The Neighborhood

The Neighborhood

PLOT: THE INTERVIEW

Spoiler

Memo
To: Potential Candidates
From: SA Jepsen Byrd
Date: December 4, 2016
Subject: NOTICE: The Interview

Based on various classified attributes of your personality and achievements, you've been selected from the national population by the Central Intelligence Agency to participate in a single interview. Beginning on December 14, you among 50,000 others, as potential candidates of the operation, "The Neighborhood", are invited to attend our CIA headquarters in Fairfax, VA. (Upon arrival, have the correct identification.) The interview will consist of a questionnaire and a verbal exchange that may cover a vast array of topics about you and your past endeavors, your future expectations, and your current lifestyle.

By attending this interview, you are making a commitment to your possible acceptance into "The Neighborhood", a serious and significant government operation. You are not held to this commitment, as we will not reveal the characteristics and requirements of this operation until you become a candidate.

Following your interview, we will make a decision based off of your performance evaluation. If you are chosen as one of the fifty candidates, you will receive a notification email and further instructions. If you choose not to attend this interview, than we will disregard you as a possible participant in "The Neighborhood."

Despite feelings of uncertainty, you decide to go to the interview. You've always craved that feeling of importance; now you have it. You finally have a chance to be somebody.

So you dress up and decide travel across the country. You show your ID to the man waiting outside of the facility. He has a firm handshake and a shark-like smile. "I'm Agent Byrd," he introduces, and then, "Right this way." You wait for the person before you to finish, enjoying the plush chairs and the coffee station along the opposite wall. You're staring at the long mirrored wall to your right, wondering what goes on behind it, when your name is called.

The interview is everything you expected; the questions are only slightly more personal than you would have liked to answer. But after only an hour of your time, you're done and awaiting your notification email.

A few weeks pass, and you forget about the interview. You assume that you have been forgotten; that somehow your results have been dismissed and lost among the other 50,000 applicants'. And then, miraculously, when you come home from Christmas shopping, you find that something specific is waiting for you in your inbox.

PLOT: THE NEIGHBORHOOD

Spoiler

Memo
To: Candidates
From: SA Jepsen Byrd
Date: December 24, 2016
Subject: NOTICE: You've been chosen!

Based on the interview you completed with us on the 14th of December, we are proud to tell you that you've qualified for operation "The Neighborhood". You are still permitted to opt out of this operation, but once you've officially committed to engaging in this operation, you can not back out. The characteristics of this operation are as follows:

On January 1, 2017, you will travel to our headquarters in Fairfax, VA, where you had attended your interview. None of your belongings will be necessary, as we will provide all necessities. From there, all of the candidates will depart by plane at 7:00 PM.

We are sorry to say that the location of the operation will not be disclosed. Upon arrival to the undisclosed location, you will be subject to an environment that will force you to take an active role in the "community" and compete in several challenges. The purpose of this operation is also secure and will not be revealed at this time.

The entire operation will take a minimum of 30 days. We ask that you take "The Neighborhood" seriously; we can tell you that your participation is more important than any previous government operation ever enacted, and will play a good part in the fate of our country. We lend you our apologies that we can't tell you more; overtime, as your participation in "The Neighborhood" heightens, you will receive more information. Thank you.

Yet again, there is something about this operation that seems unsettling. But, in your attempt to become someone important, after several agonizing days of contemplation, you relay to your family and friends that you will take part in the operation.

You don't interact much with the other candidates beforehand, as they are complete strangers. After the flight, you step off the plane, and are more than slightly bemused and surprised by what you see.

SETTING

The operation takes place in what can best be described as a neighborhood. Every house is identical, as is every lawn, every car, and all of your new belongings. Even though it's winter, the lawns are a deep shade of green; trimmed and well-cared for. The houses are separated by a two-lane road, newly paved. Beyond the small, quaint neighborhood, there is nothing. At least to your knowledge, you are in the middle of nowhere.

Not only this, but there are people already living in many of the houses. They are all friendly—almost too friendly.

PLOT: WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW

You are not working for the CIA.

You've actually been recruited by a deep cover, black-operations division of the CIA called AYOR (At Your Own Risk) who are operating for their own gain. The operation, "The Neighborhood" is illegal. You are being tested in the field (aka the neighborhood) for the sole purpose of being recruited for AYOR. You will be treated as follows:

You are given a fake identity that you must uphold. You will be living in a house with one other character of the opposite gender. You will be frequently invited to activities (i.e. parties, shopping trips, etc.) in which your survival will be dependent on your "performance" at those activities. Your main goal in order to survive is to act as if nothing is wrong, and everything is perfect in the neighborhood. You and your partner (the person you are forced to live with) are supposed to act like the standard American couple, and comply with all standards (i.e. Bring a dish to the party, etc.). Subsistence is based on focusing on every minute detail. One wrong question or one wrong move could lead to your mysterious "disappearance".

In the mean time, each day, you will have a challenge to complete. You and your partner will be competing against one or more other couples in a standoff that will (most likely, unless PC characters are competing against one another) result in the death or severe injury of one of the couples. Competitions can include, but are not limited to:

• Couples are given a shopping list, and told to get everything on that list. Only two couples are allowed to make it out alive.

• Two couples are shown a car, and each couple is given a gun. Only one couple can get the car (and therefore get out alive).

There are cameras everywhere. You are constantly being watched. You are not permitted to speak out about anything that wouldn't normally be discussed in a household. Unfortunately for you, there is no list of rules; you just have to use your best judgement, and keep your voices down. Obviously after a while, characters might try to communicate between one another and organize some kind of attempt to escape; this is fine, just make sure their actions are fairly realistic.

The BMOC (big man on campus) is a man by the name of Hutch Garrison. He's the "man in charge"; the one working with AYOR. He and his wife, Janet, live in the center of town. They are the people that will kill or dispose of you.

"Disappearance" means that couples are either killed on the spot (in extreme situations, or in lesson-teaching moments) or more likely, taken away to an undisclosed location. There are rumors that Hutch is hiding The Disappeared in his basement and torturing them. If you're brave enough to create that much of the plot, your character can become one of The Disappeared.

CHARACTERS

Your character can be anyone of twenty to thirty-five years years of age. We will need an equal number of male and female characters. There's no limit to how many people join this SB, as long as there's an even number of people. You can have up to two characters.

Spoiler

YWSers w/ male characters: YWSers w/ female characters:
1. @Savvy ____________________1. @Caterpickle
2.@TinyJarStoredDreams _______2. @amberari
3.@Stegosaurus _______________3. @Gravity
4.___________________________4. @Basil
5.___________________________5. @Stegosaurus

CHARACTER PROFILE

CodeSelect all

[b]Age:[/b]

[b]Gender:[/b]

[b]Appearance:[/b]

[b]Personality:[/b]

[b]Brief History:[/b]

[b]Special Qualities (why does the government want you?):[/b]

[b]Other:[/b]

Your character doesn't have to fall in love with the person who is assigned as their partner.

RULES

Don't join if you have no intention of remaining with the SB.
Wait at least two posts before posting for a second time.
No backwards writing.
No killing characters off without permission.

The warm wind rushed through Holden's hair, flattening against his ears. He squinted, the scene unfolding before him. The smell of jet engine exhaust filled his nose. The sounds of the jet were deafening. Holden ducked as he stumbled down the steps, the soft grass meeting his feet. In his hand, he clutched the folder that he hadn't stopped browsing since it had been given to him by the Indian man at the airport.

He brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, his tie whipping around. His shirt pressed up against his front, his shirt collar fluttering in the breeze. The jet ascended into the air, and the sight of the royal blue underside of the vehicle receding into the air filled Holden's periphery. The wheels folded beneath the small plane, and soon it was out of sight.

The air calmed. Holden took in his surroundings. He stood on the rolling expanse of a golf course; shallow and neatly mowed green hills spreading in every direction. Besides the sprinkler going off to his right, Holden was completely alone.

"Mr. Trahan!" He heard a voice calling out to him. Surprised and befuddled, he searched for the source. The outline of a man stood in the near distance. Trahan, Holden wondered. He fumbled with the Manila folder, peering at its contents. First page. His picture. His new identity. "Trahan, Holden," it said beneath the photo. Holden was glad that they'd kept his first name, at the very least. Unfortunately, his name was far from the most unsettling thing he had seen in the folder.

The man approached him. As he got closer, Holden got full view of his greased black hair, his square face, the stubble shadowing his broad chin. The man grinned slightly.

"Welcome to the neighborhood," he said, holding out his hand.

Slowly, Holden reached out to shake. "Thanks," he said.

"I assume you've received the criteria of your mission?" The man's eyebrows raised, his eyes flitting to the folder in Holden's hand. Holden's fingers tapped against it.

"I guess so." Holden didn't know how the mere contents of the folder were supposed to explain what exactly he was going to have to do.

