Telepathy 101

Kind of a continuation of yesterdays post. Enjoy.

“Ok, I got this book at the library.” Seth pulled it from the bag, setting it on the bed between them, and she read the title.
“Understanding telepathy?”
“I read the first couple chapters. It had a couple testimonials from telepaths who talked about how they controlled it.” He flipped it open, pointing to a long quote on the page. “Most of them seem to agree it's about imagining a mechanism of some kind that can be opened or closed, like a door. When they want to use their powers, they open the door a bit, and when they want to not use their powers they close it.”
“So my door is stuck open.”
“That's what I'm guessing.” He shrugged. “Anyway. They're a bit more vague on how to pick who you're trying to listen to. I guess you just try to hear a voice, like trying to pick a voice out of a choir. You can read it if you want, but I don't know it'll help.”
“Hm.” She leafed through the book as he watched. “I think I know what they mean about the voice thing. People's mental voices sound kinda like their physical ones. I did what you said last time, though,” she remarked, “with the trying to match voices with people. And I think you're right; as far as I can tell every voice I'm hearing belongs to an individual..”
“So can you pick out an individual one?”
“Not really.” She shook her head. “I can pick just one to listen to, but I can't make the others stop.”
“Hm.” Seth shook his head. “Weird. Anyway, I think you should try it with the hat on.”
“You're sure about that?”
“Yeah. I mean, if you could figure out how to get the so-called door moving with the hat on, maybe you could figure out how to actually shut the thing.” He shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
“True.” She nodded thoughtfully. “But hey, I was wondering something. You said you could see the energy field my head makes?”
“Yeah, sure.” He nodded. “Easy.”
“And you control energy fields, right?”
“Yeah, though I couldn't stop your powers permanently, if that's what you're asking.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I'm gonna try it. But if something goes wrong that you can see, could you... hold it off or something?”
“I guess.” Seth nodded again, letting his hands glow slightly. “Try to read my mind, then. Whenever you're ready.”
“You're sure?” Sam looked unsure again. “I don't know if this will work. If I really do have superpowers, what if I hurt you somehow?”
“Then I'll use my superpowers to pry your superpowers off my head.” He smiled briefly. “Just try it.”
She crossed her legs, sitting indian style across from him on the bed. “Ok. Think of something, and I'll try to see if I can read your mind.”
He nodded, and she closed her eyes, straining through the silence in her mind to hear his voice. At first there was nothing but darkness, but quickly enough...
He watched as the energy field around her head slowly began to focus itself, expanding slightly as she concentrated. Seth wondered briefly why her energy field was always the same color, and wondered if it was like that for everyone. He also wondered if she would appreciate being told that she was a deep reddish purple.
There were faint whispers now. She listened closely, focusing in on one that sounded like her friend, blocking the others out. She retreated a little bit, taking the shred of the voice with her, and trying to concentrate on it and all else.
“Peony. Is that what it's called?” It sounded almost exactly like him, though it echoed a bit and there were whispering tangents falling off it. “What is her favorite color anyway, maybe I should tell her she's that. Wait, elephants elephants elephants elephants should think of elephants but newspaper clippings—hey, I was looking for that one! Wait, elephants, not newspaper clippings. Big happy elephants, peanuts circuses elephants, creepy sideshow guy that came through town last year elephants.” She concentrated further.. He was thinking of elephants, but having difficulty keeping his mind on that one spot alone. Images of elephants flashed into her vision, and she tried to push the voice back a little. She could see into his head, not just hear it. That was unexpected. She considered ending her concentration, but curiosity pulled the voice closer to her again. Pictures of elephants, trailing off into brief spurts of memory or distraction. It was amazing how well she could see into his mind, how well she could hear him now, almost as if she were no longer in her own mind, but...
She lost control, suddenly, and the voice overtook her. A new image filled her eyes, and the voice vanished-it felt like his thoughts were literally inside her head. But she could see herself, sitting cross legged across the bed, frozen with her eyes suddenly wide open. A bright light surrounded her head, in a deep reddish-purple, the color writhing and expanding suddenly. Part of it seemed to be connected to the head she now was in. The whole world looked startlingly different—streams of color ran through the wall in wires, her computer glowed green, her alarm clock looked yellow. In every direction there were tints of neon brightness, and suddenly, she realized what was happening. She was seeing through Seth's eyes—she was literally inside his head. She felt fear rushing up from somewhere that was not her, and she felt a hand move, then saw it—Seth's hand, reaching out towards the body that she was no longer in.
“Sam?” His voice asked, and she felt him speak it, heard it with his ears. “Sam! Sam, are you alright?”
“I'm fine,” she said quickly, out of reflex. He spoke those words in the same instant, and then suddenly looked extremely alarmed.
“...Sam, what on...”
“I lost control. I don't know what happened.” He managed to stop saying her words about halfway through the second sentence, listening instead to her voice somewhere in the middle of his skull.
"Sam," he asked softly, “Why are you in my head?”

