The World's Stage

The Game Start's

Chapter Eleven

There are dreams and there are nightmares, but through the midst of the black and white there are memories.

It's cloudy, thick smog that circles around him, fighting him, willing him to choke out the ashes in his mouth. His first cigarette was the first of many to come, and he treats the cigarette as something like an orientation. An orientation that seems to only finalize that he's almost certain he will grow old in Oldham, England. Good Oldham that prides in its low education and even lower economy. Where rats are eating more than the people who salvage and steal more than they can chew, and where gangsters and the mobs who brag about territory are in sense ruling rubbish upon rubbish. Just more rubbish to add to the huge dystopia the town has become—is.

He stares at himself in something between admiration and disgust. Watching as he struggles to hold the smoke in his lungs. Like a mirror he watches the other side, clear and pristine. Shining so vividly that a swarm of cloudy nostalgia glazes his eyes.

But there's a part of him that is in denial, complete denial, and rage, not comprehending how his fine mind at work could be wasted mopping a forever stained floor, and that rage pushes him. Pushes him so hard that he can still remember the burn of hatred and self-loath and strangely, determination that burns and brittles from the inside. It was despair maybe, or maybe it was desperation. Where he was willing to do anything, anything he could to survive. To leave and escape this hell. He remembers the emotion, he remembers it all, from the hatred to the determination, it never left him and the black coal his heart became after the intense burn still remained. Living-- preventing him to feel the emotions that he had long forgotten. Perhaps it was love, or care? He doesn't remember. He just knows that without it he hasn't lived any differently.

It hurt him. He feels his conscious flicker between timelines, and suddenly he is watching himself looking a little older and a little more beaten through time and experience. Bag's of disgusting filth sit beside him and he watches himself slide down the wall, tears staining his cheeks as he holds a large pile of British silver pound. He doesn't remember whether or not those are tears of joy or demise, he just knows it hurts all the same. Because pain is not a relative thing. When it hurts it hurts.

That's right, cry. Cry like the weakling he is. And when he finishes crying he will continue selling. Selling those bags of liquids and leaves until he can afford five tickets to London or Winchester. And through it all he watches as his heart changes. Weak to strong. Soft to tough. He watches beyond the mirror like a movie—a documentary of a time that has already passed. And suddenly everything is so close, he steps back almost falling even though he knows that this isn't real. His body is stiff and it pushes him to approach the foggy figure.

It was as if he was no longer a viewer but partaking in the events that unrolled.

He could see himself crying, chest rising, shoulders trembling, he could see the strain, and before his conscious ushers him to wake up, the world slowly crumbling in a blinding white, he whispers something that comes out more like a desperate yell.

"Don't give up…!"

He refutes loudly, the background already nothing but static. He repeats it again, and again somehow pitying the version of himself in front of him. He approaches the silent figure, his fingers almost grazing the edges of his slightly longer hair. He knows his words fall silent as no matter what he can't reach beyond the glass, he is a spectator to an already filming dream, memory, nightmare. He watches with livid eyes, kind, weak Arthur Kirkland. Not in any sense perfect, nothing spectacular, simply a boy walking the wrong path in pure desperation.

All too quickly green eyes flicker onto him despite the fading background. The eyes penetrate him, acknowledging him and only then does he give in to the waking of a slumber. However, he tries to claw at the boy, trying to grip onto his shoulders but instead the green eyes fade into nothing but white. The haunting eyes dancing between memory, dream and nightmare, and through it all there's reality. Reality that those crying parakeet eyes has aged and refined through years of trial and error. Refined and roughened perhaps even toughened, sparkling a deeper shade of emerald and basil. He fell slave to time and has changed to survive.

He wonders as he falls closer to the verge of awakeness, has change made him colder? Has it made him harbor a strong negativity in his protected fragile heart? The questions remain answerless although he's certain somewhere in him there's the young, naive boy who lived. A pounding in his heart as he feels his muscles moving.

That's right, in his mind there does harbor a silent hate. A ruthless coldblooded disgust for a man who remains faceless in his memory and nightmares. There is only one hate and that belongs to one man. The man who he blames and guilts. The man who he blames everything for. Himself, his misery, his heart, his pain. He hated this man. He loathed him, and yet he can't seem to remember his face. He watches as the old scenery disintegrates, particles and shimmers disappearing into the black abyss of memory.

Yes. He hated only one man.

He falls deeper into this libido.

