Im a vicious doggie this morning.

[RosevilleCAguy]

I am not a political animal. I keep informed of things that have a "here and now" impact on my life, but in general, I tend to not pay much attention to most of the "news" simply because I am confronted with a "Hobson's choice." I can either slog through the data in order to formulate my own opinion or I can rely on somebody else to do it for me, keeping in mind that the view point provided by them is biased.

I suspect that most of the people who purport to have my (as a generic member of the human race) best interests in mind are confronted by the same informational overload, but simply ignore it or do not comprehend that it may result in gaping flaws in thier logic.

Despite the flaws created by informational overload, there are a lot of people who seem to want to tell me what to do. Not that anything has been specifically directed to me, but in general. It really bugs me when it is done under the auspices of a higher moral concept such as justice or when the person telling me what to do has no idea of who I am or where I come from on things. My experience has taught me that those who claim to protect the rights of others against some nebulous "threat" are usually more interested in increasing their own power. I kills me when people actually fall for their rhetoric.

It makes me want to go bite somebody.



I

 

[marksgirl]

Bite me?

 

[RosevilleCAguy]

I dunno if I should bite you. I don't have any idea of where you have been.

 

[Guest]

smokeSCREEN(Pre-editting version) Copyright Riven_C
No, I don't have a permission.

book5IVE

:thePARTINGofWAYS

* * *

bat your eyes girl, be / otherworldly / count your blessings / se / duce a stranger / what's so wrong with / being happy / kudos to those who / see through sickness, yeah // over and / over and / over and / over and / over

* * *
* * *

I can't help singing softly to myself.

"over and over and over and over and ohhhhhh hoh hoh hoh…"

Sophie's nodding her head as I sing. The others don't seem to mind, thank God – it calms me down.

"she woke in the morning… she knew that her life had passed her by…"

But Sophie eyes are welling up.

We're all terrified.

"…she called out a warning…"

They brough a tank.

"…don't ever let life pass you by."

And then for a while, we just watch forty or so old ones nervously finger their overseized weapons. Soon the platinum-blonde from before appears out of a car and shouts at some of the old ones, including… the huge brute with the leather mask who had grabbed Lisa that first night we bumped into them.

He takes about ten soliders or so and walks up to the Market.

They're let in, and all we can do is wait.

The Tower should have been her a half an hour ago, at least, asuming Michelle got that far.

"…she woke in the morning… she knew that her life had passed her by… she called out a warning… don't ever let life pass you by." And now I notice Sophie staring at me. Or my hand. Looking down, I see that the shotgun is vibrating.

Sophie gently holds my wrist, and she smiles at me.

She's saying it'll be okay.

And I nod.

Sure it will, Soph. Sure it will.

Whumm…popop.

We both peek around the corner towards the terminal.

"…what did that sound like to you?"

"A grenade… sort of," I say.

And now five old ones exit the terminal – one is limping. The rest of them prepare to fire, but the man in the leather mask talks to the platinum-blond, and then looks over to us.

"…oh, what the fuck?" Sophie whispers.

"It's okay, it's okay – this is good. This is fine," I say. He's already halfway to the doors.

"At ease!" I bark at the others. They set their weapons at their sides, but keep them easily accessible as the huge man – I'd guess six-foot-seven, now – steps up to the doors and into the Terminal.

"Who's in charge here?" he says.

"Me."

Under the black leather, his dark eyes scan from my boots to my eyes with a grim mix of curiosity and disappointment.

"I remember you," he says. "The firey one who slit my man's throat."

"And tossed a few molatov cocktails, as I recall," I smile. "What's the problem?"

"He won't come willingly."

"Um… Sophie, Saku, Kristen – c'mon. Diane's in charge 'till I get back."

"We just need to know how to make him docile," he says.

"The boys said they have gas for it."

"They don't."

I shrug, and nod to Sophie, Saku and Kristen.

"These are his friends – they can talk him down. Let's go."

* * *

We go across, into the Market. Despite the floodlights and spotlights outside, the inside is near pitch-dark. One of the Westwood Cetas explains that they never had to deal with an intruder before – they always got them before they were inside.

He leads us down a long hallway until we finally come to a place that looks like it's been the victim of a horrible fire.

There's a doorway at the end of the hall – the door has been blown off its hinges, and the hallway is littered with gore and about eight bodies – five old ones and three Westwood men.

