Ramblings

Noveling

2009-12-03T00:44:20Z

For some reason, I'm still beyond excited to write this novel. I chopped off the end part that I didn't like (which subtracted about 5k, just what I estimated), which actually leaves me with an ending of sorts. I'm excited! But this plot device just flew into my head today, and using it would meaning heavy editing of nearly every scene in the novel--and several scenes that I really liked would have to go. I have to do it though! (While I'm still riding the euphoric post-Nano wave :D.)

Wooooo!

ahead...

2009-11-29T04:38:13Z

I'm ahead of the official target for the first time since day 3. I think I'll actually finish this thing. Only bad part is that the plot climaxed about 5k ago and now I'm just writing filler. Oh well. Editing is for December anyway.

good luck, for those of you who are NaNoing!

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-18T03:24:39Z

Considering that this time last year I was madly behind, I feel that this year is going pretty well for me. xD I gained about 3k extra today in sprints, so I'm finally almost all caught up. (I love sprints! My short attention span can write 4k in a day!)

blargh.

2009-11-16T23:23:47Z

You know those times when absolutely nothing is going right for you? Yeah, right now is one of those times. My uncle died last Wednesday. He was only 45. And today we get back home from the wake/funeral and find out that my dog has cancer. I think I'm going to cry.

FML.

Divergence, chapter 4

2009-08-18T19:39:31Z

Title: Divergence
Rating: K+ (PG) for minor violence and language.
Summary: It is the smallest of decisions that have the greatest impact. Somewhere along the line, something changed. The world will never be the same. Written for The Firm's May prompt challenge.
AN: Written for the prompt accusation, this started out small and kept growing. As you will soon see, the end result has very little to do with the prompt, but it was what started me off. In total I'm thinking there will be about five chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

The guard watched in a sort of horrible fascination as his boss cooed over the mahogany and rosewood cradle. Fit for a little prince, she had said. The guard shivered. Rothman was frightening enough when she was doling out orders to murder or steal. Watching her face fill with something that looked suspiciously like love was more than a little disconcerting.

He made his face carefully blank as she stood, the maternal smile fading from her face. By the time she turned to her guest, her expression was as he remembered it—calculating and cold.

“I trust that this will remain our secret.”

The dark man nodded, leaning heavily on his cane though he looked to be quite young. “As I trust that you will use the information I have divulged.”

Another smile spread across Rothman’s face, this one decidedly more sinister. “Absolutely. Scorpia does not take kindly to traitors. It goes without saying that he will be killed.”

The dark man nodded once, satisfied. “And Jo—Rider? What will you do with him?”

Her head turned sharply to him. “He is a traitor as well, my little spy. He will be dealt with accordingly.”

The guard couldn’t see the dark man’s face in the flickering firelight, but when he spoke his voice was quiet. “If I could ask one favor?”

Rothman sat between the fire and the cradle, rocking the latter absentmindedly. Her face seemed to glow in the light, illuminating her dark red lips and even darker eyes. One eyebrow lifted.

It took the dark man another moment to speak. “Please—spare Helen?”

Rothman looked away, one hand still on the cradle that the guard knew contained this woman Helen’s son.

“Perhaps,” was all she said.

Helen sat stiffly in the uncomfortable hospital chair, watching emotions flash across her husband’s face before he suppressed them—unconsciously, she supposed. In his line of work you couldn’t afford to be read like an open book.

The young man that entered the room moments later wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. Truthfully, she wasn’t even sure what she had been expecting. But this young, blond, attractive man wasn’t it.

Neither of the two men made a sound until Gregorovitch—Yassen—Cossack—pulled the other chair out of the corner. He seemed to be unable to stop himself from watching John, who was staring at him with the same intent. Neither of them seemed to notice her, though she knew they both had.

After a moment, John cleared his throat. “Cossack.”

Cossack nodded. “Hunter.”

Helen frowned. “If I may…” she began, trying her hardest to keep her voice from wavering.

The two men looked in her direction with raised eyebrows. It struck Helen suddenly that they could have been brothers; the two blond, blue-eyed men. It seemed that Gregorovitch even had some of the same mannerisms as her husband.

“I don’t think you should refer to one another by the code names you used at Scorpia. You want to move past that stage in your life. Neither of you needs to pretend any more.”

John nodded slowly, and Helen watched Gregorovitch’s eyes on her husband. “Very well.” He spoke with only a hint of an accent. “Hello, John.”

John’s sudden grin broke the mounting silence. “Yassen, mate, it is good to see you. How have you been?”

Yassen seemed to falter. Helen got the impression that this young man was not used to losing his calm. But she didn’t blame him in the slightest. This was a situation beyond the normal.

“I have been…well, under the circumstances.”

John’s grin tightened. He sighed. “I wanted to tell you,” he said, voice low. “But…it just couldn’t be done.”

Yassen nodded once. “I understand. It is not my well-being we should be curious about, in any case.”

The unspoken question lingered in the air.

“I should be fine soon, the doctors are saying.”

Yassen nodded again, and Helen—who was no spy, simply a mother—could see some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“I apologise,” the young man began. “I suppose Rothman thought it would be…entertaining to send me out without informing as to the target’s identity.”

John’s face darkened. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like her.” He gripped Helen’s hand.

Yassen spoke again, his eyes wandering around the small room. “But I seem to remember stories, Hunt—John—of a son. Is he well?”

Helen felt her chin wobble and her eyes began to burn. “Excuse me,” she said, standing. She was lucky that John’s room had a private loo—it meant she wouldn’t need to go into the halls, where the pity would suffocate her. She could feel their eyes on her back even as the tears started to drip.

Her baby was gone. Every time she thought she understood that; thought she might be able to accept it, the knowledge returned to smack her in the face, bringing along the same burning pain as the night of his death.

It hadn’t gotten any easier.

Her heart ached for him in a way that made her feel ill. Every new tear felt like the first. A sudden procession of images popped into her head—Alex at three, sleeping on John’s lap; Alex at seven, playing his first real game of football and winning; Alex at twelve, getting an award for the best science project; Alex at fourteen, going on his first date; Alex at eighteen, getting ready to depart for university and giving her a small, sad kiss.

She would never get any of it.

She had to fight back a wail; instead settled for a small sob, muffled with her hands. She felt herself biting her fingers, as if a physical release would stop the emotional pain. Helen didn’t hear the door open, but she could sense someone entering.

