Well. I believe, for once, I am posting on time.

Just I guess that all the really late chapters before don't really get made up just because I'm on time once . . . okay, New Year's Resolution time: Post regularly, with adequate chapter lengths. There.

I had way too much fun writing this chapter. Okay, so I believe that in the last few chapters I have referred to a 'Greta'? Yeah, well, I warned you, saying that this chapter wouldn't be what you expected. Beware a lot of random side scribbles and stuff - they are INTENTIONAL. For the sake of the plot.

Disclaimer: I actually own quite a lot of this chapter . . . except the references to PJO. That's about it. WOW. THIS IS ABOUT 80% ORIGINAL LITERATURE, CHILDREN. KNOW WHAT YOU ARE READING.


Chapter 29: Greta Hayes

Hello, my name is Greta Hayes.

I am writing this that, in the event that I should die, someone will stumble upon this and know what really happened with the Daemon.

I was right with my previous hypothesis that the Daemon is in fact looking for someone. And most likely, as I have tested it with other theories, because of the human emotion of love, one that can be easily created in a lab, as Elektra has told me many times. The youngest of our sisters is by far the smartest of us, probably because she has all the knowledge that will ever be accumulated in the near future. So I decided, why not ask her?

But she could not answer. I asked her, 'why is the Daemon hunting people down?' and I had asked her to really try, really cast her mind into the future and try to see the answer, but she could not. We do, really, know nothing about the Daemon.

Other than me.

I can say, in absolute confidence, that he is looking for a long-lost lover. Perhaps a he, perhaps a she. But I think more likely the Daemon is a man. No woman would be stupid enough to make such trivial mistakes when looking for someone.

The sketch that I located from his previous attack leaves me wondering, what exactly is he? From the sketch, he looks young. However, looks are deceiving, I know. I am not a fool. But he has the face of a mere child. It makes me wonder—is he perhaps a spirit, like a Wraith (heaven forbid that creature be anything like him), that needs to take other people's bodies?

I chewed on the end of my pen. This journal was taking more effort than I had realised. Especially for me, the laziest person in the order. It wasn't my fault that death was usually slow, and not much happened when someone died. Not for them, anyway.

But my hand was getting sore. My brain was running out of things to say. And there was no way I would properly put into the journal what I really thought of him. No. If my sister found it, she would burn it, and then purposely set my room on fire with it.

My sisters are great fun, as you can see.

Although the denied it, I was descended from Hermes. They hated me for it. Alexis, in her younger days, when her face was not lined or such a bitch, would tell me that I had the face of a troublemaker, always with an evil smirk that said, 'I set your pants on fire. Let me watch the anarchy.'

Odd, isn't it, that the Shadow of Death was such a troublemaker. Death was usually a solemn thing, surrounded by grey faces that were often hidden behind black veils and tears. Why was there so much darkness and grey in death, anyway? It just meant that someone had better things to do then stick around with people that were too busy worrying about how much money the hospital fee would be after you died.

Hence, people were thinking more about your imminent demise than yourself, which really just highlights my point of why people get so upset about your death. I mean, they're still breathing? Well, okay, I respect that people that die on battlefield, unexpectedly, can be cried and sobbed and just in general screamed over, but grumpy old men is more my shame in death. There's too many of them. Always mopey, always smelly, always grumpy, and always dead.

Most of the time, their families come to me and ask me to talk to them, hours after their death. That was the slightly cool effect of being me—conversing with the passing souls. Usually they were just pissed at their families and wanted them to go away, so I spoke some shit. I wish I could charge, but if my sisters caught me, I would be beyond dead. I would be, like . . . dead-dead.

And that was a scary thought.

Because you don't know my sisters.

I chew on the end of my pen. What to write . . . ? I already wrote a whole bloody book—why did I decide to do this?

I really need a better hobby. Not to mention, of all the times I could be starting this hobby, it happens to be ten minutes to battlefront. Alexis and Elektra have been looking for me all over the place, but they won't find me, perched on the top of the tallest bookcase, wedged between it and the ceiling. They've found me here before, so they should have been looking for me here.

But they weren't. Proof that you don't know my sisters.

They know me well enough to know that I'll show up on time . . . ish. They know me well enough to know that I will show up to see the Daemon. There's no way I am surrendering everything and just letting them die, no matter how powerful that will make me.

