Well, here I am again, posting the next chapter right on time—though at a push. I just want to say a few quick words, first of all, I want to thank everyone for their support on this story, it's really given me the inspiration to continue writing this.
Secondly, Marie is in this chapter a lot and I'm trying to get her accent right so a lot of her dialogue is going to be spelt phonetically. I'd really appreciate some feedback on how effective—or ineffective—my attempt is at conveying her accent. Also, if it's hard to understand I can always repost this chapter so just tell me how it seems.
Okay that's all, enjoy the chapter
--
James Davis left the office of Ororo Monroe with a grim expression on his face. His shoulders were slumped in defeat and there was an air about him that just screamed despair. Victor watched him coldly as he left. He wondered what the leader of the UML had been doing there at all. There had been no meetings scheduled for this week, Victor knew, as he had planned on being out of town when they happened. Still, munching on the apple he had stolen from the kitchen, he mused on what a visit from one of the world's most famous mutants could mean. Nothing concerning mutant aggression had come up on the news last night, so it couldn't have been too bad, but Davis looked like Storm had threatened to set killer bees on him after being doused in pollen.
This thought left Victor with two choices; either go to Storm and ask her himself, or go to Jimmy and bug him to see if he had any information. Since Victor only dealt with Storm on necessity, he decided to seek out his little brother.
Victor climbed the stairs after stuffing the half eating apple into a potted plant.
Walking through the X-men manor was a strange experience for Victor. It was like the twilight zone almost, with kids everywhere doing weird things like disappearing through walls or climbing on them. Victor had never wanted kids. They were loud and annoying and they were always sticky for some reason. He had been a kid once, and that was enough for him. Any other encounters with premature adults were, for him, unpleasant and unnecessary.
Victor travelled up to Jimmy's room and stopped a few feet away from the door, listening to the angry voice of what he recognised to be the girl, Marie, that had been so annoyed upon learning of his new lodgings.
Jimmy had been slinking around the mansion for the last six months, with his back to the walls and peeking around corners before he moved. Victor wasn't sure why that girl had such a profound effect on his brother, but she clearly had cornered him and from the sounds of things, he wasn't all that happy about it.
Curiosity piqued, Victor pressed himself up against the wall and listened to the voices inside.
--
"An' another thing, Logan," Marie was saying heatedly inside Logan's bedroom, "Wah should we jus' roll over an' make nice with that demon? He trahed ta kill me, Logan, wah don't yah get that?"
Logan's reply was frustrated. "I get it, Marie, but he ain't some mindless killer that can't control himself. Not anymore." He sat uneasily on the bed and watched the young woman in front of him pace restlessly, lost in her anger and pain. She looked at Logan like a traitor, as if his lineage changed who he was and as if his acceptance of his newfound brother was a disloyalty to his and her relationship.
"Ah don't care. Ah hate 'im, Logan. Ah want ta kill 'im. Don't cha get that?" She shook her head as she spoke, as if she couldn't believe she actually had to explain herself.
Logan growled suddenly as he shot to his feet. "Now listen 'ere, Marie," Logan warned, pointing his finger at her, "He's my brother an' I'd defend him any day, but if you attack him... Marie, I can't stress enough; ya won't win. An' I can't spend all day watchin' you to make sure yer not doin' anythin' stupid. Tell me I'm wrong, Marie, tell me yer not stupid enough ta go after him."
Marie's face was dark as she all but snarled at Logan. "Ah ain't stupid enough ta go after 'im, Logan. Not empty handed anyway."
"Don't be an idiot, Marie, he ain't a threat to you and ya certainly aren't gonna be able to beat him. Maybe if you had yer powers—maybe—but ya don't, an' that's the way it is, right? Jus' give it up, Marie, I care fer you, an' I don't wanna see you get hurt. Please, I'm beggin' you; let it go, don't mess everythin' up."
"An' wah would ah listen to yah? Yer with him, ain't yah? Yah don' care 'bout me, yah got yer brother now, yah don' need me. "
"Stop actin' like a jealous kid, Marie, yer too old fer that. Listen, Victor ain't goin' anywhere and ya better get used ta that. Now, if it were anyone else, I'd demand that you go ta him and make nice, but hell, Marie, I just want a little peace."
Marie's sour expression turned sad as she let out a single sob. "Bobby believes me. He knows Ah ain't actin'."
