In this rapid influx of growth and life, I find it tumultuous to find a time of rest. Opposing the Gear threat and battles constantly waged, not only is this something distinctly different of a timeless exhautedness, but I do not know if I favor it over the battle weary expressiveness as well. Both loom and are treacherous, in both ways, though this one is more compassionate to humanity, being as the ill-effects of survival do not result in death.

The U.N. has moved in, with force. The MTs buzz daily, leaving and coming, from bases all around, and Geneva, more troops, Seikishidan and U.N. being carried in, as well as civilians. On the east side of the city, the MTs come from Geneva, the West side from Bordeaux, and the North from Dresden. On each cardinal direction of the city, there's a set up of Seikishidan soldiers and U.N. officials, keeping memos of every transport in and out, who it carried, what it carried, arrival, departure, and the Seikishidan there to do their peace keeping job, and watch out for Gears. I walked through those areas on the past few days...the soldiers sitting under small destroyed buildings or built shade covers, resting their days with keen eyes on the horizon for Gear and MT, talking lazily with the U.N. official posted with them, neither disdain covering the conversation or the absent feeling of another person, not dependent on who, but that it was another human, sparking each of their interests enough to make their daily routines worth while, or at least pass with more haste. My soldiers and the U.N. do not get along, but here, they're at least trying civility, and for that, I find no fault, especially with my own setting example of civility with Gestahl.

Also, the civilians who have taken a new life in this town seem to be constantly smiling. They love the idea of having constant protection, especially me, the commander, in the same city with them, as well as the U.N. and MTs ferrying in whatever is needed so often. The interrupted silence, and silence is hardly heard in the rapidly changing skeleton of a city, is comforting to the ears of those afraid of not hearing another voice or another person. Also, the people brought in were ecstatic to see the new city...a new life in front of them, like an open window. The stacks of Gear bodies in corners and allies, some being lit by pyre, other settling in embers and ash, seemed not to faze them, but served only as pieces to shrug off of a new experience, like the "same old, same old". The buildings were quickly renovated by families, claiming certain buildings and items strewn about.

One family in particular I saw while walking through the streets, a few officials in tow, sorting through facts and asking questions of me, to which I answered at my own discretion, was doing something peculiar. I wanted to take a walk, as I had many times these past few days, but work never left me, so I decided to leave it, rudely walking away from the officials and questionnaires to the family of four, a mother, father, son, and daughter, each child under ten, the older daughter dwarfing the younger by 2 years. They had grabbed a small house in the center of a long road, the front had been crushed inward from Gears running and crashing through weeks prior, so they had swept out all of the splintered wood shards and glass, the metal fragments and blood wiped clean, and slowly searched other unclaimed buildings, each bringing back chairs, tables, a blanket, anything they could scrounge together. But, the one thing I couldn't help but smile at was that the girl slowly separated from her family, as they jumped building to building, her deception going unnoticed. A building she forayed into had held her captive for a minute or two, as a likewise one did her parents, the rest of her family exiting to see her exiting opposite them, meeting up and working to the next wreckage. Though, in her arms, she carried a new trinket, a teddy bear. She held it by its arm, the head hanging over the chest and the body dragged along the cracked ground as she gleefully skipped, hugged, and brought the bear to her side again. It was dirty, bits of stuffing jumping from the cuts, as well as a blood stain across it that had set into the fabric, but she seemed not to notice, content with the bear itself, hugging it dutifully when not running ahead to her parents, where it hung lazily at her side.

I fear this though. The civilians...moved in, and living. They came with out a moments hesitation, and assumed life so awkwardly as if the men lost and battle fought was a shrug and a brush off of the shoulder. They were happy about it, but never showed true thanks for it. Though, they were respectful to U.N. and Seikishidan, always respecting us, giving us the right of way and being nice, but maybe I see too much into it. What do I want? Do I want them to praise me like a golden cafe? No, just a simple acknowledgment of the men I had to bury, maybe a condolence, and while I see those things everyday, they fail to really permeate me to the point that I deem it is enough, and that it matters. That's God's business though, I blaspheme him by usurping such an authority.

