The cold December chill bore down on one Markus Adler as he sat idly on the ground outside, wrapped up in an old jacket that was just a wee bit too small for him. Considering it's been probably close to two years since this body had a chance to wear it, that's not exactly surprising.

  Currently, the one known as Markus was enjoying a book. The tome itself was a rather large, leatherbound thing of some cost. His father had managed to procure it for him as a gift for escaping the hospital, and the young boy was eagerly absorbing its contents.

  The book contained a detailed account of the voyage of one Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard. The story itself wasn't so different from the one he knew about in his own world, with just a bit more magic to it.

  Literally.

  It was almost like reading a Pirates of the Caribbean script. But still, it was an intriguing tale, written from the perspective of one of his crewmates, Richard Conningham. Supposedly, Blackbeard had learned the secrets of magic, using it to call forth an undead horde and make his cannons explode with the force of a nuclear bomb.

  Markus wasn't sure how accurate it was, especially the part about the zombies, but increasing the power of his cannons was well within the realm of possibility. After all, Explosion Formulas were a thing, according to Captain V?lkner, so there was likely some truth to that part of the tale.

  As he continued reading, a large Peacock Butterfly landed on his book. Mark gave it a curious look, watching as it opened and closed its wings, almost like it was stretching before continuing on its way. Several seconds went by before that's exactly what it did, taking flight into the open air.

  He didn't think he'd see a butterfly of all things in the middle of winter, but he supposed stranger things have happened. He was living proof of that. Sadly, he doubted the beautiful creature was long for this world. Food was scarce this time of year, and there were precious few flowers left which contained the nectar it required to survive.

  Watching it for a bit, book momentarily forgotten, his mind wandered to the possibility of his own flight. Learning that mages could fly on their own power, or the power of the Computation Jewel really, he couldn't halt the wellspring of anticipation that bubbled up from inside him.

  What would it be like, he wondered, to fly through the air without a care in the world, the freedom of a bird at his fingertips. Could he handle it? Man wasn't exactly designed for flight, neither their bodies nor their minds.

  Guess he'll see when the time comes.

  Letting out a yawn, he gently closed the book, not wanting to damage the delicate bindings. While not the original, it was still quite old, far better suited as a collection piece rather than a fun story for a six year old.

  Standing up, he started making his way back towards the house. It was a nice, two story building that was neither extravagant nor plain. Apparently, Frank believed in doing things in a happy medium. Not that Markus found issue with that.

  The inside was filled with various knick-knacks that he collected during his time in the Navy. Little trifles here and there interspersed tastefully throughout the home.

  His mother's additions, however, were far less middle of the road, bordering on excessive. The large, ornate grandfather clock came to mind. While tasteful in its own right, it was somewhat out of place with the rest of the decor.

  Then there was the weird artwork hanging up in various spots in the house. Mark was all for a nice painting here and there, but these took abstract to the extreme. He was almost certain that whoever made them was high on acid.

  His mother certainly had strange tastes.

  Next to the house was a garage with various tools that he somehow doubted his father could use. As competent as he was leading the Navy, a handy man he did not seem. Most of the tools, in fact, looked brand new.

  It was sad, if you think about it. At least the car got use out of the building.

  There was one oddity he noted while exploring his new home. There were no trees anywhere on the property. It confused him at first, given that they lived on several acres of land. How could there not be a single tree?

  Then he remembered it was a tree that had caused his, or Markus' accident. It made far more sense when looking through the lens of a grieving family. Hopefully they wouldn't take it out on every poor tree they come across.

  They needed those for oxygen.

  Opening the door, he was greeted with the now familiar sight of his home. He could hear, and smell, his mother baking in the kitchen. He did his best to ignore his stomach, who demanded food, but he made a compelling argument.

  Even so, history has shown that listening to his stomach would only lead to trouble. It's what got him isekai'd in the first place.

  As if it could hear him, his stomach gave a pitiful growl, almost like a puppy getting chastised for pissing on the carpet. "Don't give me that. You know what you did," he thought, glaring down at the noisy organ.

  "Hungry, sweetheart?" asked a voice coming from above him. Startled out of his internal chastisement of his stomach, he looked up to see his mother staring at him with amusement. Markus blushed at realizing his stomach must have been heard.

  "I could go for a bite," he admitted, making his stomach give a victorious cheer. He silently told it to be quiet as his mother laughed.

