Beginnings

Part I: Childhood

Birth isn't precisely how I would describe my arrival into this life, nor would I say conception is what led to my making. A more accurate portrayal of events is that I was created in a laboratory by humanity's most prestigious bioengineers, and harvested by a man with an ego the size of Illium's economy. But, to keep things in simple terms I was born on Friday, November 13, 2150, in Hunters Hill, Australia to one mistakenly esteemed businessman, Henry Lawson.

I had no mother. Not really. The closest thing I ever had to a biological female parent was the woman from whom my father borrowed an empty shell of an egg to place his duplicated X-chromosome into. With every carefully selected gene in place, every strand of my perfect DNA mapped accordingly. Even if a mother had been in my life, I doubt she'd have lasted long. My father was a jealous god.

I went through more governesses and tutors than I care to remember, because as soon as I grew attached to one, they were stripped from me like yesterday's news. I can hardly recall the first occurrence, but I was merely an infant then. The second time my caretaker was sent away-on record-was the morning of my fourth birthday.

On Earth, November sits at the end of the changing seasons. In the northern hemisphere that season is autumn, and spring in the southern-where the Australian continent rests. Human culture has often associated these sub-divisions of the year with symbols of death and rebirth respectively-a piece of tradition that's never really sat well with me. Possibly because it holds true for myself. However, they're also the most common times for humans to contract colds. And in spite of my genetic tailoring, my hardly utilized immune system was no exception.

The evening before she left, I was seated on the bench before Father's custom C. Bechstein D 282 concert piano drilling away at the keys, attempting to perfect Mozart's Minuet in G. I had long ago surpassed mere scales. Three hours into the final lesson of my rigorous daily schedule, and I had been exhausted. My eyes were dry, my sinuses overly pressurized, and I desperately wished to adjourn for the night. Unfortunately as a toddler, I had not quite learned that what I wanted and what my father wanted were very different things.

For the first time since I could remember, I halted abruptly during the middle of a song, startling both my piano teacher and my father-who was using me to entertain yet another party member to his board of executives. If I had been older, I'd have taken pleasure in their reaction. I rubbed my eyes and sniffled, turning to meet my father's hard stare. The time had to be going on midnight. "Father, I don't feel well. May I stop?"

The bastard frowned even more deeply as I coughed. Any detour from his carefully regimented day for me was a nuisance, an embarrassment. Especially one caused by weakness. "No. You still have an hour left, Miranda."

Perhaps this was when I learned personal complaints would get me nowhere in life, not when so much was expected out of someone with my abilities.

"Please, Father. I've been good all day. I'll practice longer tomorrow." I whined and a sudden urge to cry-a common action for a spent, human three year old-overwhelmed me. My reserves were drained. I had always been diligent in my tasks. It was expected, and I pushed myself to succeed. Why couldn't Father understand how exhausted I was just this once?

It's a tiring task, trying to understand the thought process of Narcissus.

"Keep playing." Purple began to cloud his stormy expression.

Beside me, my tutor wrung his hands nervously under my father's gaze. He rarely spoke to me apart from slapping my wrist away at the touch of an incorrect key, or to introduce me to a new song. My abilities had nearly eclipsed his at that point. I could read music just as well and teach myself new ballads most composers found difficult. The only dilemma I possessed was difficulty in reaching the pedals with my short legs. Yet, Father kept him on because I was not completely free of faults, I had not composed a masterpiece that would be engraved amongst the greats. My teacher's voice was harsh. "It's only an hour, Miranda."

"No." Such a protest had never reached Henry Lawson's ears before. And it was a dangerous one at that.

Helplessly, I glanced around to catch sight of Oola, the only person that I knew would always come to my rescue. My ever-vigilant caretaker swooped in like a bird of prey. She had often stood at the far end of the room, waiting to attend to me, to protect me. Even if it was unnecessary, but to her my well-being was a priority. And not simply because I was the reason she had a paycheck. Her soft, gentle, brown hands roamed straight to my forehead before quickly wiping away my tears and pulling me up into her arms. "Mr. Lawson, the child has a fever."

I can't recall the specific words exchanged between the two-with my face buried safely in Oola's shoulder-but I believe it was a brief exchange, merely a cold dismissal by Father perhaps. A permanent one.

