Title: We Stand Alone Together
Summery: Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of Deathly Hallows were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.
Rated: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.
Brought to you by: Wesker888, the author behind such works as Just One Dance, For You I Will, and Crawling Under The Surface.
Disclaimer: I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.
Author's Notes: So the story has gotten a fair amount of views by now, which is nice. However, there are still no reviews or alerts, and that has me slightly disappointed. I know that it will probably change after a couple more chapters have been posted, but it still concerns me a little bit.
I know this story is different. It's not going to deal with magic directly. The Death Eaters are the overshadowing presence of the story, and they and other magical creatures that come in and out serve to move the plot forward.
The story is really about these soldiers, and how they deal with it all. It's a character story, and one I've wanted to work on for some time.
I'm going to work on this story until the end, but I ask more that people give it a chance for it and the characters to evolve. And if there's something I should improve (and don't say add more magic, because I've already got a plan for all of that), then please let me know. If you have a criticism, let me know. If you have something you really like and would like to see more of, let me know. I love feedback, good or bad, as long as it's not flat-out scorn.
So give me some, please? I know it sounds like I'm whining but I really like to hear what readers have to say, and it really helps me out.
Thank you.
Enjoy.
Perspectives
His footsteps echoed off the walls with each step, which felt absurd to him because he was wearing slippers. He wrapped his midnight-blue robe over him and stuffed his hands in its pockets and pulled out his cigar. He then went through the process of putting it in his mouth, lightening it, then taking a puff or two while playing with the silver-plated lighter in his hands.
It was a ritual, although usually more when he was awake.
The fifty-two-year-old man from London had not really known what to expect when he was woken up by his runner at two in the morning. Well, that was a lie; the exact thing had happened that night when Echo Base was attacked, so he had some idea of what it was. If it was, something was going to have to be done. One base was a disaster; two bases was apocalyptic.
The two guards stepped aside to allow him into the command post, the dark circular room that never had the lights on and never had any windows leading inside. Instead was a large circular table that had four seats total, three of which were already full. He took his position at the head of the table as the desk lights came on and his aides saluted him.
"Sorry to disturb you, Colonel," his second-in-command spoke up first. "But we've encountered a serious situation.
"It's alright, Hastings," Harold Shepard replied with a weary smile. "Just talk to me."
The colonel had been a military bird for the last thirty-four years, with no signs of retiring anytime soon. At fifty-two, five foot nine and one hundred and fifty-six pounds, he was in terrific shape for someone who had reached the halfway point in his life, able to keep up with the men during their calisthenics and even, in some cases, setting the tone for them. From an onlookers point of view, he was like a grandfather, with his sky blue eyes and bushy-white mustache. However, he had the mind and eyes of a hawk, and no little detail ever slipped by him unnoticed. He was serious when the situation called for it and kind when the situation was fine. Now was one of the times where he was all-business.
Lieutenant Colonel Dwight Hastings nodded at his words. At forty-six from Cardiff, he was an inch shorter and ten pounds heavier than his commanding officer. A fifteen-year veteran, he had seen his own share of war before being assigned to this post, away from the action. With sharp green eyes, a nose broken long ago from a bad bar fight, and a stiff jaw, he was everything one would expect from a former grunt, and his knowledge came in handy during times like this.
"At twenty-two fifty-one hours last night, all communications links with Charlie Base were lost," he explained. "As of now, there is still no word on the status of the men. However, given the situation with Echo Base, we feel it may be connected."
It was as he had feared; another attack. But the attack on Echo had been so different compared to the numerous other encounters with the rebel faction; no bullet holes in the corpses, no knife wounds, not even signs of strangulation. And the blown-out barracks buildings did not look like they had been made from bombs. It was baffling Intelligence and it was baffling the staff; what could do something like that?
"Has aerial surveillance picked up anything?" Shepard asked.
Major David Petitt, the thirty-eight-year-old Head of Intelligence, cleared his throat. From Oxford, he had green eyes and blonde hair, and a nose that was hooked in what he called "a splitting image of his grandfather". Whenever something was going on, he was always the guy to turn to; nothing ever passed under the radar without him knowing it. He made sure every surveillance plane, every radar specialist, every agent in the field, all of it, came to him with whatever information they had. On this one case, however, he was stumped.
