Stephen Lewis

A rewrite of a previous piece posted here a while back. Enjoy...

* * *

The clock struck seven.

As the grandiose oaken sentinel began to chime, beautiful in its autonomy, another sound joined with it, slowly obscuring the peals of the great clock.

This new sound emanated steadily from the table beside the ornate four-poster bed, and some may have recognized Silent Woods Opus 68 No.5 – a work of brilliance by Edmund Battersby.

As the soft and pleasant melodies filled the room, warming the cold silence of the previous night, the lone occupant of the ornate bed stirred between the sheets and coughed politely, before raising himself slowly to a sitting position.

An exploring hand soon swept up his glasses from beside the radio, there today as surely as they had been every day of the countless years before.

He pulled back the sheets, slipping out of bed and into his slippers and dressing gown. As he did so, it was plain to see that he was not so old as to deserve the lines that traced across his skin, like the tracks of some miniature freight train. He knew it too.

He stood, taking a few exploratory steps, half lidded eyes allowing him to just about navigate his way across the room to the large standing mirror, where he exercised his jaw, slapped his lips together a few times and glanced briefly at his reflection. He gathered fresh undergarments from the drawers, before turning in the direction of the bathroom.

As he passed the large mirror just inside the en suite, he paused to watch himself undress. There was a clarity in the eyes that examined him in return, which spoke of an unrealised sadness, a deep regret and a painful longing. A sight he was blind to, but a self-evident truth if ever I’ve seen one.

Meet Stephen Robert Lewis - a London millionaire, though not a Londoner by birth. If ever you’d wondered about the faces behind the name of Lewis & Clarke’s, your imaginings may have been fairly accurate.

Stephen, or Mr. Lewis as he prefers, is a man of sixty-five with the visage of a man sixteen years his senior. He blames the stress of the job. After all, successfully establishing a law firm in London is an impressive feat in itself - even with the help of a shrewd business partner. However, to climb the rickety ladder of competitive business and reach the top rung all in a lifetime is another thing altogether.

I have my own ideas about my friend’s premature ageing, though it’s none of my concern really. What does concern me will, I imagine, make itself clear to you soon enough.

The clock struck eight.

His ears filled with the sound of rushing water as he stepped into the shower, drowning out the faint chimes of the old grandfather clock. Stephen breathed deeply as he reached for the soap, turning on the radio with his free hand. Technology never ceased to amaze him. Waterproof in-shower radios? That was just one of many new gadgets that his youth had been devoid of.

Just the though of the word ‘youth’ was enough to send his mind racing in a silent tirade at the younger generation. How could children raised with the benefits they have today be so uncouth, unread and unpleasant?

He was still muttering to himself as he stepped out of the shower and into the warm embrace of a thick, white towel.

It didn’t take him long to get dressed – it never had. His fingers moved deftly through their well-practiced motions. Buttons, belt, laces and a Half Windsor knot all defeated, they returned to his sides. As he stood, absently staring at his reflection, his right hand strayed upwards again to run backwards through his thinning silver hair. Those same eyes stared back at him from the mirror, cold as glass.

I can’t say that I’ve seen him smile in seventeen years, and I’ve been watching Mr. Lewis very closely for a good number of those. All he seems to do now is work, smoke and drink. In my experience not one of those is any good for your health or state of mind.

Still, I suppose I can sympathise, after all he’s hardly had an easy time of it for the last twenty years. The damage done by his vices pales in comparison to the damage fate and fortune have done. I regret my part in that tally of wrongs, though it’s far too late to even consider an attempt at making amends. After all, a man in my position is a little limited in that regard.

The clock struck nine.

No one heard as the antique timepiece counted another hour. The great manor-like house was as empty as a crypt, and as the clock fell quiet, a deathly silence descended.

Behind the wheel of the Cadillac, Stephen was concentrating on navigating the London traffic. Not that it mattered whether or not he was on time. The company would continue to run itself without his help, it would continue to grow without his input, but he felt a compulsion to stay involved and keep busy.

Given his financial situation you might expect him to retire and relax - to fall back into the comfort of a well-padded pension. Unfortunately, that just wasn’t him.

It wasn’t far to the Lewis & Clarke building. At most it was a twelve-mile drive from Eltham to 10 Upper Bank Street in Canary Wharf.