  "Alright, but not too much. Don't want to spoil your appetite now, do we?" she commented. Markus nodded, knowing she was putting a lot of effort into her Christmas eve party. Not that he was bothered by this fact, as that just meant he would be able to enjoy the fruits of her labor.

  The ham in particular smelled amazing.

  "Good. I'll make you a sandwich. Why don't you go and put your book up and wash your hands," she told him. Not waiting for a response, likely believing her orders would be followed, she spun around and headed back into the kitchen.

  Mark rolled his eyes at his mother's behavior but didn't argue the point. As intelligent as he appeared to the rest of them, he also appeared as a small child. And small children had to be reminded to wash their hands.

  Making his way up the stairs, thankful he could do so without feeling exhausted afterward, he entered his room. It was… colorful, to say the least. Not surprising, given that it belonged to a five year old, but it was far from his taste.

  Not that he had the heart to tell his parents that, especially his mother, who was very proud of the state she kept the room. "Didn't touch a thing," she said, which wasn't true in the strictest sense, given that she needed to clean and that required touching. But beyond being obnoxiously semantic over the issue, he conceded the point.

  There were posters of the military plastered on the wall, with one rather impressive rendition of an Imperial Battleship. He had half expected them to be pictures of superheroes, but seeing as they haven't been invented yet, it made sense that his walls would be bereft of them.

  "Note to self, create Dc and Marvel," Mark muttered to himself. If there was one good thing about being sent to another world more than a hundred years into the past, it was the amount of plagiarism he could get away with.

  Did it still count as plagiarism if it hadn't been invented yet? Didn't matter, he was going to profit off of the hard work of those from his original world.

  His room also contained a large chest filled with toys he was likely to never touch. Not unless he suffered a catastrophic brain injury and ended up a little bit special. He'd probably love all those colorful blocks then.

  His bed was also a bit of an eyesore, at least in his opinion. He was sure his previous self loved sleeping in a racecar, but his current one was less enthusiastic about the whole thing. He didn't complain too much about it though, but only because it was comfortable.

  And red.

  Speaking of his bed, he was immensely grateful for his foresight to wait until he was safely nestled beneath its covers before purchasing the Photographic Memory Perk. As he feared, it had knocked him right out.

  The reason being that he apparently remembered everything from his past in near perfect clarity now. He didn't think it would have such a boon, but he wasn't complaining about the results. Made his plans of plagiarism that much easier.

  He did have to wait a few days before he was able to buy the Perk, as his mother kept staring at him as he layed in bed. It was creepy and gave him nightmares. Just the thought of someone watching him sleep gave him the shivers.

  Thankfully, when she was convinced that he wouldn't disappear on her, she relented. But the damage had been done. The real trauma wouldn't show up, hopefully, until he was well into adulthood.

  Placing his large and quite frankly, heavy book into his bookshelf, right next to the children's book about dinosaurs. It was more than a bit discordant. His eyes drifted towards the numerous foreign dictionaries he was given during his stay in lockup.

  That was another added bonus from his Photographic Memory Perk. Not just the fact that he could remember every word and their meaning, but he also gained a Tier in the Linguist Talent due to his efforts made to decipher foreign newspapers. Made learning new languages much easier.

  He was still far from fluent, but he did have a solid grasp on almost all the languages spoken by countries bordering The Empire. He was sure it would come in handy down the road. Perhaps he could become an interpreter for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

  Much better than being shot at.

  Making his way down the stairs, he entered the kitchen, spotting a sandwich placed on the small table next to a glass of orange juice. Sitting down, he looked to see just what he was having for lunch. Judging by the orange, gooey substance oozing from the sides, he assumed it was grilled cheese.

  He could live with that.

  But as he went to grasp his meal, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. "Did you remember to wash your hands?"

  Looking to his right, he could see the stern visage of his mother, hands on her hips and glaring down at him.

  "Well?" she asked, tapping her foot against the ground.

  "...Yes?" Mark replied. If only he was a better liar, but alas, his mother saw right through him. Cross off acting as a potential future career path.

  "Nice try mister. Now go wash your hands," she ordered, pointing towards the bathroom. Mark thought about just grabbing his plate and making a run for it, but he suspected his surprisingly athletic mother would catch him without issue, and he would suffer all the more for it. Not for the first time he cursed his tiny body.