Voices, hats, and superpowers

“So you can't hear the voices when you have a hat on?”
“Nope.” She shook her head, wincing as she took her hat off. “I line them with tinfoil. That's what does it.”
He took the hat from her hand and examined it. “Wait, you have the shiny side on the inside.”
“Is that that that unusual?” She took the hat back from him, placing it on her head.
“I thought the shiny side was supposed to be out.” He shook his head. “Something about it deflecting mind control waves or something.”
“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “It definitely has no effect on mind control waves. From what I've heard mind control is really difficult to block—you need an interfering circuit, and...”
“It's alright, nevermind.” Seth glanced up at the web of twine and newspaper strewn across the ceiling. “So, assuming you're not crazy...”
“I'm not,” she said defensively.
“Then where are the voices coming from?” he finished. “They can't just be coming from nowhere.”
“I... I used to think they were trying to talk to me.” She glanced over at him. “But half the time they're ignoring me, or talking about something else. I think they're something natural that I just happen to be able to hear.”
He thought for a moment. “So you're psychic or something?”
“I guess.” She wrapped her arms around her knees.
“So that would make the voices other people's thoughts.”
“That's one theory.” She nodded. “I've thought about it sometimes. It would make a lot of sense if it's true.”
“Can you control what voices you hear?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I told you, it's a sea of noise. I can barely pick out one over the other.”
“What about when you have the hat on?”
“...I can't hear anything when I have the hat on.” Sam looked at him skeptically. “I just told you that.”
“Have you tried?”
“Why would I want to?” She flopped back on the bed, staring upwards. “The hat makes the voices be quiet. It's the only time I can hear myself think. If I try to hear them, maybe it'll make a way for them to get in, and then where would I be?”
“You could just make a new hat.”
“That's not what I mean. I mean, if I open that door in my head, I don't know if I can close it.”
“No, you could. It's not a door.” Seth rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I told you I can see energy fields if I want to. That includes mental energy, and well... You've got one heck of a field.” He looked away, out the tiny window and across the street. “That hat contains it.”
“Really?” Sam sat up again, torn between skepticism and hope. “Is that how it works?”
“I think so. But there are still edges getting out. I think if you tried to control it, you could focus that small amount enough to hear someone's thoughts.”
“So what, I can control what I hear?”
“I guess.” He shrugged. “I don't know. All I know about powers like this are from a couple of self-help books my mom made me read. But it seems like it'd be a good thing to try, right?”
“Sure.” She stared at her hands. “I just don't know where to start.” She paused for a moment, realizing what he'd said. “Wait, powers?”
“Sure. Telepathy. You read people's minds.” He nodded. “It's a superpower.”
“...Huh.” She looked thoughtful. “I'd... never thought of it that way.”
“Sheesh, it's either superpowers or insanity. And you keep saying you're not insane, so...”
“I'm not!”
“So it's superpowers.” Seth shrugged. “Question is, how do you control it?”
“I... have no idea.” Sam looked away again. “Tinfoil?”
“Well, other than that. I mean, can you like, do some kind of insane yoga concentration thing, or...” he gestured vaguely around his head. “Something with your hands, I guess?” She laughed, and he pouted. “I'm serious! There's always hand signals in the movies.”
“I really don't know.” She shook her head. “I've never tried it.”
He shook his head. “I just don't understand how you didn't think of this before.”
Sam smiled a little. “You try sharing your head with a million voices and see how well you do.”
“Point.”

