» samples ◞♕

[aul lucre]

xxxxxx

Xaul. & SAMPLES!
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titles says it all~
don't post; don`t steal.
for all roleplays I'm applying to, I hope you'll find them satisfactory.

xxx page one ■ real - life ( models ) samples
xxx page two ■ anime samples

[aul lucre]

Quote:

lit-advlit. intro
I think most of my intros would be a little bit shorter than this one, but I had
good connection with the rest of my roleplayers, and managed to include some people.

It’s just a matter of time before I figure out my plan of attack
xxxx and what I’ll do when close to you, when next to you
xx As far as this goes, everything is on the right track
xxx I’ve got a tone I’m locked on you

❛ＩＮ　ＴＨＥ　ＢＬＩＮＫ　ＯＦ　ＡＮ　ＥＹＥ｡　Ｉ｀ＬＬ　ＬＥＴ　ＡＣＴＩＯＮxＳＰＥＡＫ　ＦＯＲ　ＩＴＳＥＬＦ

♚ IHAVEYOUINMYSIGHTS
aul lucre aul lucre aul lucreAND I`M NOT LETTING YOU OUT

IF YOU HOLD ON TIGHT I'V GOT NO PLANS OF LETTING YOU DOWN
YOU KNOW IN NO TIME I`LL HAVE YOU UNDER THE LIGHTS
EVERYTHING IS GOING AS PLANNED ;
AS FAR AS THIS GOES

■ a■ u■

“Dammit!”

A routine hand shot out from under sunlight-streaked sheets, and slammed his hand over a tiny switch on his special qlocktwo alarm clock -- a small gift from home. A young man shot straight out of his his bed and shot a caustic glare at the German letter clock. “It is five past two”, the “qlock” taunted. The male’s amber eyes burned into the stainless steel exterior; it was futile, steel melted at temperatures past a thousand degrees -- 1,370 degrees Celsius, to be exact, as the young man well knew. “s**t, s**t, s**t …!” He shoved some calloused fingers into his light coppery hair, tossing his bangs back messily. He thew aside the sheets, and suddenly began moving at a lightning quick speed, his movements defined by a trained precision that indicated that he was no ordinary twenty-two year old who had slept past noon after a night of reckless decisions.
The young man quickly threw on the first clothes he found in his closet, which consisted of thick jeans, a button-down shirt, and sleeveless pullover-- it was rather chilly in the middle of September. Damn those Canadian temperatures! He cast a furious look around his room, as if looking for something to further blame for his predicament. All his side of the room he shared with his roommate, a Lebanese fifth - year like himself, Nadir Yassin, were covered in models and diagrams on gigantic sheets of paper of various objects -- submarines, aircraft carriers, buildings, machine guns, bombs. Some were printouts of models he had made on the school’s professional software used by defense contractors. There were calculations pasted all over the room, and over each sheet of paper, there was a tiny signature: A.N. Jaeger. The “A” stood for “Alaric”, and the “N”, “Nikolaus”, and Jaeger, the surname of the young man, was also what had derived his Agent codename, “Hunter”, which was the English translation of his Germanic family name.

Alaric quickly paused, as he was lacing up his combat boots, fully aware that there was too be a school activity today. He was staring at one of his diagrams, and suddenly his brows knit slightly. He walked over to his desk, where a series of meticulously arranged colored pens, pencils, markers, and highlighters lay. His fingers brushed over the rack of writing utensils, before settling on a green pen, which had an arcane symbolism unknown to everyone but him. The German quickly crossed out a lightly written aerodynamics equation for a military fighter jet, muttering to himself, writing a new one, and then furiously crossing that out in red. “Du Hurensohn ….” You son of a b***h. After Alaric had properly berated his handiwork, he shoved a hand into his hair again, and furiously toussled it in frustration. After a few more seconds, he glanced back at his clock. “It is eight past two” it read, and Alaric, bit down on his bottom lip, let out a frustrated growl, before giving his model a hasty look, and putting a red slash through a wing in the jet. I’ll deal with you later.

Alaric quickly went into his mini-fridge a couple bottles of vegetable juice he had purchased from the cafeteria, feeling the cool liquid run down his awfully dry throat. In the swift motion, he had arched his back backwards, and suddenly felt pain shoot up his spine. On top of that, he suddenly became aware that every muscle in his body was aching. It almost hurt to move. Alaric sat down slowly, and became aware that even that was painful, and winced slightly. At that moment, he felt a great deal of regret over his decision to pull a midnight workout session from ten to six, with little rest in between; it was all thanks to his dissatisfaction with his physical prowess, which had come about since the start of their fifth year. Only eight were going to have some fruition for their years of labor at Ian Moone, and Alaric was determined that he was going to occupy one of those spots.

Alaric let out a heavy sigh. Today had to be one of the shittiest days in his life. Not only had he slept right through Specialty Training -- b***h Summers was going to kill hm! Alaric’s expression turned sour as he thought of the prospect of doing five hundred push-ups while saying “I am sorry, I acted incompetently” in ten different languages, in alternating order. Today also happened, he thought almost anxiously, that the team assignments were due! It coincided with the school - wide activity, and Alaric felt his stomach knot (and lactic acid seep impossibly into even that muscle) at the prospect of definite physical activity. ********, he was going to be a drag. Alaric felt a wave of ego-bruising despair fall over him -- he was the ******** leader; how could be afford to drag everyone down? Alaric’s jaw clenched as he opened his fridge back again, and reached way into the back, where a small medical container lay, with a few pills inside. Painkillers. One and he would be up and kicking like there was no tomorrow. He was tempted. Examine the consequences, the voice of reason began murmuring. Alaric did so: overexertion and a possible physical shutdown seemed to outweigh the benefits. He put the analgesics back.

Alaric sighed, and forced his aching thigh muscles to push himself up, and forced himself to keep his expression level. He was just going to hope he got a dream team, and get it over as fast as possible, before someone sensed that there was something wrong. Of course, something wrong, past the obvious dark circles under his eyes, which were slightly reddened, and the lines of fatigue the etched themselves in his face. And, most conspicuously, his hair looked like-- for lack of a better word -- s**t. Despite that, Alaric still tried his best to hold himself perfectly straight, and keep his usual perspicacious expression. He was, after all, not inclined to show much weakness, as he kept a regular, brisk stride, which he hoped was not too different thane his regular walk. Everyone that knew him was probably wondering what the hell had gotten into him -- missing one of Summers’s classes, was he insane? Possibly, Alaric thought, driven mad with utter, naked, ambition.

In the relatively short walk from the Dorms to the Arena, Alaric found a venue to channel his rage and frustration at his situation. It happened that Klaus Ferdinand, Christian Evans, and himself were like brothers. Well, he more or less considered the Austrian to be his long-separated conjoined twin, while the American was more his long - lost bizarre American cousin. When the three of them were together, they occasionally had inquiries whether they were members of some Eastern European LGBT organization, and, if so, were there any calenders for purchase online. Yeah, they were that close. What also was close was Alaric’s fury, with each step, he felt more and more enraged over the fact that neither had broken down his door, gave him some decent clothing, and dragged him off to his specialty class. What utter betrayal! Alaric could the rage boiling deep with him -- he trusted those two! He didn’t feel at all angry that Nadir, his own roommate, hadn’t even bothered with him. It was good enough that he had the other man’s respect. But Klaus and Christian were going to ******** get it. On his path, various students began backing away from him, because his expression had grown more grim and dangerous with every step, to the point where the best adjective to describe him was a noun: zombie.

Deep down, Alaric prayed that he was on the same team as both of them -- they were still his non-biological family -- but right now, that was not the thing on his mind. As he neared, he noticed the presence of Min Hee Khang, and Yves Laurent, but he could hardly soften his expression. By the time he was close enough to them to speak, Alaric was carrying the aura of the Grim Reaper, and could not be bothered to lift the corners of his lips one bit. Normally, he liked both girls -- they were sexy, skilled, and had great personalities. He glanced at them, and they looked great as usual, and were carrying a friendly conversation.He would apologize later. Right now, he was going to unleash hell upon his dear brother.

He found Klaus with a series of females who looked like they were consoling him. Or wanted to screw him. Probably both. But Alaric couldn’t tell the difference in his present state of mind. He instantly stormed through their barrier, causing surprised stares, and a quick backing away. He wanted all of them to git, but he had no time to waste any words. He instantly launched into a good ol’ -- and very German -- tirade.

“You son of a b***h! Are you ******** kidding me?” Alaric bellowed, and the rest was a barely discernible jumble of German, even to a native speaker. “Weißt du, was das Schwein Sommer wird mit mir machen, du kleiner Blödmann? Ich bin deine verfickten Bruder, und Sie müssen nicht einmal die Mühe zu fragen, was passiert mit mir?! Ich hätte jetzt tot bin, für alles, was Sie kümmern! ******** you!” Alaric took a deep breath, as he had used up all that was in his lungs. He glared at the posting sheet. He had encounters with all three of the other members of his team. Even in his umbrage, Alaric felt a deep disappointment that he wasn’t with Klaus or Christian, who speaking of … “And where the hell is Christian?! Still after that b***h that tried to kill me?” Alaric then look a long deep breath, and looked away. The audience of females were silent. He glared at them, and said. “Get out, now. Before I break something.” They took it to heart, and scampered off. Alaric had grown quiet, and looked away, and pretended to concentrate on his team.

He looked at the rauster: himself, Sid, Zenos, and Luka. That was a good team. He didn’t think any of them were incredibly close, but he had encounters with all of them and knew them to be focused and intelligent. He and Sid were relatively new friends, he hadn’t talked to Zenos to much, but he seemed like a cool guy, and he knew for a fact that he and Luka weren’t always on the same page, but they were professional, and could work anything out. Alaric was pleased enough.

Alaric then looked down, as Klaus gave his apologies. His “Austrian twin” then proceeded to give melodic poetry verses over their departure, which, despite its awful cliched tone, make Alaric suddenly feel like s**t over his anger. Lovers’ quarrel indeed, he thought; if any of those girls knew German the way he and Klaus did, it was almost certain that they would have been thought of as non-heterosexuals. Alaric sighed, as the fact that his situation was, essentially, his own fault he went on an eight-hour decathlon in the dead of night … Alaric looked up finally, only to see Klaus run off to his new team members. He had opened his mouth to apologize himself, then closed it, groaning inwardly.

"Sorry if I hurt one of you team members, I'll try my best to make sure I don't break any bones!" He stared after Klaus, as he was about to yell back something typical of the two, like, 'In your dreams!' or 'You wish!' But Alaric couldn't bring himself to yell anymore. He wasn't a particularly temperamental person -- actually, he was quite calm and placid, usually. However, whenever he felt betrayed by someone close to him, he completely snapped. But this time, he wasn't even angry at Klaus anymore, it was more with himself -- as a leader, he should have exhibited far better self control and more responsibility. Alaric almost felt ashamed, as he quickly swallowed, and thought to himself: No, I can't feel that way, it'll bleed into the team dynamic; they don't know anything, and it's going to stay that way.

Alaric felt body burn even more, and sighed as he leaned against the board, suddenly wanting to drink himself into a stupor. Of course, that was against his no alcohol-energy drinks-and caffeine mandate, and it wasn’t allowed on Ian Moone grounds.

Hhe looked over back at Min Hee and Yves, gave a tired, half-forced smile, and raised his hand (biceps sore) in greeting.

Today was definitely going to be one of the shittiest days in his career, if not, life. The only thing he could really do now was wait for his team, debrief them on the task, and concentrate. One of the first things that he was taught was to separate personal feelings and professional actions. Alaric also prayed that nobody noticed that he was somewhat physically impaired.




Quote:

qlock
rant translation: Do you know what that b*****d Summer will do to me, you little dumbass?! I'm your ******** brother, and you don't even bother to wonder what happens to me? I could've been dead by now, for all you care! ******** you!

[aul lucre]

Quote:

advlit. intro
uggghhh ... graphic sucks, I know. But this is good stylistically for me; I like to get some
action going, and some humor in my writing.

aul lucre

VULCAN, IA -- Kat Koeter was pissed.

It was clearly a touchdown. The runningback had crossed for the stripe marking defense's end zone, before that linebacker tackled him! Besides, Warren G. Harding High's offensive line -- actually, the entire team -- was nothing short of amazing. And that was all thanks to her friendship with retired Hall of Fame quarterback Clint Woodley. And Woodley was not the type of coach that was going to accept a loss from a high school team he was coaching.

"I challenge the call."

As the town's best (and only) lawyer, Kat was more than determined to use any and all governing principles of effective body for her personal gain. So, full print-out of the Iowa High School Athletic Association American football rulebook, she marched to the officiating parties, and slammed it down on the officials' table.

"Chapter Seven: Scoring. Section One: Touchdown. Subheading: Definition of the Touchdown. Page 47." Kat's face deadpanned as she peeled off her Armani shades, and clipped them to the neckline of her shirt. " 'A touchdown (TD) is worth 6 points. It is scored when a player runs the ball into or catches a pass in his opponent's end zone. A player does not have to touch the ball to the ground to score; a touchdown is scored any time a player has possession of the ball while any part of the ball is beyond the vertical plane created by the leading edge of the opponent's goal line stripe. The stripe itself is a part of the end zone.' Got it, guys?"

The officials looked annoyed. One of them -- an aging former NFL linebacker who almost never played his entire career -- glared at the brunette, not bothering to mask his distaste. Mark ... Park, was it? What was a Real Housewife of the O.C. doing challenging his call? "Ma'am, we know what a touchdown is." Kat nodded, as she took out her iPhone, opened up a blurry video of the touchdown, and dropped it on the table. The men glanced at each other, grumbling a bit. Joining the Linebacker, was a young town councilman, who seemed to be eyeing up the cheerleaders, and probably couldn't tell the difference between a fullback and a halfback, and then there was a middle-aged man Kat didn't even bother identifying.