Logan crossed his arms and looked away. "I don't know what you want me to say, Marie." He muttered.
"Ah don't want yah ta say anythin', Logan, Ah want yah to listen ta me!" She cried in fury. She gazed at Logan intensely, wondering if she was getting through to him. But Logan did not react, he did not move, nor did he make eye contact. He just cleared his throat and stubbornly refused to address her.
"Arghh!" Marie yelled in frustration, throwing her hands up in the air. "Fine, Ah'll deal with this mahself." She growled as she rushed out of the room.
"Marie!" Logan called out after her, worried that she would actually try something. He saw Marie freeze just outside the door.
"Heya, sweetheart." The mocking voice of Victor Creed greeted unashamedly.
Marie's lip curled in disgust. "Go ta hell." She snarled as she rushed down the corridor.
Logan sighed tiredly, watching wearily as Victor appeared in the doorway, smirking lazily.
"Somethin' tells me she doesn't like me."
Logan groaned. "Yeah, and you aggravatin' her like that ain't makin' it any better."
Victor shrugged, unperturbed. "Eh, what are you gonna do?"
Giving his brother a pointed look, Logan told him exactly what was going to happen. "Yer gonna stop tryin' to get a rise out of her, that's what."
"Yeah, sure I am." Victor scoffed, knowing he wouldn't.
"You are Victor."
"Oh yeah, and why's that?"Victor challenged blatantly, crossing his arms and rising up to his full height.
Logan almost looked smug. "Cause yer my brother and Marie means a lot to me and I just know that you'd want me to be happy."
Victor's eyes narrowed. His disliked that option immensely. Who the hell was Jimmy to tell him what he wanted? Still, Jimmy had a point; he didn't want his brother in a huff. Reluctantly, he gave a nod.
Logan broke out in a grin as he watched his brother give his unwilling support. "Thanks Victor." He said.
Victor huffed agitatedly. "Yeah, sure."
"Anyway," Logan said, "What did you want?"
Nodding, Victor returned to the reason for his arrival. "James Davis was 'ere. I was wonderin' if you knew anythin' about it."
Logan frowned. "James Davis?" He asked, "I can't figure why he'd be here. He ain't got a meetin' or anythin'. D'you ask Storm?"
Shaking his head, Victor told his brother that he had not. "Thought it'd be better to ask you first rather than the Ice Queen herself."
Logan crossed his arms, ignored the jibe at Storm, and worked on trying to figure out the unexpected presence of James Davis. Eventually, he shrugged. "Guess we'll just have to ask Storm."
Victor gave a loud, melodramatic sigh as he agreed to follow his brother downstairs.
--
"There was trouble in the city last night. A group of mutants grabbed guns and fired them in an arcade. They injured over twenty people and killed two. There's been anger—a lot of anger. Hewitt is trying to calm down the mobs but Davis doesn't seem to think it'll work. That's why he was here; he wanted to see if we could do anything about it." Storm explained.
"And can we?" Victor asked.
Storm clicked her tongue. "I'm not sure. As much as I'd like to say we're prepared for this sort of thing, the truth is; we're not. I spoke to the MPC and they recommend we play it by ear, but I'm not sure if that would be the best idea; if we were to do that, by the time we act it may be too late."
"I think it's a damn good idea." Victor said haughtily. He would have defended Sage's word even if she had suggested they agree to be sent out to space.
Logan scoffed, "Yeah, right. Jus' because ya fancy the ass off o' Sage."
Victor growled and punched his brother in the arm—hard. "Shut up. You don't know what yer sayin'."
Logan gave a hearty chuckle and didn't even bother trying to hide his lopsided grin, greatly amused by Victor's sensitive subject. Storm cleared her throat, looking at the two feral mutants with a raised brow.
"Finished?" She asked.
Logan coughed and hid his grin. Victor was still scowling; his face didn't change as he turned his gaze to Storm. "Sorry." Logan muttered.
Storm nodded and continued. "Hank seems to think we should make a public statement and assure people that nothing like this will ever happen again."
"Trouble is," Logan said, "We can't make that promise. People are people, man or mutant. We can't take responsibility fer what an individual does or doesn't do."
"Exactly." Storm agreed.
Victor crossed his arms and mused upon the possibilities. "Maybe that's what you should tell 'em."
"That we can't do the job that was assigned to us?" Storm asked, her voice going up an octave.