"Surveillance wasn't flying over at that time," he told the others, shaking his head. "Communications just died without so much as a hint of interference. I'm sending one of my teams down there at first light to survey and check on things."
"What do you think, Colonel?" Hastings asked.
Shepard glanced over at the final member of their crew, Captain Franklin McMillan, the regimental chaplain. The youngest of the four at twenty-nine, McMillan was from Belfast, Ireland, with dark hair and dark eyes and a boyish face to accompany them. Mid-height and a little on the stocky side, he joined in and was assigned the role of regimental chaplain, a job that usually came with a considerable amount of scorn. Despite being the preacher of the regiment, he was still quite intelligent, and often offered a different perspective on things. For that reason, he was allowed to weigh in on meetings and be a part of briefings, plannings, and discussions.
From the look the chaplain was giving him, he could tell what he was thinking- that things were taking a new turn, and they needed to be prepared.
"Send in a platoon from Alpha Company with your team, Major," he ordered, turning back to Petitt. "And make sure they're prepared. Whatever they need, they've got it."
"A tad extreme, isn't it?" Hastings asked with a raised brow.
"Lad, it's time to face facts. Something out there is wiping out our bases and doing a right good job at doing it. And we need to know how they're doing it. I don't care what it takes, I want to know what's going on out there."
"Alright, Colonel." Petitt stood up. "I'm on it. We should have answers by morning."
He walked out of the room as Shepard focused on his cigar and contemplated the situation. Never had they lost a unit to such a complete blackout before, let alone two units. It was time to start being scared.
"I'm wondering if we shouldn't put the whole Middle Eastern operation on full alert," he voiced softly, taking a puff of his cigar.
"Now that is certainly being extreme," Hastings asked. Shepard looked up at the ceiling and blew out smoke.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures..."
Khalid Shiek Ali could see the explosions from his roof in Balad.
He did not know what to think of them, mainly because it was unlike any bombardment he had seen in his forty-two years of life. The colors, the noises he was hearing...even from miles away he could see it was the most bizarre set of either fireworks or bombardings that he had ever viewed.
And coming from a lifetime of war, that was saying something indeed.
He stroked his black scraggly beard and smoked his cigar as he watched the display. His mind wandered to which side was being hit, and who the forces even were. One side had to be the Americans, or one of their allies...but who was the other side? Certainly not his people; their side may have bought many weapons that did not meet their stereotype of "desert folk", but they certainly had nothing like this show going on now.
He would know. He was a regular in the town's militia, and one of its leaders.
He had fought several times, and had the scars in his shoulder and side to prove it. The first bullet had gone through his right shoulder, and that was a pain that had not entirely gone away, even now, six months later. The second bullet had been the reason why he only had one kidney now. Every now and again, mainly with a sharp movement, it would bring a stinging pain to his senses, but for the most part it was as though nothing had happened.
He was as successful a businessman as one could get out here- two wives, eleven children, a house that was not four sticks and a sheet of metal as a roof but an actual house, with two floors, a solid roof and furniture that did not feel as though it had been sitting in a dump for four months. It was a lifestyle many were envious of, but none tried to come in and do anything about it, provided he kept his mouth shut and did not try to lead any revolts, to which he had abided to up until now.
He had studied business and politics at Yale in the States, and had several friends there that he still kept in contact with via mail. Every now and again he would get a letter asking about the state of affairs in his country, what was going on, was the conflict involving him personally. He answered without giving too many details, because frankly, it was his people's problem, was it not? Was it so much of a global problem that everyone needed to stick their noses in it?
When the Americans and their friends had come to his country, he had been disappointed. Mainly because he knew they meant well, but their plan lacked proper execution. You could not just go into a country and tell its people how to live their lives. They had their government and way of life set up like this for a reason, and that was because it had been set in place hundreds and hundreds of years ago. A civil war was just one way of balancing it all out, giving each clan their own time on the throne before the next one, as far as he could figure.
Did the United Nations really think they could change that doctrine so simply? That by sending in their soldiers to aid in the "winning" side- the winning side depending on who in the city you talked to- they would be able to inflict some resolution upon centuries of conflict? The best thing was to let them resolve it the way they had always resolved it; through talks and, more likely, through violence. Thought many wished for peace, most understood that the way to stay alive was to just let things play out, and pray that wherever that goes does not go near you.