The building used to belong to the Clifford Chance Group, but was now the central offices of Lewis & Clarke’s after they bought out the struggling firm at the turn of the century. It was like a second home to Stephen, and an office he could be proud of. All 32 storeys of success towered over the surrounding buildings, like a monument to his dedication.
George Gershwin’s Rhapsody In Blue played quietly on the radio as he drove on.

The clock struck ten.

The empty house echoed in accord.

‘Mr. S. Lewis CEO’ greeted him as his hands found the cold steel handle on his office door. His name, engraved on the frosted glass, looked so cold and isolated as the door swung back.

Silence, save for the distant sounds of the city - one would have to strain to hear the muffled noise of slow moving traffic sixteen floors below. His own office was oddly located half way up the thirty two storey building. It had been there ever since they had acquired the building and rented out the sixteen floors above. Now Lewis & Clarke’s had consumed every floor of the tower to facilitate the day-to-day operations of the corporate giant, but Stephen had never felt the need to move.

He liked his office. He’d grown accustomed to its location, to the glass window that was the outer wall, to his chair and bookcases, but most of all to his pictures.

Three simple and relatively small frames decorated the office, each hanging proud and alone on one of the three interior walls.

His wife, resplendent in her ivory-white wedding dress beamed her winning smile down at him from his left. Opposite him, Jason Clarke shook hands with his old business partner, trapped forever in time that never moved on. The final picture hung on the wall behind his desk, where two shadowed figures sat by small fire in southern France, watching the sun set from a beach that seemed to go on forever.

“Rachel, have Adam come down to my office when he has a moment.” He spoke into the telephone as he sat, turning slightly in his chair to gaze out of the window.

“Right away Mr. Lewis”

Adam Vaughn was a man of many talents, multifaceted one might even say. He more or less ran the administrative side of the business now. Stephen didn’t mind, in fact he was glad that there was someone else to take the burden off his hands. He was getting too old for the cutthroat world in which his business operated, though he still had a few cards left to play.

Every major decision the board reached went through him, and often Stephen would simply nod and agree that it was in the best interests of the business and its clients, but every so often there would be something to put down – a rogue idea that needed to be thrown out completely.

When the board had moved to take the company public, Stephen quickly stepped on the neck of that little venture.

The old man despised the public. They didn’t know what they wanted, or where they were going. They couldn’t tell their arseholes from their elbows given a lecture, diagram and government funding.

He hated people almost as much as he hated the government. It amazed him that the populace was either stupid enough or so uninterested in politics and reality – living in their world of ‘reality TV’ and ‘celebrity culture – that they could re-elect a corrupt and self-interested government, which fed nothing but lies to the people it exploited. They were supposed to lead us, set an example and look after the interests of the United Kingdom. Did they? Did they bollocks.

He’d always hated the focus on spin and the media, grinding his teeth as he watched ‘our glorious leaders’ play to the whims of the international mob, wasting money on third world countries when the bank balance of the NHS was in desperate need of medical attention.

“Mr. Vaughn to see you sir.” Lost in his silent commentary on the state of the world Stephen didn’t hear.

“Mr Lewis?”

“Yes Rachel?”

“Mr Vaughn is here sir.”

“Ah good, send him in right away.”

A young and handsome looking man opened the door, smiling politely as he walked over to Stephen’s desk.

“Take a seat Adam.” Stephen smiled genuinely, with all the warmth of a winter blizzard.

Adam sat.

“What can I do for you Mr. Lewis?” Adam asked calmly and politely. Many of his colleagues thought the old man was erratic and unusual, wanting Stephen out of any position of authority in Lewis and Clarke’s as soon as possible. Adam, on the other hand, saw a sad and lonely man who had unknowingly isolated himself from the world and needed to take some time to enjoy life – god knows he’d earned it.

“The Leighton account?”

“Signed and settled.”

“That Heeley chap?”

“He’s very well off sir, but we have no intention of taking blood money to defend a well known arms dealer.

“Good good, and the renovations?”

“Scheduled to finish in two days time. Looks like we’ll have the new system in place ahead of schedule.”

“Wonderful, though I was never much good with technology myself.”

“I’m still getting used to Windows Vista myself sir, seems like it was designed to baffle and irritate the user.”

Stephen laughed briefly, “Well if things are going so well I suppose I’m more of a loose end here today then aren’t I?”

“I wouldn’t say that Mr. Lewis, but I do think taking the afternoon off would do you good.”