Yassen stood at the doorway, looking completely lost. “John…John said that he would get out to speak with you himself, but he thinks that the doctor might add another ten days onto his stay if he did so. Could…could I do anything for you?”

Helen waved him off, not looking up. “No, n-no, j-just leave m-me here. I’ll b-be f-f-fine.” A fresh wave of sobs flooded through her.

Would Alex and Yassen have been friends, she wondered? Yassen could have been an uncle, or perhaps a much-older brother. What had her boy missed out on?

She felt Yassen sit next to her and willed him away. He made no attempt to comfort her physically, but after a moment he began speaking.

“My mother and father both died when I was small. For years, I blamed it on myself, though I see the futility in that argument now. I thought that living with their deaths would grow easier with time—and it does. Only not in the way that I expected.” Here he paused, listened to Helen sniffing for a moment, and unrolled a wad of toilet paper to hand to her.

She took it gratefully as he continued. “Time did not numb the wound, but it gave me new memories as a sort of…bandage, I guess.” He suddenly looked embarrassed—the most relatable emotion she’d yet seen cross his face. When he resumed speaking, it was in a lower tone. “To be honest, your husband was a…great help when I first began training. He was like an older brother to me, and soon I could see more happiness in my life.”

He stood. “I know that you do not want advice, so I will not try to give it to you. I can only offer you my most sincere condolences for the loss of your son.” Here his eyes gained a faraway quality. “I believe I should have liked to meet him.”

When Helen emerged from the loo several minutes later, after having splashed water on her face and wiped the tear marks from her cheeks, the two men were deep in conversation. Her husband had the rolling desk placed over his chest, and was drawing on a napkin. Yassen was watching intently, pointing at the diagram every few moments. A nervous shudder stole through Helen. She wasn’t dense—she knew what they were planning.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.

Yassen’s eyes flicked to her as she returned, and he paused in his speech. John gave him a tired smile. “Go on. We needn’t hide anything from Helen.”

Helen sat in the chair by the rain-streaked window, only vaguely listening as they plotted the downfall of the organization that had taken so much from them. The two men never raised their voices, but Helen detected every now and then a tense quality to their words. They seemed to be disagreeing about something.

A sharp noise startled her sometime later from a sort of half-sleep, and she straightened, blinking. John and Gregorovitch had stopped speaking to watch the Jones woman enter the room. Helen turned her head groggily to the door.

Jones was standing ramrod straight, observing the room with interest. “Gregorovitch, are you ready?”

The younger man nodded once. Her husband’s mouth was tight, a sure sign that he was displeased about something or another. Yassen stood in a fluid motion and walked toward Jones. He turned back to John briefly, and the two seemed to have a wordless conversation. Then his gaze fell on Helen. She forced a smile at him, and he nodded.

Then, to Jones: “It is time.”

Divergence, chapter 3

2009-08-11T18:56:25Z

“Mr Gregorovitch, here are the papers. We have agreed not to persecute you for past crimes. In exchange, you agree to a five-year tenure with us and formally renounce your ties with Scorpia. Of course, you also agree to go undercover back in Scorpia as if nothing has gone amiss, to assist us in the dismantling of the organization.”

Yassen took the grey man’s pen and signed without fanfare.

The terms were agreeable enough. And a small part of him—a part so small that he had been surprised to discover that it even existed—was satisfied. He was finally on the right side.

The woman—Jones, he thought—spoke up from her seat next to him. “Sir, when should he leave?”

The man pushed his square-framed glasses back up his nose. “As soon as possible. Scorpia cannot—must not—suspect a thing. Take him down to Smithers and then escort him to the briefing room. After that, he’s on his own.”

Jones nodded and stood. Yassen parroted her and followed the woman down several flights of stairs—ignoring the confused stares that they attracted—at which point they caught an elevator.

Yassen stood with his hands folded and stared straight ahead, ignoring the other man in the elevator. Some unknown emotion flickered across his face, and Yassen wondered briefly if the agent had recognized him. The thought brought an unexpected flare of pleasure. People already knew who he was.

The man’s eyes darted down to Yassen’s hands, as if he expected an attack. “Jones,” he ventured, “what is he doing in our elevator?”

Jones, who had been watching the exchange with a sort of patronising amusement, smiled briefly. “None of your business, Crawley. I assure you that you’ll find out soon enough.”

With that, the elevator arrived softly at its stop. It made no noise. Yassen gestured for Jones to go first, which she did. The elevator door started to close softly behind them. Yassen turned and gave Crawley a slow and feral grin, enjoying the look on his face as the blood seemed to vanish from it.

In front of him, Jones looked to be hiding a grin. “Come on. We’ve got to see Smithers.”

-:-

John woke suddenly. It took him several seconds to register the gentle beeps of a heart monitor, and several more to remember what had happened. He turned his head, his eyelids half shut, and saw that someone was holding his hand.

Helen. His heart beat painfully. She was asleep, her head resting on his bed. Even in dreams she looked tired, pained. He ran his thumb over her fingers.

It seemed that getting shot was a good way to end marital spats. He would have to remember that. The thought—it sounded like something Ian would say—made him snort. The movement seemed to irritate his chest, though, so he calmed down. Wouldn’t do to break stitches or anything of that sort.

Next to him, Helen stirred. He ran his thumb over her fingers again; watching as she gradually opened her eyes and blinked the sleep out of them.

“John! You’re awake!”

Suddenly she was crawling into the small hospital bed next to him, doing her best to squeeze between him and the bars. He scooted over to the opposite side, making room and smiling.

She turned her head to him. Her eyes seemed bigger; coated with unshed tears. “John, forgive me. I was wrong to say that to you. It’s not true.”

He leaned to give her a kiss. The angle made it sort of difficult, but he managed. “I already have. I love you.”

She squeezed his hand. “Really, John. I’m so sorry. I...I just couldn’t let things end like that. Thinking that the last words we had together could have been a fight....” She took a deep and trembling breath before burrowing her face into his shoulder. “I already lost Alex. I can’t lose you too.”

John put an arm around his wife, her tears spotting his hospital gown. He had to swallow before he could speak. “Helen.” His voice was low, and he could feel his chest vibrating underneath her. “Those bastards don’t stand a chance. I’m going to find who did this to us, and I’m going to kill them.”

