Persecution

We have no idea what they want, but they'll do terrible things to get it.

They first came trickling in, a couple at a time, strange behavior and aggressive eyes, an overall eerie phenomenon. The news reports shared disturbing events of family violence and mysterious disappearances, but after a while, the newscasters started vanishing one by one, and then the sponsors and the camera crews, and then nobody got the news anymore. Everybody began to disappear, and when they reappeared, they weren't the same.

The first one of us to get infected was my younger sister. She was sixteen - an already volatile age - and was known around the neighborhood watch for how loud and pointlessly she could scream. She didn't have a chance. It wasn't when she started having night terrors, nor when she started having blackouts and memory loss, but when she fell into a perfect and complacent silence that my parents questioned the falsity of her condition. They took her to a doctor, but by then it was too late. Her eyes had glazed over with rage, and then my parents got it too.

You might ask how I managed to escape, and I would answer that because, despite my age of nineteen, maybe twenty now, and despite my sex, invariably female, I am known to be what normality used to call a "gamer", though only partially, as I have not been thoroughly educated in this area of entertainment. However, I do enjoy video games, with a preference for those of thrilling and high-anxiety situations, and some of my favorites consisted of a zombie apocalypse. Though what happened to the world was different, I saw the signs before most others. I made ready for the worst.

When my sister ceased to be her belligerent self and when the news got peculiar, I made hasty preparations. I still don't know what they are, but if I hadn't treated them as I had the thousands of mindless CPUs that often occupied my free time, I'd be one of them by now. This much I know.

Detective Frankie Reynolds and Mr. Maisonn Kreiter

Frankie yawned a little rubbing her face as she drove down the highway. Back to precinct. This case had her insomnia returning, not to mention her boss's constant threats. She needed some kind of miracle.
Her eyes fell to a car parked on the side of the road, and she slowed her speed as she noticed that it fit the description of the main suspect's car. No way, she convinced herself, but as she pulled closer, her eyes widened as she saw that the license plate matched. "No fucking way," she muttered aloud, and then pulled over behind him.
It was specifically against the rules to investigate a potential murderer alone, but this was huge. She couldn't pass it up. She made sure her gun was loaded and in its holster before picking up the warrant and approaching the car. She tapped on the window carefully. "Maisonn Kreiter? This is entersomecity PD, I have a warrant to search your vehicle."

The back door opened slowly and a man poked his head out of the door, his entire face obscured by a white mask. "I do not accept," he stated simply, his smooth, expressionless face staring up at her. Grungy, disgusting black hair hung all around his shoulders and face, and he stank something awful. "I do not accept. Try again later." He shut the door, his formless black cape hanging slightly out of the door.

She jumped a little at this, but then pulled the door open again. “Sir, I’m afraid it’s not negotiable. I’m Detective Francesca Reynolds, and-”

He merely shut the door again.

Frankie stared for a moment before sighing and leaning her back against the car. She picked up her cell phone and dialed, holding it to her ear. “Yeah, Ozzy? I found the suspect. Yeah, he’s hostile. I’m gonna need some backup asap. Thanks.” She flipped it shut and then went back to her car, sitting in the driver’s seat.

The man opened the other side of the car, pushing himself up and turning to face her. "Not negotiable." He drummed his fingers on the top of his car carefully. "Not negotiable. Not negotiable. Not negotiable."

She stared at him from her car, tingles of anxiety unearthing in her stomach, but she kept a steady gaze, confident to show him she wasn’t leaving.

He stared at her from behind his barrier. "Not negotiable," he repeated, voice gentler. "You're a joke. Come speak to me."

She, after watching him for a bit, stood and shut the door to her car, standing beside it. “Are you willing to talk now?” she asked, raising a brow and brushing reddish-brown strands of hair behind her ear.

"I invited you," he murmured, tilting his head. "People are coming."

Frankie raised a brow, nodding. “Yeah, they are. You’re being what we consider to be a hostile witness.”

"Not negotiable," he laughed sharply, slamming his hand on the top of his car. "Not hostile. People don't need to be coming."

“You’re being extremely hostile right now, Maisonn. You need to calm down.” Frankie leaned against her own car, folding her arms across her chest.

"You won't find anything." He shut his car door, walking around the side of the car to sit on the trunk, facing away from his car.