Times are desperate, they're hard and desperate. It's like time itself would have trouble getting up to walk through another twenty-four hours, to rest for not even a second before jumping to start his roll once more, daughter and brother fighting in the sky for dominance, in light and dark. What really is the meaning of it, though? Who knows, not I.

What I know though, is that these new soldiers, these civilians, this time of peace...it will not last. Call it a gut feeling, but something inside of me knows, it feels, that this cannot and will not last. I am utterly incapable of dealing with peace, so maybe this is my own personal reaction to what I am fighting for, if ever this war should end, how would my life go about? But, being here, at Lyon, I know it, I can feel it...peace will not last, it never does. Not by my own doing or Justice's, maybe even the Lord's, but it cannot last. Civilians killed, Seikishidan dead, Gears murdered...I cannot say, but I know it cannot.

Lyon is a strategic strong point. Gears want it to launch offensive attacks against all of Western Europe, we want it to secure this position so Gears do not have it, and we also control a nearly close route to Italy, and to Geneva, places of heavy conflict, with Gears and politics, respectively. Lyon will be a venue of attack once more, I cannot deny that, no one can, no one will. But, they live day to day in masks of happiness until the day something might go wrong, though they hope and pray it will not. Against my better intentions, I try and pray, though it is an aesthetic prayer, lip service, for the true knowledge I know is that it cannot, and will not. My own civility to peace, and what attracts battle and war to my inner being, will not let last this peace. I'll take MT and soldiers to Italy, or Justice will take his Gears to me...but peace, as of now, unattaible. Maybe when Justice is dead, Gears no longer functioning, I can the look over the perch of Earth, as Moses to Israel, and sigh, and be done with it...but not now, peace is not on my horizon. Not till my blade, guided by God, finds flesh of Justice, and kills him. No peace, not till then. I will not wait and be a sheep with the oncoming blade of slaughter, not a lamb to be used to martyr the doorways of the innocent, because I will lead charge on those who dare to come and claim the new born. I-

Broken from his writing, a voice interrupted Kiske. He looked up, jolted, to see a private saluting him.

"Sir, we have orders from Gestahl to inform you of a new officer in the city." Ky's eyes only told his message that his mouth did not venture to do. "He's U.N., sir." The soldier said following up to Ky's silence. "High brass, given official command over Lyon for the time being. Gestahl requests your presence immediately, sir."

Ky stood up slowly from the awkwardly disjointed room, somewhat broken off from the rest of the building, rubble separating it from the living room. The table had been pulled up, and a chair from a different set across the street, the pen in hand found among the dirt, and notepad sifted out from the hands of a dead man. Ky flipped it shut, lying pen on top, the pages previous to his own entry ripped out and thrown in the fire, not even reading them.

"You like writing?" Ky asked in a serious tone to the soldier.

"Excuse me, sir?" he said, his salute faltering for only a moment before becoming icy in stance again. "I do not know, sir. I never tried, sir."

"Here, go ahead. Make use of it. I won't." Kiske said, handing the soldier the antique pen, a symbol of a company who issued the pen rubbed off with years of age, and the paper worn with a bit of moisture, bending in curls, and the lining on it smeared, but held together by a rusted wiring that binded page to page. The soldier grabbed it before it fell as Ky slapped it in his chest as he walked by, the soldier muttering a thanks as he swooped to pick up the items.

"Private..." Ky said, turning slightly. "Your name?"

"Hudson" he said, smiling slightly, pushing the notebook under his arm.

