A/N: Later than I like again. The play and Anatomy are taking up my life.

I am still undecided on whether or not that was the last flashback or not. I love them, because it helps me set the future in motions, but at the same time, it feels like I'm giving too much away. So…UNDECIDED. They will stop after a certain event or after a certain point, though.

For anyone who has read the books or not, I recommend that you see the Hunger Games. It's NOT just a teenage fancy. Very few movies leave me speechless, and that was one of them.

Just a warning to you all, under no circumstances have I EVER had to escape from a house or break someone out of one. I'll do my best toward the end here, and remember that I can always rewrite it.

My favorite colors are gray, black, red, BLUE, and thanks to a certain movie character, GREEN.

BEST SONG EVER is "Beat the Devil's Tattoo" by the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (BRMC).

Thanks to SladeRavenFan, Arlena4815162342, Wafia Primo, LittleMissAngel, linnie kinda spinnie, Knightrunner, My Purple Skies, Thunderscourge, Nadezhdaa, pourquoibella, Comidia Del Arte, Zetsubel, Decepticon-silverstreak, Thanatos Angelos Girl, Silential, Fruityloops87, SheWhoDreamsByDarkness-x, InLoveAndCrazy, tribute14, MadTeaLady, SilhouetteGypsy, and Phantom of the Common Room for the reviews! You people really do blow me away….

Disclaimer: Meh. Feeling lazy. I OWN NOTHING!

Chapter Twenty-One: Under the Hood

Sometimes I take things

Way too far.

Irrational feeling;

I just try too hard.

But what goes up, must come down.

The problem is I have no bounds because,

Sometimes I take things

Way too far.

~Korn, Way Too Far

Sketch-sketch-sketch. Sketch-sketch-sketch.

My butt is firmly planted on the couch in our living room. I'm lazy again. And yes, I'm drawing. Though I'm not sure what. There's that scarecrow again…and a bunch of squiggles and lines. I'm obsessed.

It seems I'm going quite stir-crazy without Jonathan around.

Missing him is tough to deal with. Only a few more weeks. I'm just don't know what to do with myself.

Thank goodness it's Friday… It's also been one week since my outing with Naomi and the girls. Sleepless in Seattle had actually been a good movie to watch. Because the other girls had chosen it, I was a little skeptical at first, but found myself enjoying it anyway. The rest of the night had been soured by Naomi reverting back to gushing over Don.

A lot happens in a week. Two days later, Naomi had called me and announced that she and Don were officially a couple. My previous jealousy had briefly flared, but had then flickered to a quiet smolder. I guess I don't really mind (she took him off my hands), but like I said, a lot happens in a week. It's Friday, July 3rd.

I'm getting worried. Not really worried; more like a little nervous.

Yesterday, Kelly called, five days after the "couple" thing and had projected her fretting into my ear. Naomi wouldn't hang out with her; she's too busy with Don. Naomi kept their phone calls short; Don was on the other line. According to my short, awkward chat with Kelly, this past week, Naomi has been all about Don, Don, Don. And Kelly would know. She and Naomi, apparently, are besties.

Naomi's too involved. I don't like it. And Don…how could his interests change from me to her so quickly? At my job, except for the occasional question about mine and my mom's well-being, he no longer pesters me. The worst I've caught him doing is staring at me a little too long. But thing's have changed.

I don't really have a reason to be suspicious, but I don't want Naomi to get hurt. She's nice, and I like her.

Today is July 3rd. Tomorrow is Independence Day. Mom and I have never done anything special for the Fourth of July. Sometimes, sometimes, we'll drive to the edge of the city and watch the fireworks go off. A grand display. Lots of money spent. Could be used for the poor. Each year. That's what I think each year.

I can't believe summer's almost over…but Jonathan will be home soon. I hope.

I draw a lopsided star, which is quickly crossed out.

I won't be watching the fireworks this year. But maybe Mom will. I hope Mom will. Because I'm planning something for tomorrow. The problem is this: I don't quite know what, but it has to do with helping Jonathan escape his house. Or at least loosen up the security.

But how?

