dear_mun | Mun just finished the third game and got bitten by the F.E.A.R. bug again...

Pretty sure that's how these jackasses operate. Forget about us for months on end, see something that reminds 'em of us, and then, "Oh, right, hey! I like you!" [Keegan frooowns.] After that? Their two-second attention span takes them to, I don't know, watching cheesy low-budget horror movies.

I'm a little wounded, y'know? Thought I was more interesting than that.

If it's any consolation, mine thinks you're more interesting than that. [Of course, the phrase 'accidental would-be stepdad' comes to mind for him.] Horror films can help, though; mine ended up watching one to get 'inspiration' and then suddenly remembered this whole setup.

Weird fuckers, aren't they?

[That phrase would just make Keegan cringe. And want to vomit a little.] I'll take that as a compliment. [He grins in spite of himself.]

No shit. Got any plans, at least? [A beat.] Hopefully ones not involving psychotic psychics...

[Point Man would not blame him at all for that, really. Though the question makes him snort and flash a grin that's all teeth.]

You have seen my family, right? No way I'm getting away from psychics. I'm like a magnet or something. [He shakes his head.] No big plans, really. Not sure if I'm happy about it or not.

[ My baby, my baby.. my.. mine. Alma trembles at the feel of her baby's presence. Though it was felt first at a distance, she sends her spirit to find him––her consciousness, the only way she can exist in the physical world. Alma draws shadows before him, darkness swirling around an empty space, like water down a drain, until that swirl of darkness shapes a figure of a small child. Color then comes to that figure, pale skin, crimson dress. She looks to him as he sits there, longing for him. ]

[It doesn't take long for him to notice and recognize the figure. Not anymore, anyway. Ever since that water treatment plant... Armacham HQ... the Vault. He's seen her so many times in recent memory. Through a barred glass window in an asylum while the walls closed in on him let him out let him out- But that was just some nightmare he could wake up from. Almost preferable to where he had been. Not that the type of cage mattered. Prison or asylum didn't make much difference to him.

Still, seeing that small figure in the red dress, he straightens slightly... and backs up a little, cautious.]

Mother.

[ Alma stares at him, her head at a slight tilt forward and the whites of her eyes clear beneath her dark irises. Her hair is flat and reaches down the front of her shoulders and her tiny back. She takes a step forward and her hair gently sways.

The vision in her mind is that of the seated swinging board tied with rope hanging from the tree. She is alone, as ever, and the swing moves her gently against the soft breeze. But this vision does not last, and she wonders: do you see it? Do you see my playground? A lone swing, an empty field, tall grass, and a bare tree.

If I held you, if they let me take you, I would have brought you there.. and we would have sat together, I would have hummed to you, held you, loved you––my, my.. my baby.

What started off as a smooth thought turns desperate as she thinks about her baby. Overcome with grief, with sorrow, with inadequacy. She had all these feelings, swarming through her body, and no baby to give them to. No baby to hold, to feed, to nourish, to love. ]

[It's all brief flashes and barely-heard whispers in the back of his skull. He was never much of a psychic; he was the failure, not useful enough to be kept so he was discarded. Coming into contact with his family again had strengthened what he had. The late bloomer of the group with no control of that particular gift. It still makes him twitch, hearing other voices in his head. Even here and now.

Her distress and the words are foreign to him, if only because of the fact that he isn't accustomed to them. It's all new to him... someone besides his team giving a damn about him. Having a mother at all.

He isn't sure how to calm her, or if he even could. What might help this situation. His expression settles a little in sympathy. He is sorry about what happened, second-hand though his knowledge is, and while he's not exactly a baby anymore, he's here now. That's all he can really offer.]

[ Denial is a truth, a fact, that runs deep within her, it has become a part of her. Latched onto her spine like a leech, it sucks the hope out of her. Every step she takes forward is cautious, is concerning. Her head tilting and her eyes focusing on his face, his features. Studying him, gauging him, how close will he allow her to draw near before he fights her off? How close can she be to him before it becomes overwhelming and she spikes with emotion that draws her back to her physical body. Weak, exhausted, frail, and thin. But her mind is strong, for now, in this moment. Alma would keep herself materialized for as long as she could and fight the leech that drained her hope. Her second baby didn't fight her, not like the first one. But pain was no stranger and Alma took another step forward. She won't ever stop trying. All that's left, in this world, all that she wants is her babies. That's all that matters.