The man nodded. "Okay, Holden—I assume it's okay if I call you Holden—?"

Holden shrugged. "Sure."

The man fished in his pocket, and pulled out a key. "The key to your house," he told Holden, pressing the key into his hand. "Number 312." 312. The number sounded familiar. Holden immediately deposited the key inside his pocket. "Walk with me," the man said, bringing his arm around Holden's shoulders.

They walked across the golf course, and around the white building that stood off to the right of the grassy expanse. After stepping past the tree line, Holden was at once exposed to the full environment of what the man had deemed, "the neighborhood".

He couldn't help but be surprised. When he had been recruited as a candidate for a government operation, he had expected the base to be a highly secure government facility. Instead, there was a quiet, two lane street surrounded on both sides by identical houses and lampposts. It was the quaintest thing Holden could have imagined. The houses were lined up in rows; beige siding and charcoal shingled roofing. There was an eerie type of symmetry to the entire place.

"Good morning, Hutch," a man wearing a blue polo and khakis greeted cheerfully, smiling and waving to the man walking beside Holden.

As they passed one another on the sidewalk, the man—Hutch, Holden supposed—returned the other man's smile. "Morning, Dave." His smile returned to a relaxed face once the man was behind him. The blue-shirted man's eyes met Holden's as they passed. Holden quickly looked away. He observed the area. Many people were walking from sidewalk to sidewalk. Everyone was dressed in nice country-club clothing; the men walking alone or with a female counterpart. There was a calm, cheerful air settling over the town. No disruptions. Nothing but straight-backed townspeople, going about their day.

Soon, Hutch led Holden past a short white picket fence, down a cobblestone walkway, and up the steps to a small wooden porch jutting out from one of the houses. In black on the top of the door, was the number 312. "Here we are," Hutch said, smiling up at the door, and then turning to Holden. "I suppose you know what you're doing here, Mr. Trahan." When Holden looked confused, Hutch's fake smile dwindled to a frown. "Listen," he began, dropping the happy-go-lucky tone and adopting a more sinister one. "You have a specific job here, and that's to blend in. To adopt the conformities. You are Holden Trahan now. Holden Wright is non-existent. Everything Trahan is, you are, you got it? You live in this neighborhood, and you're a part of it. You pull your weight, and you don't ask questions. The minute you start disregarding rules and acting "different" around here, you'll have to come to face the consequences."

Hutch stood up straight again, yet again assuming his condescending grin. "I'm glad you're here, Holden."

Consequences? Holden was wondering, as a million other thoughts bombarded him. He felt an inkling of something unsettling blossom in his stomach. There was something strange about this operation.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Hutch marveled comically. "I'm Hutch Garrison. Of course, most of us are on a first name basis around here."

"Nice to meet you," Holden managed, after clearing his throat. It's what Holden Trahan would do, he realized suddenly. Holden Wright, well, he'd ask all of the questions that had built up in just the last few minutes. "You pull your weight, and you don't ask questions," Garrison had said.

"There's a party tonight, welcoming all of the new recruits. Ninth house on the left. My wife Janet and I would be happy to have you. Of course, we'd appreciate if you'd bring a dish to pass. You can do all of that, can't you, Holden?" Garrison's eyes bore into Holden's, a strange glint of his eye accompanying his smile.

Holden hesitated, and then said, "Of course, Mr. Garrison." Garrison cocked his head to the side. "Hutch," Holden quickly corrected.

"Wonderful." Garrison clapped Holden on the shoulder. "Well, take the rest of the afternoon to settle in, and I'll see you tonight at 5:00." Hutch began to walk in the other direction. He turned his head. "Oh, and I'm looking forward to that Chinese casserole."

Soon, he was out of sight. Holden exhaled, endless questions circulating. It had taken an amazing amount of restraint not to bring them up with Hutch. But Hutch had seemed like a nice enough guy; Holden was sure he would have been happy to answer his inquiries. But something had held Holden back.

He turned and unlocked the door before pushing it open. The house was dimly lit by candles that flickered on the dining table resting off to the left. A large living room was off to the right, and then a small kitchen resided in the northwest corner of the room. Holden's eyes lingered on a Manila folder setting on the counter. A tall houseplant stood by the entrance to the hallway. Holden heard a clanging from behind the plant, and then a shuffle.

Holden jumped slightly as a girl stepped out from behind it. She held a a frying pan in her hand. Holden's eyes lingered on the pan before rising up to meet her eyes. They were blue, opened wide. He held his hands up in surrender. He didn't want to get hit with a pot; that would definitely ruin his day.

"Whoa. Hi," Holden said quickly, cautiously, offering a smile. The girl slowly lowered the pan. She was nearly his height, her arms tan from beneath her sleeveless turquoise dress, her short chestnut hair coming at perfect length to her shoulders. The girl's face relaxed suddenly.

"Oh," she said, bringing her hand up to her face. "I didn't expect you to be here so soon."

Spoiler

@amberari I hope this is alright for you! I'm so excited to get this SB started, guys! Tell me if there's anything that's unclear or that you'd like me to change.

I stumbled out of the jet quickly observing my surroundings and evaluating what the hell was going to happen. My legs trembled from the impact of rushing off the jet so fast and my brain was swirling in and out of focus. I lowered myself to the ground an bought my knees to my chest trying to regain stability and my focus back to I would be ready for what ever was going to come next.

The air stilled and so did my thoughts. I regained energy and my brain started swirling with evaluation and ideas. Slightly embarrassed, I quickly bushed off my jeans and nervously cracked my knuckles. Not knowing what comes next is one of the most frightening thing in the world.

"Dixon is it?" Said a man who was suddenly about a foot away from where I was standing.

"Yes sir that's me," I replied studying his features. He was surprisingly short, maybe 5'7 but has a very wide and masculine face. His stubble raced across his chin in a way that was both rustic and office friendly. His stance indicated importance and confident, he had to be from the government.

"Hello, I'm Hutch Garrison" He said sticking out a large hand, "Welcome to the neighborhood! I assume you have read the criteria of your mission?"

He gestured to the folder laying on the ground where we had landed, I had dropped it in the rush. "Yes sir I have." I lied.

"Fantastic! Okay Mr. Andrews I have the keys to your house, number 302." Hutch said dropping the keys in my hand. New name, new identity."Come, I'll show you to it."

I ran over and swept up my folder before following him through the golf course. He smiled and led me forward into a very Twilight Zone looking neighborhood. Picket fence lawns and smiling faces lining each side of the street. Hutch granted a couple smiles and waves to the passing citizens not stopping to introduce any to me, I suppose we'd all be buddies by the end anyway.

"Here we are!" He exclaimed stopping me in front of a identical house reading 302 across the top. "Now since you've read the folder I don't have to explain the rules again do I?"

I shook my head knowing I could easily read them now. "Good, now my wife and I are having a welcoming part tonight at 5 and we'd love for you and Haven to come. I hope to see you there and I can't wait to dig into those delicious brownies of yours!"

I nodded waving him off and entering my new home. Haven? who's Haven and why am I coming with her? I collapsed on a couch lining the living room and started to read the rules trying to make sense of it all. Then there was a thud of the door opening then quickly closing.

I ran towards the foyer in a panic to find a woman standing there her fists up just as frightened as I.

The advantage of having short hair is that when the wind comes and blows, it doesn't feel like needles stabbing in the back of your head. At least, that is what my friends tell me, always standing outside in the New York weather, with their lips glossed in red and waiting for a taxi.
The jet was the best part of the flight to the Neighborhood as well as getting the free food, easily taken and enjoyed later on. It was nice inside with leather seats and small TVs, along with nice ladies in plain, blue dresses. They had red lips too. Like my friends did. As we landed, I was thrown from my seat, despite being buckled up, and onto the floor. My lifted myself up with my arms and sat there for a minute, when I saw the door open ahead of me. A nice old man, by the name of Mr. RIcks, who was the pilot, came out of the cockpit to get me stuff together.

"You excited?" he had asked, grabbing my suitcases and heaving them out. I blinked, rubbing my hands on my jeans.

"I guess so," I replied getting up. Mr. Ricks handed me one of my suitcases, waving me on as I walked out into the blinding sun. I raised my left hand over my eyes, trying to get a focus as to what was happening and where I was. The air around me was cool and with hot winds, blowing hard on my body. I could hear jet engines throughout the area, and could see them when my vision restored.

"Hello, Miss McAnderson!" A small guy with fading brown hair and small stubble on his chin. He looked important, as the guy stuck his hand out to me. I shook it, feeling his husky, hard hands enclose around mine. The suitcase was getting heavier and heavier, like a dead weight so I decided to set it on the ground for a little while.

"If you don't mind me asking, who are you?"

He let out a laugh, holding onto his stomach. I felt the sudden urge to laugh along but before I could, he had stopped.

"I'm Hutch Garrison." He replied, shifting in his sandals. I squinted, raising my left hand, yet again, over my face. "I'm the one who built The Neighborhood. Enough chatter, let's go meet your wife!"