Exactly why July 4th would be a great time. Hopefully, Mom won't be around to ask what the hell I'm doing in our neighbors' yard.

Well, I've got my schedule for the next day figured out. Jolly. I think I'll go upstairs and do a dance now.

Tossing the pencil and notebook aside, I leave the living room. Mom is still sitting at the dining room table, wearing her nice coat and deeply engrossed in her planner. I have to get past her to get to the stairs. Ever since our relationship had weakened, I feel the need to sneak around her. Even for something as small as this. Miniscule.

But Mom does that thing that all parents do, where they can see you out of the back of their heads, because her voice stops me. "Stay down here."

My classic response: "Why?"

Mom must be feeling more tolerant of me today, because she snaps her planner shut, drums her manicured fingernails on the table, and announces, "We're going to the grocery store."

"'We?' As in 'you and I'?"

"Yes, And by the way, I've scheduled your senior pictures for next Friday. You're welcome. They'll start at five."

…!

Talk about short notice. Who's even doing them?

I find myself temporarily speechless. Is she trying to win me back again? Now what does she want? A foot massage? Why all the sudden kindness?

Apparently, my brain quits functioning, too, because the only answer I can come up with is, "'Kay." And that's that.

I let Mom drive, and the whole way to downtown Gotham (Mom has somehow memorized a way that I'll never know, one that doesn't involve driving through the Narrows) is spent in stiff, uncomfortable silence. But the fact that it's the day before the Fourth of July keeps me interested in the activities outside Mom's Buick LaSabre.

You see, for some reason, at this particular time of the year, the amount of protests, stakeouts, and picketing double on the streets and sidewalks, making traffic navigation difficult. It's got something to do with the notion of Independence Day.

I find it all rather hilarious. Despite Mom's scowl, I roll down my window and gawp freely. As I'd expected, a majority of the protestors are poor citizens. The street our grocery/hardware store is particularly bad. They get so close to us that a few signs, held by grubby hands, come within five inches of my face. Occasionally, I smell wet paint and filth. Tents are lined up on the sidewalks for campouts, and lo and behold, the cops are already out to keep an eye on things.

Huzzah. Chants fill the air as protestors push against law enforcers.

"Ames, that's enough. Roll up the window."

I ignore Mom, taking in the sights as we pull into a tight parking space. The Cubbyhole. Nice name for a store.

I hear more yelling, more car horns, and the sound of something breaking. "People are going ape-shit out there," I remark loudly, still entertained. Street after street of this.

Mom warns, "Ames…" before cutting the car's engine. I mentally stick my tongue out at her before putting the window up. We exit the vehicle and she locks the doors.

"Nice day for rebellions, don't ya think?" I ask brightly, suddenly in a terrific mood.

"Inappropriate comments at inappropriate times," Mom snaps.

I give her car a nice pat before walking off. "Don't get busted up while we're away, Susie."

"Naming cars is not normal, Ames. Neither is talking to them."

I won't dignify that with a response. I love being annoying sometimes.

However, I do stay close to Mother Hen as we make our way to the store. It reeks out here, and everyone is packed so tightly around us. It can get mighty violent…

I think I get groped twice.

The inside of the Cubbyhole is actually rather calm and quiet in contrast. With the population outside what it is, the population inside appears to be less. Plenty of people, yes, but more orderly.

Everything's cheap here. Hardware and groceries in one. The overall setting has a grimy, rough look to it. I wrinkle my nose. But what can you do?

"Feel free to wander around," Mom tells me, waving me off. "I'll be about twenty minutes." Does having the day off create a change in her?

I give Mom a skeptical look. "Okay." And I wander.

The whole store is large, bigger than I'd thought. I think there are even doors in back that lead to the outside, because I see a couple employees smoking near that area. And one of the doors is propped open, so…yeah.

Heh. They even play lazy, instrumental music over the intercom. Like an elevator.

By some circumstance, though, my treacherous feet lead me into the hardware section of the store. What the hell am I doing here? I can't use anything but a screwdriver and hammer; I don't know what three-fourths of these tools are, but I'm here anyway. How do you identify these things? It all looks the same!