"I can't see a thing on this," growled Mark Park-Or-Something-Stupid-Like-That. Kat smiled for a bit; she was waiting for that. On cue, she extracted a three-thousand dollar MacBook Pro from her D&G tote, hooked her iPhone up, opened up an expensive video processing software, and before long, the refs, officials, and a gathering crowd of onlookers who had scampered down the pews watched the slow-motion replays of, indeed, WGH High's runningback Joel Meyers barely managed to dive across the endzone, arms stretched out, as the ball grazed the line by less than a quarter of a an inch -- Kat paused it there, zoomed, and went over it scene-by-scene -- and then was tackled to the ground, before other players started madly stockpiling on top, and the rest of the video was all a blur and no longer worth watching.

At the end of the thirty-second clip, the entire field was silent. The only thing that was more shocking than how Joel Meyers had not had anything broken at the bottom of that manpile, was that country-superstar Brett King's New York litigator-wife had actually placed herself in the danger zone of mad tackles, flying bodies, and reckless teenage aggression, just to make sure her son's team won. Now that was devoted mother. Kat purposefully closed the lid on her laptop, so that a "click" sound with a particular note of finality. The officials swallowed and muttered a few things, as Kat smugly walked off, flipping her long blonde-highlighted hair for good measure. Within the next few moments, the teams had assembled on the field, and ref made his announcement:

"Challenge accepted. Game: Warren G. Harding's Warhawks."

The field roared with cheers and applause, as WGH's fans went wild, waving their hawk crests, while angry spectators from the visiting team went wild with rage and threw things across the field, yelling insults. It wasn't as if there was anyone in Vulcan who didn't know Kasia "Kat" Koeter; it was Hell when those claws came out, and it was beyond a doubt that the former Harvard alum was not a trophy wife. Kat smiled and waved at her team's adoring fans, before yelping in surprise when she found herself lifted in the air by the Warhawks, as she was handed the three-foot tall championship trophy.

Her off-guard gaps quickly turned into laughter as she held it up, and flashed a gorgeous smile at the Coach's cameras, and shoved her fist up in the air,and her face contorted into a less pretty expression of victorious ferocity. Kat felt a thrill rush through her as she was thrown up in the air for a while, and landed neatly on top of the the human bed, lost in a feeling of pure merriment, feeling the glare of the lights on her through the dark of night. This was living. It was moments like this that made her pat herself on the back for leaving Sterling, Oppenheimer, & Koeter. Still laughing, she passed the trophy a Warhawk, then swung her arms around two random football players as best she could with those ridiculous shoulder pads. The two boys moved immediate to accommodate her, putting a hand around her still slender waist, and gave pleasantly surprised smiles for the camera. "You boys did all the work, I just told the truth," she laughed, punching one of them on the shoulder casually as if she was twenty years younger.

"Still, Mrs. Koeter, you're a total badass." Joel Meyers came up, one hand on the trophy, face bruised in multiple places, and gave her a careful one-armed hug. Kat smirked, as she hugged him back with both hands, as more cameras flashed.

"I said call me Kat." The lawyer chuckled warmly, giving him another quick hug, before sending him off to his teammates. Joel gave a charming smile back, and a two-fingered salute before running back to his team. Kat looked at them approvingly, before shaking hands with Woodley, who thanked her for making the call he hadn't even seen, Kat thanked him for doing a great job, and they posed for a photo for the local paper together. "Hey boys!" she called out, as the team did a few victory laps around the field, "Pizza's on me! Eat as much as you want, whatever you want. No alcohol! See you guys in a half at the Hammer Jammer!" Kat blew kisses as more cheering ensued, before heading off to her BMW sportscar.

As she opened the door, she caught sight of Garett in the mirror, and spun around, surprised that he wasn't changing with his team.

"Hey Mom."

"Hey. What're you doing here, Gary?" He was drenched in sweat, dirt streaked his uniform, and absolutely reeked.

"Just wanted to say thanks for doing that ...." Gary looked down a bit nervously. "I didn't make the throw --"

"I'm glad you know that," said Kat, as she walked closer to her son, and rested her arms on his shoulders. "That's a step -- we'll go see the chiropractor about your arm, and work out some exercises to work on that arm. By camp this summer, you'll be Peyton Manning, and blow everyone away. But that today, that throw was dangerous; if Joel had been one second slower on the run --"

"I know," Gary snapped somewhat irritated. Kat looked at him, brows knit a bit. The teenager's features softened a bit, and hugged her, as Kat kissed him on both cheeks. "I'll get it." Kat smiled -- that was the attitude she liked. That was her son: a champion.

"I know you will, mm, love you." Kat brightened again as she got into her car. "Go change now, catch a ride with Blake or someone; I gotta go check on the band and their backup dancers. " Gary's brows raised for a second, before giving a cool smirk, of course, his eyes read. His mom threw the best parties in town, especially when he won something. Kat smirked as she backed out of the lot, waved, and sped off at the top of the speed limit to the Hammer Jammer -- Vulcan's all - purpose nightclub, pizzeria, and cafe. The various decorations could be garish, but there were great bands, great bartenders, and she was going to get a couple shots before the boys got there; Kat did not want to set a bad example.

As soon as she arrived, Kat did a quick sound check, mic check, and listened to a few rehearsals by a small indie rock band she had hired; she figured the boys would like that type of stuff. The dance floor was almost done getting set up, seeing as they were probably going to party until the next morning. The entire town was invited, and the party was definitely going to extend way out of the establishment, so there were tons of waiters and waitresses to get the drinks out. She always knew the Warhawks would win -- because, in the Koeter household, victory was always the only option. Gary had busted his a**. Clint had busted his a**. Kat had busted her a**. The entire team had worked hard, and with everything Kat set them up with; nutritionists, physicians, the finest gear, there was no way they could lose. She would've never allowed it. Today had been a close call, and she needed a pick-me-up.

"A margarita, please. The usual." Fred, the bartender, nodded. Kat rested an elbow on the bar, and sipped her drink, enjoying the moment to herself. Her life had been devoted her son, from the moment he was born. She had hardly any career, the cases in Vulcan she had been given were so simple a paralegal could handle it. Kat long decided that she liked it in Vulcan, there were sports, parties that didn't cost five figures, and weren't littered with high society politics. Of course, there was the historic debutante population that could be annoying, but Kat had never fancied herself a gossiping housewife. Hell, she'd always been "one of the boys", even back in Manhattan, with the exception of her interest in fashion; but she was bred for competition, heart-stopping moments in the courtroom, multi-million dollar deals. Admittedly, sometimes, she missed it. Kat could hear the tenor sax playing a low, soulful melody, as she downed her drink.

Something needed to happen soon -- something interesting.



♔ ♔ ♔
NEVER ARGUE, KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN, COMMAND

aul lucre

[aul lucre]

Quote:

lit - adv. intro
behhhh ... not my best. But I guess it shows some diversity in character, and it's in a
setting I don't do too often.

♚ x ♚ x ♚
i t ` s x l i k ex ax n e e d l ex i nx m y xs p i n e xxxxxi t x s t r i n g s x i n s i d e xxxxxxi t ` s x l i k ex ax n e e d l ex i nx m y xs p i n e
(xx i xwould x watch ❜ x you xdrown x )
AND .... TAKE .... MY.... TIME
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Home.xx For the next year -- at the very least -- home was going to be a moderately sized dorm room: two colonial - era arched windows with white lace curtains, two twin - sized beds of a color from the same time period, two wooden tables and lamps, two closets and a shared restroom, and a beige rug. All of the woodwork, including the floors, were dark, and looked like old Sequoia oak. Overall, it was actually quite a nice, quaint, place, with a bit of the "cottage by the sea"-feel.

However, it did not please the daughter of this year's Nobel Prize in Medicine recipient, Kezia Kronholm. No, it wasn't necessarily that she thought she was above living in such a place, but rather, she shuddered at the thought of what else could be living in such a place. The young Dane sniffed the air for any trace of fresh wood finishing, and gingerly set her luggage down, as she walked over to the table and glazed her fingers over it. Thank God it wasn't raw. Kezia felt herself breathe a little easier. She settled down on a bed, and tested out the springs, relieved that the mattress was younger than the building. Almost immediately, however, she tripped out all the sheets and pillows, and began replacing them were her own, straight from Copenhagen. She did not know what people did on her bed, and she was not interested in finding out when she found some strange virus in her intestines the next physical checkup.

Kezia wasn't an obsessive neat freak, nor an amathaphobic germo-phobe, but she did like organization and had a thing for neutral shades. her sheets were a gunmetal grey, and her pillows were a perfect with, and had some black detail. Even her garments were dark; she wasn't into any subculture -- she saw them as ridiculous -- but, for some reason, simply shunned bright colors. She proceeded by neatly hanging up some clothes in the closet closest to her bed, and quickly plugged in a few outlets with her laptop and phone charger. The brunette then found a few toothbrushes (also from home), placed them in a cup (supplied by the school), and finally hung a towel on the rack by the shower. With a smooth efficiency, Kezia had settled in within ten minutes, and found nothing more to do.

She opened the windows and pulled a black blazer over her shoulders, as she felt the cool autumn breeze in the chilly D.C. air, and surveyed the school grounds. All around her, was a perfectly mowed lawn; that was something Kezia liked. Good, uniform, green. She smiled slightly, as she saw various students below buzzing with light conversation. For a moment, Kezia wondered what her roommate would be like; she hoped that they would get along well enough, and there wouldn't be any serious problems. And if there was, a small smirk played at the young woman's face, she would simply, lightly remind her new companion that she had interned at a local morgue last summer. And she enjoyed it.

Kezia glanced at her watch, and noted that they were supposed to have an orientation for new and returning students in the Lincoln Auditorium at nine. She shrugged, closed the windows, stepped into her shoes, and made her way down, with a map of the school in her hands. On her way there, she passed by many students who seemed a little ... odd. From what her father had told her, Creatin school was a marvelous school with renowned teachers from all over the world getting paid ridiculously high salaries to educate some extremely gifted youth. Everyone in the school had to be either extremely talented, or extremely rich and talented. Kezia herself had won multiple awards in math competitions and science fairs (though, she did have the edge of being able to use Stanford's labs), but she attributed her acceptance into the school mainly due to her father's prestige.

All around her, she could hear students speaking various languages, with almost exotic-sounding accents, and the topics -- she almost could barely believe her years. She heard boys talk about their trip to Saudi Arabia, and one of them laughed as the other recounted a tale of how his father's bodyguards nearly shot the other, thinking that he was an Israeli spy. The other then punched the Saudi in the arm jokingly, saying that his girlfriend loved the diamond bracelet-compensation gift so much, that he would forgive him, and that, this winter break, they would go to a resort off the coast of Sweden that one of the other boy's uncles owned. There was also a small clique of gorgeous girls who walked by and giggled about a fashion show they had done in Milan, and how "Jean - Paul liked me more". Kezia stared after both parties, utterly blown away by the affluence these few contained. Holy s**t, she thought, how am I going to afford to hang out with anyone? It was just then that two boys and girl passed by her, and they were talking in hushed whispers about a problem that had been solved by a famous mathematician, and how they could truncate the proof but keep everything accurate. Kezia smiled; well, maybe she could after all.

After a while, Kezia found the auditorium, and was very impressed with what she saw: a gigantic, pillared, white, structure with Greek carvings and architectural styles. Once inside, she saw a scaled-down imitation of the Sydney Opera House! The seats were red and cushioned, with rows upon rows and a balcony aisle. Everything was dimly lit on the sides, and the stage was utterly gorgeous, with a concert - caliber Steinway & Sons piano, that Kezia could only assume was donated by a famous musician. Everywhere she turned, there was wealth, affluence comfort. (Except in the dorms, oddly enough, but she supposed they were antiques). She sat herself in the middle of an aisle, in what she estimated was the middle of the auditorium. Slowly, more and more students began filing in, and the lights became dimmer. Soon, it was almost impossible to see in front of herself, and Kezia's attention became absorbed in the splotlight, which quickly followed a tall, distinguished, young man to the podium. She was surprised. Was he a student?

"Hey everyone!" The young man raised a hand in a greeting, while giving a cheeky, charming smile, which spread over his handsome face. Definitely a student.

The crowd whooped and cheered and cat-called.He was definitely popular. Kezia looked closer at him, and suddenly, her eyes widened, and she thought: Is this even possible? Hell, she'd seen the kid on a Nike ad!

"For those antisocial hermits who seriously need to get their heads outta freakin' rocks, I'm Alexander Macedon, your student body president. .... And there might have been this thing where I won the Olympic gold in fencing?" He gave a casual smile, as students suddenly began pumping their fists in the air and shouting, "USA! USA! USA!" Kezia herself clapped enthusiastically -- the dude was epic! She was psyched now about Creatin Academy. Simply the coolest school on the planet.

The cheering gradually died down, when an old man suddenly bumbled across the stage, and all cheers soon turned to angry shouts and booing quickly ensued. "Now, now, Alexander," the man muttered into his microphone, and kicked the wires off his feet, "L - let your headmaster speak!"

"Go to hell!" shouted several audience members. Alexander Macedon smirked, as screen behind him showed his strong features in a close-up.

"The people have spoken, and this is a democracy," said the Prez coolly, as he suddenly jerked his chin to somewhere behind the curtains, and within minutes, two heavyset security guards dragged off the de jure headmaster off the stage. Kezia's jaw nearly dropped.

Wow.