It really wasn't fair at all…

He opens his eyes. Calmly, there's no hint of fear or anything that suggests that he's afraid, only that knowing glint of emerald that hesitates as he looks around. The hesitant yelling in the background the cause of his waking slumber. He groans, arching his back in means of stretching, yawning before heading to check the ruckus. His hair curling at its edges, his eyes half lidded blinking dazedly, his shirt undone, parting modestly revealing pale skin. He's surprised to see an exhausted Asian and Alfred in an open argument. Hands everywhere and the strangest of insults getting spewed out. A mixture of two dialogues getting scrambled together.

He catches the Russian watching in amusement, sipping a hot cup of tea that smells a lot like fruit, his eyes warm although a chilling smile is on his lips. Ivan catches his eye before nodding in his direction, tilting his head to the batch of hot tea that remains untouched. A warm gesture that he knows Yao was responsible with. He really needed to start their annual tea sessions, only the Eastern man was willing to appreciate the delicacy of tea and manage with his wonderfully made crumpets. He breaths in the citrus air, allowing the acid to melt away his problems.

He leans against the wall, yawning as the curtains open rays burn his eyes. The image of his own eyes still burned into his memory. The smell of fruit and flowers overcome his sense, annihilating the stench of weed and sweat that he could almost smell from his distant memory. The familiar memory so deep he could almost feel the dirt underneath his bare feet, almost feel his heart beating in an unbearable rhythm, and almost feel the hardening of his own mind—maturity.

Everything seems like a dream although he knows this is reality, he knows that he's made it, and that everything happening from this point is real—like it or not. He knows that the crying version of him would have been proud and that makes a warmth of pride flow through his veins. Coursing to his head as he smiles shamelessly at thin air, eyes still blinking in strange sequences. Ears still open to the screeching and the wailing.

"You idiot! How could your brain possibly comprehend its own thoughts!"

A scream echoes in the halls, his smile leaving him as he watches the Asian growl in frustration. His thin fingers clawing at his hair, it's tightly tied ribbon falling effortlessly onto the ground. Ivan purses his lips, his smile widening as he watches Yao attempt to strangle the American who only barely dodges the clawing pale hands. A sharp glare and a biting smirk deadly clear as Alfred laughs. His voice sharp, possibly ear shattering, but teasing all the same.

Arthur grimaces, any calm he felt now perishing into a heavy annoyance. His eyes opening finally, the last bits of his dream now simply a heavy foggy blur. Distant traces of green and tears now too far away in his mind for him to care. His eyes train on the two strangling figures. Their bodies wrenching at each other, pushing and convulsing as they aimed deliberate kicks and punches at the other. He didn't know what to make of it really, he just knew that it was hilarious nevertheless.

"So, you can put up a fight!" This sentence flashes something dangerous in Yao and Ivan finally stands up. The cat and dog fight becoming too dangerous and violent for the gentle calm of the morning. He smiles kindly at the two although he's certain his eyes betray the slight annoyance. His hands barely touch Yao's fingers, trying to clutch them free as they move dangerously close to the finger stained spectacles. Aiming for the face that the American was so proud of.

"You…you…fat American!" Yao retorts, cheeks going red, this time his eyes seem to flash amber and Arthur can't help but chuckle. Alfred's eyes widen when his body gets roughly pulled down, his vision going blurry as a strong cold hand pulls him to the floor. His body limping as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes trailing to find Ivan's arm gripping tightly onto his shoulder as his other holds Yao's leg that seems to raise much higher than any normal kick he has seen. Both of them duly note that Yao is flexible. Another thing on the long list of surprises the elder has yet to expose.

There is tension and Arthur can't help but smile. His cheeks flaming in a healthy shade of pink and hued yellow. After their audition they have all celebrated, delighting in the time to finally relax and welcome the rest before the storm. He thinks back to when they were cheering to thin air, vowing that their hard work will always pay them back lavishly. How with effort they were invincible and will continue rising. His smile lowers. But with effort anyone could rise in both power and strength. Including your enemies. He remembers a lavish smile and bright blue eyes. He remembers french. Not as a culture or a language, but the man himself. Enemy.