Like every other night that I could remember up to that point, Oola bathed me, gave me a teaspoon of medicine, and tucked me into bed. Her fingers travelled through my long hair, and her warm eyes crinkled as she smiled at me-one of the last I'd ever see of it's kind. "Are you excited about tomorrow, Miri?"

"Why?" What did I have to be excited for? It would just be another day with a slight variation in schedule. There would be the same studies, same lectures, same loneliness. Only spent in a dress.

"It's your birthday tomorrow." She tried to insist, but I could see in her eyes that she was just hoping for a happiness I would never achieve under Henry Lawson's domain. "You'll have a party."

"No, I won't. It'll be Father's friends." That's all there ever had been at my prior birthday celebrations. Guests had never been- and never would be- children. I wasn't allowed friends. Father believed they would taint his most pristine piece of craftsmanship. Instead, Henry Lawson wined and dined a few dozen of the galaxy's most notorious and infamous bureaucrats in his estate's gardens to display his prize piece like a trophy, to extend business deals, to boast of his wealth, to remind his competitors of the perfect potential of their future business rival. But mostly to be admired- worshipped -as I stood silently by his side dressed up like a China doll in my newest gown- looked at but never played with. He would prop me up in his lap with a false smile for his companions, and disgustingly pretend for one day a year that he was proud of who and what I was. My birth was not the focal point of any celebration, it was the annual marking of my father's success of a guaranteed dynasty.

I despised it.

I was quiet for the briefest of moments. "Does Father love me?"

Oola was far too hesitant with her answer. War raged within her brown eyes. Could anyone be cruel enough to tell a child the miserable truth? She stroked my hair. "Now why would you ask something like that?"

I shrugged my small shoulders, sinking further into the downy pillow. "He's never told me he does."

"Sure, he does." She lied to me for the first time. "Some people just don't know how to say it."

"It's simple," I debated quietly, gazing up at her with the rose-colored lens only a child could see the world in. "Listen. 'I love you'."

I believe this was when I stopped believing in the phrase.

"Your father expresses it differently." Oola shook her head as she tried to conjure up any history of my father's affection. A nonexistent history, impossible to find. He never gazed at me with anything more than rapacity, never kissed away scraped knees, never offered me sanctuary from night terrors, never treated me like a daughter. Not even a person. "He gives you nice things."

Sure. He shipped in a piano the minute I mastered the scales, but for his own personal gain to entertain his friends. "Never what I need. Besides, he always takes them away somehow."

My governess' countenance became irrevocably despondent and she pushed her lips to my forehead. "Well, I love you, Miri."

"I love you, too." Suddenly, hope stirred in my heart. Perhaps I could have someone there for me after all. "Will you come tomorrow?"

Oola kissed my forehead and made a comment about how my fever seemed to be going down already. She tried to smile when she refused to tell me that my father would never allow it. A servant at his gala? Preposterous. "Tell you what, we'll throw you a party of our own tomorrow night after your father's. We'll have a tea party in the kitchen. With scones and cakes, and I'll bring down Thomas to join us."

"Really? Will you, Oola? Thomas would like that very much." Or maybe it was just me.

Allow me to elaborate.

Friends were forbidden. So was anything else I could form a sentimental attachment to. That included but was not limited to pets, dolls, memorabilia, stuffed animals, etcetera. Thomas was Oola's and my secret. He was gifted to me by her the day she discovered my loneliness. Next to my nanny, the stuffed bear was my best friend-as trivial as that is for me to admit. Often, I'd pretend he had a soul, a voice, that he knew and cared about everything I was. Unfortunately, secrets were hard to keep in the estate, especially when Oola was no longer there to protect me from the most severe repercussions. The walls had ears. And I was eventually gifted with an ultimatum by the esteemed Mr. Lawson. Thomas could be kept, so long as he was reduced to ash. I collected every single ember. Such a foolish thing for me to do.

Father had an interesting way of giving me anything I ever wanted.

But, I digress.

Of course there would never be a tea party for the three of us. But up until that point in time, I was the most enthusiastic I had ever been for my birthday. Besides, Oola never broke a promise. Fate is a funny thing though, when it disagrees with you. So I learned to make my own vows a bit more carefully.

She interweaved our deal with a bedtime story favorite of mine, and a soft lullaby. Today, recollection of every single word to the song is like breathing, and it always will be regardless of my nearly eidetic memory. I fell asleep to the melody of her voice, and caress of her fingers.