Her hands move forward and she places them on his forearm. Her small child face looks up to him and she begins to move her lips, rubbing her bottom lip against her teeth and gently biting at her flesh as she works out what she wants to say. ]

My baby.

[Of the pair, he was the cautious one, the one that startled easily and violently. The one that had the harder time accepting things like 'psychic warfare' and 'ghosts' in spite of his current job. Or the job he'd had before all of this started. None of it made sitting still now a simple prospect for him... especially with what he'd seen his mother do in the past. He still remembers the lobby coated in the remains of a Delta Force squad, her flickering in and out on the second floor. And watching her now, he looks for all the world like a cat in its first encounter with a dog much larger than it. Still, he waits, studying her in return, recognizing features he's seen looking into a mirror.

He sucks in a breath briefly, half-expecting something awful that never comes, and relaxes by degrees. There's little more for him to go on than Paxton Fettel's words and a few broken memories, but he nods after a moment.]

Yes.

[ He does not fight her, he does not pull away, he does not deny her. There is nothing she would deny him, her eyes look deeply into his. What is it that her baby needs now? Now that he is grown, strong, fierce, powerful. Did he feel––

"Do you feel the hatred I have for those that took you from me?"

What he needs now as he has ever needed was his mother, his family. Alma is ever sure and her body shivers with emotion, over come with an immense joy now that she is with him and they are not denying each other. Her arms raise and with that she grows, the red dress fades into nothingness and she stands before him naked, thin, frail, old, dead-like.

"They left me in there to die.." The abuse is a tale told through her thin white skin, written with her blue veins, her splotched skin, her bruises and cracked flesh. Her hair is an endless sharp length, thin and framing her body. "Starved, alone, cold, no love." She speaks to him, though if he hears her or not she is not sure––it was the dream she shared with him, the tale of her history, the tale of his beginnings.

"WHERE ARE YOU TAKING HIM?
GIVE ME BACK MY BABY!!!!"

A shrill comes from a young Alma, just fifteen, exhausted after her birth but still fighting. Fighting for her first born. "They tortured my babies, they hurt my babies.. and they all must die." Her hands come to rest on his cheeks and from the touch ripples life. Her skin thickens, fills, and she is no longer the hag but the beauty of a normal twenty-six year old. What she ought to be. ]

[He doesn't hear it, not in the way that someone with more psychic ability might. But he knows the story. It had been dug out of laptops that weren't secure and played on answering machines in offices while he'd crouched and watched the door, waiting for ATC or the Replicas to come after him again. Listening to Harlan Wade explain on video and in person while he hit the window to try to get in.

Ever since he'd blown the Vault, he has to wonder if Harlan recognized him, the way Alma and Fettel had.

He knows her anger well, even if he can't feel it like his brother could. She had painted it across walls and floors and ceilings and he was the one that found it and his boots would slip on the blood.

But he could remember her screaming for him. It was the only early memory that was clear. He brings his hands up, careful, to rest on the backs of her arms.]

What they did was wrong.

[ Maybe once she had a normal sense of right and wrong, that she would venture a thought that perhaps her revenge extracted on those scientists, on those replicas, on her father, was wrong. But she did not feel that. What she felt was a complicated weave of deep hatred, fear, and love for her babies. Love that swarmed between such depths of negative feelings. What mattered to her was that she had her babies back, that she had them now and what they were doing was right. Their reunion was imperative to make their bond stronger. Her first baby was strong, so very strong. Alma's hands move down from his cheeks to his arms, feeling the strength beneath his sleeves. With his arms he would have strength to carry out his duty, obtain his freedom with those hands that would rip apart those that stood in his way. He would not be buried. Like his brother he is strong but in his own special way. Physically strong and able. ]

They will die. All of them. We are together now.

[He's no stranger to violence; it had been his trade for a long time and he's gotten very good at it. His hyper-quick reflexes didn't hurt in that regard. Armacham had honed him into a perfect weapon and then failed to bring him to heel after they hunted him down again and they would pay if they came at him because that's what he was trained to do. Though he fought them because they were in his way, more than out of duty or vengeance. Too practical for rage on the same level as the rest of his family, even if he could understand their feelings about the company that had broken all of them.