"You stow that, and don't let it ever come out again." Ky said, nodding to the notebook, with another affirmated salute. "You ever write anything worthwhile with that thing, be sure and tell me. The first few pages are mine, don't change €˜em, everything else is yours. And, do something good with it, that'd be worth a lot to a salvage crew." What's this? You're being a good leader, down to Earth and calm with soldiers...superior yet friendly. Maybe you just need to be mellow, have peace itself to get you in this mood. Maybe I need a drink. Yeah, another whiskey, and Sol again to make it all work out, ha.

"I will, sir." The soldier said with a modest grin.

"And..." Ky said, a trailing voice, "where do I go?"

The bustling morning drew upon with the people filtering through the streets, filling the already shadowed underworld of Troy with an even more dark atmosphere. Business started, smoke rising up through the towers, kiosks opened for business, and the boy carrying a large wad of papers, going to each shop, tavern, and bulletin board in his area to drop off the governmental flyers.

The small boy, wearing a red cap, worn by years of age and emblazoning on it a large Red Sox logo, walked into one of his normal stops.

"Hey Bryan" the woman said behind the counter.

"Hey, just dropping off the rounds."

"Thanks a bunch, kiddo." the lady said smiling to the boy of not older than 13, flipping him a small coin as tip. He turned, started walking out with the large wads of paper under his arm, catching the coin without looking expertisely, and putting it into his pocket before disappearing into the stream of people outside of the doors of the office.

"Well, it's here" the lady said, looking over to the corner of the office. A figure stood there, leaning backwards, his feet leaning out into the visible light, the rest of him silhouetted in the back. If not for her knowledge of him being there when he walked in an hour ago, he might have seemed invisible, his unmoving stature and partially stealth demeanor of just standing there, waiting patiently, except for the low rattle of something in a bottle every few minutes.

"Finally, I been waiting to goddamn long for that little shit to bring me my next pay check."

"Well, you know the rules, bring him to us, and we'll see what we can do." the lady said again while sighing, looking at her fingernails lazily. It was an everyday habit for her, to talk to the dirt that walked through here, giving them the information they needed to get their job done. She finally held out the sheet to the man in the corner, who pushed off of the wall, coming into full view in the morning light filtering in through the door.

He had a large cowboy hat, the stiff leather of its brim nearly pure black, except for the spots of aging in the material, pants that were an amalgam of jeans, green cloths, red cloths, and anything else, all sewed together with a mish-mesh of thread and stitching to make a functional pair of pants. Covering his chest, and down to his knees, was a large trench coat, a darkened white, obviously Seikishidan, orange lieutenant ranking on the outlines of the lapell, but it was very worn. It had holes, burn marks, slashes, unravelled threads on the ends, and a beaten in collar that lost its stiffness too many years ago, hardly recognizable as the familiar white jacket-trenchcoat, now marred with a black kind of dirt on it than no cleaning agent dare to try and fight. His belt held up the mish mash pair of pants, a carving on it, a single word, Dream. Most Seikishidan soldiers put sayings into their large metallic belts. Writing a word or two, kind of like a signifying thing and originallity, about every soldier having a word. It was sometimes nicknames, sometimes a little motto, but it always was special to the person who wrote it. I already had the scene with Ky and his belt... The man appeared twenty-five, but also had the maturity of someone who acted much older and younger at the same time, a duality of being wise and foolish, usually the latter far too often.

He walked forward and snatched the paper from the waiting hands of the long nailed patron of the insttution, who seemed vexed by the hackneyed procedure she went through.

"Hmm...Seikishidan spy in Troy. Goes by Quint Darton. Bounty...2,000. Not too bad." he mused. "No picture though, how am I supposed to find him?"

"You're the bounty hunter, not me. You got your work cut out for you, and you'll do it for that lump sum."

"Driving a fucking hard bargain, bitch."

"You'd be amazed how many pieces of trash say that to me. It's almost a compliment to me now."

"You're complimented by being called a bitch? I fear for your chilidren, Bitch." he mocked, folding the small bounty sheet into a square and tucking it into a pocket on his pants, brushing back his coat to reach his side pocket, the sun gliting off of a holstered pistol on his belt. He noticed that the lady saw it when he had put the bounty into his pocket, then turned to face her with a sly smirk. "Yeah, it's a gun. And, it doesn't care who it kills." She seemed amazed at the gun, but still unfazed at the demeanor of this gruff man.