“Let me be the judge of that, huh?” She pulled out a notepad and pen from her pocket. “I suppose while we’re here, I can ask you a few questions. Did you know Kaitlyn Morris?”

"Kaitlyn Morris was not negotiable," he replied simply, tapping the car again.

“So you did know her,” she prodded, jotting something down. “Did you have anything to do with her murder?”

"Murder. You're not negotiable. I didn't know her." He slid his palm across his car. "Don't be silly."

“But you know something about her murder? Or maybe you killed her yourself?” she continued with a calm voice, focused on writing.

"I'm not a killer." He pushed himself off of his trunk. "They won't find anything."

“You’d better hope not, ‘cause you’re showing an awful lot of signs that you are a killer. So, you didn’t know her, you didn’t kill her. What about Jackson Montag?” She continued writing idly.

"Montag is Monday in German," he breathed. "You won't find anything."Bookmark

“That’s very interesting. Back to the question, did you know him?”

"Jackson Montag is a beautiful name."

She looked up at him and the put the pad of paper away. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to take off the mask.”

"Not negotiable," he giggled softly.

“You’re right about that one.” She pulled the gun from her holster, clicking it into place. “I’m gonna count to three and you’d better remove that mask, or I have to right to arrest you for deliberately disobeying an officer.”

"Put the gun down," he mused, facing her voice. "Put the gun down, Francesca Reynolds."

“Detective, to you. One.”

"Put the gun down."

"Two."

"Put the fucking gun down."

“Three. You’re under arrest, Mr. Kreiter.” She approached him now, with handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.” She undid them, pushing the gun into his chest and pushing him against the car.

He grunted as he was pushed against the car, not struggling. "Oh, oh my god," he whispered, inaudibly, full of real emotion. "Oh my god. You are not negotiable!"

“That’s one thing you’ll learn about me, Mr. Kreiter.” She took his hands, cuffing him, and then led him to her car, pushing him into the back seat.

"No, I can't go in here," he mumbled, and fought against her hands, pushing away from the car with his foot. "My sister, my sister, I can't go in here!"

“She’ll be fine.” Frankie kicked up his leg and then pushed him into the seat in one smooth movement, shutting and locking the door. She picked up her cell phone, dialing again. “Where the fuck are you? I’ve got him in cuffs. Hurry the hell up.”

"She won't be fine!" he shrieked from the back, thrashing violently, kicking against the windows and rolling around the back. "She won't be fine! You're killing her! Let me go!"

“He’s flipping shit, Ozzy. Something about his sister. I can’t keep him here for long.” She hung up the phone and then went to the window, hitting it a few times. “Calm down! Everything will be fine as long as you cooperate!”

"Not negotiable! Not negotiable!" he screamed over and over again, seizing violently in the seat, gripped with panic.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “Look, Maisonn, calm the fuck down. People will be here shortly. Everything will be fine.”

"She's dying, she's dying," he groaned, his voice mostly an inhale, his body shuddering uncontrollably. "I can't breathe."

Finally, another car pulled up, and Ozzy jumped out with a couple other people, sirens flashing. “What’s up, Frankie?”
“We need some tranquilizers now. This guy is fucking crazy!” she screamed, gesturing to him, and one of the other officers ran back to the car for the tranqs. After setting them up, Frankie cautiously opened the door and took the syringe. “Maisonn, hold still.”

"Get away," he hissed, scooting away from the door desperately, his wrists already rubbed raw from the cuffs. "Get away! Get her away from me!"

She grabbed his arm, but was pulled away by Ozzy and the other officer. “Hey, what the fuck, guys!?” she screamed, struggling against them. “Let me go!”
“I-I don’t know what’s going on, man!” Ozzy cried, holding her back.

He hesitated, breathing hard, and then rolled forward, falling out of the car onto the ground. "Don't let her go," he gasped, laying weakly on the ground. "Francesca Reynolds. I will not leave my sister."

“What the hell are you doing to them!?” she cried, but then squirmed her way from their grip, effectively knocking one officer unconscious and the other to the ground. “Get back here, Maisonn!”

“What!? O-Okay, okay! I will!” she answered, kicking Ozzy off of her legs and going to him. She took his arm, but then jammed the syringe into it, pushing the plunger down. “Go to sleep, Maisonn.”

"Suffer, Ozzy," he breathed, though he didn't struggle, slamming into the ground hard as the drugs worked through him.