The UN did not understand that. Now, as he watched the display of explosions and bright lights, somebody was paying for that. Yet, as he watched from his rooftops at the fireworks show, something still did not seem right about it. Whoever was fighting out there, it was not their men...so who was it? Had someone else joined the fight without them knowing it?
Rumors had flooded around of a British base being ambushed by ghosts; no bullets fired, just two hundred bodies looking as though something had frightened them to death. But a friend a few villages over had seen the show from his house, just like Khalid was doing now, and had reported that it was something like what was happening now. Maybe that was it; maybe someone was out there, being attacked by these "ghosts".
The problem with ghosts, though, was that once they took care of one force, they would turn their attention to the other.
Khalid wondered when that time was going to come, and if they would be ready for it when they did.
The pain that was shock waving through his body was unlike anything ever done to him. And they were not even touching him.
Winters fell backwards onto the sand and jerked and twitched as what felt like a thousand volts of electricity shot through his body like they were dancing the tarantella at full speed. The man who was supposed to be torturing him was only holding out a stick and pointing it at him; he was not even poking him with it. And yet here the lieutenant was, writhing in absolute agony while this man sneered at his movements as though he were watching a funny puppet show.
"Enough."
The man did a flicking movement with the stick and the pain was suddenly gone and Winters just lay there, gasping for air and trying to get himself back on his knees. His face was sporting a black eye from where they punched him, and a slice on his left cheek from where that one bloke had left his mark with his knife. He was missing a tooth, he was sure of it, and both nostrils were bleeding, all signs of a guy who had said a few nasty things and got a few nasty rewards for them.
When they learned that some of the men had escaped- and how many, he could not be sure of, but if someone was still alive it was good news for him- they had turned to him for answers. At first they asked him for the location, screamed at him for it. When that had not worked, they tried to beat it out of him. And when that had not worked, they had resulted to this weird electrocution method. He had kept silent up until now; he did not know how much more he could take.
The one torturing him was a man that their leader had referred to as "Begley". With his mask off and his hood down he was a skinny man with greasy combed-back black hair and a pointed face that made him look like a rat. His teeth were his worst feature, disgusting and vile things that they were, probably never saw a toothbrush in their lives. His nose was pointed and hairs were sticking out of the nostrils in a rather disgusting fashion. He was a slimy looking git, both inside and out, and seemed to have some sort of homicidal tendency. But then again, so did the rest of them.
"Alright, vermin," he said in his snivel of a voice, as though he had permanent congestion. "Are you ready to tell us where they went?"
He reached forward, grabbed the lieutenant by his vest and lifted him back onto his knees so that he could face them. Winters spit out some blood and glared up at the leader.
"A guy...helped them..." he panted.
"What guy?" Begley demanded, but Winters would not even look at him. The man behind him, the big man, was the one calling the shots. If he wanted to know, he could hear it for himself.
"Big guy...red coat...white beard..." He managed a missing-tooth grin. "Lads call him Jolly Ole' Nick."
He laughed, a laughter made harsh by his torturing. It was such a stupid thing to say, yet it was hilarious to him. If these people thought they could weed the information out of him, then they could take that idea and shove it right up their-
Begley muttered that word again, the word that sounded like garbled English to his ears, and before he knew it he was back on the ground, trying to withstand what felt like an entire electric transformer being stuck into his chest at full power. He gritted his teeth and did his best from crying out; the more he did that, the worse it was for him and the better it was for them. But after a time, it became too much, and so that was exactly what he did.
"I said enough."
Begley reluctantly made it stop and Winters rolled on the ground, panting and moaning in pain. He turned to the leader.
"The rest of his filth will be here soon to clean up," he told him. "We've got bodies missing, our own dead are littered all over, and this trash isn't talking. What are they going to say when they see this?"
The man's eyes lingered on the scene for a moment. This was going to leave a lot less to explain. The wands had already been collected, but the bodies would give the faceless enemy a face, and that was something he could not afford to do. Not yet.
"Have half of the men take the bodies and Apparate them somewhere safe to bury," he said in his low, deep croak of a voice."The rest of us will Apparate back to camp immediately. They will meet up with us there, and we will plan our next move."