I'm stressed out by simply standing in this section.

But one thought keeps me rooted in place, explaining my actions. Jonathan.

Did I mention that this specific aisle smells like motor oil and old socks?

I hear a trashcan being tipped over somewhere outside. Or being chucked at a car. Or building. More yelling, a grand crescendo. It dies off and my thoughts return.

Now what did Jonathan say about his imprisonment? He's trapped in or something?

Changed locks. Bars on his window.

Okay, I cannot do anything about the locks unless I break in. And I don't want to be a criminal. And those, Geraldine can easily replace again.

But the bars…the bars. It's a two-story house. What good would it do to remove the bars from his bedroom window? If Jonathan needs to escape, he can't jump! And what bars are they? Screwed in individually, popped in, or screwed in together into one frame? I'm sure his grandmother didn't install them herself. Would the same guy come to install them again after they've mysteriously been removed? He would have to suspect something was up! But it would be none of his business, so who knows?

I look at the spreads and spreads of tools in front of me. I should keep all my options in mind.

Well, for the bars, I could somehow unscrew them one by one, but if they're a set… I gulp and hope the terror doesn't register on my face. I would need to find a means of yanking them out all at once. I think we've got a ladder somewhere in our backyard at home; I'll need to use it. And to yank a set of bars out all at once…I would have to use a rope. And a weight of sorts. And jump off it.

Just how far am I willing to go to help Jonathan?

The answer surprises me with how fast it comes: all the way.

I am way too attached. Or maybe I'm just allowing myself to care for another human being. A boy nonetheless. I cover my eyes with my hands.

I must've needed a distraction, because I'm given one.

While I'm standing there, I look up. And freeze, like a deer caught in the headlights. Not a distraction I'd wanted. Randomly, randomly, I had glanced up in time to see someone pause in their walking between aisles. Short in stature. Bleached hair. Zitty face. Gross.

Paul.

I internally panic. Dark presses against my insides. My vision clouds over, narrows. What the hell is he doing here? I can't move; I can't do anything, no matter how brave I claim to be and how much I want to take the skin off this kid and turn it into a lampshade. A little graphic, but still, I mean it. Every word. Maybe he didn't see me…

"HEY!"

Oh, crap.

I make a beeline for another aisle away from the tools. Paul follows on my heels like a desperate puppy. I go from frightened to pissed off. Who does this guy think he is?

"Hi, Ames! I've missed you a lot," Paul breathes as I stride through the grocery store. "You look great. Nice eyes. Nice thighs. Hey, we haven't made brownies together yet. Let's make a time!"

Are you freaking kidding me? My skin crawls and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He's…not playing with a full deck. But I guess I already know that.

"Can you stop following me?" I snap over my shoulder at the creep, near to exploding. "I have the overwhelming urge to find a giant flyswatter."

If anything, this encourages him. I sense a hand about to find its way onto my shoulder, and I speed up the pace. My skin is going to leap right off my freaking body. I take a sharp right into the feminine products section. He follows me there, too.

What the—?

"I like that, Ames. You're funny. And smart. And pretty. Don't you like me? I like you. A lot. My girl. We belong together."

If I wasn't being chased, I'd drop to my knees right now and holler "Why me?" into the ceiling of the store. There is nowhere to go. As much as I hate it, I need to find Mom. More crashing and breaking from the protest outside.

I change my course, looking to head towards the front of the store. Screw buying the escape supplies; I'm sure we've got those at home somewhere. Clammy sweat beads on my forehead. I feel sick. The hot day does nothing to help my current situation.

"Aw, what's the matter, Ames? Do I make you uncomfortable? Want me to make it better? I'll love you up. I'll have you. You're my girl."

Ew, ew, ew, ew. I clench my fists. Almost there…the front of the store…almost to safety.

"There's no Scarecrow here to save you now."

I stop dead. Rage boils up inside me. Suddenly, I don't care if people are watching.

How dare he! my head screams. How dare he refer to Jonathan that way!