Ozzy screamed in sudden pain, writhing on the ground.
“What the fuck…?” Frankie murmured, but then picked Maisonn up by the collar and threw him back into the car. She took another syringe, going to Ozzy. “Ssh, babe, calm down. I’ve got this.” She injected it into him as well, and sighed as he slipped into what seemed to be still a painful sleep.

Maisonn chuckled a little, but he could only surrender to sleep.

-

Maisonn stared at the ground as it wiggled in and out of focus, his hands cuffed behind his back and to the chair in which he was seated. He was dressed in a prison jumpsuit, his hair shaved into a much more manageable length, his body thin and unhealthy.

Frankie stepped into the interrogation room, shutting the door behind her and setting her papers down on the table as she took her seat. She stared at him for a few hard moments before sliding a photograph of a grisly murder in front of him. “Did you do this?”

He squinted at the picture, swallowing slowly, and then lifted his gaze up to her, his eyes heavy. "I'm incapable of asking questions," he stated simply, blinking for a long time.

“Why?”

"I don't understand inflection." He dropped his eyes down to the murder again, licking his lips shortly. "This doesn't look nice."

“Did you do it?” she repeated, slower, seeming extremely aggravated.

"You raped her." His voice was flat, accusatory but not angry. Every motion was muted. He bowed his head a little.

“Look, Maisonn,” she spat angrily, slamming her hands down on the table. “We’ll give you back your sister and your car and everything as long as you help us out and answer these questions. Got it?”

He shook his head, shifting his weight. "You're a filthy liar," he whispered. "Release me."

“Answer the questions and free Ozzy of whatever the fuck you did to him, and yeah, I will.”

"But you won't give my sister back. You can't. She's raped." He closed his eyes. "I worked a long time to keep her alive. I guess as long as she's being tortured, so is my playtoy."

Frankie rubbed her face in distress, sighing irritably. “You misunderstand. We are not torturing her. She is being kept safe and sound. No one’s touching her, no one’s talking to her, she can even see you right now. She’s looking right through that glass.” She pointed to the two-way mirror. “She’s fine. And she wants this whole thing to be over.”

"She's not here, because she's raped," he sighed. "Francesca Reynolds, you will never understand."

“Maisonn Kreiter, you have no grasp on reality. You are insane. Do you know what that means? That means you’ll go to a white building with lots of other insane people and wear a straightjacket for the rest of your sorry little life unless you help us out. Do you understand me?” she snapped suddenly. “Who’s not understanding doesn’t matter because it’s going to happen to you either way if you don’t help us.”

"I'm not insane. I know how to play your little game." He looked up at her, sitting up a little. "I can pretend, just like all of you, to be 'real'. But we all know that it's society's shitty little game. You're just afraid of me because I'm feral. So afraid that you raped my sister."

“I’m not afraid of you.” She raised a brow, leaning forward on the table. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Maisonn. Confused, yes, but not afraid. Your sister, by the way, was long gone when we found her, so whoever raped her did it a long time ago. You know what, Maisonn, I think you raped her. I think you raped her of a normal, happy life and you felt so guilty about it, you felt compelled to keep her alive in your sick little brain. Society does have a shitty game, but that doesn’t matter because it’s still being played and it’s still gonna kick your ass.”

"I'm not going to tell you anything," he mumbled, staring at her. "I am not an almanac and I am not a rapist and I am not going to tell you anything."

“But you are a murderer.” She pointed to the photos. “You murdered these people just because you wanted to. You raped them of their lives because you felt like it. You are a rapist.” She stood and picked up the photos, pushing her chair in. “Think about it. We have all the time in the world.”

"I'm not telling you anything," he chuckled, closing his eyes.

“Good. Gives me an excuse to keep you locked up.” Frankie turned to the door, exiting the room and shutting it behind her.

The Best Romance Ever. (Talen and Maelynn but Shakespearean.)

Henry V: Fair Katharine , and most fair, will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms such as will enter at a lady's ear and plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?


Katharine: Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot speak your England.


Henry V: O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue.

Do you like me, Kate?


Katharine: Pardonnez-moi (Excuse me), I cannot tell vat is 'like me.'


Henry V: An angel is like you, Kate - you are like an angel.


Katharine: Que dit-il? que je suis semblable a les anges? (What does he say? That I am similar to the angels?)