Helen stiffened next to him. It seemed like a very long time before she said anything. Finally, though, she responded. Her voice was soft, but John could detect an undertone of steel. “Whatever you do, John, be careful. I can’t lose you.”

-:-

He and Jones had not spoken since his briefing, but Yassen had a feeling that told him where they were headed—and it wasn’t the airport.

It wasn’t long before they pulled up to a hospital, which, Yassen noted, seemed a good deal nicer than the rest in London. He wasn’t surprised. Only the best for government employees, after all.

He wasn’t nervous. His palms were a bit sweaty, yes. But he wasn’t nervous.

Jones only had to flash a badge at the receptionist before the woman stammered out a room number. And then they were in another elevator, this one graciously empty. Jones started speaking, keeping her eyes on the panel of buttons.

“I’m going to ask you stay outside while I explain the situation. It will be easier for him to take that way, I think.”

Yassen nodded. The two stood in silence until a question forced its way past his lips. “Why are you doing this?”

She kept her eyes straight ahead. “This man is the reason you changed sides. I thought you deserved the chance to speak with him before you left.”

To apologize, Yassen thought briefly. To tell him the truth. However surprising, he welcomed the opportunity.

They emerged from the elevator onto a deserted hallway. After a few twisting turns, they found themselves facing a single room—413. Two burly men in suits stood on either side of the door, equipped with earpieces and the telltale bulge of guns.

Yassen stopped several feet before the door. Jones turned to him, her eyes questioning. He nodded, answering the unspoken query.

He was ready.

Jones pursed her lips and took a deep breath, flashing her badge at the guards before leaning close and whispering to them. Yassen could see the eyes of one of the guards flick toward him uneasily. Jones huffed and barked something out—from where he stood, it sounded like “get over it”—and the guards both frowned, but relaxed.

He watched her disappear into the room, closing the door softly behind her before he could see anything more than the foot of the bed. The guards never took their eyes off of him as he stood opposite them, hands locked behind his back.

Yassen could hear faint murmurings from behind the door, but he didn’t strain his ears. He saw the taller guard with the clean-shaven head gesture to his partner down the hallway. Yassen let his eyes drift over to where they were pointing, and was surprised to see a man, walking toward them with a slight limp. He frowned as the man approached them, recognizing him.

It struck him quickly, and for the first time in recent memory, he could think of nothing to do; no action that would prevent the confrontation that was sure now to come. There was nowhere to hide, and any attempts to run would attract far too much attention. So instead he stood as still and silent as a statue, hoping that he would go unrecognized.

But it was not to be. The man from Malta flicked his eyes once, briefly, at the guards before turning to Yassen. For a moment he stood, just blinking. Then his mouth closed with a snap and he was rushing forward, his eyes mad. A primal sound escaped his throat as he and Yassen collided.

The man was surprisingly strong for looking so lanky; getting a punch to his shoulder, but it wasn’t difficult for Yassen to quickly gain the upper hand. The man from Malta aimed a fist at his face, but Yassen grabbed it before it could do any damage and spun the man so that his arms were trapped behind his back.

“Let me go, you slimy bastard!” He writhed, but Yassen did not loosen his grip. The guards finally approached, grim-faced.

“Howell,” said the one without hair, “he’s with us. Stop struggling or I’ll have to report this.”

“Oh, I think it’s getting reported.” The sudden voice was loud and terse. It reminded him of a scolding parent. Yassen turned his head to see Jones standing in the doorway, her expression livid. She marched over to where Yassen held the man from Malta—Howell, presumably—and wrenched Yassen’s arms off of him. He did not fight her.

Howell looked like a surly teenager in front of Jones, though she surely could not have been much older than he was.

“Howell, what the hell was that?”

“This is the one that stabbed me, Tulip. Forgive me for acting logically.”

Jones—Tulip?—reached out an arm and cuffed his ear. “Ash, stop being an idiot for a moment and consider the situation. He was bloody standing there, with two of our own right across from him. Is it possible for you to just think for a moment?”

The frown did not leave Howell’s face as he rubbed his ear. “So he’s a turncoat, then?” He glared at Yassen, who gazed back coolly in response.

Jones let out a huff of air. “He’s on our side now, yes. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t go around attacking one of our greatest assets, thank you very much.” She paused, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. “And aren’t you supposed to be in a bed of your own right now?” she asked suddenly.

Howell looked suddenly guilty. “I heard about John. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Jones glared at him again before turning to one of the guards. “Escort Agent Howell back to his room, if you will? He can come back when he’s allowed out of bed.” She directed her final words to Howell, who had resumed his glare. “I mean it, Ash. You need those wounds to heal.”

No one spoke until they had disappeared down the hall. Jones closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Yassen watched Howell leave with interest. “These wounds...are they ones that I caused on Malta?”

Jones didn’t open her eyes. “Yes, they are from where you stabbed him.”

She let out a gust of air and took a long pause. “He shouldn’t have found out about you,” she finally said, shaking her head. “It was a mistake telling him. Something has been...off with Agent Howell ever since his return.”

“You do not trust him?”

She took another long pause. “I can’t know for sure. But I’ve got a feeling.”

He nodded, and she straightened. “All right,” she said, seemingly collecting herself. “All right. It’s time to do what we came for. Are you ready?”

Yassen nodded, not trusting his voice. Jones led him to the door and paused with her hand on the knob.

“Good luck,” she said finally.

With that, Yassen entered John Rider’s hospital room.

Divergence, chapter 2

2009-08-11T18:54:15Z

When Tulip Jones arrived on scene with four specially-trained MI6 paramedics, she jumped to see not one, but two men waiting for her. There was John Rider of course; bleeding out on the floor, but there was a second man, a younger man, who stood calmly above him. As the paramedics went to work, Tulip found herself staring at the second man.

“Hello,” he said calmly and clearly, over the noise of the ambulance and the EMT’s shouted instructions. “My name is Yassen Gregorovitch. I used to work for Scorpia. I wish to turn myself in.”

Tulip sucked in a breath. “You did this?” Her eyes flickered toward the bleeding agent on the floor even as her hand went toward her gun.

He nodded and lifted his hands. “As you can see, I am unarmed.” He gestured to the table, where she could see the bulky bag that likely contained his weapon. “I want nothing more to do with Scorpia. I believe I could be of some use to you.”

She didn’t take her hand off of her gun. “Why?” The word was short, concealing the flare of optimism she felt.