I'm not sure what I'd have done differently if I'd known that Father would send her away in the morning. Pleaded? Cried? An unwise decision as it was, that's what I wound up doing.

I stumbled out of bed before the break of dawn to the sounds of infuriated protests on the ground floor. My internal clock was hardwired to wake me prior to dawn anyways. If it wasn't followed there were always severe consequences. But this morning I hadn't dressed and prepped myself. Instead, I careened down the marble grand staircase in pajamas with sleep-crusted eyes and unruly hair, wildly in search of the argument's source.

A door slammed haughtily just as I rounded the corner. A basket of Pink Ladies was overturned. Apples littered the ground. My maker glowered in the entryway with his hands folded behind his back. He almost completely disregarded me as I plastered my face to the window, only to witness two of the estate's armored guards escort Oola into an awaiting skycar. She was already gone, bag in hand, no farewells. I begged to know why, where she was going. My nanny had never left me before, but now she'd be lost to me forever.

Sniffing coldly, Henry Lawson's ego resonated through the pillared, marble room. Calmly rotating a Pink Lady in the palm of one hand, he took a bite and coolly told me, "You're not meant to love a governess, Miranda. They're tools of assistance, nothing more. I created you to be greater. Go get ready for your lessons."

Ridding me of a personal caretaker that I was deeply attached to was by no means the only deterrent my father imposed on me during my childhood. In fact I was gifted several constructive, symbolic lectures on traits like faith and how such trust was fruitless, discipline and the methods that could be utilized to achieve total control, how to way the odds in one's favor, value and how it should be placed accordingly based on an individual's usefulness, and discrepancy and how omission wasn't inevitably untruthful. Comparatively speaking, her discharge was child's play.

With all roadblocks either absent or coerced out of the way, I was completely his to mold. His first task was to break me, and he showed me-with gusto-just how he planned to do so the day he brought me to observe a right of passage for his youngest and most prized thoroughbred. On Earth, equestrian activities are mostly reserved for the wealthy and the elite, and horses are a rarity. My father owned an entire herd of racers, but Faster Than Light was something of a treasure amongst the flock.

Stemming from a lineage of the swiftest, strongest, and most intelligent champions of the past hundred years, he was bred for absolute perfection. Seventeen hands tall, willful, inquisitive, and powerful, Faster Than Light was shaping up to be just as sinewy and capable as his genealogy had predicted. But he was ornery, wild, and petulant enough to refuse be saddled. There had been so much fire in his eyes, and as a child, I knew his heart was meant to roam free of any constraints.

When the lasso finally encircled his broad neck, Faster Than Light resisted. He bucked and rolled, kicked and tugged, cried out in protest for a life under his own control. Three stable hands were required to pull him back onto all four hooves, five to steady him. Their tiresome duel lasted well over a half an hour until the steed ruefully took a knee. Even from my distance to the ring the stallion's eyes locked with mine, and I watched his resolve shatter like a crystal vase dropped from a fifth story window. Faster Than Light had been so lively and youthful in the fields the day before, yet at that moment he lay defeated amongst the dust. Any anger in his brown eyes had diminished to nothing. No spark left in his brown depths, not even a hint of anger. Just a hollow disappointment.

I took everything in as analytically as possible under my father's expectant stare. By age seven I had reigned in a grasp of stoicism to keep my thoughts my own. But had I been able to keep the shock from spreading into my countenance? I don't believe so, however my sudden and alarming fear was kept off my face. I didn't want Father to see that I was frightened of this treatment, that I knew he would do the same to me if it killed him-or me.

Faster Than Light served the purpose expected of him and excelled, but if he was ever content with his racing career, I couldn't tell. He became a successful drone of obligation, and I'd wondered what made him stop fighting. His choice of surrender initially infuriated me. How could he have given up so easily? Then I discovered the fates of the others less willing to comply. Sold or put down without hesitation. Suddenly I didn't begrudge him so much.

I'd like to have believed I was stronger-willed than a cherished racehorse. Yet, those times I had myself bleeding out of my ears and nose due to biotic exertion- simply to appease Father would stand as evidence against that. Perhaps though, it was one of those times trying to hone my capabilities and match them to the recently explored asari, that ultimately resulted in my abandonment of vying for my father's nonexistent affection. Or maybe it was all those times he exploited my use as an asset to increase his power and control.