Quote:

forgive the fail. Dx
outfit

[aul lucre]

Quote:

literate reply
this one's on the longer side, but I had a good deal to work with.

xxx

xxxxxxx ♔ he`s a stranger to some and a vision to none.
██████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████

HE CAN NEVER GET ENOUGH, GET ENOUGH OF THE ONE XXXX FOR A FORTUNE HE`D QUIT BUT IT'S HARD TO ADMIT

how it ends and begins on his face is a map of the world
a map of the world, on his face is a map of the world

This was not the Adriaan Panem liked very much. To them, Adriaan Aadland was an interesting, mysterious, and somewhat witty Victor with a strangely high intelligence quotient. Oh, ******** that. Adriaan's image was probably due to his mentors scripted verses, long acting lessons, and the fact that he had a total of ten minutes of airtime throughout his entire Games, eight of those minutes occurring at the very end, when he blew everyone up. That was "brilliant and hilarious", as described by Cesar Flickerman and all his Capitol fans. Other than that, his airtime was derived almost completely off short segments played after massacre scenes for sudden comedic relief, which depicted him pillaging clothing off dead bodies, hacking away at trees for water, and randomly trying to find some worms to eat, and most commonly, writing strange things in the snow with a stick-- which later turned out to be an electrical map of his ultimate trap.

Adriaan wasn't an overly expressive young man -- but far from the calm, smug, genius he was presented as. In fact, he really wished he was who be pretended to be; Adriaan spent the next few minutes while Tallis was in the shower telling himself: Calm down, calm the ******** down. It's a Capitol ploy to stir up to elicit some fervor for the Centennial. When Tallis came back out and quickly snapped a few chastisements, Adriaan was taken aback by how the other male was completely casual and not at all by the fact that Adriaan had released an emotional, angst-filled, alcohol-drenched high on him. Adriaan personally wouldn't have been too pleased. He was silent the entire time, and simply stared forward; it was alright, Tallis was fully entitled to being annoyed.

" -- which is . . .well, brilliant. You bested the Capitol at its own Game.” The last part caught Adriaan off-guard, and caused him jerk his chin upward, brows raising slightly. Oddly, he felt ... pleased, at the comment. Like hell, Adriaan liked being complimented for his abilities, which he knew full - well he had. He was never one to not show off. Back home, when he was a kid, Adriaan hardly ever got any notice or regard, but his fireworks/TNT shows were always the best. He'd use whatever he could pillage from the electrical scrap heaps, and he could make something at least somewhat decent with it. Before moving into the Village, Adriaan's shack of a house was decorated purely with what he could find, and the dinner table was simply a heap of discarded scrap metal pressed together. But Tallis's compliment was different -- it wasn't the callous praise he'd laughed and brushed off from his fans, but rather, it felt like he really felt something at that. But Adriaan wasn't one to understand how other people felt.

“Pull yourself together – we`ve got to see our Tributes off.” Adriaan simply nodded and followed, pleased with the comfortable silence that lingered in the air as they headed off to the Dining Hall, with all the other mentors. Adriaan gave a respectful nod of his head to his fellow District mentor, Colm, who simply grimaced. Colm was somewhere in his forties, but his face was ragged and lined, and he always carried a bottle of some kind of liquid with him wherever he went. In District 3, whenever he would pass, people would sigh and shake their heads in pity. His family had been killed in some freak explosion -- which weren't uncommon in the automobile factories -- but it was right after he had won the Hunger Games, and notably, very few other people were injured, and not a single car was scratched. Silently, Adriaan followed Tallis, and sat across from him.

The mood was somber, but there was a buzz of excitement from the particularly bloodthirsty Victors, who were thrilled be taste the blood once again. Adriaan fiddled with a "cow finger" or something, cut it into little pieces, and nudged them with his fork. He took a tiny bite, and it tasted simply bizarre. He took a sip of milk, and his stomach simply wouldn't receive any food. However, he forced himself to swallow, knowing he'd need energy if he was really going to be back in the arena. He looked across at the District 8 Victor a few times, and tried to recall whether he had been responsible for the deaths of his tributes from last year. Grimly, the answer was yes, as he had seen during the Crowning ceremony. Adriaan was more perplexed by why Tallis was being so nice to him; he would've been ******** pissed at the b*****d that killed his kids. And speaking of his kids, he hoped that he behaved well enough, that he would get a good number of sponsors.

"Attention, Mentors."

A loud, booming voice suddenly came through, as a few conspicuously clad Gamemakers suddenly came through the double-doors, accompanied by a line of Avoxes and Peacekeepers, who teemed in large numbers during the Hunger Games. One particularly distinguished man stepped forward, and the room fell silent. Most of the Victors from the past few decades knew the man, Adriaan and Tallis included: Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane.

"I'm glad to see you're all doing quite well," he let out a cold chuckle, as he stroked his mustache. "I'm sure you all have heard the news; and I must say, we have an especially exciting arena for the Centennial." A few Victors snickered at this, and some grimaced, but most showed absolutely no emotion, as they found effective. Adriaan was among the majority. Seneca Crane laughed suddenly. "Ah, look at your faces! You're Victors for goodness sake, do you honestly believe we'll just have you all in to be killed immediately? Oh no, you're all far too popular for that. The fans will go crazy with nostalgia when they see their favorites all 'visiting' in an arena unlike any other seen before!" Seneca Crane lifted his arms, and behind him, a Gamemaker held out a tiny device, which suddenly projected a giant screen, which showed magnificent vistas of a beautiful and horrifying, humongous mountain.

Or rather, it was more of a plateau with a slight variation of diameter. But it panned across a beautiful jungle, filled with greens and blooming flowers, and quickly showed zooms of artificial waterfalls and exotic birds -- Adriaan was certain they were muttations. It was lush, with dew on wildflowers, and a light drizzle was falling, as the camera zoomed to the Cornucopia. "Dear Victors, I present this year's arena: 'The Nine Levels of Hell', they haven't reached Hell yet, but rather, they are in purgatory. They are being 'cleansed' right now, in that lovely rain and sunshine, which I should mention, is highly corrosive and will the skin. The sunlight is also highly damaging and quite painful to look at. Hmm, I suppose nowhere to go but in the Cornucopia, then?" At that, Seneca Crane, and a few Gamemakers, who had began to help themselves to some food and wine, chuckled, as well as the population of highly sadistic Victors, whom were already placing bets, and reminiscing.

"Many of the 'Levels' are inspired by the best of the last hundred years of the wonderful Hunger Games. But more importantly, I'll give you all a task: you will be dropped into random locations, unarmed, and your task will be to eradicate as many tributes as you can -- and have some fun, guys, won't you? Although I should mention that if both your tributes die, you and the mentor from your District will be taking their place." Seneca Crane picked up his own glass, and tipped it to the Victors, whom collectively had no choice but to raise their glasses as well. Adriaan felt sick, as he swallowed his milk. "But come on, you still need to mentor -- after all, some of you have some quite hopeless cases..." A series of laughs echoed through the room, mostly from the various Gamemakers. "So, after a four-hour period, we will come pick you -- or whatever's left of you -- up in a Hovercraft, you'll be attended to, and the fun will continue the next day, after you're well - rested of course." A few Victors nodded enthusiastically. "Although, I should mention ... it is absolutely prohibited to have any contact with your own tributes. If you happen to wander past them, get out of that area as swiftly as possible. Any violation of this one mandate will result in execution." Seneca Crane's lips curved upward casually at that comment. "But that is the one mandate. Anything else is perfectly alright. Including ... well, I'm sure there are a few you that don't like each other here, hm?" A dastardly smirk smeared itself across Seneca Crane's face, who quickly flourished his robes for moment, and strode off, leaving a dead silent room in his wake.

That ******** b*****d.

One, two, three .... Dead. Silence.

A whisper could be heard in the room, and Adriaan didn't dare let anything escape his lips. Finally, the Peacekeepers spoke, and two opened the doors. "Victors, your hovercrafts await. It will be a while before the tributes have gone through the Cornucopia, so you may finish your breakfast in there, and witness the events live as it circles the arena until due time, in which you will all be isolated and deposited into random locations." Adriaan let out a breath, finally, as he suddenly realized all of them were surrounded by Peacekeepers. ... This brought back fond memories. The constant monitoring, the absolute helplessness ....

They were tributes in almost everything but name now.

"Let's go," he murmured softly, rising to his feet, fists clenched.

[aul lucre]

Quote:

lit-adv. intro
hmm, new character, and I have enough to work with

xxxxxxxx

xxxxxxxx

♚ 时间之箭还指出，你回到地方后失去
xxxx you will go forward !── that`s all.
BUT IN THE END YOU'LL NEED TO GET USED TO SURRENDERING

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Poor Miriam. It's such a pity, she was a brilliant, remarkable woman; a true asset to the firm. It was the unanimous verdict. Miriam Strauss was a respected but unloved woman; twice widowed, and to two powerful businessmen at that. Personally, Victory found that ironic -- Ms. Strauss had outlived two husbands with five organ transplants between them, taken a good share of their fortunes, and yet it was a suicide that finally killed her? No children, no living parents or relatives. Victory would've had a full-body organ-replacement done on her just to spend all that money; she could only imagine how her life would be like that of a Hollywood celebrity -- except she'd never have to deal with pesky fans or journalists, and she'd never actually have to work. Though that wasn't a good thing -- money was boring by itself, it was the thrill of making it that truly made all the indulgences feel so good. It was the heart-pounding moments in the courtroom, the nail-biting blunders, the hours of staring at the monotonous databases, rummaging through mostly-useless legal texts, and then feeling the rush of instinct take over as you heard a room fully attentive to your every word. And then finally, you had the verdict, the money, and the rewards. The combination of having sleepless nights pay out and pay off made the caviar sweeter, the champagne actually taste good, the Armani leathers truly caress your body -- it was the feeling of success. It was painful; it was exhausting; it isolated you from your kids. But that was the hidden fees you paid, and it was a good thing Victory never liked kids anyway, or marriage for that matter: men were great -- for the first few months.

While contemplating the vast fortunes of a dead woman she hardly knew, Victory felt a cold shiver run down her spine, as she pulled her long, dark, hair over one shoulder to act as a scarf. It was sleek -- as the Chinese-American had always ensured everything about her outward appearance was. Everything about her looked collected, she rarely spoke to anyone who didn't interest her, and her face was constantly etched into a reserved mask. Of course, that was to hide her torrid inner nature; she thought constantly over things, she obsessed over the tiniest details, she angst-ed over many an internal drama. She wished she had the impenetrable calm of her Jewish Russian-American father, who seemed to never get truly upset. Victory was certain she and her mother were the only people to ever cause him to "blow up" -- well, she was his daughter, and Rosaline Li was as temperamental as she was beautiful; despite being what most considered a "trophy wife", Mrs. Nathaniel Cantor actually didn’t have some disgustingly huge age differences with Victory’s father. That wasn’t something Miriam Strauss could say, and seeing as there were very little members of her former husbands’ families at the funeral, so the funeral procession and pallbearers was made almost entirely of Strauss’s co-wokers (Victory’s father included), and most notably, her hair stylist.

Victory took the woman’s number, and made an appointment—on the few occasions she’d spoken to Strauss; she’d always envied that glossy sheen. And, judging from the barely concealed expression of glee on the beauty professional’s face, so did all of female (and some male) employees at Lipton, Rosen & Katz. LRK, whose headquarters were known among industry professionals as simply “The Rock”, was constantly featured on Forbes as the nation’s most exclusive, mysterious, and powerful law firm. Getting hired took a small miracle—and getting Victory’s internship took having serious insider connections. Hell yes, nepotism. Victory didn’t even bother denying it.

“It’s really kinda sad.” The voice interrupted the Harvard Law student’s thoughts. She looked up, and allowed a silent, smug, snort escape. A moderately attractive, fair-haired young man took a seat opposite her, fixing his collar for a moment, as he gave a sarcastic smile, directed at the casket—which lay in the center of Strauss’s yacht, overlooking the scenic East Hampton harbor, right off the pier of the perfectly mowed lawns of the nearby funeral home. It was sunset, and stunningly beautiful. The hues melded perfectly shades of orange and purple, as the seagulls were the only things that seemed to cry. Chardonnay was served, and Victory sipped her glass, hardly aware of the fact that she was at a funeral. Victory looked in the direction of her fellow intern’s chin, and her face fell for a moment, feeling the same cold wind again. But other than the strangely ominous feel of death that lingered in the air, this "funeral" felt more like a dream honeymoon than anything else; maybe that was why Strauss had planned her funeral to be like so. Hell, Victory only came because it provided an excuse and occasion to buy that black Emporio Armani number.

“I don’t get it,” Victory said softly. It was a pathetic death—the firm wasn’t collapsing, the suits were going swimmingly (LRK hadn’t lost a case in over fifty years), and the cash flow, although taking a hit, was okay. “She had everything. She was litigating for over twenty years. I hardly talked to her, but, I mean, she works in The Rock. Ms. Strauss just doesn’t buckle under pressure, Matt.” Matt shrugged, and took a bite of dark chocolate tiramisu, which was served at the funeral, and took a moment to enjoy it before replying.

“Guess it was too much for her to take; but, that’s not what I meant. I mean, look around, Victory, do you see anyone crying?”

“They’re lawyers,” Victory responded automatically, feeling her lips curve into a bemused smirk. She then realizedthe observation hadn’t even occurred to her.

Matt let out a dry, short, laugh. “Exactly.” Victory’s features contorted into befuddled expression. What was the son of a millionaire’s point? “Everyone here's just trying to conceal their excitement at the fact that -- oh, have you heard? -- Ms. Strauss left most of her assets: stocks, properties, Swiss bank accounts, ect. to the firm. The rest went to charity, but that's hardly worth mentioning. I guess we now have an employee resort." Victory's eyes widened -- she hadn't been invited to the reading of the will, but she did not expect this.