He frowns, clearing his darker thoughts as he thinks about yesterday's celebration. It was small, contained, filled with fleeting giggles and promises of a proclaimed reign. Another slight quirk of his lips as he thinks about the Asian man. How he was the man who set loose the most, his back no longer as tense to stand straight, his eyes no longer a constant strain of narrow and diligent. Simply round orbs of content and calm. He watched as the man set aloof, he saw Yao laugh and he was honored to be met with the short hiccup of fleeting sound. However, every smile that graced the Asian man's face had a depth of sadness and every giggle and laugh left with the bitterness of regret. Everything was split between the evening rays of sunshine and the cold wind of dawn. Everything too black and white of a perspective. He forces his mind not to overthink the small frown that came with every smile and the glassy eyes that looked like they would cry when they showered him with praises. Because he wanted to believe that there were no secrets or malice to come and that it was simply an illusion. An illusion that was undoubtedly wrong.

His eyes snap as he hears another voice, this time a terribly slow and domineering slur. He walks over to the cup of tea that sits steaming slowly into mid air. Puffs of large white clouds evaporating in mid suspension. Beautiful like a dream. There one moment gone the next. Simply fluff of white that weaves in front of him. He takes the steaming cup, watching as the steam moved in diverse patterns, beautiful although they all had the same fate. Death.

Arthur takes a careful sip of his tea. Rasberry. He takes another, frowning. Rose?

It is silent as he sips his tea. And he indulges in the tranquility only to have it broken.

"Yao-Yao, do you wish to claw out my eyes that much?" Ivan says lowly, maybe looking hurt if not for the striking intensity in his eyes. Even Ivan had the will to scold the Asian man. Love of course had no boundaries but it certainly didn't mean to contain your own opinion. He watches as the pale fingers twitch slightly, hesitant although they meant harm. Fingernails ready to hurt and scratch. Beautiful but deadly, a perfect combination.

"He called me weak- aru." Yao says cooly, retracting his leg. His eyes narrow as he realizes how childish he sounded. He mentally scolds himself, he was the the oldest afterall. He shouldn't act this way in front of others. No, he had standards, his back stiffens while his face heats up. Embarrassment quickly catching up to the guilt and shame. He looks ahead only to see violet eyes and a certain closeness that he found overwhelming. He remembers the secret, there talk, everything between the two that seems both magically abnormal, and horribly boring. He couldn't stop forgetting those violet eyes and that smile. That business like smile. That cold smile. That smile that meant more than he can imagine. That smile thay told him that his days of pretending were over. His mood darknens. He will tell the truth, he will. Like all truths they will eventually find their way out, the intricate lies will crumble in the midst of the media and the attention. He just needed time. Time to rebuild these temporary walls. Time to find a way out, time to regain what he had lost. No. What had been stolen from him. He needed time.

He coughs stepping back, his face looking bleak while his regular persona resurfaced. Cold, calculating, immaculately obverse. Alfred frowns as he watches the change in facial features, the hard frown now a permanent factor on his delicate face. He almost wants to cause another fight to see the older man loosen up, to see the mischief and the devilish smile on his lips once again. He wanted to see the energy. The young spirit that should exist in a twenty-five year old man, despite the pills and despite the back pains.

"You called me fat," He retorts, almost daring to lift up his shirt to prove otherwise. "-and stupid. Really stupid."

Ivan grips Alfred shoulders, his eyes gazing deeply into Yao's eyes, examining his body's movement in case he lunges forward suddenly. Once again he catches the man's fingers twitch. Long fingers that seem sickeningly pale and thin.

"What's wrong with saying the truth?" Yao spits back, his eyes holding a certain intensity that Ivan craved, no longed for, except only for him. If it was hate he would take it if it was love he would embrace it. If it was anything directed to him he would take it wholeheartedly. He shivers although he stops the trembling as it courses through his body. He's never known him to be so unbearably... sappy.

"And I was just saying the truth to. You are weak! You can't even fight against Ivan. Dude, these are the facts!"

This time Yao loses it completely, and he lunges forward. Ivan taking great precaution to push Alfred out of the way while his two hands grab ahold of the Oriental beauty. His arms open, catching him as he restrains the man's slim shoulders. His height the obvious advantage in this fight, but it was also his downfall as suddenly the world is no longer as aligned as it was moments ago. He watches as the ceiling levels with his gaze, hazy black lines moving it's way in and out of his vision. His sight bleary and dreadfully blurry and that's when he realizes the heavy weight on his chest and the small groan of pain that matches his own.