“Perhaps you’re right . . .” Stephen smiled wanly, Adam left soon after that, with very little being added to the conversation.

Stephen had thought about it and decided that Adam was probably right. Taking the afternoon off couldn’t hurt, seeing as today’s significant business was all settled, could it? No.

He couldn’t help but look a little happier as he left the building later that day, making his way down to the Cadillac Sixteen he’d commissioned as a personal build four years after the turn of the century. Classic FM played as he drove – perfect music for thinking.

It began to rain, just a little at first. It came in dribs and drabs – ‘spitting’ as it was more commonly known. Soon however, it began to worsen. The skies overhead grew dark and the rain sleeted down, driving hard with the wind at its back. The Cadillac’s wipers and lights dealt with the problem, and Stephen thought nothing of it.

Stephen thought long and hard on the drive home, and took his deep contemplation into the house with him.

Had he been working too hard? Moreover, had he been burying himself in his work to try and forget? Did he need to let go?

Stephen thought that perhaps he did. He still had a copy of the Times newspaper dated five years ago, the front page of which read ‘Jason Clarke commits suicide’. It was somewhere downstairs in his study, bundled into a drawer along with his wife’s necklace.

She’d worn that necklace in France - In truth she was wearing it when she died, and although she hadn’t taken it to the grave with her, it always frightened Stephen. It seemed to exude an aura of cold, and when his eyes flicked across its bright metallic surface, he couldn’t help but imagine grave mould working its way between the miniature silver coloured links.

The clock struck one.

Stephen jumped slightly. Lost in thought again, he hadn’t recognised the chimes of the ancient grandfather clock that stood in his hall.

Stephen shivered momentarily, feeling a chill run down his spine. Wet through with rain, his logical and ordered mind placed the blame for the cold sensation on the water that had soaked his clothes. He sneezed loudly, sending an almost comical sound echoing about the house.

Looking around, he took off his shoes and gathered his things, deciding that a nice hot shower would cure his ills.

Stephen opened the door to his room a little too quickly, startling his cat, who cried out in protest before vacating the space at the foot of his bed - bolting out through the open door, into an otherwise empty house.

Stephen laughed, something he did far too little these days. He was deep in thought as he stepped into the stream of hot water, closing his eyes as it fell across his shoulders.

He spent much longer in the shower than he had expected, losing himself in thought and the warmth of the water. After all these years Stephen had finally taken the time to step back and have good long hard look at his life. He was successful, rich, well known but lonely and alone. He had decided to start treating his staff better, perhaps get to know them a little. He wanted to donate more to charities and hospitals, but more importantly he wanted to move on, to make new friends and to enjoy what remained of his life.

Half dressed and radiant in his white bathrobe, Stephen left the bathroom and crossed the landing, still lost in thought. He’d have to cut down on the drink - the cigars were a must however.

The clock struck four.

Stephen, busy contemplating, ignored it entirely.

Yes, he decided. Things would change for the better - today, or possibly tomorrow. It was with that thought that ‘Mr. S. Lewis. CEO’ took his first step towards his destiny. However, his feet, clad in smooth socks, slipped on the edge of his wooden stairs and he fell, tumbling down three flights of hard, angled wood and breaking his neck.

He lay there for two days, a mixed expression of mild surprise and something like relief on his cold, dead lips.

“Hello old friend, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Jason?”

* * *

I hope you enjoyed reading that short fiction piece. It's actually the first chapter of a story that deals with death and the afterlife in a completely fictional manner designed only for literary entertainment.

If you read closely enough, you may hove noticed a few hidden meanings and links within the story. If you noticed them, feel free to post, comment and tell me you saw and what you thought of the story.

Thanks for reading,
Matt

Traders Tales

Here is a teaser of the story "Traders Tales". It is set in the world of 'Twilight War: After the fall' created by Kingsley Montgomery and taken on by Smiling Gator Productions and General Computers to be put into production as an MMO game with FPS elements. This excerpt follows Calvin Lavadro and his loosely associated band of travellers as they fight to survive in the post apocalyptic world of the future.

-----------------------------------------

Trader’s Tales

Part 1 -

“Rats!”

“What’s in it?”

“Ruddy sand rats. . . Whole nest of ‘em”

Dull orange stretched from horizon to horizon, shimmering in the blistering heat of the afternoon sun, as that dun coloured orange sphere sank lower and lower in the grey dome of the sky. Even now, as the day drew to an end, the sands still burned red hot, the air was dry and uncomfortable and in the midst of this, a small group of khaki clad travellers were clustered about a hunk of twisted metal – an island of dull grey in a sea of dead sands.

