Ignite

Twenty-nine || Owen

Hello! How's it going guys? (Good, I hope)

^ So I've been reading some author's notes where authors call readers stuff, like food or mythical animals. I use "guys" in a plural, very generic, gender neutral way, and I will call anyone that regardless of their gender, age, or actual relation to me, but if it bothers you don't hesitate to tell me. (Same thing with bro, dude, man, child, food items such as biscuit or cupcake...I think that's it? Anyway, just tell me if you're uncomfortable with it) So I don't know if y'all want a name or something, is what I'm saying.

SO! Side one shot book has been confirmed! It is up, and it is called Late Night Fluff and Other Distractions From the Real World. (I've always liked that "long title" thing, but I also have a thing for short, one word titles that sound epic sooo) I've posted an explanation/guidelines for submissions/prompt requests, and if you have questions you can go there. I already have a lovely one shot sent in by Fourminette, give them a round of applause. Thank you so much for answering, and I hope you enjoy it!

So dedication goes to FandomsAteMySoul, because they use my book to escape from everything and that just makes me happy because I write to escape and I'm so glad other people can do that with my words.

That's it, I hope you enjoy Owen's chapter (you get a backstory!) (I love backstories I honestly don't know why but they're one of my favorite things)

[]||[]||[]

Agent (or ex-agent, as seemed to be the case lately) Owen Jacobs fixed things. Cars, bikes, mowers, cabinets, shelves, windows – anything he could get his hands on in his small farmhouse in Maine, anytime his older siblings weren't trampling him, of course.

Two sisters, two brothers. All mean as hell. Perfect little angels, ironically, who got outstanding grades and trophies and scholarships.

Then there was Owen.

The only time he got anything above a C was in fifth grade, and that was because his teacher took pity on him. Everyone could see he'd much rather stay in the barn, fiddling with car engines and mending tools. So for ninth grade his parents sent him off to boarding school, where he was "sure to stay away from his damn machines this time."

Fourteen-year-old Owen in a crappy old truck, puttering along to his flight. It wasn't his fault the driver was a little tipsy from poker an hour before, it wasn't his fault they crashed, it wasn't his fault he was stranded alone in the middle of an empty Maine highway.

He was tired.

Of everything.

Owen didn't fix the truck. Maybe a part of him had died along with that old drunk man, with that rusty tin bucket on wheels, crumpled on the side of the road.

He didn't fix the stupid truck. He walked.

The nearest town was sparsely populated, a few stores, a Walmart, and the rest was trailer car houses. Worn down, beaten, loose flyers in the wind. A broken town for a broken boy.

It was there that Owen Jacobs became Agent Owen Jacobs. The man who collected him said he liked the "look" in Owen's green eyes. Perhaps he meant the dull lack of spark, lack of life, the hatred for everyone, everything, himself.

Fifteen-year-old Owen, done with training, on his first real mission. Fifteen-year-old Owen, desperate to prove himself, willing to finish the job.

He didn't have to set off the bomb in that building. But hey, it totaled the enemy's data base, and the only casualties were on the other side.

Eighteen-year-old Owen, experienced, cold, alone. Unafraid to take every option in order to finish the mission, to kill, to destroy. Eighteen-year-old Owen, finding a certain pleasure in wreaking havoc, seeing things crumble at his hand.