I'm finally making my return to this website.

I don't want to make this too long, but I'd like to say a few things before you jump in:

I'm writing in a different style, which is more suited for novels and physical books, and I will continue to write this way.

Even if you've read my older version of this story, you'll enjoy this remastered version, as this new one has a different plot, an updated writing style and a different ending from the other one.

Lastly, as you may notice, there are certain features of my writing in this story that may seem strange or "improper" writing formatting. I assure you that everything that I do in this story is intentional and has purpose, obvious and hidden meanings as well. If anyone has any questions, I will answer them in the beginning note of the next chapter, but I will not give away anything of the plot. With all of that in mind, enjoy the first chapter of Separate Ways Remastered.

"The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide you're not going to stay where you are."

—J.P Morgan

War. It's everything. It's everyone. It's here.

Now.

It envelopes all her senses.

Sight. She sees the sand erupting in sharp showers as explosions rock the world around her and bullets and laser bolts alike pepper the ground.

Smell. The heavy scent of cooked and burned meat sticks to her nose. Wait. That's not burning meat. It's burning flesh.

Touch. She grips her alien sword tightly, too tight, it draws blood on her hands. Death is quick if she lets go, loses her balance, drops her weapon, her life.

Taste. There's blood in her mouth. She isn't sure if it's hers.

Sound, if you could call the continuous drone of gunfire and cries of pain circling her sound.

But there's something more. But there's nothing more.

She can't remember her name. She doesn't know what city she's in or why she's fighting or even who's winning.

Instead, she knows only one thing.

She's going to die.

The alarm clock woke her up.

She jumped to her feet and brought the sword down on the poor electric clock, cutting it, as well as the nightstand holding in, clean in half. The blaring noise was gone, and so was her fear.

"Damnit," she says to herself, looking at the mess she made. "Every time, swear to God."

She set her sword down on the bed, reminding herself for the umpteenth time to stop sleeping with it, and fetched the broom and dustpan next to her bed before clearing the shattered bits of the clock and dumping it in the wastebasket by the foot of her bed. She then turned her attention to the short and now two-piece nightstand that sat there. After pondering on how to take care of it, she gave up and went down the stairs from her open room and headed to the kitchen to make her breakfast. On the door of the refrigerator was a yellow sticky note, written on in a kind of chicken scratch only decipherable to her, reminding her of her job interview that morning.

Falling Star Hospice and Retirement home. A new start for herself. A place that posed as a regular old retirement home. People usually didn't think much of retirement homes, but this wasn't just some place where young families abandoned their broken down parents, or a place where old people went to die. She knew exactly what it was, unlike most, and that's exactly why she wanted to work there. A fresh start indeed, and not just for herself.

She looked at the clock on the microwave in her kitchen. Seven thirty five. She had just over an hour to get to her interview. Having already gotten her outfit ready, she decided she had enough time to make herself some eggs. Today was a big day for her, a special breakfast beyond her usual bowl of cereal. She made them sunnyside up, her favorite style of eggs, and ate them along with some strawberry jam on toast and orange juice. The meal was a favorite from her teen years. A very special meal made from a very special person who used to be in her life; eating food from good memories gave her good feelings. A rare occasion for her these days. She finished her breakfast and hopped into the shower. She paid no attention to the faint scar on her midsection halfway down her stomach. It was smaller than what it used to be. Ten years does a lot to the body. That scar is living proof of that old saying people say; time heals all wounds.

Physical ones, that is.

She wasn't sure what to wear to her interview. After skimming her catalogue of what could be considered elegant attire, she settled on a pair of dress jeans, a polo shirt and her old but well taken care of lab coat. It was a gift from her mother, a memento of her mother's time as a doctor in the old days. Wearing it felt safe, making her feel like she was on her way to save lives. In a way, that's what she was going to do at the hospice, right? Given the job she was being interviewed for, it seemed

(You won't find what you're looking for)

rather appropriate, so she threw it on as she grabbed her phone, set of keys and walked out the door. She got into her van with the colorful space art and words Mr. Universe painted on both sides, started up, and made her way to her hopeful career for the rest of her life.