"Seriously?" Victory couldn't help that response. That was great news for The Rock! Matt looked at her and sighed, continuing to munch on his dessert. Victory took a moment, and re-composed herself, crossing her legs, and mirrored his sight. "Look Matt,at least, everyone respected her." The words came out less soothing, and more laissez-faire than the American government in the early twentieth century. The two aspiring lawyers were silent for the next few moments, unable to really continue the conversation without being awkward. Matt Blanc snacked on the Jean-Claude Rochambeau - catered food, Victory Cantor had a few eclairs that were absolutely to "die" for, and they had a few sips of champagne. She remembered feeling faintly attracted to Matt when her father first allowed to her to actually do some actual work at The Rock, and the feeling may have been mutual. Of course, despite what all the mainstream media may have depicted, physical attraction really wasn't enough to bring two very different people to even try anything. Pretty soon, she found herself irate with his wannabe little philosopher comments, and Matt was quite chagrined with her naive interpretation of success. But as two people on the very bottom of Rock hierarchy, they had no choice but to stick together. No one really bothered to talk to the two legal-slaves interns, and Victory eventually tired of the silence, and excused herself to the restroom.

Walking off the pier, and the clicking of Victory's Gucci heels came to a stop only when she looked back into the bleeding sunset, and shadow of the ornate casket. Why'd you do it, Ms. Strauss? It just didn't make sense; as Dad had said for the past week, when he spoke to her, she seemed completely normal. She was "buried" (wow, more death puns, Victory shook her head) in a case involving a huge mobile phone company performing a merger with flopping competitor to gain its customer base; the ever-so irritating federal competition regulators stepped in and stopped the transaction. Of course, the mobile giant was pissed -- and that was when Miriam Strauss came, ready to tear apart the antitrust laws. She was focused, as Victory remembered when she was delivering her her coffee.

The thoughts swirled around the raven-haired student's head, as she found her way into the funeral home's marble-stoned restrooms, and splashed water of her face. Was it murder? The thought rang cold in her head. She didn't even care that much about Strauss. But the circumstances were definitely suicide -- so why couldn't she help that cold, isolated, stake that seemed buried in her. This was the first time anyone she had really "knew" in some way died, other than her grandfather; Victory had been so young that she couldn't remember feeling anything. No. Furtively, the Armani-clad young woman shook her head, and dried off her face. This was not something she needed to think about. Next week, she was going to work again, and she needed to check up a few things for Rothfeld, take notes for Koeter at the hearing for Koch scandal -- yes, work, Victory felt the weight of the tasks rest on her shoulders. She felt herself swerving down the hall, looking at the stained glass window she had passed earlier.Good, now, she was going to go back, get another glass of Dom, and have some more of those absolutely heavenly --

Victory suddenly froze. Instantly, her face dropped, as she let out a scream, both hands instantly clamping at her mouth, barely managing to silence the shriek.

Before a skeletal figure suddenly flashed in the carefully blown glass, as the window suddenly shattered, sending a spray of broken shards at her feet. A burst of fear coursed through Victory's body, as she suddenly froze in place, as she noticed that, outside the broken window, she could see various hanged corpses on the trees. They were men. Their arms hung in front of them, and she -- thankfully -- couldn't see their faces. Victory's eyes were wide, and livid with horror, as the apparition suddenly disappeared as suddenly as it came. What .... The ... Hell.... Victory felt her entire body shake, as she was still for about a minute, and then her instincts took over, and she bolted past the broken glass, sprinting startlingly fast, and not noticing when she suddenly hit a solid surface, and stopped, looking up, her face still pale and stunned.

Victory soon realized that she had collided with a man -- she blinked for a moment, and grasped for herself, suddenly aware of her state. Shoving a hand in through her hair in stress, and furiously shoving the locks back as if to get rid of her terror, she barely managed to stutter. "Y - you won't believe it." She pointed at the glass, breathing heavily, as she suddenly felt her back hit the wall, feeling drained. Victory could hardly believe it herself -- she had to have been hallucinating! How could this little death drive making insane? No -- no, this wasn't possible. She needed some mental help. Then things would go back to normal -- they would!

She looked at the stranger again, and took a few deep breaths, though her voice was still raw and slightly shrill from the shock. "I -- I didn't do that. There were ... apparitions, in there. Dead men. Hung," she sputtered; he wouldn't believe her-- she knew it, but she needed to say something. Victory swallowed, and forced herself to straighten up, as she felt a sinking feeling inside. The air in the funeral home suddenly stank -- but that didn't make sense; there was air condition.

What the hell was going on?

[aul lucre]

Quote:

lit-advlit. intro
pretty basic. except my first cannon in a very, very, long time.

────✉PUNK.❞
GENIUS. TRAITOR. BILLIONAIRE.

_______ █████████████████████████████████████
███████████████████████████████████████

"Mark."

The custom ads weren't going to be too obnoxious. They better not be. Now, that would annoy a lot of people -- when people were annoyed, they ranted about it to their friends, spammed each other's walls with their collective opinions, and there were going to be new groups called "I Hate Facebook Selling My Information To Large Corporations". God, that wasn't good for anyone. And damn, were people idiots -- it'd be terribly ironic for people to rant about a site they were currently using as a means to slander said site. The Facebook CEO allowed a short, amused, snort to escape, as he swirled the alcoholic contents of his cocktail glass, which was an odd sort of neon color, and far more interesting to observe.

"Mark?"

Everything counted. Especially when it came to user interface. As the surging popularity of Apple had demonstrated, things needed to be seamless, smooth, completely intuitive. The new timeline feature was going to have to be editable by the users. But how much? Time stamps were going to be absolutely untouchable, as well ... hmm, well ... they should be allowed to filter out all the attachments -- oh wait, that was redundant, users could already delete comments they didn't like, so why need a second filter? But then they could bulk delete, and perhaps add the option of clearing all comments when it came to certain photos? Fair enough. But again, the interface had to be clean. People didn't like thinking -- to many effects was unnecessarily confusing, and people's minds were going to be blown.

"Mark! Dude, snap out of it."

Suddenly, there was an influx of noise, which had previously faded out, but it was now clear -- Depeche Mode was playing, and the incessant chatter of young, ambitious, technologists with, Mark shook his head furiously, thick dark curls bobbing, as he blinked in surprise, feeling a sudden weight of a male's arm landing on his shoulders, a healthy mix of young beautiful women in fitted black dresses. There was also the highlighter-green drink in his hand in a glass that was shaped like a tiny upside-down cone on a transparent stick. "Check it out, man. See the guy in the hideous s**t-colored tie that's a bit too loose for office standards -- with the blonde."

"Which one?" Mark Zuckerberg instinctively replied, noting the presence of attractive females.

"Doesn't matter," the voice smirked. Then a suffocating fume of cologne hit him. Of course, thought Mark, some overpriced concoction off the rack at Armani, courtesy of the latest Victoria's Secret model he's sleeping with. Sean Parker never failed to make himself noticed -- despite the fact that Mark saw one of his greatest shareholders almost ever day, the first thing he recognized him was that overwhelming presence. That man made himself known. Useful, but cumbersome to manage -- hell, Mark didn't even ask where he was, what he was doing, why there was a giant pool, a billion-dollar view into the Valley, and how the man had gotten his VS chicks, half of the staff, and the guys at Sequoia Capital to all be free on one single day of the year. He also didn't know how he completely reserved the rooftop whirlpool the luxe Four Seasons in East Palo Alto, and how many people he had to call to get a famous bartender, and how the hell did they get those lights up there and installed in twenty-four hours?

He wasn't gonna ask. It was, after all, Sean.

"Mark, I'm gonna need you to focus." The Napster founder leaned in closer, and whispered, "that's Robert Cliff, and he's one of the guys early on eBay. He told me he wants to see you and congratulate you personally on the IPO. Ignore him." Mark's brows raised. He was an investor. Didn't they all need to have their asses kissed.

"Convenient," his brows raised, but he gave a twitch, indicating that he was pleased at not having to interact with Bear-belly troll doll over there. Of course. That was it. The IPO. $104 billion was a lot of money. Mark immediately realized everything, and why he was at a pool party in a five-star hotel, and why he even had been required to stay: Chis, Dustin, and Sean were totally spazzing about having the highest valuation for any newly public company in history. Mark himself was elated as well -- party plans were drawn, rooms were reserved, and the staff was given the memo. ... And then Sean gave the big reveal that the investors were in. Corporate was invited, and when guys like Sean Parker threw parties, everyone showed up. Including, apparently, Russian oligarchs:

"Now, that's Yuri Khodorkovsky -- flew in from Moscow this morning," Sean continued, and Mark didn't need to turn his head to know that he was smirking. "Go say hey to him, but make it brief, he's had a few drinks, and you're nowhere near as interesting as that brunette in the pool right now. Just a nod of appreciation." Sean gave Mark a friendly pat, drained his class, and quickly moved on to serenade some other guests with his "intoxicating" presence. Mark sighed, as he picked up the olive from his drink, and chewed on the toothpick, spitting out pickled produce in the pool gutter discreetly. All around him, people were dancing, talking, enjoying the breathtaking vistas, and soaking in the Jacuzzi. Everything from the neon-lighted cabanas (specially decorated with the signature Facebook blue and logos) and performance by a famous band ( Mark wasn't the least interested ) echoed of the exhilaration, hedonism, and fast life that defined the cutting edge of all tech and success -- two words that defined the later part of the young billionaire's life.

The IPO was out. Mark was only getting richer. He was surrounded by his ( true ) friends, admiring, envying, old men, immeasurable programming talent even greater than his own, and he was in the hottest residence in Silicon Valley. The bar was supposedly great, food was going around on tiny plates, and, considering who was being served, it needed to taste amazing. Emptily, the young CEO gazed at the happy people, and for some melodramatic, downright stupid reason, he felt a rift drawn from them. He wasn't able to connect with them. Facebook's servers was the only thing he felt completely and utterly attached to for the longest time. He had been through another girlfriend -- this time, she said it wasn't because he was a total a*****e, but because he was a total "piece of some computer somewhere", and failed to connect with anything that couldn't be tied back to his pride and joy.

But whatever. She wasn't even that hot anyway.

How was it, nine years since that fateful night in Harvard ( wow ), and he was still that shallow? Oh wait, he was an a*****e. Nothing really changed, except the numbers, the properties, the section of plane he sat in, and the chicks -- not that there were too many of those. Yup, he was still a dork. Mark glanced at his watch -- it was 11:55 p.m., and in six minutes, it would be exactly nine years since the day he posted pics of a few girls and created Facemash, the page that started it all. Everyone here with him now was with him then -- except for one key person, and that one person had been vital in making Facebook the site it was today. Without him, things really weren't complete. The IPO ... it was a lot, but not even one-hundred and four billion dollars could buy back what he had nine years ago.

What the hell.

No. Mark surveyed the poolside, and found everyone needed: Chris Hughes, Dustin Moskovitz, Sean Parker, who, despite all his shortcomings, vices, and energy-draining problems he created sometimes, was indispensable. Mark found himself forgiving Sean -- they were going to work together, and admittedly, needed each other. There was absolutely nobody missing from his list. Intellectual property ( as the Winklevii had demonstrated ) was messy, slippery, and maddening. People got hurt, and toes were stepped on. He needed to move on; ******** move on! Mark drained his glass in one long gulp, as he allowed the alcohol to wash out the gnawing, cold, clawing sensation in his chest. It failed. Mark frowned, and glared at the glass; it was problematic. He got another one from the bartender -- hard bourbon, as was recommended to him by Sean when he seriously needed to forget something. He surveyed with distant eyes Yuri Khodorkovsky, but simply couldn't muster the energy to go over there and interrupt his very ... intimate, conversation with the olive-skinned model -- not that Mark cared. Khodorkovsky's feelings were hardly anything Mark even skimmed to think about -- he was just way too ... lethargic.

As soon as his drink arrived, Mark slipped away quietly from the pool, walked as far as he could from the party celebrating his own accomplishment. He wanted to be alone. He liked the cold wind, the absolutely free sensation of gazing out into the wide open nightscape. On a night like this, he'd be coding, and maybe he'd go up to the roof at the Facebook HQ with his trustee Mac, a beer, and lie there -- perhaps because it was just like his university days. Chilly, simple, fun, with little company, except for that of a certain young and far more interesting investor than the ones he had to deal with now. Mark rested his elbows on the steel railing, as let out a long sigh, sipping his drink, wincing, and dumping it down five stories of the hotel-- it'd be funny if some poor guy was walking beneath. No such luck. Mark frowned, as he looked on for what felt like an eternity into Silicon Valley -- it felt like he owned the place, but it was still, somehow, boring. Just a dull, repeating, chain of code. That was what his life was like.

Distastefully, he turned around, and sunk to the ground, back pressed against the steel, leaning his head back, toying with his shotglass, and let out another long sigh. s**t, he was twenty-six. He should be enjoying himself ... so why was he mulling around like his best friend died on his birthday? ... That actually would've been preferable. Instead of being sued by him, simply having said friendship flat-out destroyed. In the end, they would've still been friends.

Eduardo. ********. Saverin.

He had no right to come back and haunt him -- and on a day to celebrate what was, to this point, the greatest accomplishment in his life.

Mark sighed. Again.

He looked up, and noticed that their was a balcony above him, and a shadowy figure up there as well. ... This was the rooftop. The only suites above it were the presidential ones -- the top-dollar ones that had been bought out by Facebook execs. Mark's brows furrowed in concentration -- his curiosity piqued, as he rose to his feet. Now, that was a good distraction. He heard that there was one guy -- some businessman or whatever -- that took up the only penthouse suite that wasn't Facebook. The stranger had to know about the party -- half the people in the hotel were invited ( there had been a bouncer at the line to filter the potential new guests ), since, after all, Four Seasons had to serve all its patrons. It didn't make sense that there was a filthy rich guy that was left alone. Mark found that to be extremely peculiar.

He squinted his eyes, unable to see the man's face -- yes, he was male. And he had to be a real social retard or generic wierdo to not want to join in. But Mark thought of himself as lucky -- perhaps a fellow lonely billionaire who lost his best friend to the cutthroat world of business, to commiserate with? An extremely pathetic side of him longed for some sort of reassurance of his genius, and something to dispel his feelings of guilt (?) -- or at least, distract him.