Regardless of how much my hatred for the man grew, I was forced to reside under his rule, subject to his regime. I was his greatest investment, and he was not about to allow his billions of credits go to waste. My every limit was pushed to succeed and meet impossible odds. I earned my first degree at the age of thirteen, was instructed in biotics by asari commandos, learned to play twelve different instruments, speak eight languages fluently, perfected martial arts from around the world, drilled in the practices of business, politics, and sciences. There was never praise for my accomplishments. I didn't deserve it anyways. Every achievement was due entirely to a multitude of flawless and supremely manufactured genes. My gifts were not my own, and my father made that very clear. The only thing I could own were my mistakes. Errors were the only things that showed the black holes in my father's efforts. I both despised and treasured my blunders, but they did not give me purpose.

I suppose what actually gave me the meaning I searched for was the lapse of judgement in others. When I was allowed to interact with people, I was given the chance to admire the tenacity of human nature. I saw drive, mortality, ambition, and potential- all of it natural. I saw where they had shortcomings, and where I could put my talents to use. To better humanity.

That was how I came to befriend Niket- the one person in my childhood that demanded nothing of me, but gave everything in return.

In actuality, Niket was the one that demonstrated any ounce of virtue. For months I had dismissed him, just as I had with all other staff in my father's estate. They treated me with no additional kindness than what they were paid for, so I wasn't interested in taking the initiative. But the seventeen-year-old maintenance boy was. Each time he saw me he would go out of his way to greet me, ask me how my day was going, try to tell me about his own, about his immigrant family, lighten me up with a joke or compliment. It wasn't until the day my first biotic implant-what would become known as an L2 prototype- over two years before its intended release date- was installed, that I realized he wasn't an average sycophant desiring me for abilities or looks.

"Miranda, are you okay? You look a little pale." Niket tended to pester me just after my mid-afternoon lessons. That day he had been assigned to resetting the security wiring outside of the kitchen, and I happened to be stumbling out of the recovery room to retrieve saltines and the first glass of water I'd had in over twenty-four hours. Father was suspicious regular hospitals would tamper with his finely tuned genetic dynasty, so my medical procedures were performed in the bowels of his estate's ambiguous labyrinth.

"I'm fine." I wanted to bite back a seething retort regarding his astute observation, yet all I could manage was to shoot him a withering glare. He should have known I didn't desire small talk. The day before he had managed to extract knowledge of my upcoming surgery. The pain the L1s had described from having chips placed at the base of their brain was nothing compared to the torment of an L2 lodged into the back of my head. My ears rang, my eyes burned past any promise of clear vision, my head thrummed at a mere pulse, nausea came over me in tidal waves. Then again L1s could barely snap a toothpick. This prototype was meant to spike to levels on par with asari commandos. And if that fine control and power were possible, I could circumvent the immediate repercussions of post-op.

Or so I thought.

I hadn't wandered another meter past his post when the smell of that evening's meal preparation- for Henry Lawson and his perpetually present guests- struck me, and I became possessed with the urge to keel over in dry heaves. I wasn't about to show weakness in front of this servant boy though. I ignored the impulse and marched straighter, making my way through the gigantic, canteen-style kitchen. Niket tailed my every step, obviously doubting the truth in my statement. By the skittish expression plastered to his face, I was fully aware of his need to keep me under surveillance.

I practically snarled when he pulled up a chair at the nook well out of the way of any staff, and instructed me to sit.

What was his angle? To leech off a lonely, overly privileged fourteen-year-old? Why was he concerned if the boss' heir tipped over unconscious? To stake claim as my rescuer if my father asked why his science project's body rejected the implant? I was the pompous aristocrat that had discovered precisely how to read every ulterior motive a person indubitably maintained, but never how to bond with those individuals.

"Like hell," I growled. He sidestepped me, and blocked my every way with such a condescending smirk. I was consumed with the mad desire to rip it off his face with my bare hands. My rage was nearly as blinding as my migraine. This was not a time to play games. "Move, Niket, or I'll have you evicted."