That's maybe the one secret I have from my sisters. My power.

Usually, the sisters have enhanced combat skills, are intellectual, the usual. But I was different. I gained power when people in my kingdom grew. Not like that oaf Hades, who would complain that his land was too crowded in war, I did not. The amount of souls passing through, no matter who they were, gave me more power than you could ever imagine. No one likes to say it, but the sou is powerful. So powerful, you could sever the bonds between soul and body of the entire human and monster species with one extra.

That powerful.

Of course, if I was to tell my sisters this, who knows what kind of hell would break loose. And that leads me to wonder more what the Daemon is. Obviously, he gains power by the amount of souls he harbours. So when I go up to fight him . . . does that mean that I will get on the equal fighting ground?

I doubt it.

There is a reason no one has been able to cross blades with that guy. Hell—he doesn't even use a blade, he just uses ninja stars! Or shuriken . . . no, definitely ninja stars. Ninja stars sounds better.

I get jolted out of my thoughts as the pen snaps in my teeth. Ink sprayed into my mouth. "Ew," I shrieked, and spat ink from my mouth. "Ew, ew, ew, ew."

Have you eaten ink? No. Let me tell you—it's gross. It tastes like earwax. Don't deny it—you all know what that tastes like.

Unfortunately, this was noticed by someone passing down below. They stared up at me, and I was stuck there, desperately wishing that I was a chameleon.

"Lady Greta!" they called. Inwardly, I grimaced. Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

"Where have you been?" they sounded slightly hysterical. Why were all the people here such noobs? I mean, sure, you're heading to your death—but it's not like you get the withered old ladies with mothballs in their handbags staring at you while they think of all the treasures you have in your house.

Yeah, there are worse ways to die than in battle.

"I have been here, taking valuable documentation," I said, trying to coat my voice in as much snobbiness as I could. "So that in the event of my death, the knowledge I have conducted and theorised on the Daemon shall be known.


The truth is, maybe, deep down, I do love the Daemon, in some sort of longing, envious way. There he is, snobby bastard that has all eternity around his little finger, here to fling it here or there. Destroying a sliver of reality doesn't matter to him, does it?

The one he's after must be a lucky girl. I probably won't ever meet her. The Daemon is probably used to weird little fangirls. Well, I guess he would be. The Occult didn't show up for nothing. What the deal was with their pentagrams I'll never know.

I mean, five isn't that special a number—

Okay, I got slightly off topic. Is this how you're meant to write journals? Well, if it didn't have all the quirks of my train of thought, then I don't know what it's meant to be. The only reason I stop is because the comprehension of thought and then converting that into movements of the hand holding the pen to write on paper is a bit easier to pick up things we shouldn't be worrying about.

Like that. Allow me to cross it all out.

Of course, you'll read that before reading that, so the whole idea for crossing it out is irrelevant anyway.

Well, that got really off-topic.

Here comes my 'delightful' sisters to drag me by my hair into my last battle.

I will die.

I know I will die.


The gear was heavy. The straps of the chest plate have been done up wrong, even though three different fitters who know their stuff so meticulously they would have to scrub the rust off for an hour if they saw some of it.

It wasn't right.

It was too tight on my shoulders. The weight was sitting on them. Is that what armour was meant to feel like?

I was doubtful.

Unlike my sisters, I didn't have the right frame for a good, big, shiny long sword to swing from a safe distance at their ugly mugs and watch their brains spill out.

I'm a rather short person. Short with a long face that doesn't suit me, so I decided to cut my hair and choppy, back in the days that I was younger. Back when I was a laughing, cynical, cheeky little kid. The last 20 years of my life have been spent pretending that I haven't changed.

Maybe I should have mentioned that I was bi-polar. But I guess, who wouldn't be?

Me and my sisters, back in the day when the black market was one of the main political forces, and the gods had only recently faded out. Back when the whole world was like it was living in some great, deep, dark plateau surrounded by darkness in the darkest circle of Dante's hell.

The reasons the gods chose us—or rather, chose Alexis, we were too young to remember much. I was a newborn baby at the time when we were chosen—was because all our connections to the physical world had been severed. Our mother—dead. Father—dead. All form of friendliness of just in general interactions with other people were something we didn't have. We were dying from starvation, kept alive by the leak in the roof. Most of the water we drank was poisoned with various chemicals used to make bombs, like the bombs used in Sector 17, the field in the Blank were the sky is permanently stained, with a smaller atmosphere made from bomb residue.