He barely hears a whimper of pain as another strike of soreness rolls throughout his body. Rolling out of every tense muscle and bone like a wave of sudden pain. It hurt but it was bearable all the same. He briefly catches and feels smooth locks on his own and soon he feels a heavy weight cumbersomely shift off of him. The warmth of two pressed bodies dissipating as the gap between them grew. A loud thud rings throughout his ears and then there is silence. And maybe if he was delusional enough there is laughter and he believes that it is the angels and devils that have both come to atone his sins and good deeds. The sound never lessens and now it sounds joyful, short and content. A beautiful crescendo of giggles and hiccups. If it was the angels and devils then without doubt this angelic voice had to be satan. Bad things tended to be be good, and not all good things led to good outcomes. Some good things were like cravings. The start of a horrible yet tauntingly pristine addiction.

He finally finds the strength to shift his head, his head dizzying and he finds a laughing Yao. Time moves slower although not slow enough because the smile is soon gone replaced with discomfort, shame, and that red that hues his cheeks.

"I-Ivan, Alfred!" He crawls to Alfred who kneels although his arms are placed on the ground, helping him support his weight. The Asian man looks aghast his fingers moving swiftly as he inspects the man's body. His own cold fingers fleeting against bone and skin.

"Alfred?" Yao exclaims slowly, he trains his eyes on the blond's face. Worried that somehow he was caught in the grand scheme of things. His fingers skim lightly against the protruding bumps of his spine, fingernails treading carefully.

"Dude...dude, dude, dude…" Alfred mutters eyes growing wide, a sudden smile on his face. Yao sits waiting, afraid that the fall has someone how crushed his thick bones and that this was the aftermath of a terrible lunge forward.

"You can beat up Ivan! Wow! Just wow, you just tackled him to the floor and he's like, twice your height!"

The Russian listens, not to certain whether he should be pleased or not.

Arthur watches, eyebrows raised. Concern still not sparkling on his face. Simply an amused grin as he watches the three children fret over each other. He blows the cloud of white wisp toward the three, watching as his eyesight dims as the white fog covers only momentarily the figures on the floor. He sees how Yao frets over Alfred, ignoring Ivan entirely as the tall Russian man delicately touches the bridge of his nose, concerned although puzzled at the sudden unfolding events.

He remembers the spacious audition room, how everyone unpeeled their thick disguises. How they were honest and revealed year's worth of information. How all of a sudden, he felt like a stranger to people he's worked with for years. How suddenly, he realized that the guards they put up—the fronts were becoming more than just facades and petty disguises but a strong barrier that breached all their contracted relations. How this barrier has become something that didn't affect their work but themselves. The them behind every single protected sheet of gold they wore. They were overselling themselves and they knew it.

He loses himself in his thoughts. That's right, he didn't want to learn about Alfred's frivolous past during an interview. He didn't want to learn about Ivan's feelings through an interview, and he didn't want to hear about Yao and his thoughts through an interview. No, he didn't wanted to hear anything through an interview. He wanted to hear by himself. Person to person, eye to eye. He wanted to be that friend. That person who all three could rely on. He wanted to finally be able to stop pretending that their lives were perfect, that their friendships were perfect when in reality they were all flawed. Held by paper and ink, bonded by the instinct and need to act as one. And yet he knows that everyone feels the same way. How everyone's ties weren't as superficial as the contract that bonded them together. How the only thing that was holding them back was themselves.

"Aiyaa…Alfred, I'm asking about whether or not you're alright? Were you hit during the fall?" The Eastern man sighs as Alfred continues to ramble and only then does he glance briefly at Ivan who broke his fall. He knows in reality that the tall Russian would have been the most inclined to getting hurt, and he also knows that Alfred wasn't near the vicinity of where they had fallen. He knows all of this but through it all he realizes that he's afraid. Ashamed. Perhaps even repulsed at his very own stat. Repulsed how Ivan has seen the ugly. The black bitterness that he hid under every coerced smile. How he knows that he's just scared. Simply so afraid of admitting that he really can't win this mess he's in. How he knows he has everything to lose and nothing to gain. How he knows that the only way this web of lies will disappear is with more ruin. More lies, more tears, more fake smiles. And he doesn't want Ivan to see that. He's to repulsed at himself to admit that he's reached the end.

But there's a small voice that adds to it. How he's not just scared but worried. Concerned because his old heart is still so sappy and weak, and feeling even though it shouldn't be. How in reality he doesn't want Ivan to pursue any deeper then he should because he doesn't want him to get involved. Because if he steps any closer it wouldn't be one man facing the consequences but two.

He looks up at Ivan and only briefly do they stare at each other. Glassy eyes meeting violet. A grim line meeting a jolly smile. How could he ruin that? How could he ruin that innocence? How could he take that away, steal that way, greedily taint that away with his own selfish hope? And the truth was simple. He just couldn't.