It was different from when she was a kid. She never lived in Beach City then, but she visited enough to know where everything was and who all lived here. There was Funland, the city's amusement park and one real tourist attraction, run by Mr. Smiley. On the boardwalk, lines and lines of restaurants, gift shops and every kind of store known to man. It really was a wonderful place with a lot of wonderful people

(most of those wonderful people are dead)

who were tight-knit and kind to all. Whether you were a member of the community or a stranger from out-of-town, you were greeted with a sense of friendship and community. It was Delmarva's hidden gem in the middle of nowhere and you were blessed to come to this place.

In the middle of nowhere. It was her home now, and it was everything to her.

Now the little community town was different. That feeling of friendship was there, but the once-small town had expanded considerable. New housing areas, larger stores and companies had been built there in the last decade. It wasn't as big as New York City or Empire City by any means, more like Boston or Kalamazoo up north, and it was now a completely different town. There were also more monuments, more museums and historical sites, as well as a larger, more diverse populace. She could say she was a reason for the changes that came to her new home, primarily the historical bits. To the year-round flow of tourists that visited, the monuments and dedications were an interesting but distant part of history, but the natives of Beach City knew the truth. To them, the history attractions were a testament to their own lives; all of it was telling their story, their own past, one that had gone through terror and love and lost, but above all, it told the story of their perseverance through their struggles. Something of epic proportions happened here, and no tourist could truly understand what transpired in this little dot on the map called Beach City.

She knew they were there, but she couldn't bring herself to look at any of the monuments on her way to her interview. She rejected their very existence.

"I'm here for an interview with Doctor Clark," she stated.

The receptionist, a white woman in her twenties, looked up from her computer screen.

"Doctor Clark is down that hall, third door on the left." She pointed down the hall she referred to. "It's the one that's open."

"Thank you very much." She took a few steps away before the receptionist spoke again.

"It's really you, isn't it?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Shit. Turned back to the receptionist. "Yes. It's me."

The receptionist looked starstruck. "I knew it! You're—"

She patiently held a hand up. "Please, no names. I know who I am, you know who I am, we both know who I am. It's a personal thing, it's not you."

The receptionist looked confused, but she was still in disbelief of who was currently speaking to her. "O-okay then, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

She quickly cut in, trying to make sure this young woman didn't beat herself up over it. "No no, you didn't offend me, I promise." She looked at the receptionist's name tag. "Jan, I have a feeling we'll be working together pretty soon, and if that happens, I'll need to get some kind of nickname, I guess. But let's not worry about it until after my interview, okay?" As much as she appreciated this girl's respect, she absolutely hated when people called her by her name. She hadn't heard her name by any sane means in years, responding to it only when absolutely necessary. The natives and some of the newer occupants of Beach City understood, but for those few who weren't in the loop, mostly tourists and strangers, she had to make her wishes clear. Her reputation preceded her; anyone who knew who she was personally or heard of her notoriety respected her request.

"I guess that's okay," a cautious Jan said, then with a genuine smile wished her luck with her interview, to which she thanked her for, and went on her way.

As she walked to her interview, Jan made sure the coast was clear, went under her desk with her cell phone, and shot a quick text to her boyfriend.

You'll never know who's applying for a job right where I work.

"You've made it very clear you don't want me to say your name."

His name was Doctor David Clark. He was a caucasian man in his forties, with a receding hairline, blue eyes and a white coat matching hers. His smile was warm; she could tell that he was a kind, laid-back person, and he was definitely enamoured with the woman sitting across from her. He himself was a friendly face, but his office didn't match his personality; the walls were pale green, book shelves of different sizes were placed around the room in several spots, filled to the brim with countless books of seemingly impossible thickness. The chair she sat in felt constricting, like she didn't fit in it. Like she was out of place.