Alice: Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il. (Yes, that's right, your grace, so he says.)


Henry V: I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to affirm it.


Katharine: O bon Dieu. Les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies. (Oh, good God. The tongues of men are full of deceits.)


Henry V: (To Alice) What says she, fair one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits?


Alice: Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits. Dat is de princess.


Henry V: The princess is the better Englishwoman. In faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding – I am glad thou canst speak no better English, for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say 'I love you.' Then if you urge me farther than to say 'do you in faith?'

I wear out my suit. Give me your answer. In faith, do, and so shake hands and a bargain. How say you, lady?


Katharine: Sauf votre honneur (Your majesty,) me understand vell.

Henry V: Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me. For the one, I have neither words nor measure, and for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armor on my back under the correction of bragging, be it spoken. I should quickly leap into a wife. Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favors, I could lay on like a butcher and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation, only downright oaths, which I never use 'til urged, nor never break for urging.

If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee as a plain soldier: If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy, for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places, for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favors, they do always reason themselves out again.

What! A speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad; a good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow. But a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon – or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.


Katharine: Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France?


Henry V: No, it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate, but, in loving me, you should love the friend of France, for I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine, and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine.


Katharine: I cannot tell vat is dat.


Henry V: No, Kate? I will tell thee in French, which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand vous avez le possession de moi – let me see, what then? Saint Denis be my speed! – donc votre est France et vous etes mienne. (France is mine and I am yours - therefore yours is France and you are mine.)

She laughs at his broken French.

It is as easy for me, Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French. I shall never move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me!


Katharine: Still laughing. Sauf votre honneur, le Francois que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l'Anglois lequel je parle. (Your majesty, the French you speak is better than the English I speak.)


Henry V: No, faith, is't not, Kate, but thy speaking of my tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one.

But, Kate, dost thou understand thus much English: canst thou love me?


Katharine: I cannot tell.


Henry V: Frustrated. Can any of your neighbors tell, Kate? I'll ask them! Come, I know thou lovest me, and at night, when you come into your closet, you'll question this gentlewoman about me, and I know, Kate, you will to her dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart. But, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle princess, because I love thee cruelly.

If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard? Shall we not? What sayest thou, my fair flower-de-luce?


Katharine: I do not know dat.


Henry V: No, 'tis hereafter to know, but now to promise. Do but now promise, Kate, you will endeavor for your French part of such a boy, and for my English moiety take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katharine du monde, mon tres cher et devin deesse? (nicest Katharine of the world, my thrice-dear and fortune-teller?)


Katharine: Your majestee ave fausse (has distorted) French enough to deceive de most sage demoiselle dat is en France.


Henry V: Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honor, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honor I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of my visage.

Now, beshrew my father's ambition! He was thinking of civil wars when he got me. Therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear; my comfort is that old age, that ill layer up of beauty, can do no more, spoil upon my face. Thou hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst, and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better.

And therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress. Take me by the hand, and say 'Harry of England I am thine,' which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud 'England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Harry Plantagenet is thine,' who though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows.

Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English; wilt thou have me?


Katharine: Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere (king of my country)?


Henry V: Nay, it will please him well, Kate. It shall please him.


Katharine: Den it sall also content me.


Henry V: Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you my queen.


Katharine: Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: ma foi, je ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en baisant la main d'une de votre seigeurie indigne serviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres-puissant seigneur. (Leave, my lord, leave, leave: my creed, I do not want you to lower your greatness by kissing the hand of one of your unworthy attendants; excuse me, I plead you, my thrice-powerful lord.)


Henry V: Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.


Katharine: Les dames et demoiselles pour etre baisees devant leur noces, il n'est pas la coutume de France. (The young ladies do not kiss before the wedding; it is not the custom of France.)


Henry V: Madam my interpreter, what says she?


Alice: Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of France – I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish.


Henry V: To kiss.


Alice: Your majesty entendre bettre que moi (understands better than I).


Henry V: It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, would she say?


Alice: Oui, vraiment. (Yes, that’s right.)


Henry V: Oh, Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak list of a country's fashion. We are the makers of manners, Kate, and the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a kiss. Therefore, patiently and yielding…

They kiss.

You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate. There is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father. They quickly separate.

Desert Moon

“So... miss. Wait. I never caught your name? I'm Gyre Straldhardt. It's nice to meet you, Miss…?”