His expression didn’t change. “This man was my mentor at Scorpia. I now see that I have been misled as to his true identity, but this does not change the fact that I came to see him as a friend—or the fact that my former superiors intended to force me to kill him. It was a mistake on their part. I have nothing else that ties me to the organization.”

Her head was reeling. It was almost too good to be true...If she could convince Blunt to use him as an agent, her career could skyrocket. If this young man could help her take out Scorpia for good...well, she would receive a promotion, to say the least.

She took her hand off of her gun. “You would be willing to work undercover for MI6?”

He nodded. “I desire revenge.”

Tulip Jones felt the beginnings of a smile creep across her face. She put her hand out. “I think this is the beginning of a wonderful partnership, Mr Gregorovitch.”

“Helen, can you give Mrs Hanna her codeine? I’ve got to run down to the ER.”

Helen hummed her agreement to Marie and stood, thankful for the distraction. The day was proceeding along horribly. The pitying stares mixed with her crushing guilt had combined to make the morning nearly unbearable.

She did her best to smile for sweet Mrs Hanna, but she suspected the woman knew it was forced. She had been around the hospital long enough to notice the difference. Still, Helen shook off the elderly woman’s concerns. It was her job to worry about the patients, not the other way around.

Marie returned from the ER with a frown on her face. That in and of itself wasn’t unusual. Marie wasn’t a big fan of the emergency room, claiming the gore was too much for her. It was why she had gone into radiology, she said. The way she was looking at Helen out of the corner of her eye, however—her expression troubled—worried her. Helen’s heart skipped a beat, her intuition racing. But Marie said nothing. Helen was tempted to go over and shake her, but she couldn’t move. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to do something, to find out what was putting that expression on Marie’s face.

Something was wrong.

Finally, Marie spit it out. “Helen, isn’t your husband called John?”

Helen felt herself nod. “Why?” Her voice was dry.

Marie’s tone was sympathetic. “Well, I was just down in the ER. There was a citywide call on the radio for a man called John Rider—but there must be hundreds of John’s in London, right? And I might’ve misheard the surname; the radio didn’t have the best reception...”

Helen looked up to Marie, her eyes as wide as those of a deer caught in the headlights. “What was it for?” She could barely choke the words out.

Marie paused, her mouth opening and closing. The air in the room seemed to have disappeared; she couldn’t breathe. “Helen,” she said finally, confused, “it said he’d been shot.”

Helen was on the move before her brain even had time to fully comprehend what Marie had said. Shot. My husband’s been shot.

In a haze, she grabbed her coat and keys from the nurses’ station. Marie’s shouted goodbye echoed in her ears: He’s on his way St. Dominic’s!

The play was okay, Helen thought, but not the best thing she’d ever seen. The dinner afterward, though, that was delicious. John had managed to get a reservation at an upscale Italian place and the food was much better than anything she’d had in a long while. At least since Alex was born—this was the first time they had ever been out without him. To be honest, Helen had been nervous about leaving him with the nanny for the night, but John had pointed out that they did it during the day—Alex loved Karen. And Karen had been more than willing to babysit for the night. After all, she had said, parents needed their time alone.

She barely registered the sirens. Sirens were nothing new, living in a city as big as London. As they approached their street, though, and the sirens only got louder, she began to frown.

“You don’t suppose someone’s house caught fire, do you?”

John frowned and put his arm around her. Their walk was suddenly much more sombre. “I doubt it...maybe old Griffiths had a heart attack or something.”

Though the both of them thought Griffiths was a snarky old bastard, they gathered no comfort from the words. Hearts beating as one, they began to walk faster.

They both stopped short when they rounded the corner that would take them home. There were fire trucks and police cars and ambulances and smoke and rubble and debris. It looked like a scene from a nightmare, flakes of ash falling from the sky like enormous grey snowflakes. The sound of the competing sirens made her think of the orchestra of the play they had just left, screeching and whining and making her skin crawl.

Helen looked desperately at the houses. Numbers three, four, five...but where number six should have stood there was only smouldering empty space and rubble.

Helen didn’t hear herself scream.

Suddenly she was running. Her heel wedged itself in a crack between the sidewalk pavers, and she jerked it out impatiently, not noticing when it broke. She could feel John next to her, but her eyes were not on him. The carcass of their old home let forth a great puff of smoke, and the firemen started yelling; pushing people back.

“Alex!” she called, ignoring the acrid smoke in her throat. “Alex!”

She turned to the nearest paramedic, who was watching the scene with a frown, and grabbed his arm desperately. “Where is my son? He’s very young, only four months, blonde hair...”

She could feel the gazes of her neighbours on her as they moved away from the fire and closer to her; could see the sadness in their eyes. She ignored them and stared at the paramedic, an older man with greying hair. He guided her toward the opposite sidewalk, his hand on her arm. She tried forming more words but couldn’t find them.

They stopped on the other side of the road. The paramedic’s face was lined and sad. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, miss. No one in the house survived the explosion.”

She was falling, falling, spinning. Nothing was making sense, and her vision was swirling. Helen saw the sea of pitying faces and the space where her house should have been in the background. Alex was gone. She was teetering on the edge, and at the moment falling seemed inevitable.

Everything went black.

When she woke, she was in John’s arms. His tears were carving a path down her neck, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She pulled away. “John, it...it can’t—it can’t—be true. I want to see my baby.”

He didn’t move his lips, but his eyes said everything. Helen heard herself cry out. She clutched John, her fingernails digging into him. His warm arms were around her; not squeezing the life out of her, but rather, keeping it in. Without him, she would float away. She was never going to let go. He was her rock; the only steady element in a sea out to drown her.

Her baby was gone.

Helen found herself at St Dominic’s with no memory of how she got there. Instead of London’s busy roads, the image of an empty space filled her vision—the gap of where her house should have been. In a flurry, she was in the lobby, the soothing light jazz and light blue paint doing absolutely nothing for her.

The poor receptionist didn’t stand a chance.

“Where’s my husband?” she demanded. “John Rider...he arrived in an ambulance?”

“And who might you be?”

Helen narrowed her eyes. This young woman—all plastic, with fake, blonde, hairsprayed hair and too-big breasts—was giving her a sickly sweet smile.

“His wife. Now, where is he?”

She typed something into the computer, fake nails clicking loudly on the keys. She frowned, a crease appearing in her forehead. “I’m sorry. But it appears that his location is classified for the time being....”