"…Jesus Christ," Sophie whispers.

"What happened? Someone drop a grenade?" I ask, stepping into the room.

"There were three men from Westwood here with us – plus my ten men," the one in the mask says from the hallway. "When we opened the door, it exploded. Glass shrapnel – killed four men instantly. The ones who didn't run after that door was open, well…" He nudges a corpse with a boot. "…I just don't know why she wants this one," he sighs.
"He's a soldier – a Patriot – I'll give him that."

I hear him saying all this, but I'm not really listening. I'm staring at the walls – tracing my fingers over the cool dark concrete that flakes here and there.

It's wet in a few spots.

"Can anyone out there read?" I think it's… ash and spit.

I hear a huge boot crunch through the glass at the door, and the man in the mask hands me a black flashlight.

"Can you?" I ask – he nods. As I click the little device on, I can't help but shriek.

The flaking was dried blood under my fingers. The sticky spots… I wipe my hand on the wall, but it's sticky too.

"Is it English?" I whisper.

"Yes." And now he crunches away through the glass, out of the room.

"Well what the fuck does it say?" I push past the others and follow him back to the main area of the Market. Sophie catches up to me and grabs me by a sleeve.

"Crow - we need to find him now," she whispers.

"The staff," I say, stopping. Everyone bumps into each other behind me, and the masked man turns along with the westwood man.

"What staff?" the old one says.

"He would have had a staff on him when you threw him in the cell, right?" The guy shrugs.

"I don't know."

"He did – we need to find it, 'cause he'll be looking for it."

* * *

The men stick to the shadows – afraid to reveal themselves to whatever is hunting them. Sophie, Saku, Kristen and I step boldly forward towards the large iron doors that bar Jessie's section of the Market.

They've been whispering behind us the entire way. What they've heard about him. One of them actually saw the way he moves, and they're so terrified I can't help but grin to myself. But this comes with an epiphany.

All fear is only ignorance.

Cypress told me that before, but I never connected the dots like I do at this moment. We didn't know the whole story about sex – and were terrified of the boys. The old ones have only ever seen Cypress as the swordsman who kills and never dies. I guess I can understand them being terrified.

I double-check my shotgun.

"You're sure Cypress's staff is in here?" I call behind me.

"Yes," a voice comes from the shadows. I yank the doors open and pause. I listen. Yes. Yes – I hear something. Someone trying to breathe.

Waving Sophie towards me, I creep ahead, peeking around the corner towards what looks to be Jessie's bed, and-

We freeze.

He knows we're there.

But he's not moving. Cypress, I mean.

He's got Jessie stapled to the wall – skewered on his blade.

Cypress stands calmly, holding the sword in place as Jessie laibours for breath.

I'm still frozen. Maybe I freeze too long.

I try to memorize him – this might be the last time I see him.

I wish he looked better right now. His hair is matted with grit and blood – his pale sweater soaked to a rusty-black from carnage. It drips on the floor.

I try to memorize him, but too fast, he whips the sword out of the wall – the blade scrapes against Jessie's bones as he draws it through. I jump forward and call out, but he throws himself through a window before even glancing my way.

I yell for him – I scream.

I run to the window to make sure he's not dead.

I look down, in time to see the glass tinkling on the pavement two stories below.

The swordsman is gone.

And Jessie is crying.

* * *
* * *

she woke in the morning / she knew that her life had passed her by / she called out a warning / don't ever let life pass you by

floating in this cosmic jacuzzi / we are like frogs oblivious / to the water starting to boil / one flinches / we all float face down

* * *
* * *

We make a fine outfit.

Eleven old ones, including the masked fellow.

The doubly-skewered Jessie, and the Westwood Ceta.

And us girls.

The masked one is grilling us for what Cypress would do next. He wants answers. The deal is off if we don't produce the swordsman.

"Listen – I showed you where he was, you just had to go in and get him!" Jessie snaps.

I'm pacing – smoking.

"Okay! Just shut up!" I bark. The small puddle of men turn like one flowing mass to me. "He's got guns – right?"

"I didn't see any," Jessie says.

"But he did take the staff?"

"Yeah. Did you know there's a fuckin' sword inside that thing? Has been this whole time!"

The girls and I just stare at him, agape.

I want to shout at him for daring to be related to Cypress, but in the name of diplomacy, I turn to the masked old one.

"So obviously, it falls to the two of us," I say. He nods, grimly.