“Bag a few o’ the buggers Clav, and then lets git ‘” The speaker was a towering figure, with a harsh voice, and even harsher features, though they were well hidden behind the face mask of an experienced desert traveller. He, like all the others, was wearing brown and white robes, belted at the waist. Their heads and faces were wrapped in white cloth, and they all wore thick black goggles, to protect them from the sun and sand – two things that would surely kill a man, or anything else for that matter, out here.

The man he addressed as ‘Clav’ was crouched low, leaning through a gaping hole in the side of the wreck – which looked as if it might have been a small aircraft at some point, though now it wasn’t even good as scrap. A few parts might bring some small change at the next Silic city they came across, but the metal was rusted and worn down to worthlessness by the swirling sands of the desert wastes - sands that could strip a man’s flesh from the very bone.
He quickly drew a knife from a holster at his waist in a smooth, fluid motion. The metal caught the light briefly, before disappearing into the darkness inside the twisted scrap heap. There was a high pitched squealing, and then Clav thrust his shoulder forward, twisting his arm at the elbow. Silence followed, as he reached inside with both hands. Clav came up holding the bloodied corpse of a huge desert rat, which was about the same size as your average dog. Blood ran slowly through the matted fur from a gash in its side, dripping onto the scorched earth and landing with a distinct hiss as it evaporated on the burning sands, leaving dark, dried red stains. It wasn’t getting much cooler, but then out here night was as bad as the day.

“Alright lads, lets saddle up ‘n’ be off, I don’t fancy hangin’ around – much as I like icicles I don’t fancy bein’ one.” Clav chuckled, cleaning his knife on an already bloodied rag and handing the rat to another of his companions.

The four robed figures turned to walk away from the wreck, muttering to each other. As they reached the top of the nearest sand dune, they started down towards a dry, dirt track and a rickety looking armoured truck, to join the fifth and final member of their group - who leant against the side of the battered old vehicle, cradling what appeared to be a large rifle in the crook of his arm, with the ease and comfort of an experienced soldier.

“She’s already running Clav!” He called up to them in a voice almost as gravelly as the small giant’s, “Get your heads on! We need to be off – soon.”

Clav and the others quickened their pace, almost jogging down the sandy slope. He climbed into the front passenger seat, as the other traveller hoisted himself up behind the steering wheel and the rest piled into the back. The doors slammed shut, and the driver’s foot went down, flooring the accelerator. The engine roared in response, and the truck jolted forward at a speed belying its rickety appearance.
Clav was about to make one of his overly sarcastic remarks, when he noticed that everyone was silent. The usual banter that rivalled the dull roar of the truck’s engine was absent, and his companions were staring out of the back window – concern clearly evident in their expressions.
Turning in his seat, Clav saw what had the others so concerned. The setting sun was blotted out by a huge, swirling cloud. At first glance, in the growing dark, you might have been forgiven for mistaking it for bad weather. Then again, out here in the desert there were no clouds, and no bad weather. No, out here bad weather was worse than bad, it was lethal.
The dark cloud that followed them was the front end of an unusually large sandstorm, the kind that spelled death for man, mutant and beast alike. The huge storm kicked up sand, rocks, wreckage, the sparse vegetation and people alike, creating a swirling vortex of death and destruction that would strip flesh from bones, tear down walls and toss vehicles around like toys.

“Don’t just stare at it Marv! Put your bloody foot down! Let’s get the hell out of here!” Clav yelled to the man next to him, behind the wheel.

Marv glared harshly at Clav, casting daggers with his eyes, “What the frag else do you want me to do? This damned junk pile won’t go any faster!” Marv yelled his reply as the battered looking truck hurtled across the dull orange sands.

Clav frowned harshly, his brows furrowing as he turned once again to check on the towering wall of wind blown death and destruction that followed them from an all too small distance.

“Just get us back to that Silic outpost Marv, you might not like it but it’s the only choice we got.” Clav told his old friend, calming down slightly.