“You never caught it because I never gave it to you.” She smirked and brushed a pitch-black curl behind her pointed ear.

“I'm sorry. I'm not much of the socialite….” He smiled sheepishly.

“Yeah, you didn't really need to clarify that one.”

“Way to press on the assault! I thought the war in the west was over, didn't think there was another front in such a high class place as this! Sorry for disturbing you.”

“I'm not disturbed by you. Would you like to join us?” she asked, a light smirk twitching across her lips.

“Um... sure- I mean, yes, I'd like that. Thank you,” he replied, mildly startled.

“Don't thank me yet,” she responded, scrutinizing her dirty fingernails. “ I intend to put you in many risky scenarios.”

“I think six years in the Imperial Army should help me out there. What are you getting at, though?”

"I'm not quite sure yet. That's what we're trying to figure out, but it's pretty obvious that danger's on the agenda." She yawned and leaned against a pillar, raising a brow dully.

"Well... I am armed if you intended to throw something like that in my way." He patted the coat of his uniform right under his Sergeant Major rank patch. "Habit."

“Good. Then you might be of some use to us. How long were you in the army now?” she inquired with a minor tilt of the head, folding her arms across her chest.

"All my life. I was orphaned into a military academy. I spent the last six years to reach Sergeant Major, or Battle Commander, as the rank is called now." His face grew hard. "Before that it was five years fighting in the 25 in the Northern Reach. Hell on ice, Miss." He brushed the scar on his left cheek. "Twenty-seven years total." He paused. "One question…."

The gypsy simply raised a brow, as she was prone to do.

"Who's this 'us'?" His hand slowly made its way to his breast pocket.

“I’m not really sure. We all just found each other and we’re trying to stop some impending doom that we all separately dreamed of.” She apathetically cleaned the dirt from her fingernails.

"Hm?" His hand dropped to his side. "Impending doom. That's nice." He walked over to the door to the balcony and sighed. "If it's not one thing, it's another."

“As always with the world.” She stretched and sank to a cross-legged seating position. “Still interested?”

"What do you need me for? Military muscle?" He turned and looked her square in the eye.

“Whatever you’re the best at, Sarge.”

"I'll need my kit. Sword, armor, bullets. If you need a soldier, lady, you found one." He walked up close and pulled a medal from his pocket. "Medal of Valor."

“Well, that’s definitely a valuable asset. We could probably use some valor amidst our own shady characteristics.” She smirked, standing. “Is your kit readily attainable, Sarge?”

"Yes, ma'am. The hotel up the way. Blue Dove."

“If you’re ready to come with us, then why don’t you go get your things and then I’ll show you where exactly we’re staying and explain what we’re doing exactly,” she suggested with a light smile, hands on her hips.

His red eyes narrowed. "Fifteen minutes." He left without another word.

The bandit smirked and stretched, heading to the bar and ordering a drink.

Gyre ran hard up the stone street, rain pounding onto him until he reached the Blue Dove hotel, his temporary home after he was discharged. "Never stop fighting Gyre. It's all you've got." He opened the door to his room. It was luxurious, but too much for a soldier as he. His armor, sword, and shield laid out on his bed while a blanket was folded into an armchair where he slept. He began donning his armor.
"I told you fifteen minutes." Gyre was fully armored with a giant red and gold sword slung over his back that matched the plated-mail armor he wore. His helmet was tucked under his arm. "I don't like being late for a nice date." He grinned like a child.

She looked up at this, a half-finished drink in her hand, and she raised a brow. “Ah. A useful characteristic.”

“Punctuality?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

"Thank you, miss... Still no name." He sighed. "What is your name?"

She smirked and took another drink, standing. “C’mon. I’ll show you where we’re staying.”

"Lead on, lady." He placed his helmet on his head and nodded to her.

The gypsy led him up the stairs and into a hallway of rooms, showing him to the second-to-last room on the right. “Here. This one’s mine,” she clarified, pointing to the last room next to his. “That’s Niani’s. That’s ___’s. That’s Araglar’s.”

"Thanks. Um... what do I call you, if you won't give me a name?" He opened the door to the room. "I can get used to this."

“Call me whatever you want, Sarge, as long as it ain’t sexual.” She winked a violet eye before opening the door to her own room and stepping inside. “I’ll knock on your door when the others get back. We’ll discuss our plan of action then. In the meantime, have a good acquaintanceship with your room.”

He nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door. "Damn... never met an elf before. Much prettier than in the stories," he whispered to himself. He sat on the bed and was relieved to hear the creak of old wood. It was like the academy. Like home. He leaned the sword up in the corner and put his helmet on the end table. "Battle Commander Gyre Straldhardt, 1st Echelon Imperial Swordsman? What are you doing in a place like this?" He sat back on his bed and leaned back. "I don't know, but I'm glad I'm here," he answered to himself.

A Bad Dream, a Good Beginning

We awoke in a strange place.

With a mild groan, I strained to sit up as my eyes quickly adjusted to the uncomfortable darkness. An eerie, lavender light illuminated the parlor-like room, and I brushed the dust off my dress as I pushed myself into a standing position. Faint piano music wafted through the air, along with the musky scent of an attic. Other than that, the room was unnaturally silent.

As my eyes surveyed the room, I flinched when I glimpsed the back of an old woman, statuesque in her stillness, standing at a piano in the corner. She looked dead, arms by her sides, and a tattered, worn nightgown covered her tattered, worn body. A shiver coursed through my back as I realized that she was not playing the piano, yet the music continued.

A thud on the floor sounded, and my head snapped to attention as Illisar approached her, heavy boots clunking across the wooden floor. I wanted to tell him to stop, but my words caught in my throat, and panic was the only sensation I could’ve vocalized. I looked to the others to silently beg them to stop him, but Eon and Gyre seemed just as shocked as I was, and Novakri was more entertained by staring out the window, a black void staring back at her.

A jarring note from the piano ripped my gaze to it, and before I could process that Illisar had tapped an age-yellowed key, the dead woman suddenly reached up and gripped his wrist. He reflexively pulled away, but her hand broke off her arm and shattered into dust. A scream racked my mind. She lifted her head to look up at him, a monster clawing its way forward from within.

Then I really awoke with a gasp.

Essay

The paragraph below comes from a 1979 essay by expatriate African American writer James Baldwin. Read the paragraph carefully and then write an essay that defends, challenges, or qualifies Baldwin's ideas about the importance of language as a "key to identity" and to social acceptance. Use specific examples from your observation, experience, or reading to develop your position.

"It goes without saying, then, that language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power. It is the most vivid and crucial key to identity: It reveals the private identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the larger, public, or communal identity. There have been, and are, times, and places, when to speak a certain language could be dangerous, even fatal. Or, one may speak the same language, but in such a way that one's antecedents are revealed, or (one hopes) hidden. This is true in France, and is absolutely true in England: The range (and reign) of accents on that damp little island make England coherent for the English and totally incomprehensible for everyone else. To open your mouth in England is (if I may use black English) to 'put you business on the street': You have confessed your parents, your youth, your school, your salary, your self-esteem, and, alas, your future."

- James Baldwin

Language and the craft of rhetorically manipulating it are valuable assets to our historical and cultural society. The way one wields language and communication reveals one's character and upbringing, definitely a multi-faceted "key to identity."

James Baldwin concludes that in England it is especially prominent with the occurrence of regional dialects. When speaking in England, he writes, it is "to 'put your business in the street.'"

This is true in America, but nowhere near to the degree it is in Europe. Still, though, it is mere fact and common knowledge to say that when one presents and speaks eloquently, he is perceived as sophisticated and intelligent, whereas one who uses only mother tongue and simpleminded colloquialisms is perceived as unsophisticated and illiterate.

However, though there are those who criticize the linguistically challenged, the way one communicates should not be their only judge of character and legitimacy.

On the local news one evening, I watched a woman explain to the reporter that all of her dearest possessions had been stolen out of storage. Though her words were of informal vernacular and slangy colloquialism, her tormented tears were real and heartfelt, to the point that I said aloud, "That poor woman."

My stepmother, however, scoffed and proceeded to launch into an antagonistic and altogether crude view of the country's "hicks" and "hillbillies." I was affronted to think that if something so traumatic had happened to me, my horrors would be laughed at on the ridiculous account of judgmental miscreants.

Language is the window into one's mind, but should not be held comparable to one's soul.

It's like Christine but less Stephen Kingy and more cheesy romance.

She obliged, grinning and entangling her fingers in his hair, their faces close.