"Hey. There's a huge party going on by the pool. What're you doing up there?" Mark called up, not revealing anything about himself -- after all, he wanted a faintly interesting answer.




YOU HAVE PART OF MY ATTENTION ─── YOU HAVE THE MINIMUM AMOUNT.

[aul lucre]

xxxx

《I x WATCHED x❊ xTHE xSUN xRISE》
xxxxx■■xxxx i watched the proverbial sunrise over the pacific

──────────────────────────────xx〔 ♚!♚ 〕
STOP XXXX RIGHT XXXXTHERE XXXXTHAT'S XXXXEXACTLYXXXX WHERE XXXXI XXXXLOSTXXXX IT
SEE THAT LINE? XXX WELL I SHOULDN`T HAVE CROSSED IT
I NEVER SAID THAT'S THE VERY MOMENT I WISH I COULD TAKE BACK

￫⋮ KEIZERCARRERA

"You've been an incredibly busy man, Mr. Carrera."

"I like to keep busy."

Peter arched a brow, like a father on the brink of becoming irritated. "That you do, Mr. Carrera, that you do."

Keizer allowed his lips to curl upward, in a manner denoting agreement, though his eyes betrayed an uncharacteristic uncertainty. Saint Peter continued to stare at the extremely long scroll the stretched all the way to the ground, which was only getting longer as the seemingly never-ending ink in Heaven's printer kept magically appearing every second. Saint Peter was a clean-shaven man in his late forties, wearing a crisp suit, and every graying hair was held together perfectly. He stroked his stubble as he wiggled his bare toes, which were connected to his bare feet, which he had so elegantly propped up on the gigantic desk, with his gigantic computer and floating keyboard.

Heaven's door, apparently, took the form of a large office building, which never seemed to touch the ground. Peter was strangely, always available -- perhaps there were copies of the great saint going around? Keizer was intrigued, and would like to have asked about the inner workings of the divine, but that had to take a back seat to the eternal fate of his soul. The young spirit watched Heaven's admission officer carefully -- the man betrayed very little, except he nodded intermittently, raised a brow, glanced at Keizer dully, and continued reading. That went on for about ten minutes, before Saint Peter hit a key, and the printer stopped printing. "Well," he remarked shortly, "your life has been very eventful, Mr. Carrera."

"So I've been told," replied the golden-haired ex-con glibly, "and please, call me Keizer."

Peter gave an acknowledging snort at this, "Smooth talker, you are. Definitely see that quarter Italian in you."

"Flattered."

Saint Peter allowed himself an amused smile, and looked like he was about to say something, before his cellphone rang. He held up a finger, and Keizer nodded politely; the saint turned around on his swiveling chair, and Keizer immediately leaned forward to glean some darkly appealing intel.

"What do you want, Bub? ... No. Not an option. Bub -- listen to me. What? That's absolutely -- " he paused. Keizer's mind raced, as his eyes widened conspiratorially. This was interesting -- screw the fate of his soul! "Okay ... " Peter seemed to scowl on the other side of the chair, "but this remains confidential. And I gotta go deal with him now. Bye, Bub." Keizer felt a cold hand stroke his spine at this new revelation -- secret dealings behind the Heavenly Father's back? ... What the hell. Well, he supposed, even saints weren't perfect.

"Nobody's perfect -- except the Holy Father, of course," Saint Peter replied to Keizer's thought, earning him a look of genuine embarrassment from the seemingly unflappable young adult. "And seeing as you're absolutely dying to know what that was about, " this time Keizer held a deadpan, "I'll enlighten you. That was Beelzebub on the line."

"Pardon?"

"Yep, you heard me correctly. Hell's number two was asking for you, Keizer." Keizer failed to remain calm at that -- he was ******** going to Hell? "Calm down, and try to clean up your thoughts, young man, because you are not going to Hell -- at least, not definitely." Keizer's brows furrowed, not in the least reassured. Peter sighed again, removed his feet ( God, this was getting serious now ), and leaned forward, neatly interlocking his fingers. "You see, your case is a very interesting one. Hmm, normally, if you hadn't gotten rid of that bomb at the last second by sacrificing yourself, you would've just had to serve some time in the Tunnels, some mining work, until you collected enough to give yourself a shot at reincarnation. But that last deed ... hmm, you see, your 'karma', shall we say, balance is at a perfect zero." Peter let out another long breath, before leaning back in his chair, and massaged his temples, as if he was having a headache. "We can't just reincarnate you -- no, Beelzebub would be quite unhappy, and our little agreement -- which, by the way, has averted many wars -- will be off. No, you need to fix this, Keizer, what you started."

Keizer quirked a brow at this -- a proposition? To go back to Earth? Hmm, could be fun. As a child, he never gave much thought to the afterlife (perhaps why he was in his dilemma right now) ; he simply marked it off as quite dull. Was he going to have superpowers? Something money generation or metal manipulation would be a~ma~zing. ... But of course, he'd probably have to give to charity ... judging from the way Peter was looking at him right now. "How would I do that?"

"Easily -- well, actually, not so much. But I believe it'll be fun for you; you like puzzles -- especially when people are concerned." Keizer's eyes flashed wolfishly, and he consciously stopped himself from smiling too much. Peter looked at him, digressing: he was right, as usual. "Remember Mr. Weston? The man you and your accomplice, Mr. Mulch, so shamelessly defrauded a few years ago?" Oh God, thought Keizer, now realizing that the Holy Father existed, please please please do not make me track down that art collection! It's all over the world, and people are so dreadfully attached! And most of all, please do not make me U-Haul over everything and deliver a personal apology!

"... While that is a very interesting suggestion, Key -- is it alright if I call you that? -- I'm afraid that won't be possible: Mr. Weston is dead."

Thank you, Father! I promise to attend Mass from now on! " How terrible," Keizer remarked sympathetically, frowning. Peter gave him an unmoved, knowing, stare.

"However, his will be much more difficult to deal with; as in, when you meet him, you will much rather be hunting Caravaggios and Manets, trying to pry them out of the fingers of crime lords and American lawyers."

At that point, Keizer couldn't help himself: he laughed at the implication. " Saint Peter, with all due respect, sir, did you truly suggest that some rich bloke is more messed up than me?" When he got a hold of himself, he raised an eyebrow dubiously, eyeing the saint with genuine disbelief. Peter actually seriously considered it for a moment.

"Yes, I believe so. By a hair's margin." Peter smiled humorlessly. Keizer snorted softly, still unconvinced. "But anyway, let's just say he didn't die a natural death, and we'd like you to --"

"Wait. Stop. Why don't you just tell me who the killer is, and then bring the man to justice simply?" Keizer interrupted, already sensing the task at hand.

"Ah," Peter smiled wryly, a hint of mischief in the old saint's eyes, "but that would be too easy. You wouldn't be doing anything to earn a place, redeem yourself, and tip the scales in your favor. But not only that, I'd like you to ... help, this misguided young heir, whom I'm sure you could find many traits of yourself in, my dear Keizer." With that, he reached into his desk, took out a slip of paper, and quickly scribbling a note. Keizer looked dejected: helping angsty rich snobs, not his alcohol-infused cup of English tea. "As soon as you're back on Earth, you'll be heading to his address. Before you arrive, I suggest you get a nice bespoke suit, and a quiff would look quite charming on you."

"What--! "

Keizer's scream quickly faded out, as the ground beneath him suddenly vanished, and he felt himself sail through time and space at a frightening speed.


∗∗∗

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ＣＨＥＬＳＥＡ，　ＢＲＯＭＰＴＯＮ　ＳＷ３
ＬＯＮＤＯＮ，　ＥＮＧＬＡＮＤ


That was all the paper said. Presumably, that was the address of the rich guy, and whose house he was supposed to show up to in a very nice suit, and probably would be advisable to bring a mourning gift to. Keizer's brows raised at the very impressive, gilded, address: SW3, situated nicely between Chelsea and Brompton, it was notoriously the most expensive postal code in the UK, and the average house price was 1.49 million pounds. Keizer's mouth watered at the thought of such money, and now, he was a bit more excited at having to deal with a potential Royal Cousin or something of the same social status.

Hey, if it all worked out, he could have a very, very, nice paycheck.

And thinking of "paycheck", Keizer instinctively dug into his pockets, and found only a wallet ( no phone, goddammit! ), with an ID, license, passport, and credit card. No cash. Keizer frowned at the prospect, but found a nearby ATM to check to see if he could at least withdraw a pounds or so for a taxi to his destination. What he found, instead, caused his jaw to drop: so many lovely little zeroes. Instinctively, he grinned, and when he turned around, he found it extremely difficult to relax his cheeks! Expensive suit? No problem? He could buy a property next to the one he was supposed to be working at with that type of money! Ah, being ( un ) dead had its perks! Glancing around, Keizer immediately identified his location: Kingsroad, lad, Peter had some taste. Being in one of the most popular shopping districts in London, Keizer would have no problem looking the brief.

With that, he entered the nearest Giorgio Armani, was fussed over by an elderly female sales rep and a tailor, until he suddenly realized that they were talking about alterations to make everything fit "perfectly", informed the two that he was in "a desperate rush" to go to his "cousin's wedding" in "thirty minutes", and would buy whatever fit and looked decent. Immediately, the two sprinted and Keizer found fabric being tossed at him before he could even look in the mirror, and simply purchased one that he was told he looked good in, and left. Next, he decided that Saint Peter was someone very important to have on his side, so he went to the barber's, tipped spectacularly, and got a quiff, as he was advised to. Buying spending on a couple thousand dollars was a pity when one had a balance so large, so, in the spur of the moment, Keizer strode into a nearby luxury car dealership, asked for the best Rolls the guys had, and dumped an inordinate sum of money on a Phantom Coupé, complimented the salesman on the "brilliant" service, and promised to be back soon for a Drophead version. When he left, the entire staff lined up and bade him farewell.

Good God, it was wonderful to be rich.

If Keizer had known the perks of being dead, he would've gotten himself killed much sooner. The British ex-criminal was driving off to the address, when he realized that he should not show up empty-handed, and dropped by a chic luxury retailer, and picked up some little amenities that he himself would like to receive if a family member had died and left him a Swiss bank account: a giant bottle overpriced, extremely alcoholic Russian vodka ( oh wait, did Peter say this guy had a drinking problem? Oh well ), some Cuban cigars, a few cans caviar, and a few crackers to spread the caviar on.

Perfectly respectable gifts in tow, Keizer Carrera drove off, shoved a pair of shades up the bridge of his nose, and gained quite a few stares as he pulled into the very long, very well-maintained driveway into the rose-adorned mansion at 1331 Gilston Road. He was questioned by a butler, who admitted him under the name "Mr. Edmond", after pocketing fifty pounds. Keizer was surprised to find that there seemed to be a little "mourning" soiree going on on the lawn, and studied a few of the women's hats, and pondered how the ladies balanced such cumbersome devices on their heads, as he parked in a sea of Mercedes, Lamborghinis, and Bentleys.

He smiled at a few young women, nodded at some of the men, and even introduced himself as the son of one of Mr. Weston's business partners, who had "greatly admired" the man, and shared his "passion in art", a comment Keizer simply couldn't help but make, snickering inwardly. A waiter handed him a glass of champagne, which he routinely emptied in the Venus -statue fountain, but kept the glass, deciding that he would give a toast when he met Weston's heir.

Whom, speaking of, was completely absent.

How rude. As patient as he was, Keizer was eager to seal the Heaven deal, and he was simply dying to see what was in the mansion. So, discreetly, he climbed up to a third floor-balcony via some very well-trimmed trees, threw his gift bag in first, then landed neatly inside an opulent bedroom, with many gold furniture, thread, and various other unnecessary objects. His targeted room was deliberate: usually, lords liked to have a study, something in the cellar, and put their master bedrooms up high, but a the very end of a hall. Almost immediately, he began digging around; he booted up the computer, threw open the closet, tossed pillows onto the ground, and noticed a great deal of liquor in many crevices.

You sure liked a drink every now and then, don't you? Keizer thought snidely, as he discarded a few empty bottles that were simply getting in the way. He scoured the very large room for any hint of sentiment -- likely, the murderer was in Weston's circle, or even more likely, his family. However he found absolutely none -- until he was in the bathroom, and found a tiny, broken, little frame, with an extremely old, worn,photograph inside. The colors were faded, the paper looked like it was decaying -- but most importantly, Keizer stood absolutely still as he observed the image of two young boys, whom he first thought may have been Weston's sons, but almost dropped as his breath caught in his throat.

One of the boys was him. At about ... what, eleven years old?

The other one was ... painfully familiar. They were smiling cheekily -- with a hint of snarkiness, self-importance, and seemed to be enjoying themselves. Who is that? Keizer pressed himself, squeezing his eyes shut. This was just too weird! Was Weston some kind of *****? Why him? Why find childhood pictures of the man who had essentially stolen his priceless gallery? If anything, there should be at least a few knives and bullet holes in his picture! But no, it was ... just, old. Preserved in a rather nice, antique, frame at that. But most importantly, who was the other kid in the picture? Keizer's hand snaked into his hair, then massaged his temples. The task at hand seemed to dissipate, as the identity of the mysterious boy was the only thing occupying him.

Perhaps that was why he didn't noticed when the door creaked open.

_______ ●_______ ● _______ ●

Ｉ＇Ｍ　ＳＯＲＲＹ　ＦＯＲ　ＴＨＥ　ＰＥＲＳＯＮ　Ｉ　ＢＥＣＡＭＥ
XXX I'M SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO CHANGE ❊ I`LL NEVER BECOME THAT WAY AGAINXXX

xxxxxxxxxx

[aul lucre]

♛
LOOKING OUT FROM UNDERNEATH
f r a c t u r e d xxx m o o n l i g h t xxx o n xxx t h e xxx s e a*



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Varese Skriver was the last girl you'd expect on a reality show.