I spin around and grab Paul by the collar of his shirt with both hands. His cocky grin slides from his greasy face, and those small eyes widen. I'm already taller than him by quite a bit, but being nearly six feet tall has advantages. I tower over people, especially when I'm enraged, making me ten times scarier than I really am.

"Who do you think you are?" I snarl into his face. This isn't me. "You think you can call him that in front of me? You think you're entitled to? You think you deserve to? You think you're allowed to? NO ONE is, bully!"

Everyone in the store has turned to stare at us. Conversations stop. At that moment, I don't care. I'm defending a friend, and my main goal is to make Paul Rubin piss his pants.

"I'm going to tell you right now that if you don't leave him alone and if you don't leave me alone, I'm going to tear your frickin' head off," I threaten in a lower-toned, richer voice. It's mine, but not. Dangerous. Deadly. Beautiful. Effective.

I don't give it time to sink in to Paul. I throw him away from me without looking to see where he goes (a display of cans, I think), and while forgetting about Mom, head straight out the doors and into the protest, the eyes of customers glued to my back.

Damn. That felt good.

But I'm willing to bet that a few of the people in there watching know who I am and probably know my mom personally. I'm a disgrace, and I've just thrown my reputation to the birds. Oh, well. I'll regret it later, but now I don't give a shit.

Immediately after going outside into the crowd (Mom is now no doubt searching for me throughout the store and getting the horrifying news), I get swept up in the throng of chanting people, cops, and signs. It's just verging on violence. A glass bottle whizzes past my head. I duck and the color drains from my face. Never mind, already there. And the mass of people has grown; I can't even describe it.

Now I smell sweat…and something burning. Colognes and perfumes. All in broad daylight. Everything seems to be happening so quickly. In flashes and blurs.

Nearby, someone sets off a string of firecrackers. I jump a foot in the air at the loud popping sounds. A few people scream, others laugh raucously. At least it's not gunfire. There's already police here for crowd control. But as fast as this protest is spinning out of control, they've probably called for more reinforcements.

I end up smushed next to some kids a few years older than me toward the back of the mob. Against the wall of a building.

A gentle hand rests on my shoulder. "Now, you shouldn't be in this mess, young lady."

Starting again, I twist to my left to find the owner of the kindly voice. A fatherly-looking man in a GCPD uniform is holding me in his gaze with genuine concern on his face. "You're too young to be here, miss. The street's been blocked off. Please, go."

The "please" makes me hesitate. It's possible that this man…is a good cop. He's only about two inches shorter than me and looks to be in late-thirties. A neatly-trimmed mustache and clean brown hair with scarce salt-and-pepper flecks at the hairline completes the look of an honest man.

I still can't answer. I just stare. This man radiates comfort. And warmth. It draws me in.

The wailing of police sirens draw nearer. Still, I can't look away.

I'm about to open my mouth and answer the cop when another one beats me to it. "Gordon! Get your ass over here!"

An expression of regret washes over his face. "Leave, please," he pleads before disappearing into the crowd.

On impulse, I yell after him, "Stay safe! You're a good cop!" My eyebrows go down in worry. A few people curse at him and take shots at hitting him as he retreats to help a fellow officer.

I don't like this. Maybe I should leave… I take a few steps forward, but I trod on someone's foot.

"Sorry," I apologize in a squeaky voice. A male. Figures.

He's only a few years older than me! What brings him to a protest like this? I think as the guy straightens up after furiously rubbing his toes. He seems oddly out of place, wearing a bright green jacket made of parachute material.

He looks up at me and smiles in a happy way. "Nah, it's okay." There's a bright light in his eyes. "Hey. Wanna hear a riddle?"

Well, we're both pressed flat against a building. What the heck. I shrug. "Sure."

"Okay. Riddle me this: when I point up, it's bright. When I point down, it's dark. What am I?" He waggles his eyebrows at me.

I've never been good at this sort of thing, and now, I'm stumped. A sigh. "No idea. What?"

The boy grins triumphantly. "A lightswitch!"

I chuckle easily. "Smart."

"How 'bout another?" This dude likes to play with your mind. In a good way.