"Yeah, but I bet you do. Bullets ain't cheap."

"Which is why I don't take cheap bounties."

"Seems like it." The man sneered at her last words, turning away, walking to the door. As he walked by, there was a small bulletin board, littered with pins holding up old letters and wanted warrants, all for the bounties. He noticed a few faces, ones he had already collected the prices, and they hadn't taken down the sheets. He just ran his hand across the board, grabbing whatever few pieces his hands grazed, and stuffed them messily into his pocket, adverse to what he did with the bounty for Darton.

The door opened up into the large crowd, the bounty office behind him relatively empty. It had four seats, all old, a small oscillating ceiling fan, and the lady behind the counter who always was there. He had known her now for the week or so he had been here, and she wasn't fond of him, and he was never fond of crotchety bitches, but hell, they were his salary, beyond capping the dumb sons of bitches she told him to. All part of the plan.

Dispicable...evil, vermin. Disgusting. How dare he win, how dare he live another day. One more day alive, showing me that I failed, my troops did. He controls Lyon...and I failed. Kiske, how dare you.

Maybe it is duly noted though, that I had it coming. My dispensation of a new leader and unwilling to accept even him, the newly appointed one, was worthy. Of course, he can not replace the distinctness Kliff and I shared, and maybe I feared that. Remote viewing of Kliff on the battlefields, him cutting down my Gears, futile in front of him, his age withering in front of me over the years and battles, but yet, I do not. Destined to sit here, and look down upon all, maybe like a God, which isn't too far off what I will become, upon killing Kiske.

This is a shock of reality...the instance of loss, the instance of my defeat, by a boy, none the less. Apt, very much so and maybe it was destined, by the one above. Yes, I was defeated of arrogance, as Adam was cast from Eden. Is it that much of a big deal? I'll have my vengeance, don't worry, God or Kiske. Both of you will get your come-uppances, do not worry.

Set priority mapping of Gears in alpha quadrant of sector 20N to company halt at base location. Set Gear priority to stand by unless initial provoked, over to you Siren. Get me Testament.

Sitting on the stone throne, covered with an old and withered cloth for decoration, Justice sitting still as if he too was part of the stone, sitting in an unmoving position for days now, the Gears and contemplations taking place all in the head of the Gear messiah. Rain had fallen, leaving a low moisture and a small stink of growing, as weeds found root in the already destroyed Acropolis, and more specifically, the Parthenon. The destroyed columns housed wall flowers, growing in vines, with slits of shrubbery around the base, littered with stones of the destroyed buildings and bodies of the dead humans, now in skeletal form, when he seized Greece.

The specialty Gears that Justice had manufactured for the sole purpose of guarding this building stood in stead-fast arrogance, their swords tip down and hands over the top of the hilt, as stone in quality as Justice himself. Their terminated life cycle had scant a few months left, the Gears showing signs of wear and tear, a few bits of skin and blood seeping from the rotting flesh, all the while, the Gears still without order from the master. The night though, seemed to eviscerate life from it, the very sense of life sucked out through porous holes to Hell itself. Among the foggy night came a new penance though, almost as if Charon was traversing the steps.

But, to each footstep on the long stairway to Justice, who sat in the throne like God in Heaven, it was not Charon, but rather another entity. Head down in reverence, with each step echoing in the silent midnight, he slowly traversed the stairs, lined with the blood-red carpet, stained and holed, frilled and cut, ages and deaths embedded into the silk which had endured weather and hell together. The boots though, had seen hell also, though the awkward side, being of a material made by magic manipulation. On top of the boots came pale skin, and tattered rags of a uniform, previously in company of the living occupant. Each step up concerted a metallic clang as a scythe dragging behind lagged, thrust upward by the step up and forward, clanking in rhythmic beat with the boots in a disjointed ghastly serenade.