The sandstorm didn’t seem to be gaining on them - in fact they seemed to be moving slightly faster, but there was no way they could keep running forever. They had to find shelter, and the republic’s closest border station was the only settlement for miles around. It might be small, military, uncomfortable and all too clean for Clav’s taste, but it was better than death out here. Clav had never had his flesh stripped from his bones, and certainly didn’t plan on indulging himself in that particular pastime. Ever.
Marv would just have to grin and bear it. So what if he was a Silic traitor who abandoned the republic for personal gain? Clav didn’t see any problem in looking out for yourself, and couldn’t see why those bloody tech nutters should either. A man had to survive these days, and to do that you’d always end up stepping on some toes along the way.

Marv grunted and muttered something under his breath, keeping his eyes on the dirt track ahead, and the small black outline on the horizon that was the republic outpost OP.217B. Clav always wondered why the Silics couldn’t give their settlements proper names. He imagined that one of the prerequisites of being a republic officer was to have your personality surgically removed. Still, he didn’t dislike the Silics. As stiff and boring as they were, they did good business and paid well, and in Clav’s trade that was all that mattered.

Part 2 -

It was a price he'd promised himself he'd pay one day, but it most certainly wasn't going to be today. No way would he hang like a common criminal, swaying beneath the gallows with the guttersnipe filth, the thieves and murderers. To execute a criminal was one thing - to execute a good man was another. He'd left the republic years back once he realized he was in a dead end job. It was almost amusing - dead end job, at least that’s how he saw it. As a republic sniper he was expected to conceal himself in the wilderness for days without food and water, waiting for his target of opportunity, left alone and unsupported so that the officious bureaucrats in their tall chairs and comfortable offices could tick off names from their list of enemies, and occasionally their own men. He knew he'd die doing it, or grow old and achieve nothing with his life. He wanted to make something of himself, and make some fragging money whilst he was at it.

The republic doctrine pumped young children full of duty, honour, pride and an overwhelming commitment to the state, but as he'd grown and watched his friends shot, stabbed, blown up, eaten - killed in any number of terrible ways - he knew there had to be a better life waiting for him. How the frag he ended up with Calvin Lavadro, Marv still wasn't quite sure.

Since they had arrived back at the outpost at the head of the storm Clav - that slippery git - had talked his way past the checkpoints and into the general accommodation, and passed off Marv's resemblance to a certain wanted man as purely coincidental. Today his story was that the tall, thin, heavily scarred and battle hardened man at the wheel of his crawler went a little like this: 'Oh him? A silic? - No offence of course, but are you joking? The man's a Jeff through and through, wouldn't know a light bulb if he saw it, unless he'd been paid to kill it. Nope, of course we don't have ID sergeant, I'm a free trader and these are my associates. . .'

It went on, and on. Clav could talk his way out from the wrong end of any rifle and into any woman’s bedroom. He was the single most annoying person the soldier had ever met, but Marv sure as hell was grateful for his company. Associates he'd called them, more like paid family. Marv and the others had an odd relationship with Clav. In essence they were his hirelings, mercenaries, employee's and general dogsbodies, but at the same time every one of them would give their life for the other - even if they wouldn't admit it. A strange kind of bond kept them together, and as much as Marv thought about it he couldn't quite place it. Emotion wasn't Marv's strongpoint, though anger and rage were more or less right in his back yard, but nonetheless, there was something more than money and definitely something greater that camaraderie that bound them. They were family, he supposed, and always would be. Marv had found his place in the world, and working as a mechanic, killer and driver for the silver tongued little thief of a trader was it. It paid well, didn't often require much work and he got to kill things on a regular basis. Marv was one of those people - should 'person' apply to him, who was only happy up to the elbows in grease, buried in an engine, or up to the waist in blood, wading in it more like.

Marv looked around his room from his chair, his deep blue eyes taking in the scene. The place was small, sparsely and badly furnished and as military as military could be. A single bunk stood at the opposite side of the room with a tall metal locker at the foot. Two chairs, one in which he sat, were opposite - barely a metre away. There was a table between them, as small as practicality would allow and as mass produced as anything else in the room. Tall doors lined the small wall behind him, opening up to reveal a surprisingly spacious cupboard and wardrobe. Clav however, was missing.

He'd been gone for some time, and the others were making themselves at home for the night in neighbouring rooms, but Marv had been waiting for Clav for hours. Apparently, word was that he'd been summoned to see the station commander to be offered a job. Naturally, you couldn't refuse such offers. The money wasn't that good, though it wasn't bad, but there was always some weighting factor - whether it was impending execution, or the suspension of a trading licence, neither were really much of an alternative to doing the dirty work the republic wouldn't do itself.