Quickly shaking his head, Victor explained himself. "No. Not that we can't do the job, that we don't have the job. The collaring levelled the playin' field. We ain't dealin' with mutants and humans; it's more like humans and humans now. Maybe if we go at it like that. Maybe then it would be alright. I mean, groups o' normal humans go around all the time, killin' people and stuff. This should be up to the justice system to deal with; as if the mutants were nothin' more than normal people. With the collarin' an' all, it ain't like any mutant could break out o' prison."
Storm licked her lip before she spoke. "It could work."She said slowly. She drummed her fingers on the wood of the desk as she thought. "Yes, that's definitely an option."
Logan agreed. "Yeah an' besides, it'd show people that mutants don't need to be dealt with in an extreme way either."
Storm rubbed her forehead. "This can either go very well or very poorly. The public's reaction to this statement could change everything—for better or worse."
"What's the worst that could happen?" Victor asked with a shrug.
Storm's eyes looked intense as she gazed at him. "People could say that mutants are too aggressive to be let out. People might say that mutants would be targeted in jail. People might even say that we're trying to go easy on mutant criminals. Any one of these situations could plant an idea in people's heads. It doesn't take much for a crowd to turn on a speaker, even the slightest thing could set off an explosion."
"Yeah," Logan agreed, "But then, what would be the consequences of not takin' any action at all?"
Taking a fortifying breath, Storm closed her eyes. "That's the problem." She said quietly. She then added, "I wish Charles was here."
"What are you goin' to do?" Logan asked in a voice that was softer than usual.
"I'm going to make a few calls. I can't just make a statement without the support of the other groups or of David Hewitt. If they agree to it, then we will go ahead with it. To be honest, I think it's the best option we have...but then, who knows?"
"We'll leave ya to make yer calls then." Logan told her, starting to move out of the office, knowing that Victor wasn't far behind.
"Thank you for your help," Storm called after them, "both of you."
--
Victor was rooting through the fridge, looking for the bar of chocolate he had hidden. "I swear to God," He was muttering, "I'm gonna kill whoever was so goddamned stupid to take my food."
"Uh-huh." Logan agreed absent-mindedly, looking out of the kitchen window at three of the kids playing ultimate Frisbee.
"Damn kids." Victor snarled, shoving the fridge door closed with a loud bang that rocked the giant kitchen appliance. He stamped over to a chair, hauled it out and plopped down on it without any gracefulness. Moodily, he glanced at Logan. "Look at you with yer stupid cup o' tea standin' at the window like some sort o'... housewife, or somethin'."
Logan turned and raised his brow. "Housewife?" He asked. What kind of insult was that? He sat down at the table, unperturbed by his brother's poorly attempted insults. They sat in relative quiet until three young children dashed into the room, shouting and giggling as they scrambled around the worktops and the table.
"Watch it!" Victor barked moodily as one of them banged into the table and ricocheted away in a fit of delirious screeching.
"Hold it." Logan said in a firm, but less hostile voice. Immediately, the kids stopped what they were doing and stood side by side to look at him with curious eyes. "Slow down; you'll hurt yerselves and ruin the place while yer at it. Take it outside." He told the kids, "Slowly." He added when they looked like they were going to rush off again.
"Sure thing, Logan." They chirped happily in perfect synchronisation as they turned and darted out of the room, running and giggling as if they had never stopped.
Logan shook his head with a tiny smile of amusement.
Victor looked disgusted. "Damn Jimmy," He said in bemusement, "Are you gettin' clucky or what?"
Logan shrugged with nonchalance. "Ya get used to 'em."
"Nah-ah, not me." Victor denied, shaking his head vehemently, "I could never get used to those screechin' dwarves. Ain't natural to have them all hyper an' runnin' around the place all o' the time. They should all jus' sit in a corner or somethin'. I tell ya, society's fallin' apart when the kids are the ones runnin' the place."
Logan watched as Victor crossed his arms in hostility and glared at the wall in front of him. "The kids don't run this place, Victor."
Victor gave a disbelieving huff. "Yeah right. They sure got you rollin' over ta play fetch with 'em."
Logan frowned. "It ain't like that, Victor. I'm fond o' the kids 'ere, that's all."
"Yeah well, fond or not, you should tell 'em to stay outta my way." He grumbled.
