*I HATE DO THIS, BUT I HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO WRITE "ABSOLUTE ZERO"'s NEXT CHAPTER THANKS TO WRITER'S BLOCK, SO I HAVE DECIDED TO POST SOMETHING I'VE BEEN WORKING ON TO TRY AND FIX MY BRAIN FART! THIS IS AN ORIGINAL STORY WITH CHARACTERS, SO NO USE IN ANY WAY! PLEASE REVIEW! D:*

I stand on the sidewalk, arms folded over my chest, back against a brick wall. I wear a white button-up shirt with a black vest over it that matches my black pants and shiny black shoes. I have been waiting for an hour to meet this guy. Well, perhaps I better say 4.5 billion years, but that's an understatement. I sigh, holding up my right wrist to my ear, listening to the silver watch tick. I then lift up my left wrist and glance at the gold watch for the time. It isn't a normal watch like your watches; its hour hand comes out of the upper right corner, the minute hand coming out a little further from the middle and to the lower left. The numbers, as well, are not very human. They are squiggly, incredibly tiny, there are seventy-eight of them, and they appear in circles, straight lines, slightly curved lines, 90-degree angles, acute angles, obtuse angles, some with circles, dots, and other shapes inside of them; they somewhat resemble cheetah spots.

I read the watch. It is officially 52:76 T.M. I guess that I could translate that into your standards of reading; 5:30 P.M. It is January, but it is a very nice day. This is actually the first of the year today, so I plan to avoid humans because most will be drunk. In my culture, the year does not start at the beginning of what could be related to as January. We have an 8,456,902 month long year, with a 60 hour long day. Now do you see where you get your seconds from?

Don't ask me if our hours are your seconds, because in reality, they're not. Ours are, however, as long as your smaller-than-you-can-count-seconds. A day in our time is similar to a 0.0000000000000000000000000000 0000000000000000000000000000 00000000000000000001 of a second in your time. Actually, there are a lot more 0's in there, but I'm not wasting that many years counting them all for you, when you won't even understand.

Seeing as you might want to know who I am or who my comrades in this "narrative" are, then I might as well introduce you. The man who is five months late—in Universal time, my time, of course—for our meeting; I call him Diego DiVega, although his real name—meaning his "I just came to Earth" name—is Dimitri Rovigatti. He has short-cropped black hair that is usually messy, but it is straight and cut nicely, so I don't give him too much grief over it. He always wears a brown leather jacket over his tan button-up shirt, tan pants, and tan shoes. He has tan skin, caramel-brown eyes, and fairly thick black eyebrows and a thick build. Ignore him if he looks tough; he's a strong as a newborn bunny.

Now, those almost identical twins there; they are the Vincente twins (whom I call the Italy's). They are Italian. (Don't underestimate their childishness and cowardice for weakness; they've been in Italy since the Renaissance, Diego since it was the West Roman Empire, and all three of them are passionate about that country; the Italy Twins even invented the mafia) The lighter one with lighter brown hair, which is curlier, longer, and brushed back in clumps behind his ears; he is Celio Vincente (whom I call Feliciano DiVega). He has a feminine face, light green eyes, fairly Caucasian skin, thin eyebrows, has a slender, feminine build, and always wears pale-blue-with-green-vertical-stripes on button-up shirts. He wears khakis and sneakers.

His brother is Cesarino Vincente (whom I call Romano DiVega); he has darker tan skin like Diego, darker hair—lighter than Diego's and darker than Feliciano's—and dark green-brown eyes. He is usually in a fairly bad mood, unlike Feliciano, who is always cheery. They have similar faces, and they are both equipped with the feminine stature, same height, slender built, and blue-and-green appearance, only Romano wears green-with-dark-blue-horizontal-stripes on his sweater-vest. He also wears khakis, but he wears fancier shoes.

Well, now you know the three Vegans—and I'm not talking about those plant-eating people—so I should move on to the Germans, who will be introduced much later—well, they're not that much later, I suppose, but it is still very late in Universal Time. If they will be introduced later, then I will speak of them later, when they show up.