  He didn't want to admit that she would have likely caught him even if he was in his old body as well.

  Sighing, he rose from the table, glumly walking towards the bathroom like a prisoner on death row. Joanna gave a satisfied smirk before returning to her duties.

  *Line Break*

  It was nearing evening when the guests started to arrive. Markus wasn't sure what to expect from the party, given that his own experiences during Christmas time were… rowdy. Instead of good cheer it was always some kind of competition, from wrestling, to boxing, to shooting. Hell, there was even an ATV race one year!

  Befitting a family blessed by the God of War, he supposed. Too bad the loser of said competitions forfeited all rights to dessert. And guess who the loser was each year?

  But it might have been better than what he did have to deal with. Namely, other children. They ran around like squirrels on Meth, screaming at the top of their lungs for reasons Markus couldn't fathom. He tried to mingle with the adults instead, but his attempts were rebuffed.

  "Go play with the other kids," they said, pinching his apparently pinchable cheeks. After the fourth time, he was tempted to grab one of his father's firearms and become a news story. Thankfully, his rational self won the battle, but it was a hard fought one.

  However, it was clear that interacting with the little hellions was out of the question. The adults thought him precocious, while his peers called him boring. At least it gave him the perfect excuse to excuse himself.

  Stepping outside, he sighed at the raucous noise coming from the home. Well, at least they were enjoying themselves. Far better than being miserable during the holidays.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Staring out into the driveway, he noted a familiar vehicle heading towards the house, followed by another, less familiar one. It seems like his father is home. Perfect timing. He needed someone to control his mother, now that she brought out the adult drinks.

  Someone other than him, of course.

  Standing up as the vehicles came to a stop, Markus walked towards the edge of the front porch to greet his father. He was surprised, and also a little pleased, to see Captain V?lkner stepping out of the car with him.

  However, the two who emerged from the second car were a mystery. They were both fairly tall men, each with a thick mustache and wearing a military uniform, but that's where the similarities ended.

  One was much smaller than the other, girth wise. Not that the other man was particularly round, more like he ate bricks for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The smaller one also had a more aristocratic look about him, eyes taking in every inch of his surroundings, while the second walked ahead with a certain, self assured swagger.

  They were… interesting, to say the least.

  "Hey, son. What are you doing out here?" Frank asked as he approached his home. From behind him, his two guests' eyes zeroed in on the young child once Frank referred to him as son.

  "So that's him, huh? Sure doesn't look like much," whispered Rudersdorf to his longtime friend.

  "People say the same about me," Zettour quipped back, getting a snort from the other man. He couldn't argue that. Most thought his friend belonged teaching at a university rather than soldiering. He, however, knew better.

  Zettour, the crafty little devil that he was, absolutely belonged in the military.

  As the two were having a conversation, Mark was having one of his own with his father.

  "I'm afraid our home has been invaded by rambunctious alcoholics. And mother is enabling them with eggnog. Or they're enabling her, I'm not sure," Mark told him, making his father stare into the window, watching as his wife let out a cheer after chugging down a glass.

  "Well, you can't really blame her. She's been pretty high strung for the last year," Frank replied, listening as the group of adults cheered.

  "If you say so," Mark replied, sounding unsure but not wanting to argue. It sounded more like an excuse than solid reasoning, but he supposed it did make a certain amount of sense.

  "Did you at least get some dinner?" Frank asked, getting a nod in return.

  "Yes. Say what you will about her inebriated state, but she certainly outdid herself with the cuisine."

  "Good, she'd be very upset if you didn't get anything to eat. Before I go in and make sure she doesn't do something she'll regret, I'd like to introduce you to some colleagues of mine. You remember Captain V?lkner, I'm sure," he said, stepping aside.

  "Of course, how could I forget my magic instructor. How are you, Captain?" Mark asked, giving Otto a polite smile.

  "Doin' good kid. Merry Christmas," he said, giving his own smile. It's been a couple of months since he's seen him, having been too busy with a new batch of recruits who were about as useful as a chocolate covered turd.

  "And these two gentlemen are Brigadier General Hans von Zettour, and Brigadier General Kurt von Rudersdorf," Frank introduced, but his tone was far more strained than it was with V?lkner.

  Mark gave them suspicious looks as they approached to give their own greetings. He could only give a few guesses as to why such high ranking officials were stopping by to greet him.