"It ain't usually this crowded," Logan admitted, "Usually there's more space."
It was true that there had been a huge rise in people coming to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters since the collaring had been brought in. Logan would have liked to think it was because of their superb facilities and school ethos but he wasn't so naive; he knew it was because X-men could keep their powers. They had to be careful who they let in now. They couldn't have complete psychopaths going around lighting up the city or creating vortexes across the country. They had a name to uphold and it was vital that they kept people on their side. Having said that, many parents also sent their mutant children there hoping that if they will learn to control their abilities in a productive way that would help them accept themselves and their mutation.
The advantage of having so many people apply meant that occasionally they came across teachers who were sorely needed for the children and were more than happy to work for little pay and accommodation if it meant they could be free of the collar.
The collar.
Even though Hewitt had changed the name to something more politically correct, the original term had stuck. And some people—mutants and humans alike—hated that the X-men, the UML and the MPC could walk around without them. Whether out of jealousy or fear, the fact remained that for the most part, the three mutant groups were loathed.
Generally people decided whether they wanted to be with the X-men or against them, and they acted accordingly; something that worried every single member of the X-men. Storm spoke about these fears in her weaker moments, admitting that the split in the support could not have a good outcome.
Victor, who had prophesied war, spoke only once more about it saying to Logan one starless night; "Time's marchin' on, little brother, an' the front line is a callin'." He hadn't said anything else before or since that night, but occasionally Victor would catch his eye in a meaningful way and immediately Logan knew what his brother was trying to communicate. They were taking steps every day, coming closer and closer. Soon their noses would be butting up against the barrel of the enemy's guns. And then what would happen? More nightmares, more killing, more death?
Of course there would be.
And Logan would be back where he always found himself; alone in a field of dead bodies with only his brother to keep him from drowning. Logan wasn't sure he wanted that kind of dependence anymore. He had changed; he wasn't Jimmy anymore, not to the world, only to Victor. Even though he had gotten his memory back, he hadn't been haunted like he was in the old days. It was almost as if his amnesia was his penance and he had paid his due. Could he face an eternity of sleepless nights? He wasn't sure he was strong enough—not anymore. Not when he knew the alternative; sitting in a kitchen, drinking tea with his brother, talking about kids who were misbehaving.
Maybe ten years ago he wouldn't have cared. Hell, he might have even relished it. But now? Now, he felt useless. Now he felt the cowardly pacifists he and Victor used to look down on and laugh about, convinced they just didn't want to get their hands dirty. Now where could he go?
Neither Victor nor Logan were animals, he knew. But they had always been told that they were and they believed it, acting accordingly. Now though, now this animal had lost his appetite for blood. What was worse, he had lost the taste for it in a time when War was ripening on the tree of chaos and was just about to fall straight into his lap.
What was a mutant to do?
"Aw Jesus, Jimmy." Victor's exasperated voice snapped him out of his thoughts, "Stop thinkin' so hard, yer givin' me a headache jus' watchin' ya."
"Sorry." Logan mumbled with embarrassment. He was never sure if Victor could tell when his thoughts turned sour or not, but he always seemed to be able to snap Logan out of the melancholy spiral of thought that he so often found himself lapsing into.
He may not want to become dependent on his brother again, but Logan figured that perhaps there were worse things that could happen.
Time always marches forward and the War drums were getting louder. There was an awful feeling of 'approaching' in the air and the stale taste they could only sense on an instinctive level foretold a great many trials. Putting his cup down onto the table, Logan looked at his hands; they were clean of blood. He released his claws and studied them thoughtfully. They too, were glistening without a mark. He didn't want to go back to a life where his hands were covered in blood no matter what he did. He had relished the freedom he had gotten when he lost his memories. But he was a mutant, an X-man, a Howlett. It was his duty to protect those he cared about and he'd be damned if he didn't.
Victor watched him with an understanding that only came from knowing someone for years. "You think this one's goin' to be any different, Jimmy?" He asked, meaning the war.
"Doubt it." Was the gruff reply that had been on the tip of his tongue and made him respond before he knew he had answered. "Just the usual; a lot o' killin', a lot o' death."
"A lot o' blood." Victor said solemnly with a nod of his head.
They always went through a pattern of conversation before they went into battle. They were so used to the interaction that it came as naturally to them as breathing or bickering. But this time was different. There was no joy on Victor's face as he thought about the bloodied battlefield, and there was certainly none of that bored indifference on Logan's. For the first time in their lives, War was not some political beast used to cull the numbers of humanity, for the first time, war was personal.