Even so, he'd heard the fear in the voices of the scientists before they died. Some of them must have family too, by now. People not so resigned to their fates as Harlan Wade had been. And a lot of people that didn't deserve it; he can't deny that he wants to stick it to a number of the employees himself, especially the CEO and the ones that slowed him down, but most of those left had little involvement in events past now. As far as he knew, anyway; there were probably files purged that could have said different. He opens his mouth, then closes it, considering his words. Speech is ever his problem.]

Hasn't there been enough pain?

[ Her hands fall to her sides a moment after his words are spoken. Her head tilts to the right and she studies his face with a masked indifference. Her child seems to differ in opinion as to the fate that befalls those involved. She will have their blood––

Alice.. Not all family is her own, Alma reasons. Her father, she would kill again, again, again, and again. But Alice, innocent as she was to all of this, she bid her second child to harm her, kill her, absorb those delicate memories of normalcy, happiness, love. It was Alice's fate to die, because of her long life of normalcy, of grace, of Harlan's mercy.

When she had none. When her sons had none.]

No, not enough.

[He lets her go when her hands slip off of his arms, own hands falling to his sides and he waits, watching for movements, for clues. Betters had had faith in the justice system to bring Armacham down, and while he believed in bullets above all else, he had faith that justice doesn't always come from the barrel of a gun.

That company had hurt so many with what they did. Even outside of his small family, but he hadn't exactly fixed that with what he'd done on the behalf of others. Maybe it was time to stop just taking orders... even if it meant having this conversation.]

When will it be enough?

[ Alma's head straightens, then tilts to the left, as if there were more to see from this angle. But she is searching, searching––

"Don't you know? When we are free it will be over. We are normal.. this way, you and I, your brother.. But we are yet free.. He left a trail for others to follow.. and they do, they come, they follow.. Once I was buried.. and that woman disturbed my tomb, sent more mindless bodies."

––searching.

His brother would hear her, and it was his strength to know her words apart from his own thoughts. Paxton is strong this way. Her first baby, this baby, he is strong to see the visuals she shows him, to understand them as he interprets them. Now, Alma has a dream to share with her first baby:

The meadow is dark but warm, an unnatural darkness from ash-clouded skies. There's a blaze in the distance, far away from where they now stand. Beyond the tree the city burns, and ash falls gentler than snow on their bodies. Alma, in this dream is a child, and her hand is in his. She shows him the peace of their Eden. Alone. Alma looks to him with a soft glow to her eyes, but the wear of the journey weighs heavy in gray beneath her eyelids. They are free now. And it is–– ]

Enough.

[He remembers catching up to his brother... or the psychic trace of him... in one of Armacham's science wings. Listening to him talk about Alma's vision of cities reduced to fire and death. He can't say he wasn't anticipating this response, though the quiet of it startles him a little.

It certainly hadn't been so quiet after the helicopter crashed. Pulling himself out of the wreckage and running as far as he could before his legs gave out. Hadn't felt so still when the Vault had exploded. He had, in his way, accidentally given a start to burning Fairport like this. Still he's surprised to see it, sliding one foot back a half-step before looking down at Alma.]

I can only do so much.

[The Replicas were under Armacham control, and much as they might label him as a weapon or a monster... he's still just a man.]

[ Alma's body shivers suddenly, but the childish laughter heard around them gives reason to not be alarmed. She is not upset, she is feeling good. The shiver to her body was an immense joy, a pleasure. Her first baby, finally she is with him. They no longer are at opposing ends, he no longer is being led by the masters of the darkness that enveloped her in that cold ebony abyss.

Alma is quick and she moves her arms around him, her face pressed against his chest and she holds him tightly. Well, as tight as she would imagine any mother would dare hold their fragile, sweet, precious baby. Her shoulders then start to dip left and right, her face gently rubbing to his shirt before she moves her head to press her cheek to his chest. Her ear to his heartbeat and soon she hums. That familiar tune that he and Paxton are quite acquainted with. Humming to him as if she were rocking him, like a good mother.

"You can do enough.." She is absolutely convinced of that. "We can do enough together." ]

[He's never certain what's coming; unlike Paxton he hadn't had previous experience beyond things running... hot and cold with Alma. He is still a little gunshy, even with the laughter. It doesn't show on his face, at least. The surprise at her wrapping her arms around him is clearly visible though. That was... not a reaction he had expected at all, and freezes up a little again.

