POV: Darryl Creighton

The wind was a bitter enemy of mine as of late. I didn't even know anymore, really, why I bothered challenging it, hoping it might be kind for even the smallest patches of time. It wasn't even Winter yet and I was already ill-disposed--there was no means of getting around the curse of weather in Cardiff, it seemed.

It was a wonder I hadn't given in years ago, fighting with the stygian that was so clearly determined to beat me. Then again, years ago I would have rejoiced in the sight of snow, the aspect of the traveling, the dawn of a new day. I've come to wonder why I was given a supervisor in youth to be certain I get to everything and yet am trusted now when I am all the less likely to actually do as I am supposed to. There's also the minor factor of sleep deprivation working against me within the latest scenario...

Really, I was beginning to wonder why they let anyone older than fifteen do my job at all, when it was perfectly more appealing to children. Although, that could just be the want for sleep talking. Horribly wretched though the cold is acknowledged to be, the traveling's not so bad. Actually, at some points it's even rather exciting still, depending upon the destination. And, really, how could I ever tire of the happy faces I bring about?

At that particular instance, however, everything added up to a load that was, apparently, a bit too much to carry all at one point in time. I found myself incredibly dizzy from the dismal amount of sleep I had attained, which had been rather foolishly paired with a less than sufficient breakfast. Every so often my sight would blacken and I would become rather light-headed and unbalanced as the bloody wind adamantly continued to blow its harsh, cold force against my form.

I found myself desperately happy that I had yet to fall to the ground. Alas, so preoccupied as I was with keeping my from the ground, I quickly forgot no only all of my lines but the majority of my cues. Because of me, our time out here had already been elongated four-fold, and everyone was becoming rather irked with me as I continually failed to produce a half-way decent scene.

A fair few were understanding at first--those far enough away so as to not actually witness the attempted filming. Alas, when they were informed that I was not, in fact, even the leading actor in this scene (and that I had failed to coherently present ANY amount of my lines whatsoever), they suddenly became less sympathetic.

I could hardly blame them.

Everyone around me was incredibly frustrated, and I knew it, but what exactly could I do? Give up on my balance to attempt sifting through my memory for everything else and then simply hope beyond hope I don't fall when I try to execute them? Yes, it was very well my own fault, I knew that. It was my own responsibility to look after my sleep and food intake, but really?

At one point during the disaster that the filming was morphing into, I even had the unfortunate occurrence to discover myself yawning. This being perfectly unfortunate as I made the mistake of being caught doing so before a rather aggravated actress of which I was not formally introduced but who had no qualms with reprimanding me for "having the audacity to show such insolence after having caused all the trouble to begin with."

I wasted no time in separating myself from her.

She was not, however, the only person to have been watching me, and I was called soon after into the presence of the director, who could only shake his head at the sight of the bags under my eyes. It was with that in mind--and likely the amount of money he would be putting up to lose should we continue on filming like this--that he suggested I go home. We could always resume filming the next day to finish off the season. We were, after all, working on a set at the moment. We hadn't had anything closed down. The only major inconvenience would be informing the necessary workers.

He was looking into the best interests of the show, as well as me. I may not have necessarily seen it that way at the time, but his logic was perfectly thorough. So of course I resented it. To be sent off from the set, to be blamed for an entire day's waste--even if it was well deserved! I was one of the leading actors in the show and had never so much as stumbled through a cue before, surely I was allowed one day's mishap!

But he was right, and my sleep deprived mind was more eager than it might normally have been to accept my bad luck and trudge home in hopes of some soporific findings. Nor did I waste my time attempting to drive home, easily picturing myself falling asleep at the wheel and crashing into some trailor of sorts.

I had a long, cold, tired walk ahead of me.

"And, Darryl," the director, Samuels, called out, his peppered hair just visible, "try not to let it happen again."

I nodded sleepily, noting it to mean that I would likely be killed off as a character should I fail this effort. And still, along my walk, I found the wind to be my most bitter of enemies.