Crazy

No parent ever expects their child to go crazy.
But she had, undoubtedly. Their beautiful eight year old tomboy daughter had started hearing whispers, just lightly at first, so barely there that they though it might be her very active imagination. She told them it was like the wind was telling her something, and she had to be very quiet to hear.
But the whispers were not what made her crazy.
As she got older, they caught her flinching, or twitching, or covering her ears when she didn't think they were looking. In completely silent places she spoke loudly, as if trying to speak over something. She started looking tired; her schoolwork suffered, and she didn't want to do anything but lie her head on the table and stare with open eyes at the grain of the wood. They asked her what was wrong.
The whispers had stopped being whispers.
Every day, when she got up, the whispers had gotten a little louder, just enough, she said, that she barely noticed. She'd thought she was just getting better at listening, but no. There were thousands of voices now, she said, that talked constantly, saying things that made no sense and repeating themselves and randomly coming and going. It was a sea of noise, and she had no way of stopping it.
She woke up screaming when she was twelve. They asked her why. She said she'd been murdered, and then she'd been the murderer. She said the body was in a dumpster two blocks down.
That was where the police found it.
She didn't want to sleep anymore, but her body fought her until she lost. The visions were always terrible, more realistic than any dream, feeling pain and pleasure as if she really were there. She woke up staggeringly drunk one morning, and it took a few minutes for her to return to normal. Another day she woke up asking what cocaine was, and why it made her see such strange things in the dream. Her parents worried, but she never left the house at night. She began stuttering, repeating entire words and phrases, going off on wild tangents as she struggled to think clearly. She could barely go to school, she was so exhausted, and her classmates were not kind.
They decided to move, thinking the change might do her good. A little town called Springfield seemed like a good choice at the time—her father got a job fixing computers, and her mother substituted at the elementary school. They were sure, that without the depravity surrounding them in the city, their daughter would get better—the dreams were surely subconscious wonderings, and the voices the product of stress and fear. It would get better.
It got worse.
There was no doubt, now, that she was insane. She refused to see the doctor, screaming about the noises the voices made around him, fighting and thrashing until she escaped the office. There was scarcely a day that the school did not call home to ask about her, if she'd been sleeping, if everything was alright at home. The stuttering got worse. The psychiatrist said she was schizophrenic, and gave them some medication. Nothing got better—the dreams consumed her in her waking hours now, too, freezing her in place as she watched something they couldn't see with wild blue eyes. They had to check, every day, if she'd taken the medication. They caught her throwing it away or flushing it down the sink more often than not. Her father had to sit on her, once, so that she would stop flailing long enough for her mother to force it down her throat.
It wasn't like she hadn't fought for her sanity. Every waking moment was dedicated to making sense of her world, and the results stretched out in newspaper clippings and scribbled dreams across every wall and surface of her room, connected with a web of twine and bright blue yarn. She theorized, trying to think clearly through the wild tangle of voices, trying to come up with something, anything, that would explain her misery.
No parent ever expects their child to go crazy.
Not many know how to deal with it when it happens.
Her mother clung to her husband, turning to him as her rock as her dreams for her daughter's future unraveled before her eyes. He stopped looking at his daughter, seeing straight through her when she had an episode, shutting his emotions off when she broke down screaming, looking away when she huddled on the floor sobbing. They were not a happy family anymore.
They came home one day to a silent house. Her backpack sat in the hallway, but there were no sobs, no screams, no nonsensical ramblings. Her mother assumed the worst, and ran to her room, with her father following close behind.
And they found her there, curled up in a ball on top of the sheets, with tinfoil wrapped around her head, completely silent, and for once, for the first time since she was eight, completely at peace.
“It makes the voices stop,” she'd said, without stuttering at all. “I can't hear any of them—it's quiet now. I like it.”
They'd looked at each other, unsure of how to respond. She was quiet, still, happy, sane, for the first time in years. But neither dared let down their defenses; they'd been guarded for so long that they'd almost forgotten how to love her.
They bought her hats, and sewed tinfoil into them. She wore them to school, and her grades improved immediately. The teachers stopped calling home. The medication wasn't an issue anymore. She didn't wake up screaming, or stutter, or freeze for minutes on end. Her father could look at her, her mother could smile.
They were almost happy.
They should have known it wouldn't last.

More bits of stories

The nightmares came suddenly, violently, in the midst of what was otherwise normal sleep. There was never a hint of warning beforehand—she always, always went straight into them, breaking the dreaming silence with a world-shattering scream. And she would fight. She would fight the air and the thin blanket, thrashing in an attempt to escape an invisible danger, so violent sometimes that he was afraid she would hurt herself. He always dropped out of the network when it happened, into his body to climb up the little tunnel into the cockpit and hold her, whether to keep her from hurting herself or simply because he didn't know what else to do. And he would stay with her, wrapping her in his arms, until the nightmare subsided from screams to whimpers, from sobs to heavy breathing and a tearstained face. And then he would lay her back down in the pilots seat, gently as ever, more gently than he ever did anything else, more than he ever let her know he could do, and watch, just for a moment, just to be really, truly sure she was fine. And he would climb back down the little tunnel and head back into the network, where he would wait. He would wait until she awoke again. They would both pretend that nothing was wrong.