Wife? I asked to myself, realizing my documents I've sent out a couple months before. I picked up my suitcase, causing my left arm to ache and switched it onto my right hand. I hurried after him, being suck a small guy, I hadn't expected him to be fast. We walked off the air strip, while Mr. Ricks drove on a small suitcase car, heading towards the house. He waved to Mr. Garrison, who in turned waved back.
When we made it to The Neighborhood, I never expected to look so much like something out of a movie-- there was perfectly asphalted roads, neat little white fences that enclosed each tan house, with black or red roofs. I was awestruck. I had lived in an apartment my whole life, only seeing the dull complexes with enough traffic, to change someone. This seemed to be different from what I had expected, nonetheless it looked more friendlier than New York's Apartments.

He was rambling on about the different types of people that live here. We started in front of a big, modern house with yellow siding and a white roof. The lawn was manicured, meaning none of the spots were uneven or yellow. Small purple anemone, yellow daisies, and limonium lined the walkway towards the house.

Mr. Garrison stuffed his hand into his pocket, pulling out a key.

"Here's the key to your new house. My wife and I are having a welcome party at five. It would be a blast if you came with Azalea," he said. He walked off with a smile, heading towards the airstrip once again. When he was out of sight, I walked up the walkway towards the hazel colored door. I looked through the window. Inside was dark and mysterious, with a side table by the west wall. I shoved the key into the lock, turned it to the left until I heard it clicked, and opened up.
A cold wave rushed over me, welcoming me inside from the spring outside. When I got in, I surveyed the area. All I saw was a small loveseat, a table by the west wall, and a little flatscreen TV.

What luck, I thought to myself. I wandered over to the loveseat and collapsed. I must've fallen asleep because when I woke up, I felt someone watching me. I fluttered my eyes open to see a pair of dark gray-blue eyes, staring at me. Next thing I know is, I punched the poor stranger in the face and was screaming.

They were waving their hands about saying, "Calm down! Calm down!" I calmed down, after a while at least, before I was on the loveseat. Apparently the stranger wasn't a stranger, but was in fact my "wife".

Spoiler

@Gravity, I hope this is good enough (even though Leah isn't talking >.>)

Azalea: Day One, The House

Spoiler

Because I'm unique, actually, I don't know the code XD

She reached out and punched me in the face. I took her hands.

"Calm down, calm down, calm down!"

I was startled and somewhat embarrassed, I'd gotten up to wake her. Hutch had said she's my wife, had she been told the same thing? I reached out in the confines of her mind. She was in mid thought.

-watching me? Who is she? Is this my wife? Oh, she must be. She shouldn't have snuck up on me like that, serves her right. I-

I mentally blocked my brain again, I didn't want to hear the rest.

"It's just me," I said, "Leah." I looked at the folder. "Calm down, Harper, you had a bad dream." Realization dawned on her and one of her thoughts crept into my brain.

Oh, right. I'm supposed to play the part, go along with it. she exhaled.

"Uh, yeah, sorry." she relaxed a little but her eyes still darted around the room. She reached up to smooth her short blonde hair. I nervously twirled a red lock of curly hair around my finger.

Could be worse, Harper thought, She looks like a nice person. And at least she isn't hideous. I bit my tongue to keep from answering her thoughts and walked into the kitchen.

"Would you like something to eat?" I asked, "Or maybe coffee? I forgot to ask if you drink it."

"I'm fine," she said flatly.

Just be quiet and let me get used to this. I haven't even seen the rest of the house and she's already grilling me. Harper's thoughts screamed in my ear and I winced, trying not to let her see. But I shut up.

I smoothed out my cream colored blouse and my green skirt. I'd matched the outfit with black heels made with a velvety fabric that had a strap going across my foot. It was one of the nicer outfits I owned. Harper was just wearing beat up jeans and a t shirt, I felt foolish for dressing up. I looked like a schoolteacher anyway.

As I dragged my suitcases to what was the master bedroom, I could hear Harper debating with herself in her brain. She wasn't sure if she should offer to help me and she debated with herself momentarily before deciding not to. Not of us had been told what we were signing up for and she decided she was going to take a moment to get used to this.

I unpacked my things, putting my pants and pajamas in one half of the dresser before walking into the master closet and putting my skirts, dresses and blouses on one side. I neatly put my shoes on the small set of shelves on my half, there were two of them. Then I walked into the bathroom and put my shampoo and body wash in the shower and other toiletries on the double vanity sink.

The whole set up was fairly nice. The shower was cool, the kind that is only a shower and has blurred glass surrounding it with a door that swings out and then closes once more with suction. There was a large, oval bathtub right next to it and the floor was a nice, white tile. The toilet was... well it was a toilet. Placed opposite the shower and right next to the sinks. The room itself was somewhat plain. Carpeted with a navy blue duvet and a plain brown dresser and a closet. There was a chest at the foot of the bed, mahogany, I mused. Probably for extra blankets and such.

My mind was whirling with emotions, though I was definitely more comfortable with the situation than Harper was. Everywhere I'd gone I had no idea where I belonged, I'd grown up in foster homes. My parents never wanted me and neither did my foster parents. I'd worked as a florist, preferring my flowers over actual people. Which worked out perfectly with my first name being a kind of flower. Azalea.

I wandered to the kitchen, looking in cupboards and the pantry until I found what I wanted- a vase. Hutch had given me some azaleas to welcome me to the neighborhood. Before Harper punched me. So I cut the stems at an angle, put the plant food in the vase and filled it with water before I arranged the flowers in the glass container. I put the flowers on the kitchen counter. It brightened up the place a bit.

Flowers? Seriously? She seems okay with this but her file is on the counter. What does she know that I don't? Harper's thoughts seemed somewhat agitated and I tried to not let it get to me. I was content to live a quiet suburbian life for their stupid experiment if that's what they wanted me to do. As long as I didn't have to worry about money then I would do whatever they wanted. As confused as Harper seemed she didn't bother me too much, and I had no doubt she would get used to it. It also helped that I'd known this was my end of the deal in the interview, I'd read his mind.

I recalled the interview. I'd been asked pretty personal questions but he'd been thinking it was because they wanted to match me with the right person. He didn't think or say why, and I knew it was because he knew about my ability. Everytime he worried his thoughts were straying in that direction he'd thought of the color red. It was a clever tactic which had blocked me out successfully.

Hutch had implied we were expected to bring a dish to his welcome party. I set to preparing a dessert, I was great in the kitchen. SInce my upbringing had never given me a reason to learn, I'd taken some cooking classes once I graduated highschool at a nearby community college so I could take care of myself. I found that the kitchen was well stocked for now at least, with everything a cook could possibly need. So I prepared a quick tray of brownies.

Harper wandered into the kitchen. "You're cooking," she said flatly.

"Yes," I said, "Hutch wants us to bring a dish to the gathering."

I have no choice but to go with this. I can look for a way out later, right now I need to survive. Harper thought this and her eyes darted to the raw brownie sheet that was baking in the oven.

"Brownie's are really fast so I was going to make another dessert. Since we're in the suburbs, I figured an apple pie would do." I started pouring flour into the bowl and cracked some eggs as well.

Harper stood there for a few minutes as I mixed the dough. I heard a wirring sound coming fromt the ceiling.

"Harper," she paused at the sound of her name, "Do you hear that?" we both looked at the camera.

"Yes," she said, "I heard it in the other rooms as well."

Whether she'd heard it or not I knew what she was saying. We were constantly being watched.

And there was nothing we could do about it.

Spoiler

@Stegosaurus I hope I did right by you.

I didn't want to wake up this morning, but I had to. I missed work and I didn't want to. I rather be at that hell, than this. The jet engine roared to life and we flew off, into the endless blue sky, and I admit, it was pretty. It was boring for the most part as well as the continuous humming from the cockpit. It was annoying, nonetheless, seemed to calm me as I was not the one to fly.
It was a few hours later, that we had landed on the airstrip, in the middle of nowhere. It was a bumpy ride along with the juice drinks, spilling on the floor. Luckily, I was safe, for most part, at least. When we have landed, the pilot came out of the cockpit and walked into the seat area, and looked at me.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" I asked, rubbing my head, that had hit the ceiling over me. He smirked, pulling open the luggage carrier, grabbed my suitcase, and closed it shut.

"What you signed up for. Now come, Mr. Hutch is waiting for you."

I groaned, getting up from my seat. I had offered to help the pilot with my suitcase but he shook his head, waving me off. When we got outside, the warm, cool wind surrounded me. I knew I shouldn't wore shorts, as I thought we were going to Arizona or somewhere else warm. I was shivering in my sandals as a small guy came up to me. He was smiling, hands on his hips, and speaking. He looked somewhat important, including his strid and style, like my boss, Mr. Hamper.