"You know how to do it – I can make it happen," he tells me.

"How much does Cypress know? Did you guys tell him anything about the trade?"

Jessie nods.

"How much?"

"Everything."

BOOMba-bangbang. We all spin – it was far away – on the other side of the building. BOOM. The walls rattle a bit.

"…sounds like around where we keep the weapons," the Westwood Ceta says.

"What the fuck is this guy on?" one of the old ones gapes.

"You're sure he's going for more weapons?" I snap my eyes up to the Westwood Ceta.

"Ninety per cent," he shrugs. I turn to the masked old one, and say very slowly;

"Speak clearly – word for word; What was written on that wall?"

The old one rolls his eyes;

"Just some bullshit about fairy tale endings."

"Word for word – this is important."

"Uhh…" He counts on his fingers, but he flips the middle one up first. "Do. You. Still. Believe. In. Happy. Endings. Questionmark."

I chain another cigarette. Jessie says it;

"What's he gonna' do?"

* * *

We check out where they keep the weapons, but he's already been there and gone. Everything is in such disarray, there's no way to know what he took.

We just head out the front doors.

We all meet in the center on the pavement – the rest of the girls from the Terminal are out – it doesn't look like the Tower has come. Half of the Westwood men have opted to stay inside the Market.

My mind is running. He went for weapons. What could he possibly be planning?

The masked man directs me to the platinum-blond, who shakes my hand, smiles warmly, and says;

"Brie."

"Crow."

"This is Mickey, but don't mind him. So where's our little mystery, Crow?"

"I didn't make this deal with you," I say. "If you guys had been watching the outside of the Market, maybe we'd know where he is…"

"Let's just look at where we are. Deliver the swordsman in half an hour. Yes – yes, that suits me." Brie just grins.

"Why do you want him?"

"For my own purposes," she snaps.

Screams and shouts rise from the Market, and now another five or so men come running for the group. Cypress has us all on the run.

"He's quite a specimen, isn't he?" Brie muses, grinning even more widely now. I shake my head.

"That's not him," I say, looking up at the observation Tower. Cypress is a pretty mean shot with a sniper rifle. But perhaps that's too cliché for him – to go mad and end up in a tower with a rifle.

What is his purpose?

He has us all on the run.

That's his dream. That's his fear. That's why he doesn't want to lead.

This is his evil. He's going to kill us all.

I drop to the pavement and put an ear to the ground.

"Do you have anyone in the Tunnels?" I look to Brie, then to Jessie – they both shake their heads as I start towards the Market.

"Where are you going? Where is she going?"

"Get eveyone out of the Forks!" I call back.

The crowd parts as best they can as I begin to walk, then run towards the Market building.

He was afraid of what he'd do. And now he believes he has to do it.

That's got to be it.

As I run out of the floodlights into the desolate shadows and neverending dark of the Market, I trip over a Westwood solider who's trying to escape. He's bleeding heavily from the leg.

"Get out!!" he shrieks at me. And as I launch myself down the stairs, he screams for me to come back. To run for my life.

But down the stairs.

Down, down, down to the old maintenance tunnels. There's an unconscious Westwood soldier halfway down, but he's alive and will stay that way. Another few flights and I feel consumed with the darkness. It presses down on me from all sides, and it takes a moment to finally see where that sound is coming from.

At first, I thought it was machinery working somewhere. But the closer I got, I realized that not the beat, but the sound itself was too random.

And as I get closer, the paff, paff sound accompanies a spasm of shadow. And I see that there is light – some light – filtering from far away down the hallway. And now

Paff I can see his boots.

Paff his ripped cargos. And I find it funny that I don't have the shotgun ready.

Paff I can see his shredded, bloody sweater.

Paff and his matted, grungy hair, whipping back and forth as he smacks his head into the brick wall.

Paff.

Paff.

"Cypress?" I whisper.

In a blink, he shoots from the corner and past me, to a flashing panel on the wall beyond.

"CYPRESS!" I roar – and he stops. He freezes. His hand is paused over the blinking panel, and now I notice the bags of plastic explosive that he's gathered. I wonder how many he's already got set up.

His eyes staring wide at me me – not blinking.

"…what are you doing…?" I say finally.

"Something is really really wrong," he whispers. "Really really wrong."

"I know – it's okay," I tell him – but he shakes his head.

"It's not," he says.