Walking past the guards, situated on each side of the walkway, five meters apart on the incline, swords in hand and still with the orders of staying put running through their heads as their bodies refused to run, leaving the orders to do the physical activity they were mentally incapable of doing. They were armored, twleve feet tall, and had unmoving red eyes, bits of flesh and blood dripping from the rotten bodies. Their life cycle was maybe five or six years, because of their special genetic sequences Justice made himself, and their "life" was due up in a few months, and they were showing their age.

"Yes?" the voice whispered as the figure kneeled forward, reaching the top of the stairway, standing in front of Justice, with a wraith like eccentricity on his lips. Justice moved, looking sideways, a bit of the previously fallen rain that had pooled on the ridges of the battle armor trickling down the side and a bit of dust and air-borne particles stuck to his body falling off as he moved, from his days-long stationary position.

"You know what to do, why deny orders?"

"Why should I not?" the Gear whispered in rapture, standing tall. The rags of a uniform, the red sergeant level piercing through the dirt and grime, some of it ink, that had stained it black over time, where cuts and wounds had been inflicted through the material, and skin closing, yet linens not healing.

"You're still a Gear, and under my control. Do not think otherwise."

"Of course, my master." Testament said, nodding his head with a bow, before resuming his somewhat arrogant stance, his ravenous black hair seeming to copulate from the surrounding darkness, seen to the infrared sensors of Justice.Testament's red eyes gleamed with a small shine of gold as well in the darkness, showing no remorse, as his free hand slowly tipped the scythe, it swaying by his side in lulling conviction.

"Ready for another mission?" the voice synthesizer asked in a robotic style, a slight touch of femininity, since it was controlled by Siren, whose own person preference (and programming) stood in the region of female, if only by subroutines to give it more of a human quality.

"Always, my lord."

"Lyon." Justice said simply, words echoing in their electronic wave length, bouncing off of the clear nothingness of the night, not even crickets chirping or waves swelling on the cost of Athens, all seeming to be silent for the sake and fear of Justice, not hidden by a midnight carnival and not any less fearsome in bright daylight either, the simple aura of Justice sapping the life from anything. Rumor has it that where ever Justice was for a long time, there was a magical presence in the air...in the rocks and water, that somehow, the presence of him there for some extended amount of time warped the surroundings, tha death stood in place of life and time took a backseat to the flood of memories and future. There was no past, no present, no future, no life, no death, no darkness, no light where Justice was...the magic that seemed to exude from the scourge of humanity was potent enough to influence and sap it out of the very area that he stood. It isn't proven, but that is what soldiers say. There were a lot of reports about that at Purgatory in the Tibet campaign, but I can't really say fi it is true, it's just what I've heard, a lot.

Testament looked up in a slight twinge of his humanity, an expression of confusion and dazedness at the comment, replaced with a smug smile. He stood, the tip of his scythe leaving a small trail of blood in its wake, by those slain by it, or some intangible property, unknown, but still, it existed, as if a fresh layer of the blood was put on every time Testament wandered near his master.

"One question" Testament asked as he turned, preparing to walk down the steps again, his head cocking over one shoulder. "Will he be there?"

"Of course." Testament smiled again at the confirmation, then preceded down the steps in silence, eyes closed, knowing every step and where to go with precise calculations, and under the control of Justice.

Now, I bet you have some serious questions after reading that doozy of a section. And, it probably all centers on one major aspect: Testament. Yes, our friend we met in the beginning, who led the attack on the Parisian H.Q., and was hinted at previously. Well, now we have his character, and more than just him crossing blades with Atlas.

So, you ask, why can he talk? What's the point? He's a Gear, he follows orders blindly from Justice, right? He should be able to receive all orders and every prerogative like every other Gear, just simply knowing it, since Justice does, the hive mind in effect. But, it does not apply to him, obviously. Well, he is more than an average soldier Gear, as shown. Not to mention that he has a past worthy of telling, though not now, it comes around later in the story.