"Hello there, Mr. Samson!" He exclaimed. You are too cheerful, I thought, shivering. He put out a hand, which after a moment of not shaking his hand, put it back into his pocket. Mr. Hutch let out a awkward cough soon afterwards.

"How are you?"

"Fine," I coldly said. He smiled wearily. Mr. Hutch walked over and rested his arm around my shoulders. He smelled like peppermint and the tears of children-- okay, maybe that is over top and exaggeration, but still. He pushed me along, as he wanted me to go to the house, which in my defense, was like every house I've lived in.

He was jabbering about the random stuff, some of which I knew of from the folder I got when I first signed up. The amount of people, seemed to surprise me as it was fewer than I had expected. We walked around the golf course, that was littered with golf dads wearing khakis and golf caps. They were laughing and patting each other on the back, like I had wished my father would've done with me, but of course, he was a drunk and watched football most of the time.

We walked around the whole neighborhood until we stopped in front of a vanilla house, with a perfect movie lawn. There was a cherry tree growing on the far side of the lawn, along with different array of flowers. There was a hanging pot with ginger flowers, moving in the breeze. A rocking chair had been placed on the porch, along with some lounging chairs and such.

We stopped on the driveway, Mr. Hutch still talking.

"Anyway, that is how I lost my medical license." He patted his pockets, then stuffed his hand, retriving a key. Mr. Hutch looked at the key in great admiration before handing it to me. It felt cool in my hands.

"The key to your new house," he had said. "Now, my wife and I are having a party. I think your spouse and you should come join. It's at five. Don't be late." Mr. Hutch walked off into the direction we came, widening his steps. Even though he seemed little, he was quite fast, for the next moment, he was gone.

I let out a deep breath, slowly walking my way towards the house. It's shadow had loomed over me, sending an eerie shiver down my spine. When I turned the key to the left, the door had opened. It was a pretty interior, including that of the small, red loveseat and plum purple curtains. There was a small flat screen TV, along with a small coffee table in front of the loveseat.
Felt like home, once again. I saw my suitcase the pilot had brought, neatly place to the side of the loveseat. I sighed, relaxing my shoulders and walked over to the loveseat. The smell of vanilla and cake, filled the air and I was drifted into a sleep, only to be awaken by someone poking my face.

After several suspicious yet indifferent glances from the neighbours; Ivy finally reached door number 312.

When she entered the house, she was pleased to note that things looked normal enough. There was a dining room to her left, a large lounge area off to the right and a small kitchen in the corner of the room. Although the furniture was minimalistic, the neutral interior brought a warm and calming feel to the place.

Deciding she had better get started on that party dish, Ivy walked into the kitchen. The next few minutes were spent rummaging through the drawers and cupboards, attempting to familiarise herself with all the pots and pans and dishes. The last time she’d used any of them had been while she was staying with her grandmother in New York. Since then it had all been take outs and microwave meals. Not exactly ideal considering the fact that she was trying to pass off as a married woman.

A sudden sound of the door opening and closing interrupted her thoughts. Who could that be?

Grabbing the first thing she could find to use as a weapon, Ivy dashed out of the kitchen and shifted behind the tall houseplant that stood by the entrance. Heart thumping in her chest, she listened intently to the sound of footsteps until finally she caught a glimpse of a boy barely a few feet away from her. He lingered by the entrance, as though taking in his surroundings. Before he could make another move, Ivy stepped out from behind the plant.

The sudden movement caused the boy in question to jump slightly. His piercing green eyes lingered on the frying pan in her hand for a moment before meeting her suspicious glare. It was enough to make him raise his hands up in surrender.

“Whoa, hi,” he said hurriedly, offering Ivy a tentative smile.

And then it dawned on her. This must be the other recruit.

“Oh.” Slowly, she lowered the pan. “I didn’t expect you to be here so soon.”

“I guess that makes the two of us,” the boy said before putting out a hand, “Holden Williams, nice to meet you.”

At first Ivy didn’t move. She regarded the recruit carefully, taking in the ruffled dark hair and clean-shaven face. He looked to be the same age as her, if not slightly older. It seemed surreal to think she would have to play his wife. How could she possibly trust him enough to make it look believable? But trust or no trust, she would have to do her duty, and besides, judging by the way he’d spoken to her so far he seemed friendly enough. Feeling slightly more relaxed, Ivy finally took his outstretched hand and shook.

“Ivory Daniels,” she said back, vaguely aware that she was still holding the frying pan. “Just so you know I won’t be making a habit of greeting you like this … unless of course you give me reason to.”

The boy smirked at that, “Noted.”

An awkward and slightly uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them. Ivy cleared her throat and attempted to shift the conversation elsewhere. “So, I don’t know if you were told this, but there’s a party tonight, we need to bring a dish, and cooking isn’t exactly my forte.”

The jet was nice.

I sunk into the tan leather seats and enjoyed the constant attention from a plain-looking woman, and my seemingly bottomless iced tea. I divided my eyes' attention between the TV above me and the folder in my lap. I twirled my braid around my finger, and read again what I had already memorized.

Name: Haven North
From: Odesa, Texas

Odesa? I had never even been to Texas, and I don't have an accent. How am I gonna explain that to my new husband? That's another thing to worry about. I had never been very good at pretending, and if I didn't like something, I made it very clear from the get-go. And there was a slim chance that I would like this guy enough to restrain myself from saying something rude. I tried to calm down, but the plane engines weren't helping. As we— well me and the pilot and the attendant— landed, my ears popped and I stood up while we coasted to a stop on the golf course. I could see out the tinted windows that the grass was a deep green, and the sand was pure white. It looked very manicured, and very fake.

A man met me as I hopped down the stairs. I judged him in my head. He was squarely built, like the old man from Up. His hands, face, shoulders, everything was square and stocky. However, he wasn't old. He was probably 38. Yes, 38 looked about right. He gave me a wide smile, but his eyes didn't crinkle, like eyes do when someone is truly smiling. No, his eyes stayed wide open, and gave his pseudo-smile a chill that I could feel in my bones.

"Hi there, Ms. North," he said with his smiling-voice on.

"Hey yourself," I replied. I'm sure he could tell from my voice that I was guarded and suspicious, but that's okay. Maybe now he'll feel obliged to answer my questions.

"We're so happy to have you here at The Neighborhood, Haven. I'm Hutch, by the way."

"Oh, thanks," I say, a little surprised at the warm welcome. I thought the government people would have more of a...top secret, darting eyes kind of feel. "Happy to be here."

He gave me the whole speech, that I'm sure he gave everyone else, too. He said that he's sure that I know what my mission is, and that he knows I'll do just fine. And I knew. I knew my mission was to be Haven North, a southern girl married to...someone. I knew that everyone had to think I was "Ms. North", and I could do that. I've lied about my identity lots of times. I could surely do it again.

"...at five tonight, and maybe you could come. You could even bring a dish to pass," Hutch was saying. Damn, what was at five? I didn't want it to look like I wasn't paying attention, so I smiled and nodded. He handed me a key, and said that it was to my house, number 302. I nodded again.

"I look forward to tasting those brownies, Haven," Hutch says, as if I mentioned that I would be bringing, or even knew how to make, brownies. This seemed like a dismissal, so I finished our stroll by walking up the wooden porch steps, sliding the key into the lock, and turning the doorknob. I glanced back, only to see that Hutch was already gone. I walked in, and shut the door behind me.

And God, did he scare me. He just jumped out from behind the wall, and he looked scared, and he was tall, and intimidating. So I threw my hands up, my eyes wide, looking him over, searching for...I don't know, a gun? A knife? But that was when I saw them. His bright red sneakers. And, for some reason, that made me put my hands down, and un-bunch my shoulders, because what kind of assassin, or bad guy would be wearing red sneakers? So this guy couldn't possible be trying to hurt me.

After he probably realized that I wasn't very threatening, he also relaxed, and started squinting at me. Not in confusion, but in scrutiny, staring at me from ten feet away, taking in all my secrets that were visible to the human eye, which aren't many, so I don't know what's taking him so long. Finally, he started walking toward me, and held out his hand.

"I'm Dixon," he said. He had a deep voice, but it wasn't startling. It was soft, and welcoming, the voice of a therapist, or psychologist, the ones with the cool couches all over their offices. It was a nice voice.

"I'm Haven," I said, taking his hand. I frowned a little. "Haven North."

Spoiler

@TinyJarStoredDreams, I hope this is okay with you!

I stood in the kitchen slaving over making some brownies that I didn't even know I knew how to make, and still can't make. Haven sat watching me while she sat at the dinning table flipping through her folder. I was making these brownies out of the box but I still was having trouble making them.

"Hey, do you happen to know how to cook?" I asked her softly, trying not to frighten her as I did upon arrival.

"Do I look like I know how to cook?" She asked with a smirk.

"I guess not," I mumbled and continued to try to put the brownies in the oven with spilling the batter or burning myself. I somehow managed to do both.