"And him?" Begley nudged his head in Winters' direction. The man peered onto him, contemplating. They could just leave him here with the rest of the bodies- what was one more Mudblood among the rest of them? But that did not seem fitting. And, when they did find the others, would it not be best for him to see them one final time? A parting gift, so to speak? Yes, it seemed much more appropriate.
"Bring him," he ordered. "There may be use for him yet."
"From a Mudblood? I doubt it."
He smirked and walked away to tell the rest of his lieutenants. Begley walked back over and again dragged Winters on to his knees, but this time taking it a step further and bringing him to his feet and dusting him off.
"It's your lucky day, chum. We've decided not to kill you." He grinned a disgustingly wicked grin. "Yet."
"What-?"
"Let's move. Now."
And then one second he was standing on the remains of his base, surrounded by the bodies of his dead men and the living bodies of his enemies...and the next he was standing in the middle of the camp, surrounded by the enemy and not a single friendly face in sight.
Just like that. No planes, no trucks, not even a motorcycle. They were there one second, gone the next.
Like magic.
And it was at that moment then, after the battle and the torture and everything else, that Winters finally acknowledged the fact that this time, they were all in way over their heads.
"The reports are coming in, sir, and there's interesting news," Petitt reported the second he stepped foot back into the room, five and a half hours after leaving to dispatch his team.
"Let's hear it," Shepard ordered. Hastings and McMillan sat up in their seats, back at attention to hear the news.
The Intelligence officer sat back in his seat and passed the file around the room. Shepard got it first and opened it onto the pictures of the base. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. The burning barracks, the trampled vehicles and weapons...and the piles of bodies sprawled all across the compound. Just like Echo.
"So it's the same people, then," he said, passing the folder along.
"It looks that way, Colonel." Petitt nodded. "However, there are two key irregularities here that weren't present at Echo Base."
"Such as?"
"Firstly, the barracks at Charlie Base were all empty; no one was inside any of them. At Echo, we found two buildings filled with soldiers who were killed before they could get out of their bunks. This tells me that the soldiers knew what was happening this time around, and judging from the spent bullet casings around the bodies, they put up a hell of a fight against it."
"Fat lot of good it did them," muttered Hastings, glaring over the papers. "I don't see any enemy bodies lying around."
"But it's good," McMillan piped up. "It means that they were ready for it, even if it didn't help them."
"What's the second irregularity?" Shepard asked the major.
"The second one, sir," and here Petitt managed a sort of ironic grin, "is that we gathered up the bodies and realized that there were some missing. A good portion of them missing, actually."
This stopped the other officers right in their seats. No one moved a muscle as they took that in. In the previous attack every body had been there to confirm every soldier's death. It had been such a clean attack; no enemy corpses, and every ally corpse. But now-
"How many are missing?" the colonel asked.
"At least ninety, though I still don't have exact numbers. Intel also reports that several vehicles were missing from the compound too, including one of the tanks and the lab truck."
"Wallace?"
"He's one of the missing, sir."
"Then they could still be alive," McMillan said with a hint of hope in his voice.
"Or they could be being held for ransom," Hastings added pessimistically. "They could have commandeered the vehicles to transport them."
"What kind of force could take ninety men hostage? That would have to be the size of an entire regiment to do that, maybe two."
"What kind of force could wipe out two bases and leave over three hundred men dead with no apparent casualties of their own? With no bullet wounds or any apparent injuries on the corpses? Not the same kind of force we're used to dealing with."
"Colonel, what do you think?" Petitt interrupted the two of them, eying their superior earnestly.
Shepard puffed on his cigar and leaned back in his chair. The facts of Echo Base and the facts of Charlie Base coincided almost perfectly. Almost. There was a force out there that did not like them much, and would just as quickly take them all out then negotiate. This time, however, they had gotten sloppy. Now there were a possible ninety soldiers still alive, and if they were smart- and if Wallace was with them, then they certainly were- they would make their way back to friendly bases. The question, though, was would they get back in time, before this force decided to take out someone else?
This was something he had never seen before. And it was certainly not looking like it was going to end soon.
"We have to assume they made it," he said. "We have to assume they survived and are making their way back to friendly territory. I want to put our resources into finding them before it's too late. And in the meantime, I want the rest of our forces put on full alert. If this rogue force strikes again, I want to know where and when. We need information, gentlemen. We need a prisoner if we can get it. There's too much we don't know. Let's take the question marks off those sentences and try to come up with answers."