Another thing that unnerved her was the painting behind David. It was high on the wall so it towered above them, and with a recognition so uncomfortably fast, she identified the painting; Picasso's "Guernica", his famous war mural. It was a remarkable piece, she felt as much even as a bookish teen girl, but it invoked a new meaning in her these days. It shared too many parallels with her own experiences. She looked at the woman cradling her dead child, the dead soldier with his flower and broken sword, and found eerie similarities in her past. Even in that damned bull, deformed as it was, she found some relation to herself in some way.

"That's true," she said, not noticing her repeated gripping and releasing of the arms of her chair.

David cleared her throat and read through the application that she sent in. "Given your reputation, and all the good you've done for this town community, I'd say that's something I can abide by.' Without looking up he asked, "What should we call you then?"

She shrugged. "Was hoping you could help me with that. If I got the job, that is."

He brought his eyes from the application. "Of course you got the job, it's you we're talking about. To be honest, I doubt there'd be anyone else better suited for the job. Are you a fan of Stephen King?"

She smiled. "Anyone who appreciates real storytelling is a fan of Stephen King."

David let out a hearty chuckle. "Would you mind if I call you Nadine, then?"

She was surprised yet intrigued in the character name he chose. "Nadine Cross from The Stand? Any particular reason you went with her?"

"Are you going to tell me why you don't like being called by your legal name?"

"Nope."

He nodded. "Seems to me, you've got your fair share of secrets. Nadine had her own, so it's only appropriate. Unless…" he suddenly changed. He leaned across his desk, closer to her, and his friendly smile dissipated into a look of seriousness and curiosity.

"...You'd like to share some of those secrets with me, hmm?"

She sank back, deeper into her chair, pangs of fear in her core. "What?"

He lingered that way for a second, then let out a mighty fit of laughter that seemed to shake the room.

"I'm just kidding!" His gentle demeanor from earlier had returned, and she was put at ease. "God, it gets them every time!" He resumed his laughing, and stopped to clarify when he saw her confused face.

"I used to be a boxer in my high school days," he explained with pride in his words. "I was good, but the other guys I sparred with were typically better, so I had to figure out some way to get a leg-up on them. I watched a lot of boxers on TV and a bunch of war movies, and all I did was just study the angry and intense looks these boxers and actors would have on their faces, and eventually I developed my own set of faces to try out on my opponents. I had a lot of masks I'd wear, and I'd choose a different one to wear for every one of my matches, y'know, to get into his head. Worked every time, and I won damn near every one of my matches. Called me The Mask, like that Jim Carey movie. Cool, right?"

"Yes, very cool," she said, though something about his story put her off, but she couldn't figure out why, so she dismissed it. "I didn't realize my potential boss was so famous."

"Oh stop," but the bashful smile on his face said otherwise. "Anyway Nadine, I think you'll make a fine edition here at Falling Star. You start Monday. Welcome aboard!"

They sealed their business with a handshake, and she was on her way out when he said one more thing.

"Connie—" he scolded himself. "Shit, I'm sorry, got to get used to Nadine. I know who you are, your history. It's no secret why I hired you at my hospice." He paused for a moment before saying

(Don't say it don't say it don't you fucking say it)

"Thank you for your service."

Behind her face, she was internally screaming in anger, crying in anguish and wishing David would fall out of existence, but she gave him her very own mask for this fight; a considerate smile, her prepared automatic response of "It was my pleasure," and walked out, grateful for the new chapter of her life before her.

And there you have it. I don't have an official schedule for uploads, but I'll be writing every day, especially since this Coronavirus scare has pretty much shut down the entire country. I have a lot of free time now, so be on the lookout for new chapters. Also, as the story progresses, the chapters will increase in length, as there is much more plot to be included than my older version. But with that being said, everyone take care, stay safe and I'll see you in the next one. It's good to be back.