"Well, I have news for you, babygirl. So are you." He grinned and kissed her softly, running his hands up her legs.

She grinned mischievously, kissing him again, for longer.

Jeremy chuckled softly into her lips, sliding his hands up her waist and around her back as he deepened it.

-

Jeremy yawned as he awoke from his peaceful slumber, rubbing his hair ungracefully.

Averi was in the kitchen, humming and making herself some tea happily.

Jeremy smiled at this, exhaling deeply as he sat up and pulled boxers on. He stood, stepping sleepily into the kitchen and looping his arms around her from behind. "Morning, babydoll."

She grinned, resting her head back on his shoulder and kissing his jaw. "Morning. How'd ya sleep?"

"Like a little baby." He grinned, kissing her clavicle softly. "Last night was fabulous, darling."

"God, it was," she breathed, pushing her fingers into his hair. "You're full of surprises, eh?"




"Your first car," Brandy announced, probably for the first time. "God, this is so emotional. I helped you leave your mother's body and now I'm helping you into a death trap."

Valentine laughed, pulling black curls into a ponytail and looking up at him with bright green eyes. "You make it sound like it's a certainty. It's just a car, Dad."

"It is not just a car," he sulked, but smiled.

She looked around with a light laugh, pulling out her cell phone to text. After a few moments, however she looked up and her eyes widened at the sight of the car in the distance. "Dad, I want that one."

"Uh... Okay, I guess we can look at it." He started toward it, smiling.

She stepped quickly to it, stopping in front of the decrepit masterpiece. She stroked the hood, grinning. "Oh my God, we have to get it."

He raised a brow, looking it over. "This is kind of awful. We have four grand."

"Dad, we totally have to get it!" she begged, looking up at him.

He met her gaze, raising a brow. "Um... Okay, I guess we can get it a radio."

"Yeah!" she cried happily, hugging him. "Thank you so much, Daddy!"

"You're welcome, baby," he laughed, rubbing her back. "Let's bring it home."

That night, Valentine grinned as she sat comfortably in the driver's seat, stroking the console and sighing. "This is awesome," she murmured to herself, adjusting the mirrors excitedly. "This is my baby. What's your name?" She opened the glove box, putting her insurance information inside, but she raised a brow at a small slip of paper. She picked it up, brushing black curls behind her ear and crinkling her forehead in confusion at the radio station listed. Valentine turned the car battery on, switching to the radio station.

"Ahhhh..." a low, male voice sighed contently, the lights intensifying, the mirrors shifting in a stretch. "God, I'm sore. What's your name? I'm Christian."

"Hey..." she started, shocked, emerald eyes wide. "Wha...?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm your car," he greeted, windshield wipers flexing.

Valentine stared at the radio with big eyes, frozen, but then she screamed and darted out of the car and into the house, slamming the door shut and running into Brandon for a tight, frightened hug.

Brandon raised a brow, but hugged her tightly. "You okay, baby? What's wrong?"

She was shaking, completely terrified. "Th-The car!" she stammered, looking up at him. "It talked!"

"Your car talked?" he murmured, confused and concerned as he pushed a curl behind her ear. "Are you sure? It's a new radio, maybe it picked up a weird signal or something."

"No! It started moving the mirrors by itself and the windshield wipers and then it said its name was Christian!" she screamed in a panic.
"What's going on now?" Shiloh asked from the kitchen, going to them with a worried expression.

"Valentine says her car is talking to her," he murmured, looking up at Shiloh, perplexed. His gaze fell back to his daughter and he kissed her forehead reassuringly. "Are you sure you didn't fall asleep for a second or something?"

"I'm sure, Dad! I'm being completely serious! I found this weird piece of paper with an am station and when I changed it, it started talking to me!"
Shiloh raised a brow, putting her hand on Valentine's forehead. "She feels a little hot."
She screamed in frustration, pushing her hand away. "I'm not making this up! It really happened!"

"Okay, okay! Calm down! It just sounds a little weird." He frowned, resting a hand on her arm. "Let's go look at it. Do you want to go look at it?"

She nodded, brushing her hair behind her ear shakily.

He kept an arm over her shoulders, glancing back at Shiloh as he led Valentine out. "So what'd he say, babe?"

"He said his name was Christian and he was my car," she mumbled, looking up at him. The door was still open, the battery still on from where she'd darted away.