In the forest there is a ruin, and in the ruin there is a clock tower. And in the clock tower, there is a man, barely a man, more a boy who's rather surprised to find himself taller; but he lives in the clock tower and sometimes, on clear days, he plays the bells. There is only one song he ever plays, and it is the only song that he knows. But he rings the bells, loud and clear, and the one and only song echoes over the ruins, through the forest, and barely, just barely, into the world beyond.
He came from nowhere, the boy-turned-man, who rings the bells on clear days. He flew in on silver wings, in silver fog, and no one saw him but the doves who lived in the clock tower, who live there still. Perhaps he lives off of pigeon's eggs. Nobody knows, really. Nobody talks to him. Nobody has ever talked to him, out of those few that have seen him. He fled from the few that tried. But perhaps he was only afraid, and not a hermit like they think he is, for if you get close enough to see him, (which is very hard, and not many people can), he looks downcast always, like a lonely man.
There are letters that they, those who pass by, have found in hollow trees and the dry places of the ruin. The writing is neat, round, childlike, but readable. The sentences are short and to the point.
Dear you, they say, If you met me, would you remember me? Because if you would not, then I would be glad to meet you. I am alone.
They vary from letter to letter in what words they use, the number of sentences, the greeting and occasionally the end. But they are never signed.
Nobody sees him leave these letters, but they all know it's him, those few who are so downcast to live in the ruins and find them. Nobody else is quite so alone.
The song he plays is an old one, one of those odd songs that everyone knows but no one can remember the words. Sometimes he makes up little variations, playing chords with the bells. Sometimes he gets so far into this experimentation that the song is hardly recognizable, but it is always the same song, the only song he knows. But the last bell—the bell that would be the very last note of the very last verse, the one that's supposed to echo out so the listeners can breath again—is cracked, right down the middle. The last note is never played.


“I refuse to believe it.” Her voice was only half firm, wavering slightly with emotion. “He's not dead. I've heard him, and I can still see him when I'm asleep. He's... stuck, I guess. In the earth's magnetic field.”
“Sam...” Gabe shook his head, putting the mop back in the closet. “I know you've never been wrong before. You were right about Dr. Sarin, and the Puppetmaster, and everything. And we all owe our lives to you. But still...” He trailed off. “His body was destroyed, Sam. There is literally nothing left.”
“So? He's still alive. I know he's alive. I...” She trailed off, sinking down against the locker and putting her arms on her knees. “I can't tell Timothy. It'd hurt him too much. But... I had to tell someone. Seth's alive. I don't understand it, but he is. Maybe I'm really crazy this time.”
“I doubt that.” Gabe said, leaning up against the lockers next to her. “I believe you. If you say he's alive, you've never been wrong.”
“Really?” She looked up at him, disbelieving.
“Yeah.” He pulled the box cap over his eyes. “Don't expect me to back you up on that, though. I'm crazy enough to believe you, but not that crazy.”
“Psh.” She turned away again, smiling faintly. “Didn't figure.”


Again, just some little things I've written recently. I really like them, but didn't really think they were enough to post on their own. Tell me what you think!