Helen leaned over the desk. Her voice was low and calm. “Where. Is. My. Husband.” It wasn’t a question.

The woman paled and looked toward the waiting area. Their conversation was starting to garner attention. “He’s in surgery,” she squeaked. “On the third floor. Theatre 4.”

Helen gave the receptionist a sickly smile of her own before spinning for the stairs. In surgery. She felt as if her stomach had dropped out of her and onto the floor. There was only one thought in her mind as she sprinted up the stairs, ignoring the startled looks of the doctor’s nursing their coffee and hiding in the stairwell.

I can’t lose them both.

shifty eyes

2009-07-26T01:58:46Z

Is anyone available right this second for a quick beta job? (*coughcough this may or may not be for SpyFest, says the notorious procrastinator coughcough*). It's short--over the minimum, I promise--but in my opinion it's done. I just need a second pair of eyes. (Or third, or fourth...whatever.)

Thanks!

Emmy

It's been a while...

2009-07-17T02:48:34Z

All right, so I haven't posted in a while. I have, however, been keeping to my promise of updating every week, if sometimes an eensy bit late. I think this Sunday brings week seven. I think it's ridiculous how little free time I have this summer. Between swim practice in the morning (and when I say morning, I mean six o'clock), teaching swim lessons after that and then working 4 or 5 days a week after that...well let's just say it gets tiring easily.

Updates on life: I'm already stressing about college applications. My mom wants me to write an essay now, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to write it on. I need to narrow down my potential choices, and figure out deadlines. I need to start studying for when I retake the SATs and SAT IIs. I need to do a buttload of summer homework. Basically, I'm stressed.

Fanfiction, thankfully, is a good stress reliever. I've also got this idea floating around in my head for an original fiction, but I haven't decided yet if it's worth it. I have, however, started to plan it out. (Which I did not do for this past nanowrimo, and which was a huge mistake.)

Anyway, that's my summer in a nutshell. How is everyone else doing?

Divergence, Chapter One

2009-06-07T00:40:46Z

Title: Divergence
Rating: K+ (PG) for minor violence and language.
Chapter wordcount: 1,407
Summary: It is the smallest of decisions that have the greatest impact. Somewhere along the line, something changed. The world will never be the same. Written for The Firm's May prompt challenge.
AN: Written for the prompt accusation, this started out small and kept growing. As you will soon see, the end result has very little to do with the prompt, but it was what started me off. In total I'm thinking there will be about five chapters.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

The accusation hung in the air like a suffocating fog. All of the air in the room had vanished, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

It’s all your fault.

Her eyes stayed on him, hardened by loss and anger. She was the only thing he could see; the background of his brother’s kitchen faded, unimportant. Her form seemed outlined by despair and lost hope, with the hard shell of fury protecting her. Her unwavering stare was unapologetic; daring him to contradict.

“Helen...” his voice cracked, and he had to stop and swallow before he could continue. “Helen, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry fixes nothing, John.” She spat the words out like a poison. Hair unkempt and without makeup, her anger made her look half-deranged. He barely recognized her. “Our son is dead and it’s all your fault!”

John flinched back from the blow. “I’m so sorry,” he echoed, desperately. “I’m sorry.” He choked out the words.

“I can’t be around you right now.” His heart sped up, imagining the worst. But she just turned around, pausing with her hand lingering on the doorjamb. “Good night, John.”

She was gone before he could say anything more. John remained at his brother’s kitchen table, hands folded. He heard the creak that meant his wife was going up the stairs; the click as she closed the door to Ian’s guestroom. John stared at the grain on the table, the cheap wooden thing that his brother had found in someone else’s junk. In the echoing silence of his brother’s nearly-empty house, he could hear the creaking of the mattress as Helen rolled over again and again.

He didn’t rise until the springs stopped squeaking. His ascent of the stairs was quieter than a ghost’s. Pausing outside the room that Helen slept in, he imagined that he could hear her light breathing. After a moment he let out a sigh and continued through the hallway. Ian wouldn’t mind if he borrowed his bed for a night.

The next morning, Helen was gone before he even woke up. She had the morning shift, he knew. A part of him was thankful, and he was ashamed.

He flipped his eggs half-heartedly, wondering if this was what it felt like, being in a dying marriage. He had always pitied those poor sods. Now he was one of them, a member of an exclusive club to which no one wanted to belong.

His eggs were rubbery and tasteless, but he didn’t notice. Even the routine of eating them brought the memories flooding in, though Ian’s house had no toys scattered about, no burp cloths, no empty milk bottles that lay resting on the counter. John saw them anyway, ghosts in his own memory.

He and Alex usually shared breakfast before he had to run to the bank; before the nanny arrived. It had been one of John’s favourite times of day. Now it was all he could do not to be sick.

Alex’s memory was everywhere. Even with his eyes wide open, he could see spectres of his son gurgling and laughing on the floor, Helen above him, teasing him with a squeaking toy. Or just her hair. Alex loved his mother’s hair.

Had loved.

The thought made John’s stomach turn, and suddenly the rubbery eggs were on their way up again. He barely made it to the sink before he was sick.

His son was gone and it was all his fault. John clutched the countertop with his eyes squeezed shut. Alex was dead. A lifetime full of opportunity, snuffed out just like that. He would never see Alex’s first day of school; never see Alex play football. And it was all his fault. Because John had betrayed Scorpia.

He stiffened, struck by a sprout of an idea struggling to break free. Scorpia had killed his son. Slowly, he straightened his back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He absentmindedly turned on the sink, rinsing away the evidence of his shame.

Scorpia had killed his son. He was going to make them pay.

Cossack shifted on his stomach, uneasy. This was the first time he had been on assignment without Hunter there. He wasn’t nervous, exactly, but something about this mission was not sitting well in his stomach. His mind flashed back to a piece of advice Hunter had bestowed on him during training.

If something feels wrong, it probably is. Trust your gut.

Cossack’s conviction in that particular piece of advice was strong. His instincts had served him well in the past—saved his life, even. Still, he bit his tongue. It was probably nothing, he told himself. Just needless worrying over his first solo assignment.

He had not been given a photo of the target. Mrs Rothman had apologized for the inconvenience with her big eyes and low-cut blouse, telling him that the client wanted the target dead as soon as possible and that Scorpia reconnaissance had not yet had the opportunity to photograph him. But she had given him a description—early 30s male, blonde hair, well-built—and an address before sending him off. Cossack had no doubts that he would succeed.