God dammit, he hated them.

Part 3 -

The sun was low in the sky, rising slowly as it began to peek over the edge of the walls of the Silic outpost, casting long shadows over the desert. In one corner of the massive compound two figures stood, their faces briefly illuminated by the light of their smokes. They were leaning against the grey plascrete walls, one with his legs crossed, the other with his heel resting casually on the wall.

"What the frag is Clav up to? He's been gone all night, what the hell is he getting us into this time" The first muttered, pausing between sentences to chew on the thick cigar he was rolling around in his jaw.

"Don't ask me Marv, how the hell should I know? I mean It's not like we've not been through stuff like this before is it? Relax mate, I reckon Clav's got it sorted - no worries." The second replied, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to blow a cloud of smoke out into the cold dawn air.

"Bill, you know as well as I do that the Republic isn't to be trusted - so stop telling me to relax. I'll fragging relax when we're out of here. Full stop."

"Sheesh, bite my nose off why don't you captain hookbeak."

"Call me that again and you'll loose a finger, dopebrain."

Bill Simply laughed in reply, a broad grin spreading across his narrow features in the dim light. Marv smiled briefly, before returning his attention to his cigar, chewing some more and puffing out smoke rings into the still morning air.

William 'Wild Bill' Dallas was another of Calvin Lavadro's associates, once more with his own particular place in their little 'family'. Bill was similar in stature to Marv, if just a little shorter, but much thinner. His nose was small and sharp and he almost seemed to be grinning constantly. In actual fact he looked similar to a weasel, having the same cunning eyes - eyes that showed some sign of great untapped intellect.
Lank, greasy black hair framed his face, falling down to his neck with all the grace of wet sawgrass. Looks were one thing that was most certainly not part of Bill's vast repertoire of talents, though he never seemed to care. In fact he seemed to take delight in his unkempt appearance, adding that it helped him blend in to the crowds. After all, who takes notice of a drugged up vagrant? Not many people apparently, and even if they did it seemed it was only to cast a sneer in his direction - and that only ever seemed to happen in Silic and Samuran settlements. Not surprising when you consider that most everywhere else was slums and shanty towns nowadays, after the fall of man and the rise of anarchy.

Still, the man was, by all accounts, a genius. However, he was a Vagan, and any Vagans with more than half a brain were either gamblers, chemists or drug addicts. Bill was all three. His own contribution to the trader's little clique was far ranging, but in essence, it was his sharp ears and eyes and his nimble fingers that set him apart. Bill was able to blend into most crowds, and thusly able to quietly assimilate a lot of local information, disguising his face with the glazed look of the eternal addict. Most often that was acting, but sometimes it was down to the man's wicked concoctions. He could pick locks, see for miles, brew poisons and antidotes, distil fuel for the crawler, even perform major surgery cleanly and efficiently - not your average Vagan by half. Unfortunately he spent much of his time stoned up the eyeballs, swearing that each time he was he'd killed a few more brain cells. Perhaps, but it didn't seem to have much effect on his vast intellect - once he was clean and sober.

He liked to joke too, trying on an awful attempt at humour on most every opportunity that arose. Only he seemed to laugh, but occasionally he hit the mark and the others collapsed into laughter - save of course for Marv and Kira. The two of them were almost incapable of expressing emotion, but at least Marv smiled once in a while. Kira on the other hand mostly just threatened to kill him in his sleep. Oh well, you can't please all of the people all of the time Bill supposed. He remembered hearing the saying somewhere, though it was somewhat longer, but nonetheless he truly appreciated its meaning - even if no one appreciated his sense of humour, except for Clav maybe.

Bill flicked away the burnt out remains of his cigarette then deftly lit another. The butt bounced and rolled underneath a nearby jeep, disappearing from sight.

"You know Bill, eventually someone's going to move that thing and they'll not miss your little cigarette graveyard."

"So what? We'll be long gone by then, after all. . . - Hey! Isn't that Clav coming out of that door over there with Kira and Thor?"

-----------------------------------------

There's more to this fan fiction, but as my faith in Twilight War dwindles so does my enthusiasm for the story. Even though I've already become fairly attached to Marv and 'Wild' Bill already, writing them into the world of TW only seems to remind me that the game and concept has been butchered by a company non too concerned with its fans and followers.