You know the three Vegans—in case you don't know, it is pronounced Vay-guns, like the brightest star in the Lyra constellation, which is pronounced Vay-guh—so you might as well know me. After all, I am the "main character". But, then again, so are you. You cannot tell anyone else's thoughts, like most main characters, and how is it so uncanny that everything either works perfectly for you, or perfectly against you, as if you were the protagonist of a book? Perhaps you are really the main character, and I am merely the character that is never introduced, never spoken of, never thought of, never even remotely felt.

Since you now understand, I will introduce myself later.

I am, right now, waiting for Diego. I hear footsteps behind me, and I turn around to face the man I described earlier as he approaches. I ask him in an English accent, "Why are you always late?"

The man raises a thick eyebrow, asking in a slight Italian accent, "What do you mean? I'm on time."

With a sigh, I tell him, "Never mind. Diego, what have you called me here for?"

Diego smiles and says, "Can't you ever call me by my name? Here"—he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a leather wallet, opening it as he hands it to me. In it is his license, saying "DIMITRI ROVIGATTI". "See? My name is Dimitri Rovigatti; not Diego DiVega."

Ignoring him, I ask, "Why did you call me here?"

"Talk about changing the subject!" the young man says, beaming. His cheery face turns sort of forlorn, and he says, "Well, I did call you here for an important reason…okay, you know Celio and Cesarino?"

I nod. They are the Feliciano and Romano that I spoke of earlier. I say, "Yes. What is it?"

Diego opens his mouth to say, when I interrupt, saying, "Romano has a daughter."

Staring at me for a moment, Diego says, "Wait, if by 'Romano' you mean 'Cesarino', then…" he seems to realize that I already knew what he was going to say, and he gasps, saying in disbelief, "How did you know?!"

"You act like you don't know me," I say, staring Diego in the eyes. Perhaps I act like I hate him, but in reality, I admire him. In every time loop, every "refresh" button pressed, he always came to Gaia. Even if his family tried to stop him, or he didn't have money, or he was sick, or someone he knew was sick, or the government didn't allow such a large Exodus of Vegans leaving at once—he always came to Earth, legally or illegally.

Why do I always act so rude around him? What had Diego done to be treated so badly? Diego doesn't understand why I am so snobbish around him, why I am so sarcastic, why I insult him casually, as if I am reciting Shakespeare. Diego ponders this, but ignores his uncertainties as usual and says, "Okay, fine, I forgot, okay? Well, since you know—Cesarino has a daughter—what do we do?"

Furrowing my eyebrows, I seriously start to question his motives for everything. He always comes to me for every problem, asks me every question, and he always tries to drag me into his and his friends' problems. I ask him, "What do you mean, 'we'? When did I volunteer to climb aboard your sinking ship a-flame and offer my precious time to your worthless conquests?"

Diego claps his hands together in front of his face, as if in prayer, and begs, "Bendy, please! You know absolutely everything, so how do I respond to such a thing? Cesarino told Celio to go help 'em fetch her, and Celio pleaded with me to come with him, and I'm BEGGING you to come with me!" He gets right up in my personal space, making me lean back under his puppy-dog stare. He begs, "Please, Bendy! The girl's mom just died!"

I shake my head, saying, "No, her mother didn't just die. Her guardian just died. Tragically, the girl has faced a lot of sadness. The man that she thought was her father died in action for the Australian military, and not too long ago, the woman that she believed was her mother died as well. Now, imagine being told that your parents weren't actually your parents at all, and your real parents are aliens, and her real mother died during child birth, and her father hadn't a clue that she existed before now?"

The Vegan-Italian stares me in the eyes. After a moment, he says, "Okay, okay, yes. Exactly. You know how everyone thinks and feels, so you need to come along to comfort her and everything! My bros and I can't do that!"

Groaning, my shoulders sag. I tilt my head down and to the right a bit, looking up at the taller Dimitri-whom-I-call-Diego, and I say, "I see your reasoning."

Fist-pumping, Diego bounds away in circles, saying, "Yes yes yes! That is totally a yes! Thanks, bro!"

I simply shrug, saying, "You are welcome."

He starts to plan our plane ride out of Scotland and to the Land down Under. He'll have to bring some educational books for me, and bring his IPod to listen to some music on the flight so he won't be bored! I shatter his ideas of Australian Airlines by saying to him, "Wait a moment."