I set the timer and went to sit down at the table with Haven to try and get to know her better before we went out an posed as a loving couple. I studied her actions and features trying to establish a little something about her that she most likely wouldn't tell me herself. She has scars across her knuckles and around the edges of her eyes and mouth, a fighter. She fidgeted and often looked behind her, as if she had to constantly look out for herself. This girl had a rough past and I knew not to ask about it.

"So whens your family coming into town," I asked trying to get a feel of how we should go about our past together.

Haven caught on quickly. "Not for I while, with the babies popping out every 20 seconds I don't suppose they ever will, they still call every other night though." Big and close family.

"Yeah same for me, mom has to take care of dad and my father is my father, unreliable." Broken household.

Haven nodded and winked at me appreciating my attempt to make sense of how tonight will play out. I slid out of my chair and went to wonder around the house some more. The whole house had a somewhat southern theme, in its bright blues and greens and lush plants I'd most likely be in charge of judging Havens attitude towards cooking. The downstairs had a living room, a large room which connected the dinning room and kitchen, and a half-bath. The second floor had a master and spare bedroom, and a bathroom connected to each of them. God sleeping tonight will be weird. Do I sleep in the same bed as her, do I not? Not looking forward to the conversation.

The oven sounded and I scrambled down stairs to retrieve the brownies, without the oven mits.

"SHIT!" I screamed as I dropped the brownies on the counter and rushed to run my hands under the faucet.

Haven peered up and rushed up to go help me with keeping my hands intact with my body. She gently sprayed the water all of them and got ice out and ready for me. She turned off the water and guided my hands onto the ice which stung so bad it was than being burnt itself.

"Thanks," I said between gritted teeth as she turned off the oven.

"Anything for my guy," She replied with an almost real smile.

An awkward feeling of trepidation hung in the air, and it chilled Holden's skin, feeling so uncannily real that he felt as if he could touch it. Ivory cleared her throat. Ivory, Holden thought. Like the color. Elephant's tusks are made of ivory. And then, who knows if they are.

"So," Ivory asserted, a forced factuality to her voice. "I don't know if you were told this, but there's a party tonight, and we need a dish to pass." She glanced at the floor, and then quickly back up at Holden, feigning confidence. She placed her hands on her hips. "And, well, cooking isn't exactly my forte."

He gave her a reassuring smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well," I said, "while some may think it's cute when guys can't cook—" He glanced around, taking note of everything's respective location, and then opened a drawer in the kitchen, pulling out a spatula. "—I happen to have a certain aptitude for it." He spun the spatula around in his hand.

Ivory smiled slightly, cunningly. "Alright then, Chef Holden." She stumbled over his name. "Care to show me a few cooking tips?" He turned his head towards her, and smiled, surprised how quickly she warmed up to him.

When she saw his smile, her mouth turned down into a slight frown. The playful quality to her tone disappeared as she muttered, "Dish, dish, dish." She searched through the cabinets until she found a rectangular glass dish.

"Maybe you want an apron so you don't get anything on your dress," Holden suggested, shrugging, tugging an apron from the nearest drawer. He tossed it to Ivory. She began to tie the strings around her neck, her long tan arms reaching up behind her head.

He strolled over to the fridge and opened it, surveying its contents. There was a vast array of vegetables. Holden took a bag of green onions, and then one of celery into his hands. He tapped Ivory on the shoulder, handed them to her. "Just cut those nice and small, okay?" Holden slid a knife to her across the counter. She quickly grabbed it, her fingers tightening around the handle.

They worked for a while, layering the ingredients across the bottom of the dish. Holden used to watch his mom make Chinese casserole. It was a fond memory, he supposed. It hadn't looked to be anything amazing to him; just the quick slicing of vegetables and the dumping of chicken into the pan. His mind fled to Millie. Poor kid, he thought, before he realized that there was nothing really poor about it all; he just missed her.

"What?" Ivory questioned suddenly as Holden stepped back from putting the casserole in the oven. He pulled the oven mitt from his hand.

"What?" he echoed, confused.

Ivory shook her head. "You had this look on your face." He raised an eyebrow.

"No, I didn't," he protested.

"I know when someone's lying," she said suddenly, he voice stern, placing her hands on her hips, standing up taller. "I'm a goddamn lawyer, for God's sake." She rolled her eyes. She tossed the knife in the sink violently, and shoved the cutting board in as well. Holden leaned up against the counter, not knowing what she was all up in arms about.

"I almost forgot." Holden attempted to sound sarcastic. A lawyer? No wonder she held herself with such poise.

"Look," she said, folding her arms over one another, positioning herself so she was leaning against the oven, facing him. Her blue eyes bored into his. There was something about her eyes; a shimmering quality that sparkled back behind her eyelids like starlight in a forest. He felt bad for her, for some reason. There was something dark light midnight behind those eyes. "We need to be—we are—together. We know a lot about each other, don't we? I guess we haven't talked about each other in a while, have we?" She stared at Holden intently.

Holden caught on to what she was saying. Holden Trahan did, anyway. Holden Williams was still trying to catch up. "You mean like that time when David Thompson broke two of my back teeth when he punched me in the jaw? I never got into fights, but I guess I delivered him the wrong newspaper." Holden laughed. "Chipped. Right here." He brought his hand up beneath his jaw, and massaged his face. He felt where the chipped teeth rubbed his cheek raw.

Ivory gave him a strange look, a small smile glowing on her face. Strands of her chestnut hair fell in her eyes. She pushed them back. "I guess I never asked if you fought back."

"Oh," Holden said, "flailing arms everywhere. I could barely throw a piece of paper, much less a punch."

Ivory's eyes suddenly diverted from his, looking at the ground. Her lips tilted downwards again, seemingly in thought. "I guess it happens a lot these days. Unnecessary violence. Like when my father pulled a gun on the man at the grocery store. Cigarettes, newspapers, they're never worth it, are they?"

Holden's mouth fell slightly agape as he looked at her, his heart tugging inside of his chest. He closed his mouth. "No," he said. "They're not."

Ivory sighed, looking away. "My grandmother used to tell me that it was my father's fault. That my mother died. Everyone else says it was the cancer. Whenever I ask her about it, my grandma, she says, 'your daddy was a complicated man, Ivy'." She rubbed her arms slowly, pink fingernails traveling up her small and muscled arms. She shook her head. She wouldn't look at Holden. "But the more I think about it, he wasn't complicated at all. He was just a man, a bad man. The kind who breaks hearts faster than cancer kills body cells. The kind of man who doesn't give a damn whether his family has a father or a husband. The way I see it, that's just about as simple as you can get."

Holden's eyes tried to find hers. He wondered how any man could be so insensitive; how any person could be. He wondered why girls had lives with so much meaning behind them, while boys like him spent years living in broken cities and doing the same old thing everyday. He wondered how she could tell him such a thing. He wondered if she wanted to, or if she felt like she had to.

He wondered if she was an actress, the kind with glossy faces propped on billboards, who wore frock coats and curled their hair, sporting red cherry lipstick. He wondered if she was lying. He wondered if she wondered, about him and about the world. He wondered what would happen if he took her hand and told her it was going to be okay.

He wondered if it was going to be okay.

Ivy's eyes finally found his. She searched them as if assessing every thought and emotion that passed behind them. "But I guess I've already told you all of this once before, haven't I?"

Holden chewed his lip, nodded, contemplated. "I guess you have." He hesitated, as neither of them said a word, and then stepped forward. He reached around her neck. She flinched, darting her face from his hand. "Whoa," Holden said, pulling his hand back slightly, and then reaching for the string on her apron. "Hey, it's okay. I was only trying to help."

"I got it," Ivory said, walking to the other end of the kitchen. Her hands worked behind her neck, untying the apron. She wiped a hand across her face, her blush reddening. She didn't look at him.

This isn't going to be as easy as I thought, Holden figured. His eyes flitted to Ivy as she stood by the window, facing away, looking into the opaque cloth of the checkered curtains. Holden realized that he had no idea how to help her.

That was something no identity pamphlet was going to teach him.

Why was I messing with this folder, I thought to myself as I turned the pages, skimmed the words, all of which I had committed to memory already. I looked up every so often, not too often, because I didn't want him—Dixon—to feel like I was watching him. I hate that feeling; I wouldn't want to give it to anyone else.

He was having some trouble, but I stayed seated, not daring to go in there, into the kitchen. I don't cook, and will never cook, not again. It wasn't because I didn't want to help him. I did. But, I hadn't cooked since I was 14, right before my sorry excuse for a mother left me. She left us to fend for ourselves when there was no one there to help. We were making, ironically enough, brownies, the yummy kind, complete with chocolate chips on top. We made these often, me and mom. It was only recently that I realized that we only seemed to make them after she came home late, or I witnessed her and my dad fighting. So yeah, pretty often. Then she left. Now, even the formerly comforting smell of brownies makes me sick.