  However, he couldn't exactly call them out on it, opting instead for a polite greeting. Better to make a good impression rather than a poor one. If they were to be his future employers, it wouldn't be good if they thought ill of him.

  "Nice to meet you, sirs."

  "You as well, young man. I'm glad to see you've made a full recovery," Zettour said, reaching out to give the young boy a handshake.

  "Thank you," Mark replied simply, shaking the older gentleman's hand.

  "That's quite the grip you have there," Zettour said, staring right into Mark's eyes, who couldn't help but feel like the General was peering into his soul, judging him for all he was worth. He seemed to find whatever he was searching for satisfactory, releasing Mark's hand.

  "Thanks. Guess all that physical therapy paid off."

  "I'll say. You'll make a fine soldier someday," Rudersdorf said boisterously. He reached down to shake Mark's hand as well, the difference between him and Zettour couldn't be more apparent.

  Zettour's handshake was measured, almost probing in its intent. But Rudersdorf's was more akin to a gorilla playing the drums, no subtlety whatsoever. If he compared it to opening a locked door, then Zettour was using a lockpick while Rudersdorf chose a battering ram. Both would get the door open, but the methods couldn't be further apart.

  It made him wonder at how they made for such a good team, at least according to Captain V?lkner anyway. Perhaps it was as simple as playing off of each other's strengths.

  "Careful, Kurt, you might break his hand," Zettour said, seeing the way his friend practically manhandled the boy.

  "Bah, kid's tough as nails. He wouldn't break so easy," Rudersdorf mentioned, getting a roll of the eyes from his colleague.

  "Be that as it may, I doubt he enjoys shaking like that."

  Confused as to his friend's meaning, Rudersdorf cast his gaze back on the young child, and realized his handshake had gotten a little out of hand. An earthquake might have been more gentle on the boy.

  "Oh, sorry about that. Don't know my own strength sometimes, hahahaha!" he laughed. Mark took a moment to collect himself, feeling like just got off a rather violent rollercoaster.

  "Don't worry about it. But if you don't mind me asking, what are you two doing here?" Mark asked.

  "Ah, well, we were having a discussion with your father about the new legislation that passed recently, one that removed the age restrictions for those with sufficient magic to join the military. That led to a conversation about you and we asked your father if we could meet you. After all, we've heard quite a lot about you from Captain V?lkner. Nothing nefarious, isn't that right Kurt?" Zettour asked, giving his friend a look.

  "Hmm," Rudersdorf responded.

  "Uh huh…" Mark stated, giving the Captain a look of betrayal. Said man could only shrug his shoulders sheepishly. Mark couldn't really fault the man, given the nature of things, but he still didn't like it. Even though he suspected as much, he didn't think things would escalate this quickly.

  He'd heard about the newest piece of legislation, of course. Mostly his parents discussing what it could possibly mean for his future. But there were also articles in the newspapers that detailed the change in full. The Imperial journalists praised the move, of course, while the foreign ones condemned it, claiming the Empire was trying to train child soldiers.

  Mark couldn't really blame them for that belief, as there was some amount of truth to it at least. The law was changed due to him, after all. But he doubted what the Empire wanted was to thrust a child not even in the double digits onto the battlefield. No amount of propaganda spin would win them support for that.

  "I get the impression you don't quite believe us," Zettour stated with some amusement, rubbing his mustache.

  "Because I don't," Markus stated, flatly, causing his father to let out a choking cough. Mark hadn't exactly planned to be that blunt about it, but at the same time, they weren't exactly being subtle about their intentions either. They wanted to measure him up, see if all the hype held any merit to it.

  The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable long time, and for a second, he thought he'd made a mistake.

  That is, until Rudersdorf let out a full belly laugh.

  "How refreshing! Usually I'm surrounded by useless yes men shitting themselves in fear just thinking about the truth. Nice to hear some plain speak once in a while," he said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye.

  "You can't exactly blame them, Kurt. After all, their just soldiers trained to follow orders," Zettour chastised, but it was clear from the uptick of the corners of his mouth he found the whole thing amusing as well.

  "Their members of the General Staff, not some grunts digging a ditch. They're supposed to give their opinions, not kiss our asses. Might as well just get rid of the lot of them," Rudersdorf huffed, his temper rising. Just thinking about them made him want to break out the cigars to ease his stress.