No, it wasn't simply that she was on the quiet side, polite, not prone to violent assaults on random middle-aged women who insulted her promiscuity and inclination for gossip, nor was it the fact that she wore no makeup, was hardly the type to even interact with too many women, or really, created much interest. She was, to put it bluntly, a very dull person. Oh, and she was pretty smart -- like, not simply intelligent in the way that 'mature young women' should be, but please, the bare minimum-type of intelligence that was paramount for the child of a Nobel Laureate, to be even taken seriously.

Sadly, a lifetime's worth of disappointment, form herself and others, had lead to the surefire conclusion that she was no genius. It was fairly conclusive to say she'd never rival the greatness of her father, the Danish science juggernaut, or even her mother, an acclaimed Italian-born evolutionary biologist. Most likely, she'd be a good professor at maybe an Ivy League university, with noteworthy ( never extraordinary ) accomplishments, and a very nice home in the suburbs with a respectable, brilliant, man. Varese had long resigned to her fate, and was contented with being the good daughter, and simply living her life, doing what she liked, on a paycheck that allowed her to buy all the best, most exotic fruits, and further her smoothie-making hobby. Hey, maybe someday she'd branch into business and seek recognition that way.

It was a while since the young woman felt any real "passion" for science, or, for anything except smoothies, but her natural logical ability was far above average, and she was not going to waste a scholarship to best university in Germany -- something that her father's existence more or less guaranteed. Her father also afforded her the privilege of being hired in any lab, any university, and the ability to sail through the ranks. Varese may have once felt shame at the fact that her pedigree was responsible for most of the opportunities in life, but after years of trying futilely trying to fight it, she had grown to accept it was a mere fact of life; she knew her own capabilities, and that ought to be enough. Except it wasn't. Once she had enough money, she'd retire, go into business, and possibly make herself remarkable outside the presence of her parents.

So, when an odd opportunity came along that allowed the Nobel Child to become a distinct entity ( though the only reason was even distinguished enough was because of who her father was, so technically, it was still because of him ), Varese had to genuinely consider it. Apparently, some TV people wanted to document the lives of "born-rich" kids of businessmen, celebrities, and various luminaries about the world, and possibly bring some depth into their privileged lives. And of course, anything where the enviable "glamour" was shown was bound to bring ratings. The pay was also incredible -- noticeably enough capital to start a business. Varese, however, hated, media. It was something she seemed to have inherited from her parents -- absolutely no commentary of any kind on public television, unless it was in association with the National Geographic or History channels, whom were less interested in their personal lives, and much more in their professional opinions.

According to her father, people needed to live their lives, and pursue their own goals, and care only about those around them, and their families. Anything to do with the cult of 'celebrity', he said, was the pitiful part of human nature, and was thoroughly uninterested in it. Varese wholeheartedly agreed ( perhaps more because of her admiration for the man, which, when she was a kid, blinding ), and usually rejected all interviews without even thinking. The money on this offer, however, was ... tempting, to say the least. And secretly, there was a part of her that longed to see the world of "normal" nineteen-twenty-year-olds, with the parties, the clubs, and ... oh God, fine, the glamour.

So, Dad be damned -- he owed her to acceptance of one act of rebellion.



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The island, however, was not mentioned anywhere in the documents -- which she had thoroughly read before signing.

Glancing around, Varese felt herself panic, as she could see nothing in sight for miles on end, except an ocean to the north, huge forests and a giant mountain range to the south, east, and west. Beneath her feet, she could feel the moist sand which she hadn't experienced for a very, very long time, since her last trip to California -- but this, most certainly, was not Cali.

"Oh my god ..." she breathed, forcing herself to calm down. What the hell was going on? She searched furiously as she strained to remember the events of the past twenty-four hours: she got on a private jet ( very nice touch, producers ), and there were a couple other kids ... no, wait, five other people. She chatted up one of the guys -- ugh, what was his name? ... Er, it was Arabic or something. He seemed very interesting -- very industrious, and business-like, she recalled. There was a girl she recognized straight off the bat as a "scandalous" socialite already with her own reality show; Varese recalled being ready to jump off the plane at the sight of her: this was not the type of people she was going to be associated with!

Then came the lunch ... there was champagne (?), and some food ... ummm ... pasta. And then she took a nap, good food, surprisingly interesting company, and a long flight, so it was natural.

[********]

It was about then Varese remembered she was still lying down on the beach, the wet sand in her dark hair, and she scowled, as she scrambled to her feet, glancing around furiously, and only re-affirming her earlier observations. This time, however, she noticed a couple other bodies scatttered about -- the people she had met on the plane! Those ... her fellow cast-mates for that "documentary"! "Guys... get up!" she yelled, the urgency in her tone apparent. Varese felt heart pound furiously, as she grabbed some random dude she didn't remember talking to, and began shaking him fervently.

Oh no. No. Varese's heart clenched, as she reached a panicked, then-seemingly-logical conclusion: they were all kidnapped to be held for ransom! Of course, it made absolute sense! Wealthy youngsters, nothing in their pockets, deserted island perfect for monitoring, and absolutely no food or resources! Their parents would be given a few days to, before they all died of starvation/dehydration! It would be slow, painful ... of course they were going to pay!

Then another thought struck the Nobel Laureate's daughter.

Starvation, dehydration ...? Wait. The island was ... she looked back, her eyes still wide in fear; it was lush. They could perhaps obtain some edible grasses ( of which Varese knew a bit about ), filter their own urine ( disgusting, but necessary ), maybe even find some fruit! Yes, in an island like this, it was physically possible to live long and survive. ... Exactly. If this was truly a ransom scheme, there should be captors to take photographs of them, in chains, desperate, begging to be free! (Admittedly, Varese watched many action-thrillers.)

Nothing made sense. It wasn't a plane crash, because nobody had any visible injuries, there was no debris ... hell, Varese wished it was a wreck. At least, she could do something with a radio. Now, there was absolutely no ... ********. Just ... ********, why didn't she listen to her father?

"Hey guys!" A voice suddenly began blasting through the island, and Varese instantly spun around in shock. There was no one in sight, as a sting of fear struck her. Oh God ... was she already getting auditory hallucinations? "This is Brett Parker, your host! And welcome this is 'Everything You Wanted', a survival-game show, where, you guys, the contestants, will be faced with a series of tropical-island challenges every week, and attempt to survive cohesively! Every week, if successful, you'll be given a clue to the location of a radio that will be your way out of this very gorgeous, colorful, hellhole! Now, now, I'll give you some time to get acquainted with one another. For all our viewers, feel free to vote now for who you'll think will be the first contestant 'eliminated'!"

Varese stood in stunned silence, as she looked back at her equally shocked cast, mouth open but completely unable to speak.

" W - w - what the ...! S - seriously?"



AND IT`S BREAKINGOVER ME A THOUSAND MILES ON THE SEA BED
FOUND THE PLACE TO REST MY HEAD
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xxx xxxx never let ❋ me go.

[aul lucre]

♚ 时间之箭还指出，你回到地方后失去
xxxx you will go forward !── that`s all.
BUT IN THE END YOU'LL NEED TO GET USED TO SURRENDERING

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She looked like a madwoman -- she knew she had to. Thank God the stranger she just encountered was even more ... off his rocker? Considering the tall man before her hadn't just coughed, offered to call someone for her, and quickly scurried off in the opposite direction, Victory supposed that may have been a good thing. She felt his hands on her shoulders, and blinked slightly at the gesture -- he was trying to calm her down.The blond-haired man's reaction -- or lack thereof -- actually did, however, allow for Victory to calm down. The young woman's breathing went back to a regular calm, and she managed tug her lips into a polite smile, even. God dammit, she was going to work for the nation's most powerful law firm in the hopefully near future, she was attending the finest college in the world, and here she was, talking about ghosts and spirits and the like! Unacceptable, just -- so not Victory.

Victory simply nodded dumbly along with what the man said -- clearly, he was a professional, and seemed to have seen such things before; she was not collected enough to speak. However, she noted, with his smart suit, dark-rimmed glasses, fine shoes, and classic European features, he could've easily been mistaken for an attorney. Then the man started talking: had she seen apparitions before? Where? Wow, thought Victory. That definitely dispelled any lawyer facade the man may have presented. That also dispelled the image Victory had of the arch typical mortician: grounded, Puritanical, jaded, and completely immune to any illusions of the supernatural, after all, wouldn't they go crazy around the dead people? That seemed logical. The man before her was probably just an exception -- logic was logic, after all.

"But how would you explain this? There's only two explanations I can see for this -- a.) someone broke this window or b.) something possibly supernatural happening." How professional, thought Victory sarcastically, though taking note of a slight accent in his voice. It seemed European -- like, French or Italian. However, it definitely sounded very sophisticated, and piqued the interest of the young woman. Soon, they were interrupted by a frumpy older gentlemen, who fit Victory's image of the classic funeral director than the stranger.

"Who did this? Did you see who did this, William? Now I'm gonna have to go to the Home Depot and grab some wood to cover this up with. Ugh -- that's not gonna look professtional at all. Find out who did this and maybe I'll give ya a raise, Will." Even more professional, thought Victory; wood, seriously? Now she was definitely not gonna let any of her friends get buried here. Victory doubted the man realized she was there -- did she really look that disoriented? Self-consciously, Victory smoothed her dress, and ran a hand through her ebony locks to adjust. As soon as the elder man left, she turned her attention back to the man -- William, or Will. She decided on "William", because the man's boss had used the nickname offensively, and Victory didn't plan on being rude to someone who had been so kind to her. Despite the fact that Victory rolled her eyes at most spirituals, the fact that the man didn't find her crazy was comforting. "Come on, I need more infomation onto what happened -- maybe that'll help us find out what or who did this." Victory nodded. She couldn't go back in peace and sleep at night if she didn't find the b*****d that was behind this prank (because that was definitely what had happened), and get the funeral home to sue the ******** a**. Yes, that was what anyone who tried something like that was instantly branded; Victory was quite spiteful.

She noticed the European flash a smile at her, and reflexively smiled back, although more somber. It was comforting to have someone with her right now; Victory would've probably been cold and dead as a statue, internalizing the trauma, until it blew up if he hadn't showed. "I -- I'm very sorry about that, sir -- may I call you William?" she apologized in a surprisingly placid tone -- the product of years of public speaking, mock trials, and debate. "My name's Victory Cantor, and it's a pleasure to meet you, although I'd prefer it be under other circumstances." She let out a try chuckle -- hmm, that was failure at humor. Victory could be charming, sometimes, when she was "feeling it". The law student reached into her clutch, and pulled out a business card, and handed it to him. It was simple, it said her major, and the firm she worked for -- she may have been a mere intern, but still, Victory liked to think of herself as a pro. The raven gingerly stepped closer to the glass, as if something was ready to jump out at her.

"I don't have a history of hallucinations, or any other mental disease for that matter -- okay, maybe egomania, but it's not that bad. I mean, the work at school is pretty much like drinking fire out of a hose, so trust me, I wouldn't have any time to see 'spirits' if I wanted to." Victory picked up a shard of glass. "I saw an image of human skull -- well, human, I think -- through this window, then all of a sudden, it exploded, and I saw these ... I dunno, ghostly images of the men hanging from the tress over there." She pointed to a large oak tree outside, which added to the scenic beauty of the East Hamptons. Victory narrowed her eyes, at the shard of red glass, as it suddenly began rubbing off on her fingers -- a red liquid. Her eyes widened again, but this time, she managed to control herself. The same finger of ice stroked her spine, as she slowly held up her hand to William.

A drop of red trickled down, as Victory dropped the shard. It smelled distinctively of iron -- an element in blood.

"Oh my god ..." she breathed; it wasn't her own, for sure, her voice was soft, slow.

"MRRRROW!" Abruptly, Victory spun around, as she heard the shriek of a cat, and was still for a moment, before looking at William, and darting off in the direction, turning the corner as fast as she could in heels, and stopping in horror for a moment, as she found the carcass of a cat -- notably, with its insides ripped out. Victory slowly approached the creature, wincing slightly at the sight. Her stomach was strong enough to not feel sick, but she was stunned by the sheer cruelty of the act. Hmm, that ******** was gonna have more charges than property damage now. Victory felt a wave of sorrow wash over her, as her eyes glazed over the corpse: it was shriveled, the face a contortion of pain, and it strangely seemed almost two - dimensional, hollow. Holding the non-bloodied hand to her mouth, Victory knelt and flipped the cat over, and gaped when saw that all the organs spilled out, and there was nothing inside.There were patches of fur and blood on the carpet, but the bones and the a good deal of blood seemed to be gone.

"Ohymgod ... I can't believe .... " Victory repeated, peering up at the morgue professional -- he had to have seen this before, and she looked to him for some sort of explanation. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Victory saw something flash. Immediately, she was up on her feet again and pointed. "There! It's over there!" Instantly, she ran after the interloper, her hand latching onto William's wrist, and dragging the man with her. In her high school years, Victory had swam and run track ( hundred meter dash ), partially to keep herself healthy and in shape, partially for the competitive edge and endurance it gave her. But she kicked off her irritating footwear as soon as possible, while hopping down the halls as she pulled them off, trying not to lose momentum (thankfully, there was carpet), and trying furiously to keep up with the crazy a**-vandal on the loose Of course her heart was beating! But she wasn't about to let this person escape -- it was partially fear, partially an emotional high that created a sudden burst of adrenaline, but at least she had a six foot something crazy European guy who knew how to cut stuff open!