I have said before, Gears can be made in every way, shape, and form. A little girl Gear could be the strongest ever made, if the DNA was synthesized right. And, the normal soldier Gears are manufactured types, quick to be made and quick to follow orders, the gene therapy used in the most bare-bones of ways to make a soldier. When the process of making a Gear is extended out to long lengths, and becomes a precise science and art, you get a refined Gear...much like Justice, which also usually starts off with a human and infusing other DNA, where as the mindless soldiers are animals first with human DNA put into it. A Gear with thought, who reacts, and can lead others with no will of their own is better than the blind leading the blind. Also, refined Gears have an unusually long life, well over two hundred years, and who knows how long after that. Regenerating damage at super human rates, super human strength, very acute senses of sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste, a nearly animalistic brutality (because of DNA change), and who knows what else, in the case of a refined Gear.

I've only ever met one, the only Gear I ever really met. I said before, I never took part in battles, I was not part of the Seikishidan, just a man in the Crusades (though I do pop up in this story, for the keen reader). I don't consider him a Gear at all though, considering he was a refined type, I almost found it intoxicating as to how much of the world wouldn't believe he was either. It really does make sense, looking back.

Though, Testament himself is somewhat of a refined Gear. Justice was smart when Testament was made...he refined the genes, made it so that Testament would be smart, able to think on the go, yet subservient at the same time. Somewhat of a mix of the next-of-kin for Justice (despite longevity in his vitality), to carry on the battlefield what he could not (ironic to the Kliff-Ky situation, no?). So, we have Testament, a new breed of Gear, or one of a kind, at least.

He thinks, to an extent. He can act on his own discretion, within programmable limits, of which Siren takes priority over until Justice gives the option not to. He can speak, ask, and learn, take orders, and also give them. It's like an extension of Justice, though more of an identity than another instrument of death.

My knowledge on Testament comes from the refined Gear I met, who also says he sometimes gets Justice's thoughts in his own head, as all Gears do, but he can force them out, he's better than that. Testament is a lower tier, made to be subservient, within limits, and also made for the purpose of having a different type of Gear on the battlefields despite the lumbering humanoid types, the animalistic hunters, the mutations of anywhere in-between, Testament was a prototype, and also a slap at an old rival that turned out to be somewhat beneficial in its own right. Testament can think and be human within limits, much like Justice, but is also kept within the limits Justice sets. It's kind of an in-between, if you will.

Maybe that sort of explanation only baffles you more, but in due time, more will be revealed. In plus, it's better to have more than one ominous enemy who can talk, right? Endless hordes of Gears and Justice; what an enemy! Throw in Testament...we have a bit more fun, no? (Though, I am sure those who died at the hands of Testament would be more than angry with that sort of humorous statement, and the many families who lost loved ones to the Gears).

"Just kind of simple things, y'know?" Darton whispered, lying on the old couch, the cushions flat with years of being sat on, a wire jabbing into his side as the stuffing creaked out from the holes, but he didn't mind. Bianca was lying next to him on the sofa, his arm aroud her waist as they both lie close to each other, no blanket needed by their warmth feeidng off of each other. Darton shifted a little, his rustle of clothes against hers, then lied still again, his head slightly behind hers as they just lied silently on the couch.

"How long will this last?" Bianca asked with wavering stability in her words, kind of a harsh whisper. Her words needn't be louder, Darton heard them. Through the drowning bustle of night time hoodlums, jumping about the alleys and running through streets, echoes of their chants finding the ears of the safe asleep from Gears, with the accompanied roar of vehicles above, zipping around on lines and tension wires hooking buildings together with the ferrying, magnetized air-borne boats hauling materials with a metallic cringe, as if the travel itself hurt the technology to exist in this day and age, he heard it all, but it was in the background to him, forced out of his realm of caring.