I ended up telling him so, when he asked me if I knew how to cook. I have him a smirk, a cover face. A cover for the emotion building in my chest. He grimaced and finally got the damn things in the oven. He then proceeded to walk over and sit next to me. I noticed that the short sleeve of his black V-neck came up just enough to reveal his bicep when he was pulling out the chair to sit down. He looked strong, the attractive kind of strong that most women wilt over. I'm not a particularly "wilty" person, but I noticed nonetheless.

"So...when's your family coming into town?"

I looked up, startled, but found out from the look on his face, a mixture of tentative, pointed, and don't-mess-up, that he wanted me to play the game. I decided to humor him and said, "Not for I while, with the babies popping out every 20 seconds I don't suppose they ever will, they still call every other night though." I tried really hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but found that surprisingly difficult, giving what I was saying. This made me miss Jerry.

He smiled, apparently glad that I didn't blow off the opportunity he gave me to discuss how we were gonna pull this off.

"Yeah same for me, mom has to take care of dad and my father is my father, unreliable."

I returned his small smile, and inwardly wondered how much of this was true. It almost made me empathize with his possible family problems, but then I remembered that this was most likely all fake. It was good for rehearsal, though. I winked, and he smiled before standing up again. I smiled inside, thinking he must not like sitting still for too long. Sure enough, he went all throughout the house. I heard door opening and closing all over the place, and I was sure he had checked out every room at least three times, when the oven started beeping obnoxiously. I looked toward it with mild disgust, as Dixon started running toward the thing. In a hurry I still don't understand, he threw the oven open and grabbed the pan of brownies with his bare hands. Predictably, given the scorching circumstances his hands were encountering, he screamed.

"SHIT!"

I'm pretty sure I was making that emoji face, the one with all the teeth showing in a gasping-oops kind of way. I jumped up as he dropped the pan on the counter with a bang so loud, I thought everyone in the neighborhood must have heard it. I ran over to him and took his forearms in my hands, as he looked at his own with horror. I pulled him, as gently as I could, over to the sink. As I sprayed cool water on his hands, I knew he'd be fine. The burns weren't that bad. I let go of his hands and went to the freezer, half expecting it to be empty, but it was stocked full of frozen veggies, meat, and...well ice of course. I grabbed a pack and pressed it into his hands. I saw and heard him wince in pain, so I felt obligated to comfort him, as I had a special dislike for witnessing people in pain. Especially nice people, like Dixon. So I started talking.

"You'll be fine. They're barely first degree burns, really," I said as reassuringly as I could. It was true, it wasn't that bad. "I got burned once. This guy—real jerk, he was—shoved his lit cigarette into my arm," I rambled, surprising myself a great deal. I never did this, open up to people about my past. I took one of my hands away from the ice pack to pull my sleeve up and show him. "It hurt a lot at the time, but it's not so bad now. And, you're lucky, these won't leave ugly scars like this one," I said with a smile, looking down at the little circle in my arm, darker than my skin tone. I pushed my sleeve down, and watched as he took one of his hands out from under the ice pack. He gently, as to not hurt himself, took my hand in his. I looked up at him, not anger or worry clouding my eyes, but curiosity, making them bright and a little wider than usual.

"Thank you," he said, barely above a whisper.

Loretta | Day one | the house

I stare at the man in the loveseat, retracting my hand as his eyes flutter open. He stares up at me and I return the stare, eyes roving over is body in slight disappointment. He seems muscular, and he has nice blonde hair. He's dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. I'm no fashion guru, but even I wouldn't wear clothes like that. The only thing I do like about him is his mismatched eyes, one a deep mahogany brown the other sapphire blue. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion as he looks up at me.

"Hello honey, how was your day?" I smile sarcastically sweet at him.

He narrows his eyes. "And you are?" He asks suspiciously.

"Loretta Samson," I hold out my hand. "Your wife."

His eyes widen and he straightens. He ignores my offered hand and looks around the lounge room. "My wife?" He looks at me with confusion. "Oh yes, that's right, Mr Hutch said something about a wife."

"Mr Hutch?" I snort derisively at that, and the man narrows his eyes at me again. "Well, anyway, what's your first name?"

"Wilson," he lifts his hand, as though out of habit.

I grab it and shake it briefly before letting it go and taking a step back. "I'm in the kitchen making a cake. I wanted to make fish pie, but apparently we're supposed to bring the meal Hutch tells us to bring," I explain.

Wilson stands up and follows me into the kitchen. "What's with your accent?" He asks.

I round on him and narrow my eyes. "Nothing, I'm from New Zealand. What's up with your accent, blondie?" I snarl.

Wilson glares daggers at me and opens his mouth to speak, but the ping from the oven stops him. I turn around and rush into the kitchen and grab some oven mits. I open the oven door and pull out the large cake. I place it on a wooden board to let it cool down and lean over the kitchen counter to stare at Wilson.

"Now, since we're to play hubbie and wifey, you're going to act the part," I look him up and down again. "And you're not wearing those clothes to the dinner party."

He looks down at his attire. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" He asks.

"Everything," I roll my eyes. "Do you know how to make icing? I need a shower so I can put on fresh clothes."

Wilson looks at me like I'm crazy. "Decorate a cake?" He deadpans.

"Yeah," I say flippantly. "Be inventive, but don't go over the top. It's a vanilla cake, so obviously white icing, and there are a few decoration things in the third drawer over here," I point to the drawer, "so make it look pretty."

"I'm better at inventing things -"

"Wilson," I walk over to him and place my hands on his shoulders. "I really don't want to hear anything just yet. Decorate the damn cake. If you need help, give me a shout. I won't be long."

He just stares at me as I walk around him and head off to the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. I walk over to the ensuit and look at the clothes I have to wear. I pull out some black skinny jeans and a purple shirt that looks quite nice. I find a drawer and pull it open to find underwear and bras. Oh thank goodness! I throw the clothes onto the bed and walk into the bathroom, keeping the door open in case Wilson calls for me.

I shower quickly, and after turning the water off, I climb out of the shower and grab a white, fluffy towel to wrap around my body. I grab a second towel and rub my hair dry. It's still a tad damp, but it will do. I run my fingers through the black strands and shake my head so that my hair falls into it's usual style.

"Loretta!" Wilson yells through the house.

"Of for ... coming!" I yell back. I make sure the towel is tightly wrapped around my chest before I rush out of the bathroom. I walk down the hallway and into the kitchen to find Wilson glaring at the cake. It's sitting on the wooden board, out of its tin, with white icing dolloped on the top of it. Wilson lifts his eyes to look at me and his glare instantly vanishes. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Why aren't you dressed?" He splutters.

"I didn't have time to before you cried damsel in distress," I snap, and walk over to the cake. "What's wrong?"

"Is the icing okay? I don't quite know how to make it cover the whole cake," Wilson tries to keep his eyes on the cake, his cheeks starting to glow a faint red.

"Urgh," I roll my eyes and grab a knife from the drawer and start spreading the icing - which I have to admit it a decent texture - over the cake. Wilson watches me and I explain what I'm doing each time I change tactic. "Run it lightly over the icing and keep spinning the cake, but not too fast. Then spread it down the sides, and do the same, only spin the board in the opposite direction. Now the cake is covered in icing," I put the knife down on the board and smile at my handiwork before giving Wilson a droll look. "Do you think you can decorate the cake on your own?"

He nods, eyes glued to the cake. "Where are the decorations again?" He asks.

"Third drawer behind you," I tell him, and walk back into the bedroom to get dressed. Once that's done I walk back out and lean against the wall separating the hallway from the kitchen to watch Wilson.

He's doing a good job of decorating the cake. The sugary flowers are spread evenly around the outside of the cake, with the other decorations slowly filling the middle, and making their way down the side of the cake. When he's done, Wilson steps back and smirks with triumph.

"Well done," I push off the wall to walk toward him. "Looks great."

"Good, you're dressed," is all he says. "I'm going to shower now, I'll be out soon.

He rushes passed me and I stop myself from chuckling. I walk over to the cake and look it over. I should get Wilson to decorate cakes more often. It looks like he struggled a bit, but he's done a good job. I put the cake in a Tupperware container and leave it on the bench. I stroll around the counter and walk into the kitchen. I plonk down onto one of the couches and sigh.

After what seems like an age, Wilson walks into the lounge room. He's dressed in the clothes he had on before his shower, and I'd assume he hasn't even gotten out of them if it weren't for his slightly damp hair. I stand up and rub my hands on my thighs. Wilson tries to smile at me, but it seems forced and weak.

"Ready?" He asks.

"You're not -"

He gives me a warning look.

I sigh. "Sure, honey, let's go to this welcoming party," I grin at him.

"Don't do that," he walks over to the door. "It's unnerving."

A growl rumbles in my chest as I follow him. Let's just get this over with.

