AN: It's official: my muse is Procrastination. This is what happens when real life, a vicious cold, and creativity all conspire against you. Bioware owns what Bioware owns-y'all know the drill.

Rows upon rows of raw data. Fake data, I might add—this is just a practice exercise. I've stopped staring at the tiny clock in the right-hand corner of my laptop screen; watching the precious seconds and minutes tick later and later into valuable sleeping time just depresses me. As I try to make sense of the numbers and descriptions in the cells—fake numbers and descriptions—as I try to organize them into some semblance of coherence, only one thought circles in my tired brain.

Indiana Jones is a damn filthy liar.

I'm not running for my life through a steaming jungle. I'm not chasing a priceless artifact. I don't have a lady sidekick (though if I had to choose, I'd go with Marian). And I'm definitely not trying to rescue my father from ruthless Nazis. No. I'm staring at data from a fake faunal assemblage, cramming it into an Excel file, and writing a report to be turned in for a grade, and my only companions in this trial of delightful pointlessness are my dog and three cats.

A rushing breeze fills the white curtains as it whispers through the complex's courtyard. There is a storm coming, and for a half-second I inhale and hope the promise of rain isn't just another vicious tease the weatherman perpetrates just to torture the entire region. Scooter's floppy black ears perk up; her wet nose twitches intently as she, too, picks up the storm's scent. Virgil, Binx, and Toaster all abandon their postures of feline indifference and turn their attention to the open window. Watching. Waiting.

At last, our vigil is rewarded. It begins slowly; the barest tap-tap-tap of single drops on dry concrete. Swiftly, though, the pace picks up, and soon the courtyard is filled with the hiss of rain forming puddles on the dry, parched ground. I can't stop the broad grin spreading across my face as I listen with half-an-ear. The data doesn't look so awful now, may even make sense a little.

Thunder rumbles as the storm intensifies. Scooter whimpers anxiously and abandons her blanket on the couch to curl up at my feet. The cats scamper from their respective perches and slink into the empty bedroom, seeking refuge from an autumn storm that is swiftly becoming a gale. I do my best to keep my breathing even as lightning and thunder crack through the damp air. I am alone—Charlie is gone for the weekend on a company retreat. But I'm an adult, damn it—though that doesn't stop me from digging my cell phone out of my pocket and putting it within close reach. For the moment, I resist calling him just for the comfort of his voice. We are all on edge.

The storm continues to roar furiously outside; the curtains look like ghosts as they flap in the forceful wind whipping across the tiny porch. I dart outside to pull the cushion off the cheap IKEA patio chair—it's already soaked but I drape it over the curtain rod in the bathroom anyway. I nearly trip on Scooter as I return to my chair at the kitchen table. The data is jumbled again; I shiver and pull my sweater closer around my shoulders.

Everything seems to happen all at once: lightning crackles bright blue through the pitch-black night; the lights in my apartment wink out; and I shriek in alarm as Scooter begins to bark maddeningly. My hands are shaking, and it takes me a moment to realize I can still see. It isn't much, but the laptop screen gives me enough light to fumble for candles and an old Bic lighter leftover from before Charlie quit smoking. I slam the window shut, and the curtains still themselves instantly. Thunder rattles the flimsy glass in their panes, and lightning continues to flash until it feels as though it is reaching inside my meager sanctuary.

I lose it. Scooter follows me instinctively into the bathroom, doesn't even whimper a protest as I unceremoniously pick her up and dump her into the bathtub and pull the wet patio cushion over us. I hold her shivering bulk close and squeeze my eyes shut against the primal terror; I babble nonsensical prayers into her black-and blue fur and it takes me a moment to realize I'm sobbing.

I don't know how long we lie there, cowering in the blackness. But the lights come back on, and I'm acutely aware of the wet cushion leaking its sorry wetness into my clothes and leeching the warmth from my skin. I let Scooter go, and she jumps daintily from the bathtub. She shakes vigorously and gives me a look that says she has no idea what we were hiding from. I grin sheepishly at her (what? You never treat your pets like they're people?) and pull the bathroom door open.

It only takes an instant for me to realize we are not alone.

A man is stretched out awkwardly across the length of my couch. Scooter's cheerful trot grinds to a halt as she takes stock of the stranger's scent, and she growls a low warning. Without getting too close, I conduct my own investigation. His stark-white hair is a shock against the faded navy chenille fabric (a relic of my parents' first apartment together). I feel my eyes go wide in absolute shock as I struggle to reconcile the reality of spiked armor and silver-blue markings against all I know to be possible and impossible. The coffee mugs and stacks of paper on the table rattle ominously as I back into it, bruising the small of my back. He groans and stirs, picks his head up from the worn couch cushion. He bolts upright in obvious alarm, reaching for a sword that isn't there. He swivels his head around, taking stock of my cramped living room. Finally, his gaze settles on me, and I feel as though I'm speared to the spot.

My life just got a lot more complicated.