"Tell me what to do." It's now I notice he's got one hand on the staff, and I reach for my shotgun.

I'm never prepared for how fast he moves. Never. Even though I've seen it.

He moves way too fast for me to block him. Or dodge. The blade flashes faster than you can see.

…how could you prepare for that? For that blade that moves faster than you see, ready to arc across your throat?

As he leaps forward, the only thing I can think to do is say;

"Iloveyou."

And the moment is paused again. He stands a full five feet away, but the sword tip is poised, ready to slit my throat. I want to see his eyes.

All I can hear is my breath. Fast. Harsh.

I want to see his eyes, but it's too goddamn dark here.

It's too dark to see his eyes, and now, the lights blink out. And all I can hear is my breath. And now I'm blinded by the flaring light of his Zippo, as he lights a cigarette.

Something goes 'ping' on the concrete floor, and I don't look to see what it is. As he closes the Zippo, his hand grips mine, and I barely have time to scoop whatever he dropped off the ground as he whispers;

"Run," and drags me, Hell-bent down the hall.

Into the blackness.

* * *
* * *

she woke in the morning / she knew that her life had passed her by / she called out a warning / don't ever let life pass you by
floating in this cosmic jacuzzi / we are like frogs oblivious / to the water starting to boil / no one flinches / we all float face down

* * *
* * *

I never knew about this tunnel. I don't even know where we are.

But he keeps on dragging me. He hasn't spoken. Hasn't pulled out a flashlight or a lighter in the pitch-dark. He just drags me, limping heavy down long halls and around short corners. Down stars. Down, down, down.

Oooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

He doesn's turn around as whatever bomb he planted erupts. There isn't so much much as a rattle of the light fixtures.

Eventually, it feels like we're walking on gravel. And now, wood and gravel. Train tracks, somewhere underground. Which quickly becomes above ground. And now, he sits me on an ancient little rail trolley, with a little low box attached to one end.

He throws a couple of blankets in and hops up to the bar you shove up and down.

He tells me to go to sleep. Just try to sleep.

He'll wake me when we get there.

I tell him to fuck off – he'll sleep and I'll push the bar up and down. And when do I stop?

"Wake me up in four hours, and I'll take over, alright?

I nod, and the rig whines and squeaks as the bar pumps up and down. That squeaking really takes you over. You feel like it'll drive you insane until you get the sense that you have some control over it. Just as it has a certain measure of power over you And the Sun still isn't near rising when he wakes up to take over. And frankly, I'm happy to let him.

It squeaks as we glide along, but soon I do fall asleep.

The squeaks ring into forever, and I dream of the Ocean. I've never seen the Ocean with my own eyes, but I watched movies that had it. Never saw it. When I dream, my Ocean starts out black as night, with fog all across the hazy-grey lines of surf. Freezing wet sand and a chilly wind that stinks of the rotting sea.

But as the Sun rises, so does my Ocean from the cold and hard to the warm and inviting.

The Sun glows down, warm but not hot on my face, and the birds are calling to each other. The neon-blue waters collide gently with the soft sand. And somewhere Sophie is laughing.

"Crow," his voice cuts, like a rusty coffin nail. As I open my eyes to the now-full Sun, I see him in all his torn and tattered glory. I'd like to be able to compare him to the chick in the original Carrie near the end, when the school was on fire. I always thought she looked oddly pretty, for someone who's creating their own Hell. Or at least that's how I saw it.

I'd like to say he looks sorta' like her, but have you ever seen the movie Cujo? Remember how the dog was so dirty, bloody, scraped and ragged by the end it looked like he was being held together by tendrils of sinew and unconquerable will alone?

That's what Cypress looks like. Someone who had come through Hell, and survived because they simply. Weren't. Done here.

"Where are we?" I ask as he helps me off the trolley. He leads me, limping, up a path and across a paved road – the rail line and the road are the frame on a wood, shielding it from the open, overgrown prairie.

"A long way away from the city. A long long way. No one will ever look for us here," he says.

"Cypress?"

He turns to me. He's shaking – his eyes are burning, heavy with straining blood vessels as he twitches.

"I don't know if this is the right thing," he says.

"Are they all dead?" I ask. He shakes his head.

"No. They drove away. Not just the old ones – Westwood vehicles too. A lot of people ran on foot. But if they weren't out, they're gone. He's gone. I buried him."

"Who?"

But his sticky, gritty hand cups my cheek, and he manages a weak smile.