That was untrue. Despite my reasonable misgivings and fury, I didn't have the heart to fire him. Not after every hour of storytelling he'd forced me to endure. Countless tales of his four younger siblings, and how he wanted to buy the youngest dance lessons because all she spoke of was becoming a ballerina. About his parents each working three jobs to provide for their large family, and how he wanted to take the pressure off of them by finding pay in Mr. Henry Lawson's estate. He was always so frustratingly sincere-unlike Father's bureaucratic companions.

He actually had the gall to laugh. Probably because my voice was hoarser than any smokers'. As disarming as his tone was, my irritation only inflated. "Relax, Miri. I only want to help."

Startled, my gaze snapped up. Too quickly, hence the distorted spinning of furniture and appliances. I attempted not to lean heavily against the counter. No one had called me that before. No one since Oola. And he had rattled off a precious nickname with surprising ease. The hostile expulsion I had prepared was suddenly all but forgotten. "Why?"

Niket graced me with an undeserved smile and shrugged kindly. "Because you look awful."

In all my years, no one had ever tried to win me over by discrediting my attractiveness. But Niket hadn't deliberately attempted to squander my ego out of malice. He had pointed out something about me that was completely and one-hundred percent human. In spite of my tailoring, my body was suffering PONV and ultimately disagreeing with the new, electrical pulses discharged into my neural synapses by Father's new toy, and he was legitimately concerned for my personal well-being. Mine. Not Henry Lawson's hereditary protege, or a longterm test subject too valuable to be thrown away. The notion almost made me grin. Almost. "Charming."

"Well, you know what I mean." His voice lowered to avoid prying ears. Needless. There were always eavesdroppers in my father's house, but information was privy. "You're probably not even supposed to be out of post-op."

My glare intensified. I could feel my knees longing to buckle under a dizzy spell. Technically, there was a bit of truth in his words. I may have told the nurse to bugger off. Miranda Lawson could handle anything. "I could throw you out the window with a single thought if I so wished."

"Right," He drawled and motioned to the chair once again, observing any remaining color drain from my face. "I'm sure that's immediately after your desire to jog all the way to the opera house and back at this very moment."

If I had demonstrated then and there just how capable a biotic I was, I'd have probably ended up in a vegetative state and replaced much sooner than planned. Admitting defeat was detestable. I huffed, folded my arms under my chest, and flopped unceremoniously into the seat. My cranium sang in protest. "Impossible."

"Not impossible. Just helpful." Niket threw me a congenial look, and scampered off to pilfer water and bland palatable snacks for two. My suspicious gaze never left him. He maneuvered the kitchen as though he knew it well, finding glasses and the regularly accessible pantry with ease. I had long ago discredited the possibility that he'd attempt anything funny. He was too smart for that. Number one in his class- a quality I begrudgingly admired. The liquid ambrosia was set before me ever so gently, without noise. When he plopped down beside me- much to my bristling animosity- he curiously gestured to the back of his head. "So, what's it supposed to do exactly?"

The vile flavor in my esophagus protested my urge to swallow anything. Bursting open a set of crackers, I laid one on my tongue to absorb the salt and convince my stomach otherwise. As it dissolved, I eyed my associate more closely, and rebuffed him. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I'm taking a break," Niket shrugged, stuffing his face full of his own crisps.

"In the favor of my company?" I skeptically hissed.

His brown eyes were warm and inviting. "I enjoy your company."

The venom in my voice was laired with a suppressed groan. "You're a bloody liar."

Expression wounded, he shook his head from side to side. "Not true, Miri. You're very interesting. Intelligent. Gifted. Funny."

Manners abandoned, I snorted into my water glass at his subpar assessment. I forced myself not to down it all at once. The results would have been disastrous. "You're describing the wrong person."

Niket chuckled. "Well, not in the conventional way. You're not giggly and silly, or ditzy like most girls."

"Appalling behavior," I muttered, trying to drown out what wood paneled floors could not from the kitchen staff at the far end of the room. Their concoctions no longer bothered me as much as the clanging of their pots and utensils.

"Exactly." He pointed giddily. "You don't mean to be entertaining, but sometimes you are. In spite of your lacking sense of humor. Always so biting and dry, and you actually 'know' what you're talking about. Your ability to maintain a conversation of substance. You're a...unique friend."

Never in my life had anyone claimed me as their friend. What right did Niket have to bestow such a title upon me? I hardened my resolve. "I don't keep friends."