Spoiler

Sorry this is so rushed, I wanted to get a post in as soon as possible, and this is what I conjured up within the hour. Did I do okay with Wilson, @Stegosaurus?

The only other time Ivy had brought up her past was during her job interview at the law firm. She’d expected a thorough background check before the call-up and rather than wait for the interviewer to bring up the past – or more specifically her dad – she’d decided to do it herself. The scenario with Holden hadn’t been any different. He would’ve gone through her file at some point and discovered that her dad was a criminal, so she hadn’t seen the point in holding back.

She supposed the only down side to that decision was the inevitable awkwardness that usually followed, or worse – pity. She had seen it in Holden’s eyes, and it irked her. If there was one thing Ivy hated it was to be pitied.

Deciding to leave Holden to his cooking, Ivy left the kitchen and ventured upstairs to familiarise herself with the rest of the house. She reached the first floor landing and saw a wide hallway with a door in the middle, as well as a smaller door on the left. The door on the left, she discovered was a small closet while the door in the middle was the bedroom.

Inside, it was a decent enough size. The neutral colours downstairs followed through, and the bed seemed comfortable enough. Bed, not beds, thought Ivy, letting out a sigh. It was slowly starting to dawn on her exactly what she’d signed up for. She was married now. Married.

Jesus Christ.

In an attempt to shift her focus elsewhere, Ivy walked around the rest of the room, discovering an en suite and another small closet. Inside were newly bought clothes for both her and Holden to wear, and she was pleased to see that each item was perfect. I might have just sacrificed my life for the time being, but at least I can look good doing it, she thought. With that in mind, she set to work on picking an outfit for the dinner party. After the damn casserole dish, this part of the assignment was probably the most important. It was vital she gave a good account of herself, and that meant her outfit and Holden’s had to be on point.

After an hour or two, Ivy had finally settled on a midnight blue lace dress that complimented her eyes, and laid out some possible outfits for Holden to choose from on the bed. As if on cue, there came the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, followed by a cautious knock on the door.

“Can I come in?” Holden asked from outside.

Ivy, who was seated at the dresser, finished applying kohl to her eyes before responding with a reluctant, “Yes.” If you must ...

Harper | Day One | The House

Looking through the closet for something to wear, I settled on a plum purple dress and some black flats. I looked in the mirror that hung on the back of the door, spinning before nodding. Since it was only few hours before we left, checking up on Leah with the brownies was next. I slipped the dress back on the hook it came on, and changed back into my clothes I was wearing. The smell of baking greeted me when I opened the door. It brought back memories of my mother baking for Christmas or when new neighbors moved in. I missed her.
When I got downstairs, Leah changed into a different outfit that was a ripped jeans, white t-shirt and Converses. She was moving around the kitchen, doing thousand things at once.

"How's the baking going along?" I asked. Leah glared up, checking up on the brownies then hurrying over to put a pie into the oven. "You know, we are bringing one dish, right?"

"I know. Just pie seemed to be a quick change. We can still bring brownies." I shrugged, leaning against the door frame.

"Do you need help with anything?"

"No, I got it." Leah stated, opening up the oven with the brownies. She gazed thoughtfully at her work before putting it on the stove. I nodded, shoving my hands into my jean pocket. It was awkward standing there as in most situations, I loved to help. I guess I wasn't needed. After a few minutes, I decided since I was new to this house, it would need to be checked. I smell was mothballs and cotton welcomed me when I made it to the library. Two leather chairs were placed in the middle of the room. There was a small wood table that was placed between, a dictionary on top. The walls were bookshelves, covered in dust and soon triggered my allergies. I started sneezing, while my eyes grew watery.
A small buzzing came from the window but ignored it as I walked out. The next place was, I think, another guest bedroom. A queen sized bed was placed in the room, along with a night table on the side with a glass of water and picture of some old guy. The walls were rose pink with lilac curtains, letting sunlight into the house. A stale smell lingered in the air, as well the cool wind dancing around the room, like an echo.
The same buzzing I had heard in the library was outside the window.
Must be a bee, I thought, picking up a picture frame. It was a picture of a couple with toothy grins and hugging. The man was slightly taller than the woman, who had her arms tightly around the guy's waist. They were both matching, wearing Hawaiian shirts with blue and pink flowers. In the background of the picture, a party was happening with a pool and other couples.

As I was going to put it away, I noticed something. On the top corner there seemed to be something black floating, hovering almost. Probably some picture malfunction, I thought putting the picture back on the bedside. I took a deep breathe in through my nose, getting the flowery smell when Leah called me. I walked out of the bedroom, towards Leah's voice. A mess was on the floor, when I got there. Leah was panicking, on her knees while picking up some bits of food and brownies.

"What happened?"

She sniffled and looked up. "I heard a buzzing, thinking it was a bee and started to put away the plates in the fridge when something tripped me."

I sighed. "Are you sure your shoes aren't untied?" Leah looked down at her untied Converses and mumbled. "But they were tied."

"I'm going to get ready," I said walking towards the steps. "You should also since you messed brownie on your shirt." As I walked up the steps, stopping at the top and staring down at Leah. She was grumbling under her breathe while sweeping up the brownie crumbs. I sighed, walking into my bedroom. The plum purple dress was still hanging up but I decided on wearing something casual. I decided on some jeans and a cobalt blue flannel.
Later on, when we were both ready, we drove over to the party. The house loomed in the darkness casting a dark shadow on the lawn. Most of the couples were at the house already, chatting away while the dishes they brought were on the table. After the brownie incident, Leah decided on making frosted cookies. It was a nice party and I met some cool people, each different and new. Mr. Hutch mentioned that you must stay with your couple or else. I didn't question the else as I thought it was joke. Jokes are good for someone new at this. I mean, this whole thing seemed like one-- why not live it out?

Holden knocked on the bedroom door. Ivory had been in there for nearly two hours. Holden wondered who could spend two hours in their own bedroom without anything to do. Part of him was worried that maybe she had been crying after the situation in the kitchen earlier. He'd paced down the hallway every five minutes or so, listened against the door. All he heard was a shuffling or relative silence, and he hadn't wanted to bother her, as he felt he'd already done some significant emotional damage.

But now, they had to begin getting ready for the party. Holden couldn't risk being late. He had to make a good first impression. The last thing he wanted was to waste his fresh start.

He hurried down the sidewalk, bicycle spokes circling, pedals loose under his tennis shoes. The sidewalk bumped under his wheels. Both passersby and store windows blurred in his periphery. His heart pumped furiously.

When he arrived, he hopped off his bike and chained it to the metal post. He sprinted through the door, tucking in his blue collared shirt, a lock of dark hair falling between his eyes. The door jingled shut behind him, and he rushed into the second office on the right. He nearly tripped at the carpeted threshold. He stood upright, panting, chest heaving, collar unbuttoned. A wreck.

"You're late," the man behind the chair said. The chair spun to face Holden, the man with horn-rimmed glasses rubbing his nails together irritably. "But I suppose that's nothing new for you, is it, Mr. Wright?"

"No sir, I mean—" Holden breathed in deeply, wishing there were more oxygen. And then, reluctantly, "Yes, sir."

The boss looked at him over his glasses, his eyebrows raised. "I meant to get here sooner," Holden tried, talking quickly. "This guy, he tried to sell me these...magazines, and I told him I had to get to my job because, well, that's what's really important to me." Holden smiled, flushed. "But the guy, he had a real temper, and stepped in front of my bike, and when I tried to swerve, I just—" He shrugged, let out a humorless chuckle. "Crashed. Mangled my bike real good."

Holden rubbed the back of his neck, laughed nervously again. "I mean, you should have a look at it, my bike, it's got this giant gaping hole in the tire—" Holden spread his fingers apart as to demonstrate the size. "—and spokes sticking out everywhere, I mean, the handlebars—"

"Well, I bet we'd all love to see this fantasy rainbow bicycle of yours, Mr. Wright," his boss interrupted. "But I don't want to hear any more bullshit about the dreams you had while you overslept." His eyes diverted to his desk, and he flipped a packet of paperwork to its backside. "I'll put it to you simply. You start coming in on time, or you're going to be making up excuses on your own time, is that understood?"

Holden's cheeks turned a light shade of pink. His hands went to his pockets, his smile fading. "I care about my job, sir."

"You're already behind on your delivery for the day. Get your ass in gear, or you're going to lose it."

"Can I come in?" Holden asked, his head close to the door.

There was a brief hesitation. "Yes," Holden heard from inside the door, muffled by the barrier between them. Holden grasped the plastic doorknob, and twisted, pushing in the door.

There she was, sitting on a stool in front of the mirror. She was wearing a midnight blue dress with a laced and fitted bodice, the neckline low but not too much so. The dress draped behind her, coming halfway to the floor when she sat. In the front, it came mid-thigh, her tanned knees together as her thin ankles were crossed. She was staring into the mirror before she turned her head to look at him.