"I'm on it, sir." Petitt stood and hurried out again, to return to his work.
"Colonel, with respect," Hastings interrupted as the major closed the door behind him. "The chances of ninety men surviving something that three hundred could not is very slim-"
"Unless we have dog tags in our hands, Lieutenant Colonel, I am going to assume they are alive. We are going to find them. We are going to get them the hell out of there. And we are going to stop whatever is out there. We have survived far worse than one rebel faction. We will survive this too."
McMillan nodded from his seat, a sure smile on his face. Shepard was not one for giving up on his men; not when they were still alive and having a fighting chance. Wherever these men were, they were going to be searched for. Until they were brought back, dead or alive, they were not going to assume anything other than they were still out there.
His only hope was that they found them before it was too late.
It was eleven thirty in the evening when the doorbell rang to their house, but Lisa Wallace was already wide awake.
She had been sitting in her bed, wearing her peach-colored bathrobe and holding a picture of her and her husband in her hands, looking at it with a soft smile on her lips. It was taken a week before their wedding, when they were on vacation in Ireland. That night where he had plucked a tiny flower from a bush and put it in her hair and told her she looked angelic. He had a way with words every now and then, something that had always attracted her to him.
She had put Victoria to bed hours ago, after a whole day of her tears. For some reason, today the infant could not stop crying. Not even a walk to her favorite park could get her to calm down. In the back of her mind, she could not help but wonder if this was Victoria's way of telling her that something was wrong, that she knew something her mother either did not know or did not want to think about.
She shook her head clear. She could not think those thoughts; otherwise, she would surely fall apart.
Growing up in Dundee, Lisa could not say anything particularly tragic about her life. Her parents were strictly religious, while she had been a bit of a rebel in her teenage years. She had had a great group of friends, she had done very well in school, she had loved music and writing the occasional piece of poetry. She went to church, and though she could not call herself particularly Catholic, she did love to hang out with her friends from the youth group.
As happy as her life was, for the majority she could not help but feel there was something missing, something that she had not found. She was asked to dances, and had a few dates here and there, but the actual experience of a relationship was something that she did not know for high school, and upon entering college. She had liked guys, and guys had liked her, but nothing had really come of them. It had never bothered her, particularly; it just felt lonely at times.
One night,while she had been in her friend's dorm room, talking with her friends and discussing upcoming plans, they were greeted by two newcomers. One was a boy she had seen around campus but had never talked to. The other was a complete stranger; dark hair, dark eyes, and a boyish look to his face that yet had something deeper behind it, something she could not place her finger on.
All it took was one look between them for something to click. He smiled, and it was the cutest smile she had ever seen, topped off with the dimples in his cheeks. The smile immediately won her over.
Over the course of the night, it had gone from him sitting across the bed from her to her sitting right next to her, close enough for her to put her head on his shoulder. She dropped the occasional hints that he thankfully picked up on, ever so subtly. But in the end, nothing serious came out of the night, and he walked out with his friend at the end and, she presumed, out of her life.
But the next day, there he was, catching up to her as she and her friends headed to the park. They spent the majority of the afternoon with her, climbing trees and playing tag, and at one point she had even given him a hug, out of the blue, which he had returned gratefully, if somewhat surprised by it.
It made up for the night before. From then on in, there was no denying there was something there.
A week later, he had taken her to the movies, with his friend and one of hers. It was like a real first date, the one commercialized in television shows- he paid for her ticket, held her hand, and, to end the evening, kissed her goodnight. Well, more than one kiss, though that had been more her doing, though he had not complained. That was the start of it all; the start of what would become their fifteen years of being together, resulting in their marriage and their beautiful daughter.
When he had called the night before, she had been overjoyed to see his face. It had been several months since the last time they had been allowed to video chat, so she made sure to look her best for him, and for Victoria to look absolutely adorable (though really, what more help did she need that she did not already have doing that?). The thing that had delighted her was that his smile was still the same, even after fifteen years. Same prominent front teeth, same goofiness, and the same dimples that occupied his cheeks. War had not changed him so much that it had taken away that side of him, and that made her the happiness.