When I was growing up as Greta, the Shadow of Death, the black market was as prominent as ever. Alexis kept us hidden in our shack in the slums, inches above the buried remains of our mother that our father made Alexis help him bury after she died giving birth to Elektra and I.

I was born to monsters, so it was only fitting that my sisters and I become monsters cloaked in light. After we lost Megan and Felicia, Alexis pulled herself farther and farther into the darkness, until she looked like an old hag. Elektra took it upon herself to become blind by the light in which she hid. And there was me, acting like a child.

Alexis has a different view of what happened in the 30 years between Megan and I. She was already losing it. I can't describe it, but death is eternal. It happened in the past, and it will happen in the future, and I can feel Alexis's soul hovering at the very edge between death and no-man's land. I call it oblivion, but no one else does.

Alexis doesn't understand life the way she used to. She lives in the past. Alexis, being the oldest of us, was around when the gods were still alive. She would have been around ten, maybe twelve—I wasn't born around that time. I was born just before they died—when the gods first noticed her. Hades, the Greek god of death, was the one that found her.

That is the one, clear memory that Alexis had. She used to tell it to us as a bedtime story.

He came in the night, when Father had left and the ground was still uneven and broken from burying Mother. He was wearing armour, the flashiest kind I've ever seen. In his hand he held a staff, and his hair was matted and stuck to his face. He was tired. He was tired from war, he was tired from death. The infinite death that was always around us.

"There is a dead soul here," he said to me. He seemed distant, tired, weary. "Murdered. Recently gave birth to twins. Why would he murder her?" Of course the god of death already knew who had done it.

That was the first time Lord Hades looked at me. At the time, I was holding onto you two, Greta and Elektra, while Megan and Felicia leaned on each other behind me. Hades looked at us, his eyes tired and soft. "You remind me of someone," he said, quietly. Almost as if he was remembering a fond memory. "Although, that boy became a man quite some time ago. And you're hardly a man, are you?" He patted my head with a cold hand, which gave me chills. But he meant it. Affectionately.

He was the first father figure I think I saw.

"Now, this woman here . . ." Hades gestured to the broken soil where Mother lay, buried beneath three inches of dirt. "She's resting in peace. It is an alright grave. She can keep an eye on her children this way," Hades did not smile, and he seemed to realise what he had just said left a bad taste in the air. But, being the troubled child I was at the time, I thought it was one of the sweetest things I had ever heard.

Hades seemed to notice this. He smiled, the type of smile that is obviously fake; squeezing the eyes shut, even though the lips remained pressed together, pulled out in a half-moon shape. "I'm sure she's happy to keep an eye on you girls. You don't seem like a bad bunch."

Hades let his face go slack. "This slum here . . . it seems like a rather sad place here, I guess. I'm not used to it, being on the battlefield for so long. But," Hades crouched down and stared at me in the eye, leaning on his staff for support. He placed a hand on my head again. "I'll watch out for you. You shouldn't have had to go through this. Especially not at this age."

And he kept his word. So, on the day that the gods were dying, he and the other gods transferred the last spirit power they had into us. I became the Past, Elektra became Future, Greta became Death, Felicia was Life, and Megan was Time."

But I still don't know how Hades died. Whether he was happy or not. After all, we only have his journal, don't we?


The battlefield is dark and quiet. I guess it's too quiet. Even with the sound of this many troops, there is hardly any noise at all. The night is dark and ominous.

The Daemon. This is where I am going to fight him. This is where I am going to die.


These are the last moments I can steal to write something. Death is always going to exist. I know things that I really shouldn't. And in the future, one great death will shake the laws of nature. The laws of physics.

It is common knowledge here that there is an evil spirit in the depths of Tartarus—or rather, there was, since Tartarus isn't around anymore—called the Wraith. I can't imagine someone being able to fight that thing, but it seems in the future, that is exactly what will happen.

That death will likely be the cause of some fundamental change in the laws of that govern the world in general.

Because an incredibly strong good with battle with an equally—perhaps stronger—evil, and destroy both of them as equals. Leaving the world in limbo, completely subject to change.