I almost groan. "I have no idea who you are. Why not?" It seems I can only socialize with strange and unusual people. Sad.

"What has four wheels and flies?"

I know this one… I know it… But I seem unable to reach back into the farthest crevices of my mind to get the answer. A childhood memory. I give up. "An airplane?"

The strange guy claps his hands, getting the smallest joy out of stumping people. "A garbage truck!"

It would be funny if I wasn't feeling so stupid. "Nice."

His clever eyes gaze straight ahead, past me. "Oops! Looks like you've got company." With a wink, he begins his own rabid shouting and vanishes into the writhing mass of protestors.

Company? Wha—?

Hi, Mom.

I am fairly led away from the crowd of people by my ear. Her anger and frustration comes through again as we fight through the swarms to reach her car. "I've never been so embarrassed in my life! You scaring the wits out of that poor boy! You made both of us look bad. Ames, I knew half the people in that store! Imagine how I felt!"

I'm not going to say anything.

"And then you had to run off into a full-blown protest! What nerve! How do you think I felt when I realized that you were gone? I couldn't find you! And the next thing I know, you're talking to strange men! Get in the car."

We've arrived at Susie. I do as I'm told. Silently fuming, Mom turns the car on.

I bite my lip and feel that I should tell her what that nice Gordon cop had told me. That you can't get through here anymore.

Apparently, though, Mom doesn't seem to give two hoots about whether the street is blocked off or not. She just goes on ahead, before continuing with her fretful scolding. I tune her out and seriously consider rolling down my window again. No, thanks. I'd rather live.

It's just for a moment, but I think I see the flash of an obnoxiously green jacket in the cluster of bodies on the sidewalk.

More cops than earlier. I try to find my cop, but all to no avail. He would blend into the others easily.

Curiouser and curiouser. I'll probably never see either of them again.

"Ames, are you listening to me?"

Nope.

I lie. "Yep." It's almost five o'clock. And we're out of the city now.

Mom clears her throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hands tighten on the steering wheel. "I was just thinking about your punishment. You'll be staying home tomorrow, while I go to the city for the fireworks."

I perk up from my slouch, suddenly alert and listening. "What?"

Mom thinks I'm in disbelief. I am, but in a positive way. "That's right. You're staying home, as a result of your actions today."

I remain silent, to give off the impression that I'm somehow disappointed. She doesn't know it, but she's just given me the perfect opportunity to spring Jonathan. To tell you the truth, Mom knows about Jonathan's abuse but believes that it's none of our business. No interference. Not our place. One thing she doesn't know about, however, is the friendship between Crane and me. Or my plan.

I'm not sure what Mom's reaction would be if she found out. Fury? Nah. Exasperation? Probably. She'd blame it on my nosiness, say I could do better than him.

First I would have to assure her that it isn't a dating thing. But it will be in my best interest to keep this relationship from her. Too many questions, too many complications. Originally, Jonathan had wanted both of us to stay out of his life. I forced myself in, and he's been forced to deal with that. He doesn't need Mom, too. She doesn't even care.

Is he really "forced" to deal with me, though? Didn't he admit to being unhealthily attached to me as well? I guess so; I don't know anymore.

Maybe I'll tell her one day. For shock value. Right now, I should be thanking her. I smile to myself. Paul, the cop, the riddling boy, and now this. Apart from what I'm planning for tomorrow, will next week be this weird?

Mom sees my smile. "Do you think this is funny?" We're on the gravel homestretch.

The faint grin vanishes from my face, and I slouch back down in my seat again. "What do you think? I'm devastated. So no, I don't think this is funny." I plaster a solemn pout onto my face.

She gives me one last suspicious glance before pulling into our driveway. Her next step? She banishes me to my room. Which really, I have no problem with. It's my sanctuary, my happy place. After blowing up uncharacteristically today, it's best if I'm kept away from the rest of the general population.

Mom follows through on her threat. I'm home by myself when she leaves to catch the nine o'clock fireworks the next day. Good time; it's just dark enough for me and her.

