lines of Father-knows-best- or maybe something a little less ridiculous, he didn't know.

Frankly, he didn't care to. It was a blessing.

Hamilton wiped the last remnats of his tears away, and stood.

Eisenhower watched, positively, absolutely dumbfounded. "You're all right, Hammer?" It came out a little more incredulous than intended.

Hamilton stopped. "I have to be. I've got a conference call tonight, and it's video."

His father's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "With who?"

"Madrigals," he shrugged, opening a door. "Duh."

Like it was no big deal.

(o)(O)(o)

A/N: So, sorry, the noise sound affect at the top was Mrs. Holt's minivan door closing, and it was faint because they heard it from the back of the house. I just wanted to make that clear, because I never actually said what it was. (Now, there was a real reason I had those there, besides similarity.)

I'm so excited for any and all feed-back, and I'm so grateful for anything- even if you just want to favourite, it's still very appreciated.

This is DLT, signing off.