He calms eventually as she rocks him and hums. Which he finds odd, really; that's not the sort of the thing that happens to him. Especially lately. Being punched in the face is more the norm, not... this. But there's something oddly pleasant about it, something familiar and soothing about the tune. He puts his arms around her in return, cautious, and his heartbeat slows to normal. Dips his chin to rest lightly on the top of his mother's head and nods a little.

If she is that confident in him, he'll do his best.]

[ The need she has to do this is obvious as she cares little for his height, width, strength, and age. Alma has been deprived for so long of not just him but both of her sons. This affirmation of love may seem strange, pathetic even, but those thoughts –– that concept is far from Alma's mind. It is the need for her arms to feel her son, the need to hold him, to rock him, to soothe him. She wishes to do this, to give him the confidence of safety and security. Though, Alma knows, her baby did not have the traditional life and in this she shares his burden of abuse. It does not disgust her or conjure ill-feelings toward her baby, but draws her even closer to him. Their bond, their connection, even in horror, in misery, they share this.

But now, in this moment, they share the gentle embrace between mother and child.

Not even death, again, will still her mind, will chain her down. If she is not with her sons she is ever searching, ever fighting. But the time of fighting alone has passed and they face this world together as it should have been at his birth. As this embrace should have come at his birth. ]

[Point Man has gotten the feeling for a long while that his physique and age mattered little to Alma; to her, he's still a child. And really, he probably wouldn't tolerate that kind of thing from many people besides her. With her, it's okay. She's allowed because she missed out on so much, with him especially, given their very tenuous connection. She needs this, after all the terrible things that happened to her... and maybe he needs it a little too, not that he'd ever say it. Not that he really remembers why - the hate for all the testing and procedures in his childhood had been erased and he what he was left with was war, and it became status quo to him. The main problem he had was that Armacham was disrupting that, and that a lot of the ones he knew on some level were terrible people.

For now, though, he can let it go for this moment of peace. The quiet and the company and being with the mother he hardly knew, who had ripped herself out of a coma to try to get him... and defied death out of some combination of love and hatred.]

Having trouble thinking for yourself, dear brother?

[Paxton appears behind him, walking around his side to his front, all red vapors and sarcasm. He smirks and leans over, tapping Point Man on the forehead where his own has the reminder of their last physical contact - the bullet hole that had ended his time as a living man. Paxton's finger comes away from Point Man's forehead and he tilts his head, still bent over.]

What is it you would like to do?

Melodramatic as ever, brother.

[At least he's gotten used to people appearing suddenly and doing strange things around him. Not so much the physical contact, though, which is why he blinks and leans his head back. His hand slides down to cover the handle of the knife he's started carrying.]

I didn't intend for that, you know.

[He thought he was going in for a melee. Not the first time hallucinations steered him wrong, though.]

I am a walking melodrama! How can you not me, when you're dead? Don't hold it against me.

[His gaze flickers down to the movement, of Point Man's hand on the knife handle, and he's slightly amused by it.]

Didn't you? And here I thought you were just following orders as you always do.

How did you think that was all going to end? We have already seen you choose your own selfish desires over the needs of your family again and again. Are you telling me that you have... regret?

[You know how he is. Something seems even vaguely threatening and he's reaching for the nearest weapon. Or worse, roundhouse kicks it.]

Orders were to subdue, not kill.

[Though he can't see Betters begrudging his actions, after Fettel killed Alice Wade. The insinuations get him on his feet and straight into his brother's face, though.]

Hard to have loyalty to family you don't remember. But I would've rather taken you back alive so we could deal with Armacham without eating the employees.

I had my ways of extracting information, very thorough ones. Like you I'm good at what I do.

[He can't take offense at his brother's antagonistic posturing toward him, he rather enjoys the attention truth be told.]

But back to my question, does that mean you do regret killing me? I would like to know, I would like to hear it from your own reticent lips.

[Paxton walks around his brother slowly, hands folded behind his back and a curious if challenging expression on his ghostly face.]

And do you regret it because you do hold some love for me, or do you simply bristle at not being able to follow those orders?

I know.

[He can't say much about the cannibalizing, but his sibling's soldiers had almost had him a few times there.]

My COs probably didn't care how it ended, as long as it ended.

[Point Man watches Fettel as he circles, gaze not altogether different from that of a hawk, his own hands at his sides and his shoulders squared.]

Hard not to be anything but annoyed when you led me on a wild goose chase like that, but. You left me a lot of questions I wanted answers to.

[Chiefly 'What?!' and 'How do you know?' and various subsets of both of those.]