Suddenly, there was movement through the window. Cossack peered through the binoculars and watched a man—presumably his target—bend over the sink and vomit. The corner of Cossack’s mouth turned down in distaste. So the man was weak. His apprehension seemed to evaporate as the cold calm he always associated with missions washed over him.

The target hovered over the sink a moment more before straightening. Cossack watched him clean up his mess, waiting for the best angle. He cocked his rifle and adjusted his scope. It would be an easy kill.

His target stepped away from the sink, and Cossack’s finger tightened around the trigger. Just one...more...second...

He took the shot the instant the man turned. He imagined he could see the bullet as it spiralled toward the target, making a direct line for the heart. He heard the crack of the glass as the bullet punched its way through, moving with enough velocity to emerge on the other side of the supposedly bulletproof glass. He watched the man jerk with the force of the impact; saw the red of his blood blossoming on his chest.

Cossack felt a modicum of satisfaction. His first solo kill—it had been executed perfectly. But then again, he was not one to make errors.

It took three more seconds for the target’s face to register. Cossack stood in a haze, disassembling and bagging his rifle. The blood vanished from his face; his heart was in his throat. The scene played before him again and again, like a movie on his eyelids. He watched the target fall, surprise evident on his familiar face. Cossack—no, Yassen—felt ill.

He had just killed John Rider.

John felt as if he’d been punched by Superman. His chest ached something awful, and blood was gurgling in his throat. He coughed, once, and winced when he saw the blood all over his hands.

He knew he was dying.

Nevertheless, he dragged himself across the floor. If he could just...get to the...phone...

He slumped against the wall, feeling his blood pump out of him at an alarming rate. It was getting harder to breathe—every time he breathed out, no air seemed to want to re-enter his lungs. He didn’t dial 999. Instead, he pushed one, hoping that Ian’s phone had the same emergency connection that his did.

It only rang once.

“MI6, what is your emergency?”

“Rider.” The blood was seeping out of his mouth, making it nearly impossible to speak. Every breath he took seemed to be one of a limited few. “Been shot...at my b-brother’s house.”

“Where is the injury located?” The operator’s voice was coldly efficient.

“C-chest. T-think it might’ve g-gotten my t-throat too.”

“Agent Rider, help is on the way. Stay put; keep breathing as long as you can.”

John grunted in affirmation. He barely registered the door opening. He could feel himself slipping away. He didn’t fight it. “T-tell Helen I love her. A-and that I’m s-sorry. F-for everything.”

He could see a dark shadow hovering above him, coming closer. The phone slipped out of his bloody hands, the plastic casing bouncing on the linoleum tile. He let his head slump to the side and felt his eyes shudder closed.

At least it didn’t hurt.

Don't Fear the Reaper

2009-05-27T20:22:48Z

Title: Don't Fear the Reaper
Rating: T (PG-13) for minor language
Wordcount: 728
Summary: He hadn't expected it to end this way. But Alex Rider has become accustomed to expecting the unexpected. Written for The Firm's April prompt challenge, Reaper.
AN: Got a lot of positive responses on this one over on FF. As always, I am ever-thankful to my wonderful readers/reviewers. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

Alex had heard the expression “stared death in the face” plenty of times in the past, but he thought he might’ve taken the cake on this one. Not Death with a capital ‘d,’ like some sort of Grim Reaper—that was taking the metaphor a bit too far, if you asked him—but death with a lowercase letter, the kind that would stop his heart and turn off his brain.

He’d faced his fair share of brandished weapons in the past. But there was something different about staring down a man behind a gun, the barrel pointed just so at his head, so that he knew the trajectory would take the bullet to a point exactly between his eyes. This man was good. His hand was steady; his eyes hard. He wouldn’t make mistakes. But Alex had already known that.

“You do not seem scared, Alex.”

He almost didn’t dare to breathe, but he replied. “I’m just pissing my pants in fear, actually.”

He didn’t take the bait. Alex had wanted to distract him, but the man never blinked. “You should be afraid. You are about to die.”

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me that over the years. But I’m still here.”

“Obviously. You should have taken that as a warning, Alex. When you have that many people out to kill you, you must be doing something wrong.”

“Or something right. I’m still alive. That’s what matters.”

“Is it? I have heard that it is lonely, the life of a spy. Do you still hold the childish notion that life is to be valued before everything else? Before happiness, and love?”

“You’re one to talk. You’re about to kill me to save your life—though I’m sure yours is none too rosy.”

“It is very foolish to mock a man holding a gun, Alex.” His finger tightened around the trigger. “And you did not answer my question. Have you found anything worth living for, besides the dull ritual of life itself?”

“I have plenty to live for.” Alex’s throat was dry, but he refused to let himself swallow. Instead he straightened his shoulders and stood tall. “It’s why I’m willing to die.”

The man’s eyebrow lifted. “Perhaps I have underestimated you. But I hope you are not speaking of love for your country. Other than being an idiotic reason to die, patriotism bleeds out of spies more freely than blood.”

Alex let a humourless laugh escape. “I’m no patriot.” He shook his head, wondering why he didn’t just get it over with already. The man was an expert. He knew not to gloat, to carry on a conversation. The longer he talked the more likely it was that Alex would escape. “But I don’t let men like you just run around killing people.”

“Ah, so this is revenge.” If Alex wasn’t crazy, he looked a little disappointed.

“I told you I would kill you.”

“That was several years ago. I was wondering if you had forgotten.”

“You know what they say. A spy never forgets. Or forgives.”

“I was under the impression that that was Scorpia’s catchphrase.”

Alex shrugged, trying to look as relaxed as possible with the gun still pointed calmly at his head. “Why are you asking me this anyway? It’s not your style.”

“I was curious. I still am. But you are right.” He straightened. “I wish you had listened to me. This would not have been necessary.”

“I couldn’t not do it.”

“All the same, I am sorry. To you and your father.”

Alex smiled a ghost of a smile. “Just pull the damn trigger, Gregorovitch.”

emmi_loo @ 2009-05-27T16:03:00

2009-05-27T20:13:15Z

I'm going through and posting some of my older oneshots. I probably won't do the chaptered ones. Those would take too long. Anyway, enjoy!
Title: Tuesdays
Rating: K+ (PG)
Wordcount: 553
Warnings: It's a deathfic, people.
Summary: Alex Rider dies in a "tragic accident," and Jack is left to grieve.
AN: My very first AR fanfic. I'm so proud. *tear* Not really, though. This has been edited through hell since it was first posted. Hope you like the changes!