The shadowy figure didn't seem to know his way around too well, as Victory always somehow managed to keep glimpses in her field of vision, and charge until she heard a knob click, a hinge swing, and before long, she was in a doorway which the mysterious trespasser had probably mistaken for an exit. They were in a large with a bunch of caskets strewn out on floors, candles, and urns. Oh god, thought Victory, the dead bodies storage unit! Just her luck. "Hey --! " Victory froze, as her heart suddenly gave a loud beat, and she felt her stomach churn.

Before her was the most disgusting creature she had seen in her life. It was a skeletal hybrid between a cat and a seal, but it had long, spidery, human-like legs, crouched on all fours, and had giant sacs growing off the side of its inflated cheekbones -- possibly for some sort of storage. It was stained with blood, and when it saw the two humans walk in, it began shrieking-- a loud, high-pitched, terrifying sound. Victory felt like screaming, but she coudn't; she was petrified. That thing looked very, very, dangerous, and she was armed with ... a clutch, and a pair fo somewhat lethal women's shoes.

[aul lucre]

RULE!THATSOMEONEMADE ♚
외쳐봐! 나는 세상에서 제일 아름답다
MOVE!YOUGOTTATURNAROUNDANDWALK
I WON`T BE SATISFIED BEING TRAPPED HERE FOREVER

After I had had my fun with Gom, I smirked and nodded at the fans, as if to thank them for their amusement. I glanced over at Gom for a second, flashing what I was told was an "evil" smirk. He was just too fun too mess with --- Wait. What was going on? I squinted, and I noticed a light glossy film over his eyes. His face seemed stiff, and he remained almost stoical. Hey, stoic was my thing. But seriously; what the hell was up with our maknae? I felt my brows knit slightly, as I stared at him, then reminded myself that the camera was still on, and kept my face controlled the best I could -- after all, tension would only bring a storm of more of those media bitches. I felt stomach twist in that sick way, and wondered at this inexplicable problem, it really wrenched at me like the hideous claws of some hideous beast -- could it be that I really hurt him ...? I mean, he should be used to it by now --- we've known each other for nearly a year! This isn't like, the first jab I'm thrown at him ... hell, don't tell me he always reacts like this! ... Does he --

"Okay, okay. Umm... I'll have to go with Kyung. "

I made a jolt, as I heard my name, and a series of shrill screams from the fans. I almost jumped from my seat, as what I'm sure was a blank expression crossed my face, which was quickly replaced by a look of forced amusement, as my face met the plastered smile of Yeo Jae Hwa. Damn, that Yeo-yo. I tried to make the corners of my mouth even as possible, though I was seriously freaked out and confused. Why did Yeo-yo choose me? We fought more than cats and dogs combined! There was no way that whole love-hate s**t could apply to us --

"Everyone in the group is great and its an honor to work with them but, honestly, Kyung inspires me the most. Especially when he dances. Seeing him could inspire just about anyone!"

Ouch. I suppressed a wince, though my left cheep muscles wrenched upward a bit, reflexively, and I prayed that the cameras were busy getting shots of Jin's "drop-dead gorgeous" face too pay too much film on me. My face felt like was going to burn, as I faced at the looks of the squealing fans who probably didn't know anything -- I was all thankful all of a sudden, but my gut ached knowing the truth: my dancing sucked s**t. I glared at Jae the best I could under the glare, but I didn't feel any of that razor-sharp intensity that I tried convey. I felt something gnawing at my innards ... my face stiffened, and I suddenly felt super-conscious of everything around me. I swallowed, and I hoped none of the fans noticed it. Dancing was my biggest weakness; it was my Achilles heel -- but worse, it really hindered our performance, and I was always dragging everyone one .... dammit, why was I always disappointing someone, sometime?

Then, that Yeo-yo pushed it really off the edge. My eyes looked right into his, caught a whiff of his orange-dyed hair, when swung two limbs around me -- aah, this is what they called "skinship", right? My eyes widened, and I felt my face burn once again; it was even hotter. I was fixed in place, as the screams of the fangirls yelled various things. They ranged from "kiss him" to just plain gibberish! (Or maybe something just plain obscene, but even I didn't want to hear that.) It took me a few moments to zone back into reality -- that ******** cat! I wanted to get up and run my mouth, but I couldn't. How dare he -- embarrass me like that! He totally shattered my ultra-cool steely public persona, MK, and I was sure this scene was going to be all over the internet soon! I suddenly was totally aware of the lens, all focused on us! I hoped I wasn't too red. I felt Jae's skin slide off against mine, and finally took a breath. Oh my god. There probably were a boatload of girls who would've loved to trade places with me: and I would be so happy to oblige. I gave him a harsh elbowing to let him know my feelings.

"Oh my gosh, oppas! You two are sooooo handsome!" I heard a girl scream. I was too caught up in the heat of recent events to "properly" reply. I looked at my partially-gloved and somewhat ringed fingers, and instantly began plotting my revenge ... that Yeo-yo was going to get it. Hmm, I would have to embarrass him the same way he embarrassed me, right? I also knew he probably hated the moment as much as I had; I mean, Jae was definitely not a bad - looking guy, but that personality ... ugh. But I also didn't want to do anything too ... risqué. Those anti-progressive dumbasses from the South Korean Youth Protection Agency would probably campaign destroy all our careers. Anyway, I wasn't comfortable with that kinda stuff with Yeo-yo, at least.

I had been so caught up in my epic vengeance plot, that I had almost not heard Sunbae's answer. I straightened a bit, and tried my best to do a cool head-turn that sweeped my bangs off the way the cameras like. "Ah well if it was a date I’d probably go with Noah. I feel that Noah, being the oldest, would know how to treat someone properly on a date and I think having a night out that runs smoothly is the way to go.” Tch. Typical Sunbae. Well, that was RHYTHEM'S "King of Hearts", I suppose. Jin - sunbae was definitely your ideal man; it was kinda a pity that he only brought out his joker side in private. I mean, when I met him. I gave a reassuring smile at Jin as he finished. Not that he needed, I'm sure. To be honest, I didn't really think much of him when we first became RHYTHEM. He actually kinda reminded of this p***k I knew from middle school -- Junho. Junho was that perfect guy every girl wanted to be with. Snore. He was rich, "hot", and somewhat smart. I always got into fights with him, because I just enjoyed beating his a** verbally. Unfortunately, that caused my a** to get beat physically. Yeah, not fun. But when I first saw Jin, I equated him with Junho, and was particularly icey to him; I'd simply ignore him, and snort whenever he said something. But one day, I was in the studio, and felt that someone was watching me. Perhaps it was the manager? I began a set of scales as a warmup, then I glanced out of the corner of my eye, and noticed it was "him". Tch, I remember thinking. That guy probably thought he was hot s**t: well, I'd show him, wouldn't I? I instantly launched into the roughest, most energetic song I knew, and sang my throat hoarse, until the sweat dripped down my face. Gotcha, I thought, try beat that. For some reason, I really wanted to impress him -- to force him to be impressed with.

But then he actually gave me that stupid million-watt smile, and gave me a compliment, which, for some reason, I still remember verbatim: You know i figured you're voice was good, but now i realize that it's great, he said. I felt like smiling back at him. I remember just shrugging coolly, and ... something I don't even remember. Probably something real cocky, like "Nothin' much", or whatever. But the next day, he wanted to show me this totally sick rap of his, and asked me if I liked it. Oh my god, I was so jealous. I wish I could rap like that. And from then on, he was truly my sunbae. I really admired him a lot. It's funny, how I really became close friends with a guy who reminded me of the person who was responsible a good deal of my pre-teen angst.

I let Jinyeon and Dong Jin's words pass me by, until I noticed Gom's voice began to make itself present -- and not in its usual falsetto. I felt unsettled by that. "I guess... Noah hyung? My ummagom. He takes care of me really well, and I know he`ll always be there for me ...Like Jin said, he`s really reliable, and I can trust him as a nice date partner. He won`t ever hurt me." I felt a soft sting, as the cold hornet seemed to stroke my spine. My face barely remained stoical, but I almost faltered on any occasions for the rest of the interview. I couldn't believe it. Gom was actually hurt. He had never said something so implicitly, but so damn obvious to me, ever. I chewed my bottom lip, and instantly felt guilty that was plotting revenge against That Cat, when he was truly ... insulted. Hurt. I almost felt bad as Seungho went up -- my umma! He had given some very encouraging gestures before I spoke, and I had felt as if my nerves were calmed. Seungho had a smile that could light up a city. I know that Sunbae was credited as being the most 'princely-charming', but it was Seungho that really made you feel like you had a family .... God. Was I turning into a woman or something, feeling like that? But my real Umma never would make my nerves eased. She had this distant, regal, air, about her. I think telling people that their relatives were going to die made her like that. Yeah, shes' a doctor. But ... between you and me ... Seungho was better.

"If I had to choose though... I'd choose... ... Min Kyunggie-- I mean MK." Wow. That actually commanded a laugh out of me, as I really felt myself blush and sink back into the couch, in a fit of laughter. I was intrigued. I though he would pick Jin -- after all, weren't they like, what? The most popular fan pairing or something? I don't know. But Seungho was the Umma to Sunbae's Appa. The stiff expression from the Gom incident was wiped off my face. Momentarily. I still frowned at Gom, as soon as Seungho was done. I was caught in my thoughts as Jinyeon and Dong Jin concluded the show, the fans were ushered away (though I was sure they all were going to stalk us backstage), and we were ushered off stage by the crew and producers.

"Good work, guys; thank you for doing a good job ...."

"... Uh, anieyo..." I made a half-hearted cursory response. Hell yeah we were working our asses off! I barely caught the words, as we were escorted backstage, into a phalanx of entertainment reporters, cameras, and more screaming fans. s**t. Ten-minute VIP time. My brows knit, as I released a heavy sigh -- how much longer? I was being stalked by cameras this whole day, then at night, and now ... I felt like I was being monitored 24-7 like some sort of North Korean spy. I sighed, as I allowed some of the people from hair and makeup to fix me up, and took a bottle of water to cleanse my throat. "Tch. Let's just get this over with ..." I murmured to whoever was close enough to hear. Immediately, I felt myself being whisked away by some random reporters, who seemed to make me and -- oh pooey -- Yeo-yo, their targets for the day.

"Hey! MK, Hwa-J - ssi, look over here! Vogue Korea! Will you two please pose for some photos?" Our bandmates were similarly surrounded by various other journalists, and all of a sudden, there was a gap between us. ... Dammit! Press tactics! We were more vulnerable separated! I chewed my lip, and forced a smile, pressing myself closer to Yeo-yo, as we went through the motions. I had my face pressed close close to Yeo-yo's ... damn ... and then it hit me.

I had an idea.

I continued to smile like nothing had gone off in my brain, and then realized I was wearing rather thick black motorcycle boots -- good. While keeping my upper body completely statutory, and my lips moving, spewing bullshit that I really had no control over (it's not as if the magazines ever go verbatim), I chose the perfect moment to strike. I swiped a foot cleanly over Jaehwa-ssi's feet as he was moving, causing him to stumble, and fall -- right into my arms.

My eyes widened in fake shock as it happened. All of a sudden, my face was inches away from him, and my lips just barely hovered over his .... I felt the entire crowd of journalists go quiet for a moment, and the fans clamoring behind them were momentarily stunned as well. I could hear us breathe. I smirked ever-so-slightly -- plan was going perfectly. Carefully, I moved two fingers and adjusted his chin to look up right at me. "Hwa -- ssi, mianhamnida." I carefully finessed my words so they came out almost tenderly, as I slowly released him, but not without slowly trailing my hand a bit.

"WAAAAH~!" The fangirls went wild.
Flash! Flash! Flash! The cameras went crazy. I shoved a hand into my hair, abashed -- and it wasn't an act. My palms were sweaty -- geesh, I never even had a girlfriend! I'd gotten burned by all three of the girls I was a nervous wreck, and was taking breaths as well. That was some seriously costly revenge, man .... and I was still flushed. Dammit. Well, that didn't work out flawlessly ... but I'm sure Yeo - yo felt even more ... strongly. I tossed them one last smirk, before walking off before I allowed Yeo-yo to respond. "Ah, excuse me, restroom."

Like hell I needed to piss. What I actually needed to do was set things straight with a friend. I wove my way through the fans almost aggressively shoving some of them off, until I managed to drag myself over to Gom. I looked up at our dear, sweat, maknae, hoping that he would forgive me. I swallowed, suddenly feeling my palms become moist again. I was nervous -- I wasn't used to doing t - this, at all. A reporter lady yelled some mumbo jumbo about getting out of her way or doing a proper smile, but I gave her a quick glare, and looked back at Gom.

"Um ... yeah. So ..." I began, trying to keep my cool. I was miserably failing. My voice dropped to a whisper, and one I hoped didn't sound too lame. Tch. I, Yu Min Kyung, was feeling nervous over a social thing? Wow. What was the world coming to?

"Can I please talk to you ... alone?"



██xxxxxxx ██xxxxxxx ██
XXX외쳐봐 ★ 나는 세상에서 제일 아름답다
XXxxxxxxxXX S C R E A M ! Y O U ` R E TH E M O ST B E A U T I F U L I N T H E W O R L D

[aul lucre]

suzy turquoise blue





suzy turquoise blue.
* JUST ANOTHER GIRL WITH TOO MUCH TIME AND WAY TOO MUCH POWER

THEY SAY A HERO CAN SAVE US ALL, I'M NOT GONNA STAND HERE AND WAIT
I'LL HOLD ONTO THE WINGS OF THE EAGLES, AND FLY, FLY, AWAY

╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼♚♚╼╼╼╼╼╼╼╼

WHAT THE HELL WAS EVERYONE DOING? Blue just didn't get it. Why the ******** was Colton attempting to fight a Lord of the Nether? There was freaking reason nobody tried to banish them! Or even enter the Fifth Ring at that! The Lords of the Nether needed to stay put -- with absolutely no chance for entry into Earth, because if they did, they were gonna be the biggest kids on the playground, and Earth was that playground. Cavares barked panicked orders at her -- fix this? How?! There was no way she could open a portal while running around wildly trying to not get flattened! Blue had seriously ******** up -- that wasn't worth denying, but what the ******** was everyone else doing? Getting themselves killed?