Diego turns around, looking at me quizzically. He and I have a very complicated relationship, and he is used to my outbursts like this, but he doesn't know why he needs to stop. I tell him, "We are not getting on an airplane."

Shoulders sagging, Diego asks, "Yes we are? I mean, Bendy, she's gonna be sent to Illinois, AMERICA—you HATE America—if we don't catch her in time!"

"I know," I explain. "She is being sent to a Star Academy, I get it—but you do remember that time works differently for me, Diego? I do not exist among time, yet time continues playing in every dimension, every second, ever millisecond, every outcome, every potential catastrophe, every hopeful blessing, over and over without ceasing, like drops of different-colored food coloring dripped into the toilet as it flushes away—spin forever, go down the drain, then face the process again. I am that clear drop of food coloring, because I was there, I am there, present in every single speck of time and space, whether it has happened yet or not, but not in the way that humans or Visitors face. Mind explaining how?"

The Italian stares at me. I can feel his concern of saying something wrong, but he says, "You don't exist, so you, like, aren't anywhere? You're everywhere and nowhere, right? If I were to go two seconds into the future, you wouldn't be there, and if I were to go half a second into the past, you wouldn't be there, either…?"

Nodding, I say, "Correct, DiVega. Now, you promised to do me a favor if I met you. Well, I have met you, so here is the favor."

Shrugging, the guy nonchalantly raises an eyebrow. He does favors for me a lot—why is this any different? He tells me, "Shoot, bro."

"I need your invisibility," I explain.

Diego's eyes widen. Invisibility? First of all—THAT'S DANGEROUS!—second of all—THAT'S ILLEGAL! He tells me in a hushed, desperate voice—afraid of someone overhearing—"Bendy, that's illegal and dangerous, bro! I could kill me and you both!"

Correcting him, I say, "You meant 'I could kill both you and I'. Anyways, do I ever bring you into situations that end up killing us?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then I say, "Well, we are here, so apparently, I have not killed us yet. In my trillions of years of manifesting, I have not died yet. Well, physically, it is unstoppable, but no matter the electrical charge, I have not spiritually died as of yet."

The Italian ends up agreeing with me. To be honest, I do not have a spirit—say that you were to dissect an average human being, and you would find a heart filled with hopes, dreams, wishes, and those they love. You would find a brain with pleasant memories and dark, haunting ghosts. You would find a stomach full of butterflies for things to come, usually full enough where it doesn't cramp with hunger. You would find limbs, like arms and legs, which have worked hard for a long time—even if said person has no arms or legs, it is the feeling of humans that we're looking at; they work even harder to live, so they would have very well-built limbs. Look back to both the heart and brain; you will find plans for the future dwelling in both places, and in between mentioned points, are emotions, thoughts, actions, floating around like bubbles in gelatin. If you were to dissect me; you would find a hollow, pitch-black cavity.

Sad, right? That is your assumption—anything unlike yourself is automatically a sad human being. Someone with more money than you is sad because they're greedy. Someone with less money than you is sad because they work hard for nothing. Anyone younger than you is sad because they have not mentally or emotionally matured as well as you have. Anyone older than you is sad because they've been through more hardships. Anyone who is male is sad because they have to do all the back-breaking work and pay for the house. Anyone who is female is sad because they have to fight for a right in society.

Lies. Sometimes, if someone has more money than you, they work harder. Someone with less money has squandered it all away for lottery, beer, and drugs. Someone younger than you may know more than you—take those five-year-old children learning to play piano, violin, and those elementary-school children in Europe who learn three languages fluently. Someone older than you might have lived a cushioned life, probably never going to war or seeing financial problems. Someone who is male is presumably the dominant of women and will be less likely to be targeted in crimes or will be less likely to be affected by peer pressure. Women have the fact that even to this "modern day and age" people think of them as not as efficient as men, thus will be able to call themselves over-achievers.

I am merely genetically filled with the potential to lack any "human" qualities. I do not allow myself to become human the same way that most humans do not allow themselves to be creatures of the wilderness that eat other creatures raw. In all honesty, most "people" like me have become human in ways, but I do not allow myself to become like that. There is only one quality of your kind that I have allowed to seep into my empty core.