[Paxton's expression shows how dissatisfied with that answer he is and he stops circling, instead he turns his back on his breath but turns his head to speak to him without looking at him.]

And here I was all prepared to forgive you. My saving your life doesn't endear me to you, I wonder what would? Or maybe you are incapable of endearment. I wonder.

[Point Man tilts his head slightly. He hadn't precisely expected that reaction, all things considered. They'd practically been hunting each other since the hospital, after all.]

Wouldn't expect you to forgive me. Appreciate you saving me, but I don't know why you did.

['Family' is mostly a foreign concept to him. He's always thought in terms of 'squad' before and only has a rudimentary understanding of blood ties from overhearing others talk.]

Because we're brothers.

[The short answer, not the sweetest perhaps being as Point Man could not appreciate the feelings of connection Paxton had for him, that he had for the boy he had grown up with, been abused with. His ally and his nemesis, by blood and by design.]

What questions would you ask of me?

[He doesn't remember much, just what had been coaxed out... and nightmares he barely recalled the content of. Otherwise he might be more inclined to their current alliance. Or much less cautious around his brother, at least. He shrugs at the assertion; fair enough.]

How did you know?

[Or had you planned on just hitting anyone that walked around that corner with that two-by-four?]

[Paxton turns to look more fully at his brother, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth.]

I was leading you from the beginning, wasn't I? My purpose wasn't just to kill them all, to get the revenge we so deserved, but to reunite with you.

You were like a lost child, stripped of your knowledge, of who you really are. I wanted you to remember, brother. I wanted you to know... how close we were.

[Lucky that his team had been sent in, then. Though he's sure his family would have removed any other squads sent against them until it came down to his, if Fettel was dead-set on a reunion.

He'd been the only field agent that encountered Paxton and Alma and survived, after all.]

How close were we?

[Go for the most straightforward and relevant question. Point Man is not the most subtle.]

[Very little is coincidence, Paxton would have told him, especially since he knew the boy had been bred for war, to be the ultimate soldier. Of course he was the only one who survived.]

We were all that the other had. The teams of scientists poking us, prodding us, forcing us to do the unthinkable, pumping us full of drugs. They hurt us, brother, but we always came back to each other. Our little room, was our little haven. We didn't know what normal was but when we were with each other, that became normal for us.

I wonder... with a little prodding of my own, if I could help you to remember.

[All things considered, he can't imagine things going any other way. Armacham sent one prototype to deal with the other, because of course they have their claws in everything. Though he still hopes they surprised them along the way.]

Can't remember it.

[Everything lost between being taken from Alma and enlisting in the Army at 18. Though the scientists poking and prodding was familiar enough; they did that throughout his service.
The suggestion of prodding from Fettel quiets him for a while, brows furrowing in thought.]

... Worth a shot, maybe?

[Surprise shows on his face by his eyebrows raising, and a pleased smirk spreads his lips. After all that Mother and he had played with Point Man's mind he finds delight in that his brother would welcome it once more.

For one brief moment he considers taking himself inside his brother's body, possessing him, feeding on his soul and enjoying the breath of his life. It's very tempting, this man is powerful and his body would feel such a pleasure-

But he is family and for all of Paxton's sometimes cruel or patronizing words he does love his brother, and he does not wish him dead. He wishes him to remember, and to return his love, and share his vision for what must be done.]

Worth a shot. Interesting choice of words.

[He says no more as he reaches up with both hands and steps up close to his brother, his palms on either side of the other's head, and wispy red mist coils around Point Man's head and enters his mind. To his credit Paxton does try to be gentle with this, but he's unsure what the effect will be and just what memories he will bring full to surface... if any.]

[He's had more than a few moments where he's hesitated to enter long hallways since he became familiar with the work of his mother and brother. Transferring him from cell to cell in the prison had practically taken an act of God; he can plant his feet a little more heavily than when he was young.

Though he's gotten comfortable with having some kind of hand in a fight with his unusual family. He has enough mental acuity to fight off at least some of what the more powerful psychics are capable of. Otherwise he wouldn't be so willing to submit to his brother's ministrations. He's certain that if push came to shove he could handle a fight.

He doubts that's what Paxton Fettel is after, though. He'd had ample opportunity for that already.

Point Man offers a slight, thin smile - as much as he ever smiles, really.]

Let's make sure it stays words.

