A/N: Yes, my lovlies, I'll get a crackin' on Is Mos as soon as I'm finished with this...I've got softball tourneys something fierce and I have literally (ah, I love puns) three seconds to pull this story out of my ass, finish my Lit and put and end to the Terminator thing I got goin' on. My apologies :
Disclaimer: My name ain't Amy.
Rory Gilmore squints a bit at the LCD screen of her laptop, the early morning hour somehow making her sight waver. Admittedly, the little blinking cursor doing it's thing in the middle of the blank, white word document doesn't help things much. She has approximately four hours and twenty-seven minutes to complete her opinion column on the current state of the War in Iraq and is also royally pissed at her editor for giving her the opinion section this month. Mr. Bigshot suddenly decided last week that seeing as how she did such a 'knock-up' job with the Obama Trail, she'd magically do great in Opinion.
Angrily and with a little more gusto that necessary, she jabs her thumb on the click-y thingy under the mouse pad that makes the computer work, making the Microsoft Word window minimize into the bottom of her screen. Deciding to peruse CNN or MSNBC for a couple ideas, she enters the web address into the browser and waits the three and a half seconds for the Google page to show up. Feeling like a complete do-nothing, she enters the words 'war in Iraq' in the search box.
Several blue links pop up, namely opinion sights on George Bush and the dependency of Middle Eastern government. Rory shies away from those, not wanting to glean ideas from them and end up being slammed for plagiarizing.
Aha. Here we go.
Way to go, Gilmore... she thinks to dryly herself. Make the people tear up.
She scans the page, reading about how the American death toll ranks in the thousands, the civilian rate at an undeterminable number.
Click here for a daily updated list.
List of what...?
Enter state name-
I dunno, jeez.
Well, how about—
Private, I guess.
No...Sergeant? General? Colonel?
Enter last name.
Christ, like I know anyone in the army...whose dead.
Yeah, Rory, who do you know...?
Don't be ridiculous.
Just try it.
DuGrey, Tristan Janlan.
Rory's not quite sure if the page is blurring because it's four in the morning or if it's a side effect of the memories of high school suddenly slamming onto her conscience. Biting her bottom lip, she feels herself click on his name.
Tristan's picture pops up; there's the American flag in the background and he's wearing one of those blue foldable hats on the top of his blond buzz cut, his blue eyes staring into the lens of the photographer. With his jaw squared he looks more in control...more grown up.
Before she comprehends what's happening, Rory is vaguely aware of the fact that a tear is slipping down her cheek. She doesn't notice as it splashes onto her keyboard as she reads his biography; it stated that he was married, where he went to high school, that he attended West Point, that he left behind two kids. Rory grits her teeth, realizing that it said nothing about the type of person he was or how a cow town girl had a stupid, ignorant crush on him and wouldn't even admit it to herself.
With a shaky breath, she closes the window, opens up her word document and starts to type.
She doesn't stop until her deadline.