But then the video feed was interrupted on his end, and she had not heard from him since. That was almost twenty-four hours ago, and she was officially starting to worry. The previous times he had had to cut the conversation short, he at least told her he had to go, or got some notice. This time, it had just cut out, with no e-mail or anything explaining it.
She knew she should probably not worry, but she could not help it. When your husband was in a war zone, worrying was all you could do. And this was the worst case of silence that she had had to endure when he had to disconnect from her. But she told herself that she was probably worrying for nothing, like all the other times.
Until the doorbell rang at eleven thirty in the evening.
That was when something in her mind told her it was okay to worry, and she could also turn up the worry, if that was okay with her.
She slowly crept down the stairs towards the door as the bell rang again. Her hands began to tremble as she reached for the door handle, and she stopped to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Whatever happened, she would have to take it in bits and pieces, if she was to salvage any of her emotions. She placed her hand on the handle and opened it-
To find two officers standing before her in their dress uniforms. One of them held the rank of captain, which was the same rank Scott had. The other officer was only a lieutenant, but he also had a cross pinned to his collar; the insignia of an army chaplain.
"Mrs. Wallace?" the captain asked.
"Yes..." She had meant for it to sound stronger than it had come out. Her worst fears were coming true. These men had come to tell her that Scott was dead. After tonight, her life, and the life of her daughter's, was going to be shattered.
"On behalf of the Secretary of State for Defence, and her Majesty's Army, it is my humble regret to inform you that your husband, Captain Scott Thomas Wallace-"
(Oh God, here it comes)
"-is missing in action as of last night, ten fifty-one in the evening. He was reported missing when his body was not recovered from his base, which underwent heavy bombardment during the night-"
But everything after that was just a blur to her. Her fears lingered onwards, gnawing at her heartstrings, but in a different way than before this news. Missing. Scott was missing. That did not necessarily mean he was dead, it just did not mean that they did not KNOW if he was dead.
She sat herself down on the couch as the officers invited themselves in. The chaplain took her hand and comforted her as the tears finally slid down her face while the captain read out the details and following procedures, none of which made any sense to her.
From upstairs, Victoria had started crying again.
A few more notes before I go:
1.) I don't know the British government handles sending messages to the families of deceased soldiers. They may do something like America, they may do something completely different, I don't know, I am woefully unintelligent of these sorts of things, so I apologize for that. Also, I probably screwed up the time zone too, though that may just be me being paranoid.
2.) I'm still trying to figure out what year this goes in. this story takes place during the last couple of months in Deathly Hallows, around the time of either the Trio's capture or their stay at Shell Cottage, which according to the official HP time frame happened in 1998. However, the events in the desert definitely reflect more upon current events. So, really, take it as you will, it takes place in '98 but reflects current-day issues. It's meant to be fiction, not historical accuracy, so try not to yell at me TOO much over it.
3.) The characters in this chapter, while it may make no sense to the readers now, will be playing important roles later in the story, particularly Colonel Shepard and his staff and also Khalid Shiek Ali. Whether or not we shall see them more as the story develops before their important roles, I haven't decided yet.
4.) On the note of Khalid, I didn't want to try and stereotype, but if it comes off like I did, I just thought I'd say that's not my intention. Khalid, as do everyone out in the Middle East, live in a very different world than what I assume many are used to. Do I think their way of life is right? To that, I have no opinion, as I believe everyone has their own way of living. But I tried to make it more about the people than I did try to make it about the country. For many, this is their life, and they have lived with it all their lives. Maybe some accept it. Again, I don't try to assume, as it's not my place, but for the sake of the story, this is the world that I have come up with. I hope it does not offend, it is not my intention to.
5.) The character of Lisa Wallace is based off my ex-girlfriend, and the story of their meeting and first date reflect our own. I put this, not really to be over-obsessive or creepy, more as me finally trying to get over it and move on with my life. I figured, by writing about it, it would make it easier for me to move forward. So...yeah. In case you were wondering.
6 and final.) Yes, "Defence" IS spelled that way, I don't know why, it just is.
So, with that said, I hope you enjoyed it, and PLEASE review and give in your opinion. Reviews mean a lot to me, and I really hope you'll take the time to let me know if you like or hate something or have some tips for me.
Thank you, and see you later.