And that was scary as hell.
Logan shook his head. It was about time he got his appetite back; from the looks of things, he was going to need it.
--
David Hewitt sighed as he rubbed his face tiredly and downed the remaining coffee from his cup. He looked at the digital clock on his desk that blinked too brightly at his tired eyes, telling him it was two in the morning. This whole situation had been a mess; things were going so well and then some punk kids just had to go out and shoot in some public place. He had to deal with all sorts of crap all day from a whole range of people; his superiors, his inferiors, people on the streets, people from the streets that broke into his office, politicians, parents, paparazzi and police.
He wasn't a bad man, he was trying to help. But each person he spoke to today was screaming abuse at him, blaming him for the world's social problems because he was stupid enough to take a moderate approach to an extreme situation. The only person who had not been the biggest pain in his side the whole day was Storm of the X-men. He admired and respected that woman greatly and more than once he found himself wishing that she was not a mutant or he was not a human so that they could meet in a situation where she wouldn't hate his guts. Of course, wishful thinking meant nothing, Hewitt knew that well, he was still in his office at two in the morning after all. Still, whether she liked him or not was irrelevant; they were working together to make the world a better place and he was pleased to find that she was as level-headed and as sensible as her reputation claimed.
The call he received from her today had been a breath of fresh air. She had kept it short—probably because she didn't want to talk to him for longer than necessary—and had provided him with a simple, effective and brilliant suggestion as a course of action. He had wanted to make that statement then and there, but, as Storm herself mentioned, they would have to be careful. The statement would be picked apart to the smallest detail. This was not something he could throw together in twenty minutes; he needed time, two ghost writers, and a perfectly thought-out speech with all aspects taken into consideration.
He looked down at the sheet of paper on his desk. His gold fountain pen lay diagonally on top of the words he had written. There weren't many, only eight words—not even a complete sentence.
I stand before you today to discuss a...
He was stuck. What did he want to discuss? A proposition? An apology? A what? He didn't even know himself. With a sigh, Hewitt realised that he was in no state to write even a post-it note to his secretary, let alone a speech that could change the course of history.
He looked over to the picture frame on his desk. The picture was of three people; him, his wife and his son. He picked up the frame and gently thumbed the glass covering the image. The hollow feeling in his chest hadn't gone away since the incident that caused his family's deaths. The pain wouldn't go away, no matter what he did. In the end, for all the good this whole thing might bring, it wouldn't change the past. It didn't change the present either. He was alone in his office late at night; something that had become the metaphor for his life.
There was a time when he had hated them, the mutants. Only a few years ago he would have gladly let them go to war. He would have signed up to go to the front lines and take down as many of them as he possibly could. There wasn't a word strong enough to describe the animosity he felt towards the mutant race.
Now though, now he was different. He had changed. Somehow, throughout the years, his anger had faded and he became tired. Too tired to feel anger or hate. Only tiredness and a terrible despair that had lodged itself in his stomach.
With that melancholy thought, Hewitt turned on his leather swivel chair and went over to the cabinet behind him. He poured himself a drink from his fake crystal decanter.
The sound of the door to his office slowly creaking open and then the soft click of it being shut, made David Hewitt falter—ever so slightly—for a moment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning around to make eye contact with the person who had entered his office.
"Do you want a glass?" He asked the person standing by the door.
The man shook his head. "I never drink on the job." He said.
Hewitt nodded and absently mumbled. "A good practise..." He paused for a long time. "Are you here to kill me?" Although, while it sounded like a question, it really wasn't. He had been expecting this. It was long overdue.
The man nodded. "Sorry," He said without sincerity, "It's not personal. Just business." His dark eyes tried to convey pity, but they danced with a light that showed his excitement.
"You don't sound sorry." Hewitt said as he downed his drink in one gulp.
His assassin shrugged. "I enjoy my job, so sue me."
Hewitt sighed. "Maybe later." He replied in a deadpan voice, seating himself down in his chair. He watched numbly as the assassin grinned, amused at his joke.
"Say," Hewitt said softly, "There's no chance you could just...not kill me, could you?"
Looking slightly disappointed, the assassin shook his head, "What do you think?"