"What?" Darton asked, somewhat shot out of his euphoric state of bliss, from that point of being awake and asleep, where everything is mellow, like the surface of still water with the stone settled at the bottom and the ripples dying off to small waves and vibrations that find still entropy soon.

"I mean, how long can we go at this? You living here, being all normal and who you are, and me."

"Always bringing up the small things that don't matter" he said teasingly, brushing a hair from her face as she looked up to him, perched on an elbow on the old couch as she lay in the embrace of the musty cushions on his arms.

"Well, it's been bothering me. How many romantic spots can we visit, do the romantic things before it becomes normal life. Everyday, just living it out with another person. The same kind of shit, regardless or not if you were here...I somehow yearn for that, y'know? Want it to feel like good ol' times, familiar, but if you resort to living that normal life with me...it's like there's no point in you being with me."

"Don't bring it up, it doesn't matter." He reaffirmed her. Her eyes were shown in an arrow of light from the small slats from the window in the right hand corner, like an after-thought of the room, a small one-by-one-foot window covered over by metal grating, sporting rust and taped pieces of cardboard to filter out light, though the moon seemed prone to invade, shining silver rays over her lithe face and curiously innocent eyes. "What are you so worried about? Is just being normal, a routine, making you scared?"

"I dunno, it's possible."

"Don't let it" he said low and commanding, though with good intention.

"I dunno, here I go again, always wondering and cautious, it's who I am. Never unavoidable. Always have been, kind of why I have a lot of friends who look out for me."

"Zimmerman, to be sure."

"He's a good guy, really." She said imploringly, with a smirk, looking at him from her lying position and him propped up above her, his own hair tips grazing her face that looked up to his, Bianca's face draped in moon and his shrouded in darkness, though she could tell he was there; his scent, his aura, something about him, she knew he was there, and felt safe by it.

"I was an orphan, you know. Just never got to trusting people, never got to really be able to get close to them. Always got hurt. Now with you, I see an opportunity, I want to take it, but someone inside keeps telling me to be careful, and I'm kind of falling for it."

"I'll straighten them out" he said with a grin, a finger teasing her cheek in affection.

"You see, that's the thing." She muttered. "I want to believe in you, with you, to be with you at all times...but I don't know if I can, because of myself."

"Don't say it," he said sternly.

"I...I don't know." She said, somewhat scared in her voice. Then, her arms wrapped around his neck in a sense of security and needing, pulling his face from the veil of darkness to her moonlight, and she kissed him. She kissed him, relieving all of her insecurity, releasing what problems she might have had, all of it flooding away in a resolve of emotion, in a simple one thing: a kiss. Darton pulled away slowly, looking down at her with a smile.

"I'm dead, you're an orphan. Now, I'm more alive than ever, being with you, and you're no longer alone, being with me. Leave our past behind us...let's live for the future. No Gears here, no fear of life, maybe you just need that...a life that you can live in normally with someone else..." he said, his fingering delicately brushing hair from her cheek.

"Just promise to be with me, Darton."

"I promise."

"Forever?"

"I promise. Forever." She smiled, leaning up again as he kneeled down, their lips meeting, and the moon seeming to move upward into the night even further, the silver rays brought farther down at their angle from the couch to veil it in darkness, even it knowing the simplistic value of privacy.

Zeronova's Notes:
Well, that's the chapter. Times of peace, as well as a few interesting scenes, adding to the drama (something a lot more prevalent this time around, and I do it better this time, I think). Good times. Not much to say, this is 175k, yay for that...it's gonna keep going, and it ain't stopping. It will definitely hit 250k, or more. As I see it...we have the calm of Arc II, the end of Arc II, then all of Arc III, Arc II's end coming at about230k or above, and Arc III being an entire arc, so that's gonna be big. Longest GG story? Definitely. Will it stay at the top? Until Identity One is finished, but we'll all be dead by then. And, I love snow.
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