So after I see her headlights disappear around the turnoff, I figure it's time to put my hazy plan into action. I'm still unsure of what I'm planning to do. It all depends on what I find in the shed out back and what I find on his bedroom window when I get to that point.

How ironic and coincidental. Independence Day. For the country and for Jonathan. I'm giddy; this can't be any more perfect!

I had been extremely careful today. Acting innocent, and I'd even remembered to wear dark clothing, just in case I'm to be seen tonight.

Time to go.

I run to the living room, alive with energy, and drop to my knees in front of the couch, peering under it for the flashlight I'd stashed there earlier. I seize it and flick the switch on and off once. Bright. And then I'm outside. It's darker out than I'd expected it to be. Gorgeous night for fireworks, too.

With the flashlight as my guide, a thin beam across the lawn, I reach the tool shed. It hasn't been touched for years, so I'm pleasantly surprised when the creaky door opens without a hitch. A musty smell fills my nostrils. And I step inside, the hair on the back of my neck standing up freely.

The faint glow of my light illuminates expected things. Cobwebs, dusty air, a beetle skittering up a wall. Tools and machinery. Those are the most important for me, and I don't need half of them. I'm also praying that no nightmarish beasties fly out of a corner and latch onto one of my legs. I would die of heart attack first.

After some searching, I come up with a filthy crowbar, a screwdriver, and one other knickknack that had looked useful when I'd found it lodged under a toolbox.

If I remember correctly, that ladder should still be propped against the back of the shed.

My flashlight flickers for a moment and dies, enveloping me in blackness as a result. Thank goodness I'd had sense enough not to shut the shed door. Now, I have some dim, dark lighting from the moon coming in from that opening.

I venture forth as quickly as I'm able to. I bang my shin once, knock something over twice. I'm fantastically graceful.

I pass too closely to the old doorframe when I stroll through it. In my mind's eye, I see the nail before I actually run into it. A small tug on my face, then the skin gives way. Pain, a trickle of blood. I clap a hand to my mouth as I stumble out of the cursed shed and toss the tools onto the ground. The flashlight flares back on when it lands.

Frick, frick, frickin' FRICK!

Damnit.

Fu—nope.

I drop down on the grass immediately and use my shirt to wipe the blood away from my mouth and cheek. Dull pain now. Not so bad. It stings. With careful fingers, I trace around to feel out the gash in my face. Okay…not a gash. A shallow scrape, about one inch long. Still bleeding, and stretching from the corner of my right nostril to one of the higher dimples above my mouth. Since I'd obviously walked headfirst into a nail, the damage could be worse. An eye lost or even a larger puncture wound in a more vital place. In all my temporary blindness, I had somehow gotten lucky.

And…senior pictures are in one week. I groan, hand still pressed to the spot, and fall backwards. You know what? I'll just say it. Screw decency; I've been wanting to say it.

Shitfuck.

Zoinks. Who knew I had a sailor's mouth? For the last time, I hope.

The things I do for Jonathan… Despite all, I chuckle. The stinging, annoying pain makes me alert.

Boom! There. The fireworks have started. On my back like this, if I tilt my head up just a smidge…I can see them, small as they are or may appear. How's Jonathan spending his Fourth, I wonder?

I don't wanna think about it.

My favorite firework goes off. A "weeping willow." Subtle and quiet, branches of glittering gold creeping down and lingering in the sky. One of the years Mom and I were watching, a large one went off and the resulting boom was so loud that it set off thirteen car alarms. That gave us a laugh.

I'm not bleeding anymore. I blow air up onto the scratch to help it dry. If that scars (which it will)…then I'll live with it.

The fireworks speed up and slow down at intervals. A whole array at once or one at a time. Enough lounging around. I sit up. This needs to be done before the grand finale.

What I'm about to do doesn't fully hit me until I look down at all my tools scattered around in the grass, lit up by the display above.

I'm going to vandalize a house. Grand.

I gather everything together in one arm and rush to the back of the shed to grab the rickety metal ladder. It's big and heavy, but I'm also strong. Because of my load, I'll not go to the Cranes' house by way of cornfield; I'll walk along the gravel road. This time, I pray harder that I don't walk into or get charged by anything.