Religion. Such a wonderful creation. So many ideas, as well! Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity—and all of its little branches, like Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, and LDS, those weird guys—Catholicism, Muslimism, and Judaism—my favorite; meaning that I believe it. Am I Jewish? I suppose so, since I wear a Star of David around my neck and believe what they believe.

(No, I didn't mention Atheists, because a religion is the spiritual belief in a god, gods, goddesses, or deities, which Atheists do not believe in. How dare you call it a religion, you idiots.)

Religion. Such a wonderful creation. It causes so much destruction, you understand? It is a shame how something so beautiful, so life-changing, is so deadly. I hate the Native American genocide—although that didn't focus so much around religion, but it was a part of it—the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, and something else that I hate even more with a fiery passion. One thing that fills my empty abyss of a being is Judaism. I have found myself unable to forgive those and those descended of those slaves of evil. Why? I am very forgiving, but when I have reset time or looked at every possible outcome, beginning, every little piece changed, like a single person's sexuality or one woman's miscarriage. I have looked at it all, and in every single aspect in time, whether the US was a super power, if the Africans had enslaved the Europeans, if women became "top dog" or if the Allies lost WWI, one thing never changed. Those people were always so corrupted; the same people, every time, same era, same time frame.

Diego knows that it is better not to argue with me, so I lead him away. Meanwhile, in Australia, a fourteen-year-old girl named Marc'toni—pronounced "Markt-oh-nee"—throws her clothes angrily into a bag. Instead of living with her aunt, which she had preferred over every death-scenario phenomenon, she was going to be sent to a boarding school in AMERICA.

Okay, she loves American pride, okay? Okay?! But she hates AMERICANS! She had been to the US! Do you know how illiterate their children are!? (To be honest, I agree with her thinking entirely. If I did not already know the outcome, I might as well hypothesize that we will become fairly good friends) When she was there, a fourteen-year-old couldn't spell "video"! He thought it was "vedio" and it had taken three weeks before Marc'toni could shove a dictionary in his face long enough to show him how it was spelled!

Also, in AMERICA, THE GREAT U-S-OF-A, one girl had handed her a hand-drawn picture that said "I OVSLY LUV 1D".

Ovsly.

OVSLY?! Marc'toni had no clue what the heck she meant, then actually said—without meaning to be so sarcastic, because this girl was almost her friend—"You obviously mean 'obviously'."

That girl had no clue what "obviously" meant or how to spell it! This was a thirteen-year-old girl! Marc'toni had been studying for a quiz and asked, "Who were all the men who founded the US?"

Five thirteen-and-fourteen-year-olds had been surrounding her when she asked that, and all of them said, "You be jokin', right? 'Founded' ain't a word!"

(In all reality, this is true. Go to a United States public school and listen to the "mature young men and women" speak. Marc'toni is not exaggerating, either; the slang accent and illiterate lack of knowledge was that bad when she was there, and it got worse.)

KILL ME NOW! Marc'toni thinks. She runs her fingers through her slightly-longer-than-pixie-cut dark-red-brown-black hair. AT LEAST I'D BE WITH MOM AND DAD!

Aunt Beck will fly with her to Illinois and visit her every holiday and when school had a break. Marc'toni can not WAIT to be in America! The home of obesity—ALSO, WHEN SHE WAS THERE, SHE HAD SAID "obese" instead of "fat" and not a single student out of thirty-three fellow thirteen-to-fourteen-year-olds in her class had known what that word meant.

God, she thinks, actually kneeling by her bed and clasping her hands together. I don't ask for much, really, I don't, but remember when Mamma was sick and I prayed to not be separated? At least take me to be with her, okay? Even if she somehow ended up in "the other land down under," I want to be with her…please don't make me have to go to America!

For thirty minutes she prayed, arguing with herself over what she meant by what she said, then she finally concluded that God knew what her heart meant, so she got up. Now she heads into the living room to be with Aunt Beck for one last night.

*OKAY DON'T HATE ME PLEASE. PLEASE. I'M TOTALLY SORRY HERE.*