The Daemon reminds me a lot of the Wraith, just he has a form of his own, and has no desire to rule anything. He just wants to get what he wants.

But, deep down . . . I pity him.


I don't know what I was expecting from the Daemon. My inner fangirl was probably hoping for some sort of hold hand with some form of warmness to it.

Yeaaa— No.

In the gloom of night, I could barely see him. There was no moon tonight. The Daemon attacks with minimal light. Everyone knows that.

But I could see him. No one else could. There were panicked whispers from the troops, freaking out from where he could be. Would he be above them, would he suddenly materialise through their very being?

But I could see him. And in front of him, the shimmering sheet of Mist. I've always been able to see through the Mist better than most people, because there are no secrets to death. You live, you die. No strings attached. Unless you're a creepy voodoo lady but then I don't care.

I could see him. He was standing, a rectangular outline against the black sky. He seemed almost ghostly. There was cold. It was so cold that night.

In my ears, almost at the edge of my hearing, I could hear faint scampers and whimpers, ghostly mutterings. Help me. It hurts.

Help.

Kill me.

I beg you.

So cold.

So much death.

So much pain.

Kill me.

Please.

Kill me.

Despite myself, I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. I shouldn't be this fragile. There was always pain and sorrow in death, but those voices, the cold . . . it seemed to carry something from beyond death. As if there was death, and then there was this.

I could barely comprehend such an idea.

Almost against my will, my feet started moving me. Towards the cold that resided in the base of my gut. After one step, I could feel the frost on my fingertips, my knuckles. I could see my breath in front of me.

I couldn't explain what type of things I was feeling. Everyone says there is this sinister, ominous feeling when encountering evil. But there isn't. It's just fear. This feeling that there is something so dark and so terrifying that you are so scared you can't reason. You have only one idea: run.

But you can't, because you're rooted to the spot. This close, twenty metres away, I could already sense the darkness on him. So much death. Death. As if his pockets were filled with dead souls. I could feel his eyes on me, but I couldn't see them. Just the outline of a bowed head and slight shoulders, hidden otherwise by what seemed to be a sort of cloak.

My feet, yet again, pulled me forward, as if the iron in my blood was being magnetised. I'd hate to say, 'and then suddenly I was twenty metres ahead', because that is just beyond cheesy and is real garbage, but that is what happened. My grip on reality and being able to measure time didn't work, like I'd passed out, because before I could comprehend anything, I was standing before the Daemon.

Up close, he wasn't that much to look at. Certainly not what I had expected. There was no great giant fangs or shit like that. He just seemed to be a boy with bad posture, staring at the ground, wearing a thick black overcoat.

His hands were covered in fingerless gloves, resting on pommel of a long, black sword, impaled in the ground before him.

I didn't know what I was meant to be feeling, because I felt absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. I didn't remember how to feel. I didn't know how to express. Anything. I knew one thing: I was breathing.

Not that I was alive, not that I was Greta Hayes, just that I was breathing. Just that the tissue that makes up my lungs was rising and falling as my diaphragm expanded and contracted beneath my ribcage, and oxygen was passing through my cells.

The air was tight. It seemed to glisten like a membrane.

"The Mist," the Daemon spoke. "They can't see."

His voice sounded tight and contracted, as if he was forcing words from a gurgle.

He didn't move.

Then, his hands shifted on his sword. That's when I felt it. The cold. The deep, penetrating cold that felt as if it pierced my very soul. So much pain. So much death.

Death. I could feel it. Pooling in some cold shadow beneath my feet, splayed between me and the Daemon. He had so much Death in him. The power that I gained from it was almost intoxicating. I felt cold, I felt evil—I could become God if I used it to kill everyone here. So many souls, so much Death, so much power, so much—

The Daemon refused to move. There was a slight breeze drifting through the air, making his hair drift and his coat ripple. He had so much power, and he did nothing with it.

So much hate. So much pain. So much cold. So much death. So much emptiness.

So that was it. He was empty. He was hollow.

Remember us—if at all—not as lost,

Violent souls, but only,

As the Hollow Men,

The Stuffed men.

Those words ran through my head. That was what the Daemon was. It all made sense now. He was empty. He was hollow. So he was desperately looking for someone to fill it. He was looking for the person who could.

So he was filling it with evil. He was filling himself with death and pain and hate, because those were the things that had worn him away in the first place.