He searched her eyes for tears, and came up empty. "Are you okay?" he asked, looking at her dress. He wondered if all the girls here were pretty, or if he just got lucky.

"Fine," she said. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

"Hey," Holden said. He had a towel in his hand, the one he had been using to dry the dishes, which he promptly slung over his shoulder. "You can—"

"I picked out some outfits for you to choose from," Ivory interrupted suddenly, sweeping her dress to the side and standing up. Her feet were bare, toenails unpainted. —talk to me. You can talk to me. Holden wished he could have finished his sentence. A moment later, he realized how he would have been lying to her if he had. No, she couldn't talk to him. Not here.

They both walked to the bedside, where several outfits were laid out. There was one with a button-up shirt that was a similar color to Ivory's dress and a navy suit jacket. The other outfit consisted of a white button-down shirt and a tie striped with several shades of blue. Holden reached an arm across Ivory and folded the white shirt and tie into the crook of his arm. He said nothing, glancing at Ivory, and whistled "Suit & Tie" as he walked into the bathroom to change.

When Holden emerged, Ivory gave him the once over. Holden looked down at himself, satisfied. He'd become an expert at tucking his shirt in record time from his pre-work morning experiences of rushing through the door and stuffing his shirttail into his pants. He was adept at the tying of ties. He could smooth his hair down and without any product make it look presentable in the timespan of roughly two seconds. His khakis didn't look too wrinkly. Holden looked up at Ivory, sure that she'd be impressed. I'm golden, he thought, feeling a faint smile form on his face.

"Awful," Ivory marveled. She hastily walked towards him to get a closer look. "Completely awful."

Holden's frown turned upside down, and was replaced by confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Your tie," she said. "It's crooked. Your hair, well frankly, it's a mess." She stopped when she stood a foot away from him, and began to tamper with his tie. When it was "decent", a word which Holden apparently did not know the meaning of, she squinted at his hair, and then touched him on the arm. "C'mon," she beckoned, and walked into the bathroom. Holden followed.

She stood on her tiptoes and reached into the cabinet, removing a bottle of hair gel. She squirted some of into her palm, and then reached her hand up. Holden ducked his head away. "Stay still," she said. Holden didn't understand why she cared so much about their appearance. It was only a dinner party.

When she was finished, Holden looked in the mirror. He had to admit—he looked so sharp that his boss wouldn't even recognize him if he walked through the post office door. Ivory looked proud of her handiwork. Holden sighed. "Uncomfortable, but. Pretty stylish, I gotta say." Ivory's smile illuminated the room. She put her hand on Holden's arm, looking into the mirror at the both of them.

"It is pretty stylish, isn't it?"

Minutes later, they were on their way to Hutch's living complex. "Ninth house on the left." Holden recalled his conversation with Hutch, Chinese casserole clutched in his hands. It was a dark, starless evening, the lights atop lampposts shining, an eerie silence sweeping through the neighborhood.

"It should be right here," Holden asserted. They strolled up the walkway, ascending the steps. Holden rang the doorbell, and then stepped back.

The door swung inward, and Hutch appeared before the couple, black hair slicked back against his forehead. Holden could hear music playing. "How nice of you to arrive!" He glanced at his watch. "And right on time, nonetheless. Come in, join us." He grinned, beckoning them inside. Hutch's hand clamped down on Holden's shoulder, leading him into the living room. Holden noticed that the layout of Hutch's house was the exact same as that of his own.

At least six or seven other couples already stood in the living room, holding drinks and conversing quietly under the warm yellow light. "New guests," a woman remarked, smiling. She had long black hair tied up in an elegant bun, and wore a long red dress that swept around her ankles and fit tightly to her slim body.

"This is my wife, Janet," Hutch introduced. Janet took the dish from Holden's hands with long, black acrylic nails and smiled up at him and Ivory.

"Looks delicious," she commented with an animated smile, before taking the dish away.

Hutch, Holden, and Ivory walked further towards the center of the living room. Ivory stayed close behind Holden. Holden observed the rest of the room. The other couples eyed them warily. A certain tenseness paralyzed the scene.

"This is Loretta and Wilson," Hutch introduced, gesturing to the couple nearest to us. The man, Wilson, had two different colored eyes, and blond hair swept across his forehead. Compared to his stocky form, the woman next to him was small. She wore black skinny jeans and a purple blouse. Wilson wore a Hawaiian shirt. A dad shirt, Holden thought to himself. That's all his father ever wore on weekends. Holden suddenly felt very overdressed.

Hutch led them through the rest of the introductions. Holden gave a polite nod, a generic "hi" to anyone who seemed friendly. He kept glancing at Ivory, hoping she knew what was going on. She never seemed to catch his eye.

Hutch silenced everyone for a second and announced that in only a few minutes, they'd begin serving hors d'oeuvres, "if you all can wait that long." He gave a little chuckle, and allowed everyone to continue with their business. Holden was glancing around the room, observing the scene silently. His eyes stopped on a girl with bright red hair. She was twirling a strand around her forefinger, her gray eyes narrowed, staring at him. When he caught her eye, she didn't look away. She was petite, and wore a grayish-white laced dress with three-quarter sleeves and a hem that came just above her knee. Her skin was as pale as snow. Holden became uncomfortable with her staring. He almost felt as if...as if she's trying to get me to tell her something. Holden glanced behind him and from side to side.

Nobody else was in a five foot radius besides Ivory, who muttered that she had to go to the bathroom, or something else. Holden wasn't listening, but watched her walk over to Hutch. When he turned his head, he spotted the girl again. She was still staring at him, her pink lips tipped downward in a contemplative frown.

What is her deal? Holden wondered.

Her staring was beginning to annoy him, and he began to walk towards her, driving his shoulder between two couples, and nearly crashing into the man in the Hawaiian shirt and the drink in his hand. "Watch where you're going," he growled, his voice tinged with aggravation.

"Sorry," Holden marveled, ducking underneath the arm of his brash figure.

Finally, he stepped up in front of the girl, nearly spilling her drink in his stumble. She stepped away from him, frowning. There was another girl with short blond hair standing next to her. Holden didn't pay her any mind. "Look," Holden whispered, "why are you staring at me?" The girl opened her mouth, her brow furrowing. Before she could speak, a man stepped up beside her. It was Hutch. He put his arm around the red-headed girl. The girl flinched.

"What's going on here?" Hutch asked, smiling in an odd manner. The girl looked confused. Holden's eyes flitted between her and Hutch.

Holden gestured to the girl. "What do you mean what's going on here, I just—"

"Shrimp cocktail?" Hutch offered a glass to Holden, giving him a look that Holden nearly mistook for some kind of warning. Holden began to shake his head, but the gesture was severed by Hutch's voice. "No? Well, it was a special at your wedding, Mr. Trahan." My wedding? Holden thought, not remember having one of those. Mr.—? It struck him. Maybe he hadn't had any wedding, but from the looks of it, Holden Trahan had.

Holden fumbled with his words.

"Your wedding," Hutch repeated. "You must remember." He let out a humorless laugh, eyes boring into Holden's. The room had fell silent. The two girls were staring at Holden. Holden caught the red-head's eye. She shook her head. I don't know what he's talking about.

Hutchison something from his pocket, showed it to Holden. Upon looking closer, Holden realized that he was in the picture. And so was Ivory. Both of them, standing in the sand, smiling. It must be photo-shopped, Holden thought to himself. Suddenly, another thought occurred to him. He looked up and saw Hutch's warning look.

"Oh," Holden said quickly. "In Virginia Beach." The first place he could think of; the site of his cousin's wedding.

"Tell us about it, why don't you?" Hutch said, his smile never faltering. Ivory had suddenly appeared beside Holden.

"What's going on?" she asked aloud. Holden hastily put his arm around her. Ivory flinched, and Holden was worried she would ruin the act by pulling away.

"I was just about to tell Hutch about our wedding," Holden said calmly, trying to convey something to her through eye contact. "In Virginia Beach," he continued, still staring into Ivory's eyes. She had stopped tugging her shoulders away. "The white dress you wore, the one that dragged behind you in the sand. Remember? And then afterwards, when my little sister spilled her cake on the priest. And then she cried because your uncle wouldn't let her have a second piece."

Holden tried to smile. Ivory was finally looking into his eyes, her eyes ocean-blue orbs that widened so much in bemusement that he felt as if he might just drown in them. "And then we went banana boating in the ocean, and whenever we hit a wave we'd both almost fall and you'd end up holding me and we'd both almost go overboard." Holden's face heated up when he realized that everyone was watching him. For some reason, this lie was different than the ones he would tell to his boss. Better. Easier. It was strange, how easy the lie came once the first words were out of his mouth.

"I wish I could've been there." Hutch took his arm down from around the red-head's shoulders. His dastardly smile returned. He rubbed his hands together. "Now, who's up for hors d'oeuvres?"