Springfield Halloween- When You Give a Dinosaur Sugar

In retrospect, the sundae had been a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
Timothy was normally a ball of energy, and on a good day, Seth could keep up with him without much trouble. But with sugar thrown into the mix, along with the natural high of a celebration, the second grader was practically bursting at the seams with hyper, hey look a shiny thing can we go over there please please please oh wait another one that way let's go that way come on Seth energy. The teen found himself practically running from one booth to the other, holding onto Timothy's candy with the hand that wasn't being dragged across the square. Luckily, the boy hadn't had any of that yet; that had been the deal for the sundae. He could only have the dessert if he promised not to eat any candy, at all, until tomorrow, when with any luck he'd be too tired to care.
Seth knew that was a little much to hope for. But in any case, the deal had been struck, and now Timothy was an inch away from literally bouncing off walls. He wondered, not for the first time, how the second grader seemed to have a sense for picking the food item off of any menu with the highest sugar content. It was like a superpower or something, and considering Timothy was the town's youngest superhero, it very well might have been.
“Hey Seth, facepainting! Come on come on come on!” Seth almost lost his purple wizards hat as Timothy switched directions, this time headed for the pet shop.
“Slow down!” Seth tried to reign in his charge, with little luck. “It's not going anywhere.”
“Come on!” It was like trying to stop a freight train one handed. Timothy dragged his babysitter across the street to the pet shop's multicolored windows, which this month featured a family of black cats on a series of successively smaller pumpkins, with the message “Happy Halloween” scrawled across the scene in big, jagged letters. A scarecrow with a crooked hat sat outside the door in a folding chair, holding a sign labeled “Free Face Painting” in a similar font. Timothy pulled to a stop in front of him, and glanced around. “Where's Mr. Chase?”
The scarecrow shook with silent laughter, and Seth smiled. “I see him.”
“Where?” Timothy looked around again, dragging his supervisor around in a circle as he inspected the scene. “I don't see him.”
“Miles, stop that.” Allie Chase, the town's veterinarian and co-owner of the pet shop, stood in the doorway, trying not to smile as she looked down on her husband. She was dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, with her hair pulled back in two brown pigtails on either side of her head and a blue dress that came down to just below her knees.
The scarecrow turned his head upwards to face his wife with a grin. “He would've figured it out!”
“Oh!” Timothy looked startled. “Hi, Mr Chase!”
“Hey!” Miles looked back down at Timothy, dropping the pretense of lifelessness with a smile. “Want some facepainting?”
“Yeah!” Timothy jumped up and down at the offer. “I want a dinosaur!”
“Aren't you already a dinosaur?” asked Allie, leaving a trail of red glitter from her shoes as she stepped down onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah, but dinosaurs are cool!”
Miles picked up a three ring binder full of pictures and flipped to a few. “How about that one?” he said, pointing to a yellow Stegosaurus.
“That one's better!” insisted Timothy, pointing to the T-Rex next to it. “Cause it's a T-Rex, and they were meat eaters, and the king of the dinosaurs, and they had all sorts of teeth and walked around like this!” Timothy proceeded to do his best T-Rex imitation, high stepping in a circle around Seth with his arms pulled in tight to his chest, roaring as the tail of his dinosaur suit dragged along behind him. “I'm a T-Rex!” he roared. “I'll eat you, Rar!”
“I see that!” Miles laughed. “Alright then, T-Rex it is.” He motioned to the folding chair that sat opposite him. “Have a seat!”
Timothy did as he was told, bouncing up and down until Seth put a hand on his head. “You've gotta hold still, or it'll be a zig-zag Rex.”
“That'd be cool too!”
Allie watched in amusement. “Just out of curiosity,” she remarked to Seth, “How much sugar has that one had?”
“...An entire ice cream sundae,” admitted Seth sheepishly.
Allie looked at him like he was insane. “You let him have the whole thing?”
“We made a deal,” Seth explained. “If I let him have the sundae, he won't eat any of his candy tonight.”
“Oh.” Allie watched as Timothy started bouncing again under Seth's hand. “Right.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Miles put down the green face paint and reached under his chair. “I have candy I need to get rid of. Want some?” He pulled out an orange plastic pumpkin filled to the brim with the neon colors of candy wrappers. “I have Smores-n-more, Smackers, these really good peanut butter things...”
“Miles,” Allie scolded, taking the pumpkin out of his hand. “I'm giving out healthy food this year, you know!”
“Yeah, I know.” Miles grinned. “But I'm not!”
“Oh good grief, you silly owl...” She rustled through the pumpkin, examining the contents. “Jawbreakers, licorice bites, candy-covered-chocolate-covered-peanut-brittle-covered lollipops? Miles, can you actually eat those things?”
“They're not half bad, really.” Miles mused as he took advantage of Timothy's awestruck fixation with the pumpkin to finish painting the dinosaur's tail. “I think you'd like the peanut brittle things.”
Allie glared at her husband for a moment before taking advantage of his distraction to stuff three in her dress pocket. “Might as well call them bricks of sugar,” she muttered. “Oh good grief, this one is actually called brick-o-sugar!”
“Now those are good!”
Allie sighed. “Ok, fine.” She turned to Seth. “Here. One for you, one for Timothy.” She held out the pumpkin with a victimized air. Seth took the candies, almost feeling guilty about it, then Allie grabbed her own wicker basket off the doorstep. “And healthy food,” she said, shooting a look at her grinning husband, “for the both of you.” Seth dropped two boxes of raisins into their baskets.
Miles finally finished the dinosaur, and handed Timothy a mirror. “There you go. Pretty good dinosaur, eh?”
“Awesome!” Timothy examined the dinosaur on his cheek with a grin. “Can you make it breathe fire?”
“Um, ok!” Miles grabbed the orange facepaint and did a few quick strokes. “There. A fire breathing T-Rex.”
“Great!” Timothy hopped up from the chair, then grabbed Seth's hand again. “Thanks, Mr. Chase!”
“You're welcome!”
Miles and Allie waved at the pair as Seth was once again dragged unceremoniously across the square, headed this time for a plastic duck pond. Then Allie turned to Miles with mock severity. “So you bought candy, eh?”
“Um, yes.” Miles smiled, trying not to look guilty, but failed. “Am I in trouble?”
“Well, maybe.” Allie browsed through the pumpkin again. “That depends entirely on how much of this you're willing to share.”