"I'll explain," he says. "But let's clean ourselves up. You for one, could use a comb through that hair. And I think I should take a look at my hair. I think I might have cut it off."

"Cypress, I'm sorry for saying this, but you don't really sound like yourself."

"I know," he tells me. And he lights a smoke. "And I haven't really been myself lately. But I'll explain. I can't ask you to understand this right now, but I have had… a very, very long couple of days.

There's a cabin, six hours through the woods here – right on the beach. Stocked up with clean gravity-fed water, smokes and food. …can we get there first?"

"…are you going to kill me?"

"No."

I do have to think about it.

"Alright."

* * *

It takes us a very long time to reach that cabin – I suspect it is, in fact, more than the six hours he had promised me. I don't ask, and Cypress doesn't suggest otherwise. He doesn't say anything. We just wander on through the sand and fighting trees under the burning-hot sun. I pull off my cotton shirt and sweater, leaving the white tank top on.

That's better.

Cypress is smiling at me. Under all the crap, he almost looks like his old self.

"…what?"

"That's new," he says, regarding the tank top. First thing he's said in five hours.

"A lot's changed," I nod.

He doesn't say anything – he just smiles and nods, and turns back to the trail that ceased to be definite four hours ago. I don't ask – it seems like he knows where he's going. He ambles along, his classic… wolf-trot carrying him easily across the powder sand. I hadn't notice the limp go away, but he is trotting indeed.

"How much further?" I ask. He waits for me to catch up.

"What do you think?" he grins at me.

"…just over that dune?" I'm panting. Sweating. Even in the stupid tank top.

"Is it?"

"It'd better be," I shrug. He nods again and steps forward, finally slowing down to a pace more comfortable to us mere mortals.

Coming over that dune, I find myself looking down at a lake that stretches to the horizon. I can't see the other side.

The white powder-sand dune comes to a comfortable rest thirty feet below us, and becomes the white powder-sand beach. The waves stroke gently at the shore in the lack of wind. Between the water and the dunes, a cabin. Or house. Not entirely wood, at any rate – it's certainly stood the test of time.

I hear Cypress's Zippo beside me, and he hands me a lit cigarette before puffing happily on his own and descending the hill. Hurrying down behind him, I trip and fall in the sand in my rush. He's there to help me up, and already has a new cigarette for me.

"What is this place?" I ask.

"Grand Beach," he says. "Untouched by the war – it was just abandoned. Luckily, a lot of the places out here had to rely on their own supply of everything, so…" He shrugs and produces a key from his belt, opening the front door of the spaceous house. "I found this… four years or so ago. I was just bumming around on a motorbike I got workin' and I found it – set up the trolley as a just-in-case, y'know?"

Inside, it seems twice as huge. I suppose when you grow up in an office building, any house seems to have celings to the sky. There's a dining room. Living room. Full kitchen. Two bedrooms. More downstairs – we'll get to that later.

"What do we do now?" I say, poking my head out of the kitchen into the living room. He's not there. Not in the dining room. Or the bathroom. Or the first bedroom. I'm about to look downstairs when I hear that strangely familiar sound of a body hitting the floor, and race up the hall to the master bedroom. Cypress lays motionless, face down on the floor.

"Oh, God… Cypress?"

For a moment I'm terrified that he's seriously hurt himself, but a steady snore assures me otherwise. A mere mortal after all.

As I pull off his boots, I decide to strip him down and make sure he's not bleeding anywhere. I can clean him up in the process and releive my concern that he's going to die at any moment.

I don't want to know what the stuff encrusted on his belt buckle is – I get some of it off with a knife, but the buckle still sticks, so I have to cut the belt away to get his pants off.

Desperate measures.

His pants and shirts are easier, and I figure out how to get the water on.

Returning to the room with a bucket and a sponge, Cypress hasn't moved an inch from how I left him. Still breathing, though.

Sitting crosslegged at his hips, I begin to clean away the blood, soot and grime. We just left them back there – all of them. Sophie. Oh, God – what happened to Sophie? If Sophie isn't okay, I'll die. She has to be okay. Cypress said he heard people running – they knew somehow.

I wonder what Cypress was thinking, to bring us all the way out here. A day's travel from anywhere.

I sigh.

He'll have a good reason. But I start to well up anyway, for some stupid reason.