I stop in front of the dark house and gaze up at it. And breathe.

A half hour later, I return empty-handed, only just starting to tremble with nerves. Mission accomplished. Done. I manage a weak smile as I use my arms to hug my chest, occasionally reaching a finger up to touch my now-dry scrape.

I'll give a quick rundown. The bars had been poorly installed and put in one by one individually. A little screwdriver action took care of them, and all that was left to do was to put them back into place loosely. Then the screwdriver, crowbar, and unnamed tool found their way through the window and into Jonathan's room, on the floor. If they rolled, I couldn't have seen them. Too dark.

Jonathan's room hadn't been quite two stories up. So after I'd climbed back down the ladder, I had left it there, beside the window and propped against the peeling house. I reckon Geraldine doesn't go outside much, and if it were to be pushed, blown, or knocked over, it wouldn't be tough for Crane to put back up.

My brain holds limited knowledge to these things, and I hope it works out.

The grand finale in the sky above ends as I step onto my lawn.

A/N: This end note here will be pretty heavy. PLEASE TAKE TIME TO READ!

It seems I'm making up for Jonathan's absence with character cameos. The "riddle boy" may not appear again. At least, not as a major character.

Here's the heavy question. It's been on my mind for the past how many months… Should Ames lose her virginity in college? *blush* I'm seriously thinking about it. I would just mention it; I wouldn't actually write a scene or anything. I've got a feeling that she should, despite all her strong ideals. Too out of character? I feel that as my readers and reviewers, you have a right to know what the heck's going on in my head. Feedback is appreciated. She needs to…mature some.

Next, (non-Avengers fans don't have to pay attention to this) for the upcoming Avengers film, a couple that has been on my mind for about a freaking YEAR, is Loki and Black Widow. *runs into a corner and hides* DON'T HIT ME! This hasn't come to my head from out of nowhere. It's being hinted at EVERYWHERE.

Seems I'm also a fan of one-glance pairings (1st Avengers trailer), and to all you doubters, I'm pretty sure it just wasn't pieced together that way. Seemed like a complete scene to me. Not to mention the fact that I've seen some questionable set photos going around the internet, rumored to be a part of the filming, and the fact that Black Widow is the only female on the team makes me curious to see how she and Loki will interact and match up in a fight. Of course, hero/villain pairings never seem to happen.

AND THEN, Tom Hiddleston has to let something come through in an interview, so the conclusion is drawn that he'll meet his match in her. Quote from Tom: "I loved playing my scene with Scarlett, which we've already shot, because Black Widow is sneaky, underhand, and she lurks in the shadows. She's smart and clever and duplicitous. And she's hard to trust. And all those adjectives could be used to describe Loki. So the scene between Loki and Black Widow is one where the recognize each other. And so I loved doing that and Scarlett was…we had a good round on that one." (I love how he said "Black Widow"; that accent!) Scene from the trailer? I LOVE the pairing, but I don't know what to think anymore. I'm sure it's not just me, but Scarlett and Tom really seemed to bond quickly on set. That tends to happen between actors whose characters have romantic involvement. Not to mention that it was stated that in the Avengers, the romance is kept less than in previous movies. Johansson said that there's no time for romance between her character and Hawkeye, and to keep the romance minimal but to not deny completely that the romance happens, well, that's perfect for who I'm thinking of.

Part of me believes that all this is just the wishful thinking of a fangirl, part of me suspects that it's true. Either way, I'm damn excited and can't get them out of my head. Opinions? Am I alone in my strange thoughts? You don't even KNOW how much I want this couple to happen. *sighs*

Enough rambling. I'm a nut. HAPPY EASTER ALL!

Question of the Day: What is your favorite sound in the world?

Movie Recommendation: Lost in Translation. I love it! Star Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson, and is a wonderful tale of friendship. One of my favorite movies!

See you all next chapter. Jonathan will be back soon…we hope.

PLEASE LEAVE OPINIONS TO THE ABOVE STATEMENTS! A review counts.