[A gentle warning. He lets it drop after, holding still beyond shifting his gaze to Paxton's hands for a moment. He's not entirely sure what he should expect from this - neverminding that he resists a while on instinct - but what he gets is certainly not what he had expected. Not that, even with his sibling's words, he had really figured on tortured children.]

[How much will get through that thick head of his Paxton can't be sure, but he attempts to share with him what he can. Not all of it he remembers himself, given the amount of drugs they had injected him with and the fact he barely made it through two Synchronicity Events with his sanity in tact - of course the scientists would say he went stark raving mad but Paxton disagrees with that.

There's a small room with two beds, two boys in jumpsuits playing pretend guns with each other. The memory skips around, sometimes the younger boy is left alone sometimes it's the older, one or the other is brought back drugged and dazed, or battered and bruised. The memory skips to the younger child, a bloody bandage around his head and he's tantruming with his hands to his head as the scientists tell him to concentrate on a soldier who is standing there lax and motionless, a drone soldier. Another memory of both boys with electrodes hooked to their chests and foreheads and scientists twittering around them, shaking their head at the older boy as if he's such a disappointment. The younger boy begins to seize and the scientists seem pleased at such... progress.

On and on these memories are shared with his brother until they end in what's more a hallucination than a memory, of the two of them on a playground together, laughing and happy. Alma stands in the foreground watching in the guise of a child, her legs dripping and bloody.

Paxton pulls his hands away and takes a step back, watching and waiting to see if any of this registers with his brother, if it triggers any of his own memories or not.]

[What Point Man had to start with were facts - a million projects no one knew about, second prototype, first prototype, first was deemed a failure (surprise and guess what, soldier), the Synchronicity and all that death and enraged warnings on answering machines from a voice that somehow, deep down, scared him a little. Those, and a scant few hallucinations, or visions, or memories. This is more. The connecting pieces between what he knew and what he thought he knew. Hard facts and nightmares and this.

It doesn't all register for him. Not Paxton's emotions, at least, but his mind latches on to the memories and fills in with frustration and bitterness. All of the pain and trials and he still amounted to nothing to the scientists, no matter how much he pushed himself. Which he had, even if it failed to impress, which is often did. There wasn't a way he could match up, to the men and women in the white lab coats. Not that it mattered when the tests were over and he could just spend time with his cellmate without it being a competition. The only real social interaction he got, but it was... happy... until the scientists came back. Happy enough, though he could recall instances of fights between them - silly kid stuff (even with what they endured they were still children, sometimes) and a few more serious. And all those times his cellmatebrother had gotten upset and he got worried when the beds started moving by themselves. Being disturbed when the coloring came out of the books and onto the walls and floors because something was going wrong here and he didn't know what. Those moments were interspersed with play shootouts and jumping on the beds when they weren't supposed to and the occasional game of Keep Away (where his height had advantage over Paxton's brain, for once).

The hallucination throws him for a little bit of a loop. Things that were never to be.

His fingers twitch briefly as it ends, and he takes his own step back, looking at his brother with at least a little more recognition than he had before. He cards one hand through his hair before saying anything.]

They liked you best.

[But even what little he'd gotten back, familiar as it was, it felt like watching himself through a camera. It was there and it made his stomach turn... and it was all so far away now. He hadn't been that kid since he lost those memories.]

[A slow grin. Paxton is doubly pleased, that his brother not only remembers something but that he remembers that.]

Yes, I am the favorite.

[And he says this in the present tense, meaning not only was he the favorite of the scientists while they were children but also currently, in regards to Mother. Paxton is entirely confident he's the favorite. Really it's not so much any of Point Man's wrongdoing, he just has a harder time absorbing Mother's memories and thoughts whereas it comes so naturally to Paxton.]

Now, do you regret? Brother.

[The confidence from Paxton in regard to their worth is only a brief sting before it smooths over. He'd been desperate to prove himself, once... these days, he's confident enough in his abilities to not bother. He won't get dragged down by needing to show off again; easier to just do what comes naturally and let things fall as they may. Their mother's decision of her favorite is up to her.]

Seem stuck on that, Fettel.

[In truth he rarely regrets shooting anyone, relatives and objectives aside.]

I regret that there didn't seem like another way for it to go.

Mun just finished the third game and got bitten by the F.E.A.R. bug again...

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pretend i didn't drop off the face of the earth. )x sorry!

no worries! it happens sometimes.

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