Now I know how God must feel. Jerk asshole in the universe that exploded in my brain isn't behaving as I want him to. To illustrate I worked this quick write up.

He sat silently fuming, arms crossed and one ankle propped on top of the other knee.

I see you there. But you aren't doing anything correctly.

He scowled. Lowering his jaw and raising an eyebrow.

Ugh, I want you to behave.

"I'm not here to behave." Were his first words. His arms loosened and his foot dropped to the floor. He rubbed his hands slowly along his jean clad thighs before settling them on the edge of his seat and leaning forward.

I thought I wrote you in a uniform.

"I'm not wearing that." He shook his head.

Fine, if you won't behave then you can stay right there!

"As long as it takes" he sighed folding his arms again and bringing his ankle up to rest on the other knee again. He leaned back into the darkness.

Well, fuck, what am I going to do about the counter to my heroine? He isn't playing the part I assigned. Screw him! Let's begin with her.

Her family lived with their tribe on the vast plains that were once part of the great nation of The United States of America. They traveled. Searching. In the beginning they searched for survivors. They went to every town they could reach in a three month period along the path determined by the council to bring back the survivors, bring back word of the world beyond, bring back hope. 347 years they have been searching. They began with only a handful of families who hid in bunkers and basements and deep in the earth as the air burned and life died on the planet.

You know you could just wear the uniform

He kicked the uniform.

I guess that is a no.

From the darkness his voice became soft. "Just because you are the writer doesn't mean you know my story." His chair creaked as his weight shifted forward and he stood. "I already know her story." His voice sounded even farther away. A door sounded a dull thud.

What an ass.