  "If you do that, you might have to do some actual paperwork," Zettour chimed, bringing the larger man up short.

  "You make a good point. Guess we can keep them around then, even if I can't find a pair of balls between them. Damn eunuchs."

  Mark watched the back and forth with a bit of interest. This certainly wasn't how he expected two people with reputations to act. Talk about jarring.

  "Has anyone ever told you two that you act like an old married couple?" he asked, bringing them all up short. Everything was silent for a moment as they processed his words before erupting into laughter.

  Well, Rudersdort did. The others just chuckled.

  "My wife says it all the time, in fact," Zettour said.

  "Good woman. Mean right hook," Rudersdorf said, holding his jaw. Mark was sure there was a story there, given the gleam in Zettour's eyes, but he thought it best to ignore it for now. No need to get too personal with the people who want to put a rifle in his hands.

  "So, Mark, you excited to start up school again next month? I heard you took some tests so you could be placed with those of your year," V?lkner asked, getting the other's attention. Mark, however, merely shrugged in response.

  "I wouldn't say I'm excited. More…resigned to my fate," he said, getting a snort from the larger general.

  "Can't blame you there. I always hated school," he said.

  "You mean you hate reading," Zettour said, amused.

  "Same thing."

  "Given how smart you are, why not try and skip a few grades?" asked V?lkner, getting the topic back on track. The two generals turned their attention back on the boy, wanting to hear the answer. After all, if he really was as smart as they were told, skipping ahead shouldn't be a problem.

  Mark, however, shrugged. "I could, but I'd rather not give the enemies of The Empire reason to assassinate me."

  The others gave each other a look at that, clearly not expecting that answer.

  "What exactly do you mean by that, son?" Frank asked, more than a little concern in his tone. Mark gave a sigh, not exactly thrilled to be explaining this to them.

  "I'm sure by now most interested parties are aware that the son of the Imperial Admiral has recovered from his coma. Not only that, but if they have any competent spies within The Empire, I'm sure their aware of my Magical Aptitude score and has likely heard about my so-called advanced intellect as well," he started, somewhat sarcastically at the last point, knowing he was just above average in intelligence and only seemed like a genius due to his age.

  The group were following along with his explanation, and Zettour had suspicion about where he was going with it. But he kept his mouth shut, wanting to hear the child's reasoning first.

  "Somehow, I doubt our more ardent opponents would be comfortable sitting back and letting someone like that grow up to be a threat. It would be far more prudent of them to nip such a person in the bud," he continued.

  "Hmm, I can certainly see our enemies reaching such a conclusion. If we heard about a similar circumstance, then The Empire might be willing to remove such a child as well," Zettour admitted, though the thought of killing children left an extremely bad taste in his mouth.

  But if it was for the Fatherland, he was willing to swallow however bitter a meal he had to if it meant securing their future.

  "Exactly. However, if I was to just show myself to be average, maybe a bit above, at best, then my potential killers might chalk it all up to Imperial propaganda," he finished explaining.

  The four adults were impressed, to say the least. The boy thought of something none of them had even considered. He'd make an excellent officer some day.

  "I see. I must admit, your reasoning is impressive. I can find no fault in your conclusion. What about the rest of you?" Zettour asked, a sharp look in his eyes. The others gave it some thought, but it soon became clear that none of them could find one either.

  "I can't believe I never even considered… What kind of father am I?" Frank asked himself. It was so obvious in hindsight. His son, awoken from a coma with intelligence likened to Schugel and more magic power than anyone in the history of The Empire?

  Would the other nations just allow a threat like his son to grow into his power? No, they wouldn't. It was clear the path the more hardliners would take. They wouldn't be able to risk it.

  "Now there's no reason to be so hard on yourself, Admiral. No one thought of the potential downsides of having such an extraordinary child, too swept up in the benefits," Zettour said.

  "Listen to the old fool, Frank. Now that we're aware of the possible dangers, we can prepare," Rudersdorf consoled as well as the gruff man could.

  "But…"

  "Listen to them, father. You have made for a perfectly adequate parent. Don't start doubting yourself now," Mark said, getting a chuckle out of the man.

  "Perfectly adequate, huh? Guess that's better than being inadequate," he commented with a chuckle before a look of realization crossed his face.

  "Hang on, is this why you got only C's and B's on your tests?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone. Mark gave him a smug look.