At last, the Daemon looked up.

His hair was long, long enough to fall below the curve of his cheekbones, enough to hide his eyes. But I could see the end of a scar beneath his left eye. Another scar was on his bottom lip, like it had been split one too many times.

His eyes were hidden beneath the jet black hair, and his mouth pressed into a fine line. "Why aren't you fighting?"

I watched as his mouth worked against some form of blockage, struggling to form words. He was impaired. He had a speaking impediment.

For a moment, he stood there. I couldn't see his eyes, but she had no doubt that his eyes were studying me, waiting for my body language to say something that my voice would not. What was I meant to do? Charge into battle like Felicia?

And through it all, there was one distinct thought running through my mind: I can't see his eyes.

No matter what I most wanted to do, I couldn't make my mouth form words. They died in my throat. As much as I wanted to see him as a lost, wounded puppy, there was too much hate and evil in him. Too much.

I could feel the power in the Death tingling in my fingertips, itching for me to release some sort of dark power that would destroy reality.

"I pity you."

The words hung in the air like it was made of cement. They wouldn't move. They hovered in front of me, making the blood drain from my face. I had told him that I pity him. I had told him that I had a weakness. He would exploit it. He was the Daemon.

But he didn't move.

And that was when I realised, he already had.

His face was much closer to mine, he was standing much closer to me, and there felt like there was some deep, probing hole in me. His sword. It wasn't on the ground.

It was going through my chest.

I stared at it in horror. My front felt warm and wet from blood. How could I die? I was Death, for God's sake.

. . . Can death . . . die?

The Daemon's face was dark and expressionless above me. Just below his hair, I could see a scowling brow.

But I couldn't feel anything.

"What if I were to tell you," the Daemon's voice was fluid and cold now, "that Hell was being unable to express yourself? There is a reason that the real paintings of hell have all the people with no facial expression, my dead friend."


It had been a cold day when Felicia died. Alexis would deny that Felicia died before me, but she died. By that time, Alexis was already going mad with grief. She had seen too much, and she was being pulled back into the hole that she had barely climbed out of. She wanted to believe that Felicia, the second oldest, had lived the longest out of us.

She wanted to believe that there was still someone out there that had seen what she had. And she was the Past, she could never escape it. It would always be there, hovering behind her like a ghost. But that isn't what happened. Felicia had been a vegetable for years. I lost track of my age eventually, since I wouldn't age. I would have the face of a twelve-year-old forever, but I knew that Felicia had been in that comatose state for at least two decades.

That was the time that Alexis began to get much harsher on the cadets. To her credit, they became incredibly skilled, but most of them were becoming injured internally. We lost three the first month after they slashed their wrists.

That was when I first discovered the powers in death. For a few hours, disembodied souls drift around the place they used to live, before drifting into the realm that I have power over, where I can converse with them. And then they pass on to somewhere I have no idea where.

I was the one who said that we should let Felicia die. No one ever looked at me the same after that. I went from being the self-proclaimed Greta Hayes, Shadow of Death, to lost, confused, little, sweet Greta with her baby face, too innocent and pure to understand what should really be done.

They didn't realise that I was already Death. I was death itself, I get all kinds if secrets in death. The people who die and desperately scream all their secrets at me that they were unable to share in life, the ways that people are always brimming with a sense of revenge—they just didn't get that. And so, over time, I lost that name and became little, confused Greta weighed down by death because she was not the type of person for it.

They didn't get it. You aren't a distinct type of person. You're all born a blank slate other than your cellular level. I can predict that Elektra will become a mini version of Alexis in the future. Because she will be old, she will be tired, and she will always see the future, whether she wants to or not, because she is not really living in the present. Her body is in the present, but her mind is always one step ahead, and she can live like that because that's how she's always been.

Alexis hadn't, and I think that's why she became the old one. The old, weary, snappy one that still had her shadow stretching back into infinite pasts, in every manner and every moment. Not a single moment nor detail ever forgotten from what she had been through and what had happened.

Once, when she was still young and only looked like she was in her early twenties, she told me a story about the heroes of old. That there was once a Percy Jackson, an Annabeth Chase, and other people, some of which were still alive as Keepers.

Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase had died nearly a hundred years ago, though, when they trekked through hell to close the Doors of Death. She told me it was their sacrifice that saved many lives, and their shadows that no one filled that cost just as many.

So in the end, they were not heroes, was what I reasoned. They were just people that tried their best, and they weren't good enough, because they died.

There is no such thing as a hero's death. I'll tell you that now. Everyone wants to believe that there is, but there isn't. Death doesn't discriminate. You just die. That's it. Maybe back in the day, the gods would play favourites and stuff, but that isn't what happens now. Besides, they died in Tartarus. Their souls would have been trapped down there forever.


A boy sat huddled in the corner. The skin on his arms was raw, as if he had scratched it off. Another shadow stood in the light cast by the open door. Their hand was gripping the doorframe.

"Get up," it growled.

Soundlessly, the boy hauled himself to his feet, feet bare and just as bloody as his arms.


Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm alright but it's never enough.


"You're not the one," the Daemon said.

"So I was right." Somehow, the idea of knowing that my death was rapidly getting closer and I was already impaled with an object filled me with a daring feeling, yet at the same time it filled me with bitterness. He hadn't even taken me seriously. "You're looking for someone."

The Daemon remained silent.

I could feel the blood rising in the back of my throat. I cough, and it splatters down the front of my armour. Hangs from my mouth.

"Clearly you care so much about this person," I say, even though my throat feels ready to die before me. "How can you be sure they care that much about you, eh?"

"You aren't going to die." This time, the Daemon's voice is different. Half struggled, half coldly fluid. "Death will never die. But you will remain a ghost."

Somehow, I found the strength to grab him by the collar. His face didn't change. "I swear," I said, arm shaking. "I will find out your secret."

I felt my hand fall as my arms went numb. I couldn't feel anything.

My vision begins to darken. The last words I hear were so faint I didn't believe I heard them. But now, looking back on it, I definitely heard them.

I didn't want to kill you, Greta Hayes.


Hello. My name is Greta Hayes.

I was killed by the Daemon.

If anyone ever finds this, or if anyone ever has the nerve to pick up the book that Alexis or Elektra no doubt hid away somewhere, then I applaud you.

My name was Greta Hayes.

But I am dead.

I used to think that Death did not discriminate. But, looking back on it, since I was Death, I played favourites a lot. I held on to Felicia too tightly, so the Daemon could not kill her. He could just leave her. Without her soul. It's my fault.

Deep down, that was the reason I wanted her to die. I wanted her to leave the comatose state her body was left in, because her soul was never coming back. Her soul is somewhere in the Daemon's pockets. Maybe I'll find them one day.

Death is eternal, my friend. It cannot die. So I was destroyed. In one dimension. In one plane of reality.

In my life, I learnt a few things: the most important thing is that good as always existed to rival evil, and evil has always rivalled good.

But there is one distinct difference between these forces.

Because while an evil man can never become good, a good man can certainly become evil.

My name was Greta Hayes.

Goodbye.


WELL.

Like I said: I had way too much fun writing this. Okay, so the poetry reference was the Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot, which is a great poem that I did for my poetry assignment in school - which I got an A+ for, lucky, lucky me - and the song lyrics were Echo by Jason Walker.

Which is a great song. I really recommend you listen to it.

So, Greta Hayes. If there are any YJ fans reading this, yes, I know that's the name of Harm's sister. It was intentional.

90% of my work is unintentional drabbling that becomes a great idea but this was part of the 10% that I actually planned on and did. So yes. There is a reason for that. And I put secret in. SHE SAID SECRET. SHE HAS SECRETS. AND SHE IS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE OH MY GOD SHE IS LIKE, MY CHARACTER.

She's just as cynical as I am, as well.

Greta is so much fun.

Well, since no one has reviewed chapter 28 as of yet I can't really as a question, can I?

...Yeah, I'm partly to blame for that.

Hopefully I can churn out at least three more chapters in the last few weeks of the summer holidays. Oh yeah, school finished - I forgot to tell you guys that.

C'MON, GUYS! REVIEW! WE NEED TO BEAT CAT! EVERYTIME I CHECK THE EMAIL IT'S ALL THESE REVIEWS AND FAVS FOR CAT'S STORIES AND OCCASIONALLY So-and-so has favorited The Truth Makes Death.

WE MUST DO BETTER THAN THAT.

PEACE OUT!

-Owl