"Which is exactly why you need one," The maintenance boy countered.

"And you're supposed to be that one, special person?" I was positive we were fluent in the same native tongue. Even if we weren't, possession of such a faulty translator incapable of detecting the acidic flavor of my rhetorical question was unlikely.

Wryness faded entirely, he firmly wished to establish bona fides. "Sure. If no one else is in line, I'll be up front."

"Who put you up to it?" If anyone was involved, it was probably my father's game. Testing me and my interaction with others around my own age.

"No one." His answer was flat, lacking deflation, no signs of putting up a subconscious physical barrier. I was having a hard time believing such honest posture.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't want pity- if that's what this is."

"It isn't."

"Then pray tell: what is it, Niket?"

I rubbed my temples in a desperate attempt to relieve compression, and was surprised when he reached over in an act of benevolence and squeezed the pressure points on either side of my nose. Even more surprising was that I allowed it. "I personally like you. Maybe you don't want a friend, or maybe you don't know how to be one." My glare was ignored. "You don't have to be one for me, but it'd be nice for you to have one, right?"

Silence was what met him. Not uncomfortable. Simply contemplative. When he released me, I grabbed for my water once again. What possessed my line of reasoning was foreign. "It's supposed to give me an acute sense of control."

Actually, to be more specific it was a prototype. A trail for an L2 implant such as this had to be life-threatening. I was incredibly lucky the chip did not overstimulate my brain activity and electrocute me seeing as research would later prove L2s could cause their wearer severe health issues.

He looked up and smiled, keenly interested as I answered his seemingly forgotten question. "How so?"

"Most human biotics aren't naturally able to pick up a sack of flour. I'm a... rare case. I've got EZNs like you wouldn't believe, and I was capable of pulling a small person twenty meters away. Of course, that was unusual even for me. My aura fired at random."

"And now?"

"Now, I've got a longer wait between nosebleeds."

Niket gave me the rest of the childhood that could still be squeezed out of me. After my lackadaisical agreement to his proposition, my competence to remain aloof in his presence was slightly deficient. Not to say that I was incapable of leveling him with a well placed glare or two, or all together pretending I was unfamiliar with him, but every once in awhile he managed to perform a great feat and extract a smile in passing. Of course, when we were alone I found his potential to do so even greater. He was gentle, even tempered, never lashed out at me for my 'limited' emotional capacity, never expected more from me, allowed me to purge my inner frustrations, introduced me to glimpses of normalcy. Niket became an escape.

I was surprised to learn years later my father had discovered our arcane amiability, even more so that I wasn't forced to beg to keep Niket as a friend while under his reign. During my early year, my father reigned over me with terror. And in my adolescence, I accrued a substantial reason to live in fear.

I discovered the horrifyingly grotesque fates of siblings I had never known. Those children- my sisters- Henry Lawson considered failures. If I was deemed deficient by my father, I would have succumbed to the same demise. The cycle would continue, and I would not allow that to happen.

Albeit, I never would have groveled to keep Niket. I had learned not to allow myself to become too attached to people regarding such circumstances. But, that time Father allowed me to become more acquainted with the boy that worked in his house than I had ever intended to. Undoubtably for a personal gain as a hook, or angle. Niket was something new to leverage against me, and Henry Lawson made sure of it.

But at the time that our friendship was blossoming, I never could find a way for him to be used against. I never saw it coming. Especially not after my escape.

A/N: Thanks for reading this chapter! Your support of my first chapter chapter was amazing! I hope you liked enjoyed this one. I know this chapter sort of felt like brief, embedded journalism, but the grand majority of this story will not be structured like this. It will be much more, condensed, interactive and interpersonal- like the ending scene with Niket. Especially the next chapter. *cough* Cerberus recruitment. I imagine that childhood is a remarkably touchy subject for Miranda, so she'd be likely to focus on a few defining moments that mostly hint at the horrible way her father treated her. There will be future chapters that will have something kindred to flashbacks of interactions with her father, her upbringing, and so on. Henry Lawson will definitely pop up in the future.

Again, thanks for reading. Please leave me your thoughts. Your opinions really inspire me, and any feedback is great. I love your support.

02/24/2014- I've made some serious provisions to the next four chapters- chapters 1-5- regarding Laira's role, and adjustments to grammar. Including this one.

7/9/2014- Grammatical editing