Beatriz answered that question for her.

Blue's eyes widened in horror as the Brazilian was snatched right off the ground while attempting to open a portal, and was now pretty much being strangled by Barakkas the Rager. Colton and Cavares tried in vain to fire off at it to distract it, but they were nothing more than pesky flies to him, and Beatriz was a delicious desert. Gifted were always the most succulent for Nethercreatures to feed off of -- fear alone gave them strength, much less that of someone with a Gift as strong as Beatriz's. The poor girl was screaming by now, and Cavares and Colton's increasingly furious attacks seemed to just bounce of Barakkas like rubber. Blue, not exactly the most stable person in the world, was frozen as she felt her mind shut down on her -- nothing was coming! She was desperate for a way out, for a way out for all of them -- but how?!

"ARE YOU A DOUBLE THREAT OR WHAT?" The facilitator -- Hunter, she caught his name -- yelled suddenly. That only made Blue panic more as her mind spun out of control, zero possible routes out, as she simply ran, whip out, and attempted to lash out at Barakkas like Colton and Cavares -- in her head, she knew it was useless, but she simply threw more and more strength in vain hope that it would do something. She was a double threat, but even they could not banish and open portals at the same time! Blue couldn't think, she could only act -- reflex was her only guide as she darted around like a headless cockroach to avoid being trampled.

Beatriz was screaming by now, as Barakkas's grip only grew tighter, and he was now thoroughly enjoying the helplessness of those beneath him. Blue felt overwhelming waves despair, as she looked up briefly, feeling her muscles and limbs begin to give out on her. How much longer could they hold up? They'd tire out eventually, and Barakkas was just going to enjoy all of them for lunch!

Then, all of a sudden, salvation came as Blue suddenly felt wind in the desert, as her eyes widened as she spun around darting away from another heavy step! THUD! THUD! THUD!

Then utter silence.

"Barakkas! We meet again!"

There was only one word that passed through Blue's open-mouthed shell-shocked mind, as she felt her whole body go cold: Boss. Headmaster Weaver spoke with such ringing loudness and clarity, that he almost sounded as powerful as Barakkas, who had even loosened his grip on Beatriz, as the screams seemed to fade. Weaver himself also looked ten years younger, clad just like any other banisher or nethermancer on a mission: thick denim, combat boots, hardy jacket, and oh -- the freaking ginormous chain scythe that was about six and a half feet in length, with a huge, jagged blade with various holes and seemed to radiate in the flares of Weaver's Gift. The chain was piled up by the most epic headmaster's feet, as he continued, completely undaunted in the face of Barakkas.

"I'm flattered you remember me, Lord Barakkas," spoke Weaver, in a purposely callous tone. He shot Blue a glance, and said, quieter, "Blue. Portal straight back into the Academy -- nowhere else. No matter what, focus on your portal, nothing else matters, understand? And you," Weaver looked at Hunter for a moment, "make sure she is able to do so. No matter what, make sure she is not interrupt -- physically move her if you must, but I want that portal, understood?" With that, Weaver walked forward, and Cavares and Colton seemed to clear the way for him. The Headmaster was seriously unlike anything Blue had ever seen from him before -- he was ready to get down to business.

Barakkas seemed to absorb the newcomer's presence, and, as expected, it made in very, very, angry. So angry, in fact, that he dropped Beatriz, where the well-coordinated Cavares and Colton manage to catch her, and she she landed almost perfectly into Cavares's arms, with Colton for some support. Blue closed her eyes and attempted to pretend nothing was happening. Weaver charged at Barakkas, with a howling battle cry as he swung his scythe out lasso'd his chains and all Blue could hear was the cries of the monster. The ground below her shook as she badly wanted to run, but she trusted Weaver, and refused to break concentration. She could held out her arms as she felt herself collide into Hunter, and forced herself not to run. He'll follow Weaver's orders to the nail! she told herself, feeling herself getting dragged with the growing portal in her arms. Blue positioned herself and reached into the darkness, feeling herself go cold as images zipped past her -- Nightmare Academy, Nightmare Academy ...! She searched the Earth furiously until she found the image.

Sand whipped into her face, and stun her exposed skin, as she could hear Barakkas yell, Colton and Cavares yell, and Hunter -- she didn't even think what the hell was doing. Finally, she saw it: the field, in the images that flashed past, and she opened her eyes, yelling, "GUYS! GET OUT, NOW!" She gripped Hunter by the wrist, being nearby, and dove into the portal, never having been happier to leap headfirst into a portal in her life.


▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ♚ ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬



It was as if the troops had came home from World War II.

Pretty much the entire school was waiting, medical teams on standby, as the party landed on the perfectly maintained lawn, and the cheering was explosive. Blue sunk to the ground, and lay flat on her back in the dewy grass, utterly exhausted, and Colton quickly joined her, crossed his lets, and sat while giving a tired wave to the crowd.

"That was some seriously crazy-a** batshit," he accurately summarized their experience in the Fifth Ring of the Nether. All of them were drenched in sweat, and immediately, Cavares set Beatriz down on a stretcher. For the first time, Blue got a good look at her, and her chest lurched. The beauty was completely, ghastly, pale, from the lack of oxygen, and she seemed unable to speak. Cavares was by her side, brows knit, concern evident on his face at the medics threw a mask on her, and carried her off, Cavares following them. Colton and Blue looked at each other, then looked back after the pair. Holy s**t, thought Blue, her eyes wide at the prospect of scandal. But then again -- she was gonna to be graduating ( though, maybe not considering that Weaver had to go in and save all their asses ), and Cavares and Beatriz would certainly make one hot couple.

Blue then noticed Daria Sorokin standing, perfectly straight and looking immaculate as usual, but her fingers were tightly entwined, she kept biting her lip, and she her face was drawn and stiff as if purposely suppressing some emotion. It was then Blue realized that Weaver still wasn't back, and leaped to her feet immediately, Colton following suit.

Weaver then flew out of the portal in an Olympic-caiber vault-- with a giant hand following him!

"CLOSE THE PORTAL!" Blue instantly obliged, livid, as she allowed the portal to slip from her control, easily closing it -- and cleanly chopping off Barakkas's forearm!

The school screamed and fell silent at the turn of events, and then started cheering again. Barakkas's jeweled bracer glistened in the sunlight, and Blue was astonished at what she had just done: she just cut off a Lord of the Nether's hand, and taken his Artifact! While she had gotten out alive, this was not the end of it! At the thought of that, Blue felt lightheaded, and collapsed on the ground, while Colton energetically cheered and fist-pumped in the air.

Daria Sorokin acted without any regard to her icy image, and threw her arms around Weaver, causing more people to cheer and holler, while Colton's girlfriend ( Blue forgot her name ) and Kim Kardashian look-alike screamed as she hugged him -- and they started making out. Blue looked away at that point. She managed to sit herself up, as the medical crew ushered all of them into the infirmary, where Blue, Colton, Hunter, and Cavares were seated on beds opposite Weaver and Beatriz. Blue's wounds were minor: bruises mainly all over her body, and general exhaustion. Weaver, on the other hand, looked like he had come out of a street fight, where he was up against ten other guys with crowbars, unarmed. He nose was broken, his face completely drenched in blood, clothes all cut up. Beatriz -- almost strangled and suffocated, not great either.

"Alright, I want all of you to take this day off get some rest, and definitely a shower, and I want everyone in my office at seven p.m. sharp-- you too facilitator, good work by the way."

[aul lucre]

aul█ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █

xxxxIT WAS A THOUSAND TO ONE AND A MILLION TO TWO XXX ◦XXXGO DOWN IN FLAMES AND I`M TAKING YOU
AUL LUCRE AUL LUCREAUL LUCREI DON`T REMEMBER A MOMENT I TRIED TO FORGET XXX ◦XXX LOST MYSELF YET I`M BETTER NOT SAD, NOW I`M


❛CLOSER TO ♔ THE EDGE
N O ! x I ` M x N O T x S A Y I N G x I ' M x S O R R Y AULLUCRE M A Y B E x O N E x D A Y x W E ' L L x M E E T x A G A I N


Three weeks. Three cities.

It sounded glamorous; it sounded like the schedule of a millionaire or a movie star, but it was highly unlikely that the aforementioned's reasons for globe-trotting was to escape from some deadly organization that was on your heels. I need to learn to make better decisions, Skander Cardei thought quite appropriately. His life was best defined by bad decisions, laziness, and an overall unwillingness to leave the computer. Ironically, he had no choice but to leave his computer now, for a life of a fugitive from organized crime. He wasn't all that hardcore into the mafia-based movies, and was never one for over-dramatized showiness, but he couldn't help it: being a hacker was appealing to him.

Growing up in a remote town in Romania, three hours outside of Bucharest, Skander's education was poor, but his little village was known for one thing: cybercrime. The overall economic deadbeat and unemployment the community faced coincided with the advent of the internet. The young and poor began looking for their way out of the depressed lifestyle they had grown up with, and pretty soon, Romania became known as a dangerous place to wire your money. So the criminals got clever; they expanded their online empires outside of the country, into other areas of Europe, and finally, overseas. Pretty soon, his his tiny village, luxury car dealerships were springing up, electronics stores emerged, and internet cafes bounced around everywhere. Skander found himself inadvertently attracted to the lifestyle; crime was sexy, but he was never one to handle true danger. Cybercrime was a convenient solution to that, and Skander longed for the money that came from swindling, and working for a scam gang.

He started off small. He was an "arrow" for the Negru Mână, or "the Black Hand", a large online crime organization whose name was as pretentious as it was rich. When he was supposed to go to college in Bucharest, Skander hugged his parents goodbye, went to Bucharest ... and then went straight to the aiport and onto a flight to Munich. After a while of boring, repetitive, money-collecting, Skander decided to go off on his own and scam a few more people, with his phony auction sites, and quickly became bored. On his own time, Skander worked on a device to steal credit card numbers using wi-fi, and presented his discovery to the leader of Negru Mână, Romulo Chita. Chita was impressed, and Skander was quickly promoted. Of course, the higher he climbed, the more dangerous the tasks were, and the bigger the payoffs. Pretty soon, Skander had rolled out of control in his own life, and constantly on the run from government officials. He was dead and ******** sick of it. He was miserable, and he began regretting ever giving up university for such a life.

Of course, getting out was a lot harder than getting in. Quitting was no an option, and Skander was terrified beyond belief when one of Chita's goons pointed a gun to his head and told him to wire over the money he had swindled immediately. However, Chita had made a mistake in actually letting him run without surveillance. The threat that been in the nail in the coffin of Skander's decision to quit.For the next few weeks, Skander bought a ticket to Paris, and anonymously tipped off Interpol -- he wanted to destroy them. After a warehouse raid, and a ton of arrests, Skander was dismayed to find that Chita and a good deal of his top informants had gotten away. The Romanian knew he had it in for him, and it was time to disappear; however, Chita had made that difficult. For the past three weeks, Skander narrowly dodged a hitman, and was on a path to perdition if they ever caught him.

But now was his chance to blend in in a city of millions. Moscow was the perfect place to do so -- he looked just like another one of the Russians, and he had managed to lose the hitman in Jakarta for long enough, bought himself a fake ID and passport, and now, he was ready to start a new life for himself.

"Mr. Luca ... you're Romanian?" The interviewer raised a brow.

"Yes, sir, from Bucharest."

"Oh? A fellow countryman then. And you went to the University of Bucharest? Majored in Engineering and Information Technology? "

"Yes, sir."

"Class of '47?"

"Yes, sir." This was getting a little specific, noted Skander during his mechanical recitation.

"Bullshit." The interviewer slammed the resume hard on the table. The Romanian was momentarily stunned, as he looked up as the other man rose to his feet. Unbelievable, thought Skander, this was the first time he had ever been caught. He simply didn't understand how -- he'd provided everything in his file; he made sure all the seals were correct, there were absolutely no holes --

"Do you know how I know, 'Mr. Luca'? I graduated that exact year, in that department, and even though I did not know everyone, you, I am certain, was not in the class, because you're previously claimed you graduated Magna c** Laude -- those, I all knew." What the hell were the chances of that? Meeting someone in Russia who graduated from Bucharest? Skander was dumbfounded at the sheer bad luck and improbability of that! He got up and sighed.

"I'm sorry about that, but ... " He trailed off, not sure how to continue. He wanted the job; it was the perfect cover: a nobody in a giant corporation in a giant city.

"It's a pity, you were quite talented. We would've hired you on the spot." Skander froze. He sat back down in his chair, and hesitated for a moment.

"Please -- I -- I need this job. Here, how about I prove I've got what it takes?" Before the elder could respond, Skander extracted a laptop out of his backpack, and opened it to the company website. He didn't want to resort to such measures, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "Watch me shut it down." And with that -- and a few rapid keystrokes -- Skander had seized control of thousands of computers globally he had slowly gained control over in his scams, and furiously concentrated all traffic onto the website, overloading the servers with automated requests and actions until it could handle no more. Skander waited a few minutes, and refreshed the page, which was now blank and displayed an error message: Error: Cannot process any requests at the moment. Please try again later. Skander couldn't help the smirk that now danced on the corners of his lips -- the facade of the mild-mannered IT tech applicant slowly peeling away.

The interviewer was barely hanging on to his professional mien. He glared at the computer, and sputtered, "You're ... this is illegal." He scowled for a moment. "Get it back up this instant, before I call the police," he bristled, and fixed his tie. Skander nodded somberly, and obeyed, releasing the computers with another few presses. The inteviwer was clearly annoyed, but he pulled out his cellphone.

"I'm going to call management."