I wipe my face and soak the sponge again, starting on his other leg. And now I'm really crying. I'm getting flashes in my head of Sophie's big brown eyes calling out for help as the world crashes down around her.

I'm still sobbing as I carry the bucket of bloody-black water back down the hall to dump it out. I'll clean it up.

* * *

Three days later, Cypress steps out of the hallway into the living room. He's rolling up the sleeves, trying to get comfortable in the clothes I laid out for him. In all fairness, a dress shirt and black slacks don't really suit him, but he pulls it off beautifully.

He smiles at me.

I just nod. I'm staring at him.

"You cut your hair."

He grins his easy grin and nods.

"Figured it was time for a change. Kept getting in my eyes."

I nod.

"Groovy."

"You look… wicked," he says. I'd forgotten what I was wearing – I've become so comortable in it the past few days.

"I found all this downstairs," I nod. "The dress, the candles, everything."

"How many hours I sleep?"

I find some cigarettes and toss them. He reaches and grabs thin air, the pack slapping into the wall behind him. He stares at the empty space between his fingers and then at me.

"Eighty-two."

"Three days?"

"Y-yeah, I was getting' kinda' worried…" I'm trying to laugh it off. I'm trying to smile, but he's not smiling as he picks up the smokes. He looks at it – stares at it – and throws it back to me.

"I'm never doing that again," he tells me. "I promise you."

"What – smoking?"

"Well, no – I just don't feel like one, actually." He limps across the room and pulls me down to sit with him on the couch. And he grins as he says, "I promise – I'm never gonna' risk everything like that again, unless it's for you."

But I don't know whether or not to believe him.

"Cypress… things were really wrong. …are you okay?"

He shakes his head.

"No," he says. "But I will be."

* * *
* * *

let me never be complete
may I never be content
you have to give up
evolve / and let the chips fall where they may

this is your life / it doesn't get any better than this
this is your life / and it's ending one minute at a time

* * *
* * *

He said he was going for a walk. That was eight hours ago. And now, as I step onto the front porch, I can see him clearly in the moodlight against the pale sand. He's sitting down on the beach, facing the water. I pad across the sand to plop down beside him. He doesn't flinch or even change his breathing. But slowly, he nods and draws his hands from his knees, pulling his legs from the lotus position.

"You got a smoke for me?" he asks. The moonlight shines on his face, and I can't help but smile at him.

As we both light up, he looks out over the water and smiles.

"You're worried about them."

"Aren't you?"

"A little. But it was inevitable. There was no other way," he says.

"We left them all there," I say. "If you had gone with them, they would have left us alone."

He smiles, sort of, but his eyes are dead serious.

"You think? Or do you think once they had me under lock and key they woulda' come back to surprise you guys?"

"No, Cypress, you can't tell me that was you thinking back there-"

"I don't suppose I can. But this is me thinking now. One by one, every person on our floor has betrayed me. Lied to you. Just because I chose you. They made that choice. We're not abandoning them – they abandoned us."

"Sophie didn't."

"Sophie made a move on me," he snaps. "Just like Lisa, just like Michelle. Fuck, I'm glad they were the only ones out there!"

"Look, that's all okay now-"

"No it's not. I don't like being… manipulated."

His face is hard as he watches the waves pound black as night against the pale-as-death sand. I'm so depressed.

"Why did we just leave? Why not warn them? Why not go back?"

But he shakes his head.

"I can't go back," he says. "I need time." Leaning back, he takes a deep breath of the cool air coming in off the lake. "The only people I intend to stay true to are sitting on this beach. Smell that?"

I sniff the air.

"Winter," I say. He nods.

"We'd better make sure we have enough to last us the season."

"Why can't we go back once you're feeling up to spec?"

The moonlight is enough to still surprise me, as it reveals his too-blue eyes.

"I need time to center myself. I would've killed you."

"No, there's no way you'd ever-"

"I would have," he cuts me off, taking a quick drag. "I wanted to."

"Are you gonna' tell me what happened?" I ask. He nods and snuffs his cigarette in the powder-sand, glancing up at me for another. As he lights it, he says;

"Where do you want to hear from?"

"From where you lost your mind."

"I didn't loose it. I just wasn't in control." He speaks calmly, with forethought and gentle confidence. But I can tell he's still tired. He's wiped out.

"What made you loose control?"

He's on the edge, still.

"Drac got too strong. Or I was too weak. I tried – I tried to get rid of the fucking ring. I chucked it through a window," he says. Now his voice starts to crack, and I swear he's welling up.