It is a rainy Tuesday afternoon the day Alex Rider dies.

She had learned once that the police ringing your bell at three in the morning never brought good news. And she learns now that the same is true for three in the afternoon. Especially when they're wearing their apology faces. "So sorry, nothing could be done, our condolences..." It's happened twice now, once when Ian Rider "wasn't wearing his seatbelt" and now that Alex Rider "was caught in a gas explosion."

She remembers the numbness that had set upon the first time around, and she wishes for it now, now that her body is wracked with sobs and her fingernails are digging into her palms and her tears are running down her cheeks. She thinks of the numbness and wishes for it. (Because anything is better than the pain.)

Alex, poor Alex, strong Alex, brave Alex. She feels cold and callous for even thinking it (but anything is better than the pain), but she wishes that someone else, some other fourteen year old, could have taken his place. Alex belongs everywhere, not confined to a space six feet by three and six feet under. Anyone else, why couldn't it have been anyone else? The coldness only lasts so long before the pain buries her again.

Alex, poor Alex, tragic Alex. She's angrier than she's ever been when they won't tell her how he really died. (But anything is better than the pain.) He gave his life for them and they won't honor him by telling his story? The true story, not the load of bull they’re feeding her? They won't acknowledge that he was the best thing that ever happened to them, that they were the worst thing that ever happened to him? That everything is their fault? The anger only lasts so long before the pain returns to drown her.

Alex, poor Alex, underestimated Alex. There is a swell of righteous hatred toward MI6 when the truth gets out. (But anything is better than the pain.) The reporter, bless him, dug a little deeper, refused to believe the lies fed to him about why a child was in the custody of a bank and hit the jackpot: the whole of Alex's file, in every newspaper in the world, translated into a hundred languages. They gets what's coming to them, Blunt and Jones, when they're forced to resign, and the Prime Minister when he is forced to acknowledge his wrongs. The hatred only lasts so long before she's suffocating again.

Alex, poor Alex, heroic Alex. She is overwhelmed by pride; pride and sad resignation, this time. (Because anything is better than the pain.) This time, when she is finally told the truth. Tom Harris, covered in gauze and probably blind for the rest of his life, finally tells her what no one else would. Alex gave his life to save Tom's, and probably others as well. Pushed him right out of the way.

The pain doesn't bury her this time, because there's a sliver of humor: MI6 was telling the truth. Alex Rider was finished off by a gas explosion.

So I decided to make a promise...

2009-05-27T20:02:38Z

...to myself. Starting now, and hopefully continuing at least until finals (and, cross your fingers, through them), I'm going to attempt to update one story a week. Maybe more, if my brain and schedule can handle it. No guarantees which story it will be--it may even be a oneshot. If I update (or post) something new every week, then I consider myself set. If I don't, feel free to hit me with sticks or come after me with pitchforks or something.

Curious as to why I'm doing this? Then click the link.

To be honest, I feel horrible that it takes me so long to update stories. It's kind of sad. So, starting now, I'm going to try to get better.

It's not that I don't write...I'm writing all the time. It's that I'll get 2/3 of the way done with a story or chapter or something and then ditch it to work on something else. So this way I can work on loads of different things at once--as long as I finish something by the time the week is over.

(For my sake, the week starts at 12:01 [Eastern Standard Time :P] Sunday morning and ends the next Sunday at 12:00.)

So. Hopefully this helps. If any of you are around at that time of the day, feel free to prod me if I haven't updated. :]

Emmy

Music, movies, etc

2009-05-25T02:23:30Z

Downloaded two great albums today, both by The Dear Hunter. (Progressive rock, if anyone is interested.) I can't take my headphones out of my ears. Just thought I'd share. :)

My sister and I went to the movies last night. We saw Wolverine and Terminator. Wolverine wasn't bad, but it wasn't the best thing I've ever seen. It seemed contrived to me. (And of course, as a writer, I was picking the plot apart the whole time.) Terminator was better, especially since I've never seen any of the originals. They did a good job of making it accessible. Both were nice and action-packed. :D Neither were my favorite of the summer, though: that award goes to Star Trek. (The Russian kid in that one is also in Terminator. I'm pretty sure his name is Anton Yelchin--he's pretty cute. :P) I liked Star Trek the most of the summer, so far. Still on my list for the summer: HP and the Half-Blood Prince, Transformers II, and Angels and Demons. I just finished re-reading Angels and Demons, actually. Nice and twisty. A bit (only a bit, mind you) like James Bond in that the main character's love interest doesn't last more than a book. Which is unfortunate, actually, because the romantic interest in A&D is cool.

Oh! This actually has to do with writing. :P I got a book as a gift, recently, that is honestly a godsend: Stein On Writing, by Sol Stein. Seriously. It only took me like 3 days to finish it, and that's saying something considering I rarely finish nonfiction books. (Was that a run-on? Oh well, I'm too lazy to fix it.) It has advice on all of the stuff I worry about: characterization, plot development and so on. See if your library has it, or buy your own copy. I have a feeling that I'll be using mine a lot. :)

I think that's all. Forgive me for the rambling post; it's kind of late.

Writing, yay!

2009-05-14T02:19:34Z

So I've got lots of updates planned for soon (finally!) Chapter 4 of Reeducation is almost done, and I have several little one shot things that I need to get betaed and posted. After that it's probably The Ripple Effect. After that I have no idea. My two stories from non-AR fandoms need updates kind of badly. Honestly, there just isn't enough time in the day. :P

On the plus side: AP TESTS ARE OVER! Forgive the caps. I'm very excited by this fact. History was on Friday, English was today--overall, I have to say they weren't that bad. Not fun, but not horrendous. And my school lets people who take APs leave early, so my friends and I hit a park, played frisbee, pigged out on junk food and hung out for like four hours. (I have a sunburn now, but only on one side. The other side, mysteriously, just tanned.)

The presentation for my junior project (for my original fiction) is on Friday. Sometime before then I have to figure out when I can make a powerpoint to go in the background when I'm talking and actually plan out what I'm going to say. Thankfully in the past couple of years my public speaking skills have improved. :)

I think I'm going to go to bed now. Hope this makes sense later, when I'm not falling asleep!