"Good lord…what's all this fuss about anyway?" Arthur finally leaves his warm cup of tea. Leaving to join the three who make no effort to stand up. His hesitations still brimming his mind as he tries to decipher between show and real.

Yao scoffs, eyes still glassy, his thin eyebrow raising. "Alfred said we shouldn't pack due to how we could just 'buy everything from America.', I simply begged to differ.".

Alfred looks betrayed, "American things are cheap! Plus, the woman said that they would accommodate our needs. I don't understand the fuss! It's America!"

There is a heavy silence. Everyone trying to process their own thoughts. Arthur is trying to subdue his negative superstitions, Yao is trying to avoid purple, Ivan is trying to reach red, and Alfred is simply staring at the ground looking oddly conflicted as if his patriotic love was all it would take for them to agree.

Finally, after the strange shifting of fabric and the clash of eye contact, Arthur speaks.

"We're packing."

He leaves the room, a cup of tea in his hands.

And so they pack.

Alfred grumbles, placing shirt beyond shirt, pants beyond pants, shoes beyond shoes. Simply stuffing everything that fits in the rectangular suitcase he bought in America. He was rich. He knows it. Everyones knows it, and everyone else knows that he's not the only one that has enough money to buy an entire block uptown.

They were all rich, well off, pricy people. After all, they all shared the same money. It was under all there names and sealed by one long and permanent contract.

He groans as he stuffs more ties, more pants, only pausing to fold nicely the expensive suits and ties and every accessory that goes with the pricey, flashy, decorative tux. He only cares for those things, everything that isn't worth more than a couple hundred is easily dispensable. Easily replaceable. Easily achievable despite the growing prices and stocks. And although prices rose, so did his annual paycheck. It was all a perfectly balanced scale that was forever unchanging. The line between want and need became blurry like the zeroes that followed after the one.

Life was easy when money was not a priority. But money was a goal, and he has long achieved it. Now he wanted more, now he wanted power. And once he reaches that he's not to sure what he'll want next.

His hand find it's way into his pocket, the plane ticket sitting there reminds him of his trip back home. To America. To America where everything is righteous and beautiful, and although there are cities next to slums, the hardy people who work hard make even the darkest of places between alley's happy. He sighs, releasing a wrinkled shirt before taking off his glasses, rubbing the corner of his eyes like a tired man that was in need of a silent therapy.

And he misses home, he misses it so much. And the nostalgic joy of going back home was exhilarating. Even though it was for work. Even though he knows that when he gets passed the border, his head will be filled with a millennial of problems and worries. Work. Songs. The overbearing weight of competition that crushes him as it exhilarates him. They will win he tells himself, they will win because they are together, because they are friends. No, because the contract that holds them is tighter than there friendship. Because having no choice is so much better than having one and making the wrong one. Because through those blue eyes and transparent spectacles there's a part of him that yearns for power and simply self satisfaction. And through that there's another part of him that yearns for stability.

The entertainment industry is not in any means stable. It changes and shifts, like technology it grows old and new actors and entertainers rize from the ashes as old ones burn out like the old cassette tapes and DVD disks. There's 'in' and 'out' and he's determined to remain as 'in' as he can be, even when his memory burns black and white while the others are vivid and so full of colour.

He continues to stuff everything in his bag. They were going to America, the country of opportunity. The woman explained that the competition would require them to live in the vicinity of the competitions compound. An aloof smile crosses his lips, and they will stay in America because the winners stay and the losers will have to leave. No one offers spots for losers. No. There is only one place for one winner and it will be them. He feels it in his bones as much as he feels the dread that comes with the possibility of losing. He releases a sigh, squashing that dread much like the dress shirt that wrinkles under his touch. They will win, they will win, he does this a lot in his free time. Simply chanting a mantra that he hopes will become a reality. Because even confidence is belittle and needs to constantly be reinforced for it to work. He fakes it until he makes it. That was how he lived. That was his own living motto.

Sooner or later he will really believe he is a hero. Sooner or later his nightly chanting will make him the hero. It started with confidence, that was the thing everyone lacked in his group. They hid themselves, while he did not. He is hero, and the only thing he's hiding behind his attractive blue eyes and signature smile is simply how he's a lot smarter than people make him for.

He checks the time on the metallic clock that ticks quietly into space.

It was going to be a long day.