"…what happened?"

"It came back. And I was so tired, Crow. I was so tired."

While Cypress gently breaks again in front of me, I'm having a moment. I'm seeing him, now, truly for the first time. Not just what I know of him. Not just my ideal. But just him.

"And he said he would take care of me. And I let him," he sobs.

The tears are now rolling freely down his cheeks, and my heart is breaking. I feel the tightening in my chest, and for some reason I'm falling for him all over again.

"And when they came… we killed them. We killed everyone we could. And he was watching for you. He was looking. He wanted to find you."

I don't speak. As he collapses back into the sand, sobbing like a child, he is dearer to me than ever.

"He just didn't want you there. You were an obstacle. And he was going to kill you."

My hand grips his, and he squeezes too tight as I say,

"But you didn't."

He sits up, gently cupping my face in his hands, the tears wet against my cheek.

"All I wanted. All I thought about was finding you," he says. "If I could just touch you again… then I could die and it would be alright, y'know? Maybe that's what he was scared of. I love you."

"I love you."

"I need you to do something for me."

"Name it."

"Take care of me for a while. I'm so… I'm so…"

And the sobs take over. He crumples back into the sand as the powder-grains stick to his face. "I." He's bawling like someone who's never shed a tear in their lives – that floodgate breaking open. "I couldn't." As if that ancient soul had cradled some secret pain for a millennia. A secret that he never even told himself. And it's hit him all at once. "I couldn't stop him."

The pain of the World. And all I can think to do is clutch him as he cries. Just clutch him and whisper,

"I'll take care of you."

* * *

In truth, aside from his daily meditations, Cypress has become a partner over the passing days and weeks and months. The war we left behind seems like a different life, now. Cypress jokes in a thick accent, whenever we bring up the people from "the Old Countrty". He always laughs it off and changes the subject. I suspect, despite his determination to leave it behind he regrets abandoning it. He misses them.

I should be jealous of this. Usually I would be. But I've come to absolutely believe that he is dedicated to me. We go for walks in the forest, and he trots along beside me through the snow. Sometimes he'll see something new and duck off to investigate, but he always returns grinning, with a new story to share. And I know he'll stay.

He has been meditating less lately. It went from ten hours a day to eight. Then six, and now five. Last week he went for seven, though – he didn't even notice.

And as he leaves it all further and further behind, he smiles more. That easy grin that melts the ice. And now, I wonder where he is.

There are bears and wolves and things about. I down Fight Club and wander from the bedroom I've transformed into a pillow-lounge. Being snowbound has left me with little else to do than mercilessly whip myself into a top-notch reader, and make pillows. Cypress made me a new skirt last week – I can't tailor for shit, but I make a decent pillow.

He does stuff like that a lot. The new skirt, I mean. Six weeks after the snow came, he showed up with flowers one morning. He'd been growing them in the basement. Every time he does one of his sweet things, I love him for it, but I always wonder.

I always wonder why. Because of course, he doesn't really love me, and of course the flowers or the skirt or the pet chipmunk he trained to bow to me were only designed as forms of manipulation.

Right?

Maybe not.

But I do have to wonder. It's not new anymore. It's just him and me. I go to start dinner, and I find he's already working on the same dish. I'm chopping the shit out of some old tree for the woodstove and by the time I need another log, he emerges out of the snow down the beach, a fallen tree perched on each shoulder. We're always on the same page. When he smiles, I know why. When something's wrong, I don't worry. He ends up telling me in an hour or two.

But I wonder why he's still interested. I'm not new or mysterious or curious anymore. I'm just me.

I push open the front door and yank my hood down, stepping out into the calm night. I hate the cold. There's no wind, tonight – not even off the lake – and I can see him clearly down on the glittering snow. He's the black lump, sitting erect in the lotus position.

"Yyarf!" I bark down the beach at him. He doesn't uncross his legs, but turns his head to the side;

"Wroof."

He stands and brushes the snow from his pants, turning in time to scoop me up in a hug.

"What's up?" he grins.

"I missed you."

"Did you?"

"I did – did you miss me?"

He kisses me.

"Sometimes I miss you from the other side of the bed," he's kissing my throat now. One hundred and seven hours, twenty minutes since he last kissed my throat. I've fallen into thinking about time in terms of hours, not days. Cypress has been teaching me to meditate, and I find I recall events easier. My mind is clear – focused – as he sucks on the pale shoulderblade under my sweaters.