Updates out the wazoo

2009-05-04T01:38:15Z

Yes, I just used the word wazoo. And no, I'm not referring to fanfic updates, unfortunately. Updates on my life:

The original fic is going smashingly well. I finally have a real idea of how I want to end it, and that has made it millions of times easier to go back and edit things that need changing. I have finally accepted that it will most likely not be finished by June 1st, but I intend on getting a print copy somehow, damnit! Maybe I'll even self-publish it. Who knows...I'm really excited, and really happy with where it's going.
I added another AP class to my schedule next year. The authorities have declared me criminally insane. This brings the tally up to AP Calculus, AP Physics, AP Chemistry, AP Literature, AP Government and kinda/sorta AP Spanish. AP Chem is the new one. My guidance counselor let me drop band instead of english, which she likes to insist would look bad on my transcript. I like to insist that english class is useless and dumb.
I am now addicted to instrumental rock. A.K.A the post-rock station on last.fm. It's absolutely perfect to listen to when I'm writing...no lyrics to get in the way of a good thought, and damn good music, too. :) (If anyone else has a last.fm, I'm Emmy-loo92. Why did I pick such a common screenname??)
AP tests are sneaking up on me way too fast. Especially that of the US history variety. (English is dumb and does not require studying whatsoever.) I studied today with friends for like 3 hours, and watched a movie yesterday on the 50s and 60s, which I borrowed from my history teacher. I am a nerd, but it's okay, because I've come to terms with that fact. Basically I'm studying in the afternoons and watching history movies at night in the hopes that I'll absorb every aspect of American history before Friday. It's great fun.

Phew! This basically leaves no time for fanfic, which is unfortunate. I love writing fanfic. I have been sneaking in some time here and there to add some bits to a new story of mine, but no saying when it will go up...

On that front, I should probably write some more. :)

To all the writers out there:

2009-04-16T22:20:20Z

...do you ever get one of those days where you just keep going and going and after a while it feels like you're living in your character's world? No? Maybe it's just me. :P

Anyway, I've thankfully had a few days like that recently. I've gone up in my original fic from about 53k to almost 57k today in a matter of days--which is the most I've written in it since November. Also, thank God, I'm basically done with preliminary edits. I have to insert a few more scenes here and there (and, you know, actually finish the story!) but I feel like I'm almost over the hump. It's lovely.

Fanfic has sadly taken a backseat, though. I've already fallen way behind on my drabbles and my other stories have basically come to a halt at this point. Hopefully I'll have more time for those in, I don't know, June. (Cross my fingers it will be earlier than that, but I've got AP tests coming up in a few weeks (eek!!) and the end of school after that.)

I'm in a remarkably good mood today, though, so I won't ruin it with talks of the future. :P

There is a land called Procrastinativa and I am their Queen

2009-04-01T01:27:41Z

I am so dumb. So this year has been pretty hard school-wise, because I'm taking two AP classes. But instead of signing up for a nice and calm slacker senior year, like most people would have done (like most people did do), next year is going to suck. Why? Because I'm taking five...count 'em, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 AP classes!

Why am I talking about this now? Oh yeah, I just finished an 8-page paper for AP Language. I am such a procrastinator. She literally assigned it a month ago. I started it when? Today? Yeah, that's me.

I hate it when school takes away from fanfic. And it's only going to get worse next year. AP Calc, AP Physics, AP Lit, AP Gov and AP Spanish. I AM DUMB!

Sorry about the rant. I just am in a very school-hating mood at the moment. :P

(By the way: still looking for anyone willing to beta my original fiction!)

Writing angst

2009-03-28T20:42:41Z

So I'm still working on my NaNo. At this point all I want to do is delete the entire thing...it's annoying me to the point where I honestly can't even look at it anymore. And, idiot that I am, I thought it would be a good idea to do a junior project entirely based on my story. I need to finish it (at my estimates, I'm about 3/5 of the way through at 53,320 words, so that's about another 30k that I need to write) and edit it before the end of next month. Editing isn't that bad, though. Slow, yes, but not as painful as I've heard. My mentor for the project is awesome, though. He doesn't mind my sentence fragments. :)

At this point, though, I'm definitely going through writing angst. I'm worrying that my characters aren't developed enough, that they're boring, that the story is boring, that the story is never going to amount to anything...ugh. The list just keeps growing. Not to mention that my original fiction keeps me away from my fanfiction. (Temporarily, at least. I still find the time to write 100 words a day for my drabbles. :D)

I really need to get back to working on it, but I can't seem to get past this one difficult spot. But, then again, I would rather do this over my mountain of homework. (What kind of teacher assigns an essay on prom weekend?! Apparently, two of my teachers. Kill me now, please.)

Oh, yeah, prom was last night. It was a lot more fun than I thought it was going to be, considering that I almost didn't go at all. Got to ride in a limo for the first time ever. :) I'm really tired now, though.

I should probably get back to writing now. Before I go, though...would anyone be interested in reading my draft of my original fiction? I started posting it on FictionPress, but I've gone back and made a lot of changes. I'm not sure if it's ready for the internet yet. I would be interested in a general beta, for grammar/punctuation, characterization (different from fanfic in that I actually had to invent my own characterization. Ew. :P), pacing and such forth. Multiple betas would be great. Really, as many people as possible. The more eyes the better, right?

I guess I'm signing off now. Didn't think this would get this long. :)

Intro

2009-03-26T01:42:24Z

I'm very bad at writing about myself. It's true. But what's the point in having one of these if I don't write in it? :P

So: I am currently procrastinating on about a billion things that I have to do. I find that I do this a lot. Writing related things currently on my to-do list:

1) Write another drabble
2) Work on my original fiction (finish writing it, go through and edit it)
3) Write/post first chapter of sequel to Repercussions (currently untitled...I should probably work on that...)
4) Write another chapter in I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings (henceforth referred to as IKWTCBS :P)
5) Write another chapter of This is the Altar
6) Write another chapter of Origins

So. Yeah. Lots of work for me. Since I want about another 30k on my original fiction, this adds up to about 40k in total. Arg.

I also seem to have a toothache. Or a wisdom tooth is coming in. Something like that. Point is, it hurts every time I open my mouth too much. :(

On a more positive note, my mom decided that since I'm on the computer so much, I should at least be warm while I do it. So, yeah, I am now the proud owner of a Snuggie. Seriously.