Hey, guys! I'd like to remind you to check out my profile for the link to the community doc, and I've got another small announcement: there is a poll on the top of my profile to determine the pairing for my last chapter of Guilty Love. Vote now! XD

I wrote this particular chapter for my friend's birthday (screw democracy), and I had an interesting way of doing it—writing while walking on the treadmill. I think it actually helped me focus, and I really love how this story turned out, so I think I've got a way to eat food I like AND not be fat. Hooray! XD

I hope you enjoy! J

(O)

I had been sentenced to something horrible for my crimes, and I had no idea what my punishment was. It wasn't that they didn't say it—it sounded awful—but I'd simply never heard the term. They called me a "juvenile", which meant that I wouldn't be going to prison, Mr. Justice said. But he didn't look happy at all to hear what my fate turned out to be—"community service".

What was this? I imagined sitting in a room with a community of people serving time for their equally horrible times. I would be chained to a wall with only drunken murderers to talk to. The room would be dark, I would have a gun to my head, and it would be the only thing I could see. They wouldn't feed me but a spoonful of rotten vegetables each day, and instead of them putting it in my mouth, they would stuff it up my nostrils. It was what I'd deserved—a spoon full of rotten green beans shoved up my nose for each fingerprint I'd put on a glass, each diary page I'd forged, each painting I'd copied.

Community service was much different than I'd originally predicted. First of all, we were outside. This was terrifying, especially since I didn't have any magic to protect me (magic is something akin to poison, I suppose), and there were plants. I didn't like plants. My father had shown me them as a child, and I never wished to see one again. "Don't touch this one," he'd said. "It will give you a rash." "Don't eat those berries. They will make you sick." "Don't touch this one. It has needles that will poke you." Yes, plants were horrible things.

All of the murderers around me, including myself, held a stick with a sharp point. I thought that this was incredibly stupid, and I was constantly on guard so that nobody would stab me. We were supposed to be poking pieces of trash and putting them into bags, but why would they expect a murderer to follow their rules?

I poked a colorful bubble, and it exploded. I screamed—It's a bomb, they're trying to kill me, they want me to die—and a police officer glared at me for making noise. I assumed that he didn't want me to alert the other prisoners to their fates, so I cautiously picked up the bit of rubber and walked over to him, putting the bomb shrapnel into his bag. He smiled, and I smiled back. I knew his secret now, so I had a bit of hope that he wouldn't kill me. I was like him now, knowing about the colorful bombs among the plants.

Community service was better than I'd originally predicted. It was very hot, and sweat stuck to my arms, a drip sliding down my back, but it wasn't torturous. No wonder the crime rate in this country was so high, if this is how they punished their most vile individuals. The sweat was warm but cool, and the sensation was very strange. Our air conditioner had stopped working once, and it was hot like this. But at that time, I had my father with me, and he gave me a cold washcloth.

There were no cold washcloths here.

But there was a girl. A sweet, kind, shy girl who didn't speak much at all. Her hair was curly, though the rest of her body looked strong under her jumpsuit. I really didn't want to speak to anyone, but she seemed friendly, so I smiled shyly and asked, "Hello. My name's… Vera. What's yours?"

"Me?" The voice was surprisingly deep with a thick accent, and I gasped. "I am Machi."

I frowned as I stabbed my pointy stick into a bottle. "Why are you here?"

She frowned as well. "I bring Borginian cocoons. I could help sick person, I was told. I knew it was bad of me."

"Did you… steal them from Borginia?"

"Sort of," she said, poking a piece of paper. "Why you here?"

"I made forgeries," I told him. "I copied paintings, and sculptures, and diary pages."

"You artist?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I also artist. Of moo-sic."

"Do you sing?" I asked.

"No. Piano. Lamiroir sing."

"Lamiroir? I know her music," I replied, imagining the days when my father and I would sing together.

"I play piano with she." Isn't Lamiroir's assistant a boy, though?

"How do I know for sure that you aren't lying?" I asked. She had committed a crime, after all.

"I have this," she offered, pulling something out of her pocket. "She want me to hold it." It was a brooch—and it certainly looked like Lamiroir's. I had never seen anything like it except for on the CD case of my father's favorite album, so seeing it in person made me gasp.

"It's beautiful." I told her—him? Now I wasn't quite so sure. "Is Lamiroir your mother?"

"No. I am not son of she." He's a boy.

"Oh. I didn't know my mother. She left me because we didn't have money."

"I have no mother or father. Only Lamiroir. She is like mother."

"Is she kind?"

"Yes."

"That's good." There were far too many unkind people in the world—the only kind people I had met were my father, and Mr. Justice, and Trucy, and Machi, too. Machi was one of the kind people I knew now, too. "Do you know much about the world?" I asked.

"Yes. I tour much. I know some language too. Not much."

"Oh. I'm good at English, but I've never really seen the world. Only the hospital, and my home, and Sunshine Coliseum." Looking down at my bag, it was quite full, so I walked away to the police officer who probably would not kill me because I knew his secret.

"You leave?"

"I'll be right back," I told him. I traded my full bag for an empty one and walked back to Machi.

"It's like puzzle," he commented.

"Huh?"

"You good at English, bad at culture. I bad at English, good at culture."

I smiled, and remembered something my father told me about my mother. "Why don't you kiss her anymore?" I'd asked. "You kiss the person who you love the most. We don't love each other anymore," he'd replied. "Who do you love the most, then?" I'd asked, and he'd kissed me on the cheek. "You." And he'd scooped me up in his arms, telling me that he'd never let me down.

Since Father was dead, I hadn't decided who I loved the most. But I decided right then that it was Machi, because he was kind and he knew lots of things and he was famous for his music and he was still a lot like me.

Leaning over, I kissed him on the cheek. "What?!" he asked.

"Oh- I'm sorry…"

"It's good. But why?"

"I like you."

"Americans… So very forward," he snickered.

"Hmm?"

"You don't know much around kissing?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh. It is… Sign of love."

"I love you."

"We meet today."

"I don't know much about love, either."

"Yes." He grinned. "But I do."

"So do you love me?"

"No. But I like you. Maybe I love you later. Not today."

"Oh. Will you love me tomorrow?"

"No."

"Okay." I stabbed a piece of trash, and thought about the strange idea of affection. I didn't quite understand it—you either liked someone or you didn't. That was all there was to it, right?

A few seconds later, though, Machi turned towards me. "Step one of kissing. It means you love them, or you want to love them. Step two. Not on cheek."

"Huh?"

"I show you," he said, dropping his trash stick. He leaned into my lips, pressing against my chapped ones. My heart began to race and I panicked, forgetting how to breathe. He pulled away after only a few seconds—an officer had yelled, "Cut it with the PDA!", whatever that meant—and I lifted my finger to my lips—they were tingly, and they felt strange.

"That is how Europeans do it," he said.

"I don't know much about Europe."

"I will teach you," he said with a sly grin. "But we will wait before France."

"Why? What's in France?"

"They have strange kisses," he said. I shrugged, and continued to pick up trash, happy to have Machi by my side.

Yes, community service was far better than I'd originally predicted.