  "Of course. Appear strong when you are weak, and weak when you are strong. I believe that saying works well with my current situation."

  "Hmm, The Art of War, huh? Impressive. I believe there's another quote that's relevant. To deceive one's enemies, you must first deceive your allies," Zettour stated.

  "I suppose. Though I'm not deceiving all of my allies," Mark shot back, getting a chuckle from the general.

  "Nerds…" muttered Rudersdorf under his breath, getting a chuckle out of V?lkner. But before anyone could respond to that, the front door swung open, and a clearly inebriated Joanna Adler stepped into the cool night air, eggnog sloshing onto the deck.

  "Hey! What are you all doing out here?" she asked, her words obviously slurred. Mark groaned and facepalmed, watching with embarrassed eyes as his mother stumbled out of the door.

  "Hello there, Mrs. Adler. Lovely evening we're having," Zettour said, putting on the charm. But even in her current intoxicated state, she wasn't buying his bullshit.

  "You! What are you doing here? Trying to take my baby away? Well I won't let you! He's mine, you hear me. Mine!" she yelled, grabbing onto her son and squeezing the life out of him. Mark gave them a look that clearly said, "Help me," but none were brave enough to try.

  Zettour wasn't sure about how to respond to the clearly agitated woman, looking helplessly at his bemused friend. Clearly, he could expect no aid from the man.

  "Now, Mrs. Adler I can assure you no one is trying to take your son away," he tried to placate, but her eyes only narrowed further at him, face flushed from both alcohol and motherly fury.

  "Liar! I can see right through you, you devil! I've already told your superiors, he won't be joining the military until he's all grown up!"

  Given the conversation they just had with the boy, Zettour wasn't so sure of that. Mark needed to be trained to defend himself at the very least. He'd have to discuss it with Frank later, away from his clearly agitated wife.

  Then the man could talk to his wife on his own time, well away from Zettour. Let him bear the brunt of her fury.

  "Honey, how many glasses of eggnog have you had?" Frank asked, giving his wife a nervous look. She didn't drink all that often, but when she did, she didn't hold back.

  "Glasses?" she asked, confused, making the man even more nervous. "Who needs glasses? We live and die by the bottle 'round here!" she cheered.

  Yeah, that's what he was afraid of. He was also afraid of the color his son's face was turning.

  "That's great dear, but uh, maybe you should let go of Mark. He's looking kind of… blue," Frank said. Joanna looked confused for a second, before shifting her gaze to her son, the one trapped within her deathgrip.

  "Oh, Mark sweetie, mommy's so sorry!' she shouted, releasing the poor boy. Mark took large gulps of air, happy to have oxygen back into his lungs.

  "I think I saw a light…" he muttered, before a curious sound drew his attention. Turning around, Mark paled at what he saw.

  "Oh, crap," he thought.

  His mother, staring at him with deep sorrow, large watery eyes threatening to drown him in tears.

  "Wah! I almost killed my baby! I'm the worst mother on the planet!" she cried. Nobody knew exactly what to do at the moment. Mark did his best to console the woman, awkwardly patting her shoulder in comfort.

  "There, there. I'm fine, see. You didn't hurt me at all. You're a great mother," he said, making her sniffles lessen. Frank, who was watching, couldn't help but feel amused by this. She was a great parent yet he was only adequate, huh?

  "R-really?" she implored.

  "Really," Mark confirmed.

  "Phew, had me worried there. You should know better than to make mommy worry," she said, attempting to give him a stern look. But her slurred words coupled with her tipsy stance didn't command the most respect.

  "I'll… work on that," Mark said, making her nod happily.

  "Good. Now, what are you all doing out here? Come on, it's time for dinner!" she said, grabbing Mark's arm and dragging him inside, completely forgetting her ire at the generals. The group watched him disappear inside, refusing to look at his pleading face.

  They stood there for a bit, staring at the door she entered, listening to the cheers from the partygoers inside.

  "Hey, Frank," started Rudersdorf.

  "Yeah?"

  "That's some woman you got there."

  "Don't I know it. Anyway, why don't you all come inside? Despite her current state, she makes a mean honey baked ham," Frank said, walking towards the door. The other three shared a look before shrugging.

  "Don't have to ask me twice," stated the larger man, walking ahead of the other two, much to their amusement. They quickly followed along, neither one wanting to miss out.