"It's a little cold out for – whooahhh-kay." And we tumble into the snow as I grind against him. I love what he said. I miss him from the other side of the bed, too. And as he artfully makes his way through zipper upon buttons upon zipper across my torso, soon we're pressed flesh against flesh. We kiss hot and wet between the blanketing layers of coat upon coat, and a light snow begins to fall as he strokes the small of my back. My fingernails are softly scratching his chest, and his hips rise to meet mine as we press against each other through miles of corduroy.

My hands fumble with his belt, but gentle kisses remind me we have the luxury of time. As his hands travel my torso, stroking my face and scratching through my hair, my hands purposefully open both his pairs of pants and slide them to a more acceptable location.

Cypress almost always likes to go slow. Real, real slow. Usually I like it, but I've been ready for an hour already. All I can think about while I'm sewing those pillows is Cypress, and my mind wanders. Knowing he was meditating in the snow I picked up Fight Club and tried to focus. It didn't work. And so while he's expecting another stroke or another kiss, I grab him and grind my hips down, pushing hard until he can't go any deeper. His eyes burst open and he gasps, but he doesn't say a word.

It's a new game we're playing. No talk during sex. When one of us tires of it, we'll move on to another, but for now we both find it very piquant. His grin is all the communication I need – that and his hands as they grip me in happy shock. My straining muscles and gasps of breath tell him all he could know.

We both know how to say I love you without forming the words.

"Piquant" is one of these new words I've learned. I like it.

Developing a rhythm isn't conscious – it just happens now – and I'm free to concentrate on how his skin feels as I stroke his face. The black spikes of my hair fall about his cheeks as we bang against each other, and I know all he can hear is my breath in his ear. Gasping – moaning as he cries out into my hair. We hold each other so tight, and now I sit up, throwing the coats off us. The cool snow bites our skin and a billow of steam rises. He's grinning – orgasms were imminent. But I know he likes to hold off for a while.

As the snow stings my back, I begin to slowly rock my hips back and forth on him. He's so hard. I can't help but go a little faster – lust is taking over. I want to feel it all. I want to clutch him until we both break like glass, from strain of passion. Before long I'm bouncing on him as a fresh blanket of heavy white flakes fall around us – catching in our hair. My eyelashes. Melting in hot streams from his lips, and begging me to kiss him until he grips me in that familiar way.

It's just as well – I'm coming already. And as we do his hands grip my face and hold me, staring at his eyes as we moan into each other's mouths.

I love you.

I grip him inside and he throbs and grows. I can feel it, shooting inside me –the pleasures breaks over me like a wave, sweeping me away into the ocean. As I collapse on his chest, gasping for breath, his strong arms find a coat and draw it over us before holding me. I kiss him softly now, and his tongue gently plays across my lips.

"Was it good for you?" I ask.

"Fuck, it's still good," he grins, squeezing me. He's so warm.

My breathing comes slower. Comfortable. I could sleep out here, in the snow with him.

"Everything's better now," I tell him.

"Yeah."

"You think it'll stay that way?"

"It should. No one could possibly know where we are, and that ring is buried under the Forks." My eyes burst open against his chest, but he only hugs me tighter and says, "Everything's perfect."

<wink>

She woke in the morning.
She knew that her life had passed her by
And she called out a warning.
Don't ever let life pass you by.
Pass you by.

* * *
* * *

haiku;

Saku Alpha Floor 3 Blades
Martha Alpha Floor 3 Two sidearms – Sniper
Diane – Beta? – Floor 3 – Guard / Soldier
Kristen – Beta – Floor 3 – Guard / Solider
Kim – Ceta – Floor 3 – Guard
Claire – Alpha – Floor 10 – Huge – Full-sized shotgun
Nikki – Alpha – Floor 10 - Airhead – nurse / sniper
Rachel – Beta – Floor 10 - Soldier
Kerri – Beta – Floor 10 – Guard / Solider
Chloe – Ceta – Floor 10 - Guard / Soldier
Diane – Ceta – Floor 10 - Guard

Michelle – Alpha – Floor 13
Lisa – Alpha – Floor
Sophie – Beta – Floor 13 – Field Medic
Crow – Beta – Floor 13 – Gunfighter / guard
Cat – Ceta – Floor 13 – solider
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