POV: Claire Safford

"Grab your shoes, I'm taking you out."

I had barely touched the phone to my ear before the command vibrated through the speaker, giving me not even the time to say hello or ask who in their right mind had the nerve to phone me at one in the morning. Granted, I had been up, and his voice at this point was unmistakable, but that hardly excused the fact. I was getting rather sick of Jason's rudeness, boyfriend or not.

There was, after all, a reason to my being awake at one in the morning--an hour at which any sane person would be asleep. As I did not have insomnia and was, last I knew, perfectly sane, I should have been asleep. Alas, I had a final exam to prepare myself for, and a years worth of forgotten mathematical formulas with which to re-familiarize myself within the next thirteen hours.

Yes, I would be consuming a large amount of coffee and other caffeinated foods today.

I would have begun earlier, had my teachers not been so found of loading me down with enough homework daily to rightfully fill a Suburban. As it was, I had only just completed my essay and children's book for another course. I had done all the other major work earlier on and had still more to do but could put them off for another day or two as I did not attend those classes everyday.

Currently, I had an incredibly thick stack of old tests I had fished from various locations on campus, online, from friends, and even from the library staring up at me from its spot on my dining room table. Beside that were the two notebooks I had filled throughout the course of the semester, as well as some fair few notebooks from high school, within my mathematics class. In the hand not holding my old fashioned, spin-dial phone to my ear was a graphing calculator that I had inherited from my cousin years ago. My coffee pot was brewing a fresh batch once again, having been reset just moments ago, and I had a half-empty cup of the dark liquid sitting on the counter, waiting for me.

I was ill-prepared to fail. I was also far from ready to leave all that I had set up for my studying.

"Jason, what in the world are you talking about?" I questioned hesitantly, tucking a swinging lock of my black hair behind my ear and slipping gently into the chair awaiting me.

"Put your shoes on," he repeated intransigently. "Meet me outside and I'll tell you all about it."

"Jason..." I pulled my feet to rest to the side of me as I mused over the first question before me.

"Claire, I'm telling you to come out here," he said once again in a low, slow voice, as if he was explaining something to a young child while at the same time fighting to maintain a decent temper.

"And I am exercising my right to question why," I answered blithely as I scribbled some work across the paper and formulated an answer.

"Claire Marie Safford."

I don't know why exactly my full name was so effective when Jason used it. Perhaps it was the menacing undertone in his voice that was so clearly threatening to become something greater, or else the maniacal glint I could just imagine in his eyes as he would come up to fetch me, less than I knew I was pushing him too much, that he would snap and punish me. Or maybe, deep down, I had wanted to go all along. whatever the reason, I found myself whispering my consent and gathering some of my math supplies to keep me company.

He was, as he had said, waiting impatiently for me outside my brick flat and I crossed quickly to meet him, buttoning my coat along the way. Only once I was in the car did I properly adjust my shoes and then pulled my tests before me once more. Jason said nothing.

I might have seen him scrunch his face up in disgust momentarily as I piled my belongings atop me to be worked on and I was certain I was him grimace a fair few times throughout the journey, but I never called attention to it.

"So, where are we going, exactly?" I finally adventured to question, once I was midway through my first packet, pausing momentarily to stare into the visible side of his hard-set face.

"Boxing match," he managed to sound through gritted teeth, and my heart sank a bit further, "my mate couldn't make it..."

A/N: Ahah! Finally! It's here! No more empty promises! ...well, hopefully.

So, this is it. I've been going on and on for months about how I need to write a multi-chaptered project. And, well, here it is. Most of the credit goes to my friend who helped me with the main idea which is inspired from Templeton21's The Waverly Myth (who, by the way, if you don't read already, is by far my favorite author on here and has my recommendation) as well as an overlarge amount of David Tennant that we seem to never stop watching. I think we may have become addicts.

The point of view will be changing continually throughout this story, however, as a fair warning, and so at every page break and beginning I implore you all to check for the narrator.

Thanks for sticking with me thus far -Lissa.