SO…I haven't updated THIS in a while.

SIIIIIGHHHHH…..

Here you go. To be honest, I'm just trying to get through all this intro stuff so that the REAL story can begin. ;)

…..

HALE PROTOCOL

CHAPTER ELEVEN: 'choice

MAY 10, 1930

Hale looked out over her balcony, staring longingly out across the pale surface of the moon. So much cleaner than her conscious, she thought, so much cleaner than that. Beside her, Roger stirred slightly and fixed her with an intense gaze.

"Are you alright, Hale?" He asked slowly.

"Yeah…wait. No, no I'm not." She smiled weakly and laughed, "I actually…have something to tell you."

"Hmm?" Roger frowned in detached interest. It was getting warmer every night, he had noticed. The earth was beginning its preparations for a late summer, the blooms on the trees giving way to blossoms and leaves. The orchard below looked more beautiful than ever.

"But first…" Hale stuttered nervously, "Could you get me a glass of water downstairs? Please? It's right down in the kitchen. Easy to find."

"Are you sure it's ok for me to be down there?"

"Everyone's asleep this time of night." Hale dismissed, "They won't see you."

Roger turned and pushed through the door that led out of Hale's room and into the extravagant halls. Arches and murals covered every surface. Once he had navigated that labyrinth, he descended the marble stairs and found the kitchen in the immediate vicinity. He muttered something under his breath about odd timing and began sifting through the ice box for anything of use. Nothing. With a sigh, he began his search of the cupboards. As he moved some canned goods gently to the side, a small glass measuring cup rolled out of the cabinet and clunked to the floor. Roger froze, not even daring to breathe. Her parents' room was within his line of sight…he sent up a silent prayer that they hadn't heard.

When a few minutes passed and no one came out of the room, Roger released a sigh and stooped to his knees to pick up the fallen item. He turned it over in his hands, carefully checking the surface for any cracks or chips. Luckily, it hadn't broken. Roger stood back up and began to place it back on the proper shelf.

Living on the streets for most of his life, he thought that the noise should have come to him sooner. However, the sound might have been delayed by the cushy warm air, or maybe the feeling that he was safe here. He wasn't.

The noise was the sound of a shotgun being cocked back.

Roger swerved just in time to dodge a heavy slug that would've landed square in his back. Instead, the measuring glass received the metal and shattered into a million little fragments of beauty. The pieces sparkled and shimmered in the light of the kitchen as a woman ran from the bedroom and flung the lights on, screaming.

"You!" The man said gruffly, anger lacing his voice, "Is this how it works with you street kids?! I rejected your ideas and you broke into my house, aye?! I'll teach you!"

Roger ducked and another slug hit the cabinets and sent wood splintering over his head. He gritted his teeth. Damnit; in a moment of desperation, he had crouched against the bottom of the counter and cornered himself. Well, there goes living. He should've told Hale to go get her own damn water! Roger looked up angrily, throwing his killer one last hatred-filled glare. He couldn't see his eyes behind the barrel of the shotgun.

"DAD! STOP!" A familiar voice screamed, terrified. There was the sound of rushed footsteps as Hale sprinted into the kitchen and tackled the gun her father held. It went off, sending a round into the icebox. It began to hiss in pain.

"Stop, please!" She cried, "You don't have to fight!"

"What are you talking about, Hale!" Her mother shouted in dismay, "He broke into our home, honey! Your father was just trying to protect us!"

"No!" She insisted. Roger pushed himself to his feet and crossed over to her, keeping a close eye on her father, who leered at him with curiosity set ablaze. The frown he always wore carved itself deeply into his face as he helped her to her feet.

"What's going on here?" Her mother asked.

Hale used the splintered cabinets to steady herself; Roger kicked the shotgun away from anyone's grasp, and it slid somewhere behind him, into the dining hall.

"Mum, it's not what it looks like…" Hale began slowly, "Roger's just…He's…"

"This is ROGER?!" She shrieked, "He's in our house?! Honey, what was he doing in our house?!"

"This…This…" Her father turned an angry scarlet color, and appeared to be simmering to some indefinite boiling point. Roger made a guess that it was unbelievably low, at least for a mammal, which is mostly made of water anyway. In his mind, Roger started making a rough diagram, started by the thought that humans might boil. Well, that pretty much tanked his last rough drafts. Maybe one day he'd get the science right.

"This is outrageous!" He father finally exploded, "Hale, you are a shame to my family! I can't believe you'd choose this ruffian…and let him in our house!" He marched forward and grabbed his daughter by the collar of her nightgown. Roger rushed forward, laying a hand on his in warning. It went unheeded.

"Don't touch me, scum!" Her father growled and swatted him away easily.

"Sweetheart, hold on! Don't do anything too rash…can't we talk about this?!" His wife screamed over the clamor. Roger picked himself up from the floor and rushed forward in time, only managing to make it to catch Hale as she fell backwards, nose and face bruised and bleeding. Her mother had been reduced to tears. Roger looked up at her father angrily.

"She's your daughter! You can't just-"

"Not anymore she isn't." Her father said through his teeth, pulling a small handgun carefully from his pocket, "Now, GET OUT. Before I wake the guard!"

"I'll take care of my daughter…" Her mother sobbed, struggling over to Hale's side, "Just leave, please."

Roger shook his head and looked down at her one last time. Hale's green eyes just barely focused themselves on him, probably sending her some fuzzy representation of himself, with the edges between the wall and himself blurred to a point where they could be equated.

"Hale…" He whispered.

She loosely held his hand.

She was giving him the choice.

His head told him to run.

His heart told him to stay.

In the end his logic won out, and Roger held fast to his coat as he ran out into the night, just like he had always done. Why did he always have to run from his problems? Why couldn't he stay? Why?

Why…