David Hewitt groaned as he thought of the implications of his death. "There'll be war. You couldn't possibly wait a few days?"
"Why do you think I was sent to kill you?" The assassin asked with interest.
Hewitt thought about it and suddenly, what was cloudy to him before became clear. "Oh god," He muttered, "They want war."
The assassin grinned. "Bingo." He said, snapping his fingers, "War's good for business."
"It's all business, always business." David Hewitt sighed, rubbing his temples.
Unperturbed, the assassin agreed with him. "Money makes the world go 'round mister."
He blinked. "What about love, hope, happiness, freedom. What about our ideals, or our thoughts and dreams. What about them?"
The assassin clicked his tongue. "I wouldn't know about any of that. I'd save them for the movies to be honest, they don't exist here."
"I feel sorry for you."
The assassin shrugged as he took out a gun and twisted a silencer onto the top of it. "You know," He said conversationally, "People always say they pity me. But the way I see it; I'm the one holding the gun and you're the one with the barrel pointed at you. My life's not too bad."
Sadly, Hewitt nodded. "You might be right."
The assassin held up his gun and aimed it at David Hewitt with a steady hand. "You might want to close your eyes." He told the man in the chair.
Scowling, Hewitt spit, "Why? Because it's easier on you?"
"No," The man denied with a shake of his head, "Because it's easier on you. Trust me mister, to me, you're already dead, you were dead the moment I got that call this morning. This," He waved the gun around the room, "Is just the particulars."
Hewitt reached over and turned the picture of his family so that it was face down on the table. "Go on then, I'm a busy man, I can't just wait around all day." Hewitt leaned back on his chair and closed his eyes. In many ways, it was a relief. No more struggling, no more fighting, no more nothing. He could be with his family again. It was okay. He didn't mind this.
"See you around, mister." The assassin whispered as he pulled the trigger and fired three shots from his gun. Hewitt's body jerked three times and slumped in the chair with three wounds, twice in the heart and once in the head.
The assassin took his time unscrewing the silencer and putting it into the long pocket in the inside of his coat. He then took out his phone and flipped it open.
"It's done." He told the person on the other end of the line, "Have the money wired to my account."
"Make sure to set the scene perfectly; I don't want anyone to suspect this isn't legitimate. They need to think the mutants have done this." The voice on the other end warned the assassin.
"Of course." The assassin said, ending the call and putting the phone away. "He thinks I'm some sort of amateur." The assassin scoffed, speaking to dead David Hewitt. "I swear; if the pay wasn't so damn good... Well, let's make you a victim; you're not the only busy person in this city."
--
They both knew that the War was coming.
They could sense it in the air, the water—and the news channels. Every day they had figured it was another day closer to the battle. But they were wrong about one thing; they thought they'd have time to prepare. Logan and Victor were arguing about something inconsequential when Storm called all of the main X-men into the sitting room for a meeting. She told them the news.
David Hewitt was dead.
His secretary had found him in his office that morning, shot three times in the chest. The police had done an investigation, the FBI was brought in, and the main theory was of course, that it was a brutal murder by a brutal mutant. How else could someone get into a locked office without forcing the lock, get out of the building without being seen by the many cameras and commit the crime without leaving any evidence? Mutants were the only plausible answer.
After Storm had finished, they had sat in the room, each one wondering what was going to happen. Slowly, one by one, the X-men dispersed from the room until only Victor and Logan were left in the dying sun of the twilight.
"You ready fer this, little brother?" Victor asked with a long sideways glance.
Logan huffed, "Ready or not, it's already here. I don't got a lot of choice about this either way."
Victor rubbed his neck uncomfortably, "Well, if ya want...I s'pose you could always run away."
"What the hell, Victor? I ain't gonna run away. Why'd ya think I'd do that?"
"No reason," Victor said quickly, throwing his up hands, "Jus' givin' you some options, that's all. Nothin' more than that."
Logan looked distrustful, but shook his head. "I ain't never runnin' away. Some things are worth sacrificin' for what you care about."
"Yeah well, martyr or not, I'm gonna see what favours we can call in. C'mon."
They, being the last out of the sitting room turned the lights out when they left.
The next morning, the War had arrived on their doorstep.
--
Well that's it for another unknown amount of time. The amount of red squiggly lines in this chapter did my head in. Writing accents is ridiculously annoying. Not to worry though, anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading.