"Yao what the bloody hell are you doing with all that baggage?! Dear god, it's like you're moving entirely with all...all that…" Arthur points aghast at the two luggages that carry much more than a week's worth of clothing. The Asian man forces a smile. The strain of his lips thin and wavering. The Russian man besides him looks silent, his lips also in a grim line although Arthur knows it's for an entirely new reason.

There's an unreasonably dry laugh that escapes the man's throat. "You...you wouldn't understand- aru.."

Alfred laughs humorlessly, fidgeting with his plane ticket, his mind elsewhere and still by instinct he feels the need to challenge the statement. Because he is a challenger between all the laughter and joy. Because through it all, he is a fighter who fights for nothing but himself. "Ha, right? Try us!"

The older man blushes red, and Ivan feels a twist of a pity and jealousy within him. A small pinch of anger situated deep between his two lungs that stills and hurts from within. His own small duffle bag is thrown over his shoulders, the smell of lavender and sunflower essence to close for his liking. He prefers the distant waft of tea and camellias and suddenly he realizes that he is simply smelling perfume and cologne. It's murky scent spreading evenly between the three, glossing over every familiar scent with something that smells rich and expensive.

"We do not have time- aru. Quit your loitering, it is you who wants to get to the airport earlier!" A slim finger finds its way to accusingly at Alfred, and Arthur is certain that Yao knows that it's improper. Whether or not he cares, he does not know. He sighs, but it is excusable because they are no cameras here, because only here the freedom of speech truly exists.

Alfred raises his eyebrows. Reminiscing of America and the old fables of heroes and fallen men on horses. It distracts him and Yao is glad because soon the blond shrugs, his heavy shoulders shifting uncomfortably.

There is a stillness in their silence and Alfred is the first to end the maddening quietness.

"Are we going or what?" He remarks impatiently and everyone glares at him before silently nodding. There faces looking somehow farfetched despite the change and the movement that leads to there goal. They are all tired and it seems only a few hours ago that they have drunk and cheered and vowed. Only hours ago have they received the yes on their dream and opportunity.

With only a glance back Alfred paredes away, and just like the heroes in the movies there waits an expensive and flashy looking vehicle that he's certain will drive them away into the night of success and pole lights. He smiles, ignoring the tired and annoyed groans.

Only one thought dances in his mind as the chauffeur leads them to the building of rockets and planes.

He is a hero.

The day runs smoothly and they cross the border seamlessly. Seamlessly and quick and Arthur is still tired and anxious. Everyone is, despite the American who laughs and screams and hollers as they touch down onto the American soil of Los Angeles. The city of stars and buildings and success, and Alfred laughs when they are greeted with crowds and crowds of people cheering them on-- him on, and the adrenaline that drives him and determines him to sign every picture and every piece of parchment makes the other three groan.

As they walk onto the plush carpets and into the taxis and limousines that lead them to their destination, they don't realize that the moment they step into the golden crusted doors of an empire that is filled with music and disks and opportunity, the truth is that not all dreams come true, and when they do,

You have to work.

I apologize in advance for the long, long, long wait. I feel as if I haven't tried hard on this chapter, so complaints? I'll take them. This is indeed, simply a filler chapter. Am I proud of this chapter? No. Will I be of the next? Yes! Am I slowing down my updates forever? No. Will I finish this story? Yes, and it will be approximately 22 chapters long! Halfway there!

If you haven't noticed, I recently created my very second fanfiction (Hetalia related)!

By the time I post this chapter, it will be at it's second chapter and it would mean the world if you guys check it out! Note, how my writing style is different to induce a different aura and atmosphere. It's going to be dark, romantic, filled with angst, however no smut, it's mature for the way I present themes. I DO NOT WRITE SMUT. If you are willing, please review and tell me if you prefer this story or the other! I mean it, if you are a frequent follower of my work, you will notice the difference in style. I beg of you, tell me which one you guys prefer more, I'm exploring writing styles!

Guest: Thank you, thank you, thank you! I thought you left and gave up on me, and if you did, now that would be a crisis wouldn't it? I beg of you stay until the end, and I promise there will be one. Check out my second story! Your beautifully written feedback is needed and my writing is still so flawed. Your gorgeously written reviews make my day, there long and lengthen so please give me feedback on this one. Whether it's harsh or not, it's quite alright. I admit...this chapter is horrible and horribly planned, and simply a filler...

I love your feedback, yes, you catch on so quickly, and yes, the ALLIES greet you warmly! Hopefully I will see your next review and your next and your next...God, it really is my favourite thing to read!