Springfield Halloween-Frankenstien's Dunk Tank

This is the first of a series of shorts that will hopefully eventually connect together into a longer story. The prompt for this one: “In retrospect, something like an astronaut might have been more impressive.” Enjoy!

Dr Jeremy Tabition, to say the least, was not amused.
Nobody ever enjoyed the dunk tank, he knew. It was only through some cruel whim of the school board that it happened every year, and despite the fact that it was one of the best fund raisers the school had, for once in his life he would like to be able to enjoy himself on Halloween as a normal, dry human being. With a special emphasis on dry.
But of course, as a teacher, he had to make sacrifices, and these included, among others, sacrificing his enjoyment of the relatively warm, but a little windy fall day in favor of sitting above a tank of water, dreading the moment one of the ragged baseballs finally hit the target hard enough to dunk him.
He fidgeted atop the plank, trying to keep up a smile as he watched another student hand over their two dollars for the three tries at dunking Dr. Tabs. Smiling was difficult at this point, as he was already soaked, and it was only through the miracles of waterproof makeup that he still resembled Frankenstein's monster rather than a melted bucket of paint.
In retrospect, something like an astronaut may have been more impressive. And smarter, too; a suit that could survive the vacuum of space might have made the water that he'd made Gabe swear he hadn't iced slightly more survivable. Maybe not more enjoyable, but Jeremy would take what he could get.
This whole situation might not have been so bad if it had actually been his turn, he mused as a ball narrowly whizzed by the target, hitting the plastic backdrop with a bang that made him flinch. It was supposed to be the turn of Brian Branch, the math teacher. Brian had always tried to get out of the dunk tank altogether, but thanks to Gabe's rigorous daily disinfecting of his classroom for the three weeks prior, along with Jeremy's insistence that he get vaccinated for everything from tuberculosis to malaria this year, Brian would not be calling in sick with pneumonia this year. Or the flu. Or a sudden allergy to water. Not that they'd bought that one the first time, but still. Brian Branch, this year, at least, had no excuse.
Except this year, they simply couldn't find the man.
He wasn't answering his cell phone, or his house phone. Nobody had seen him, not even Trudy, though Jeremy suspected she was covering for him. Gabe's hurried search had turned up nothing, and it had come down to a game of rock paper scissors as to who would take the math teacher's spot until he could be found.
And he should've known that Arnold would pick paper. He always picked paper. It was like the English teacher was obsessed with it or something.
So despite having already served one of his two slots as target, Dr Jeremy Tabition was stuck here, smiling in the way of a man that wants to murder something and dreading the approach of the sadistic gym teacher Dave Clemmence to the front of the line. If there's one thing Tabs could say in his favor, possibly the only one, it was that the man could throw a ball.
“Get me out of here,” he whispered to Gabe as the janitor, dressed as a cowboy complete with lasso, came by to collect the balls. “I can't take it anymore.”
“You've got ten minutes left before it's Arnold's turn,” Gabe whispered back, with a sympathetic look. “And if we find Brian, we'll make him take your other turn.”
“Right.” Jeremy snorted. “Sorry, but he's probably at the soda fountain, you know.”
“I told you, I looked there.” Gabe turned back to the next person in line. “Oh, hey, Mr. Meeps! Nice Watson costume.”
“I'm Winston Churchhill, actually.” The older man looked vaguely resigned, as if he'd already corrected half the town on this point, which he had. He handed over his two dollars, and received the three battered baseballs in return. “I don't suppose you could tell me when I could come back to dunk Brian,” he remarked as he wound up for the pitch.
“That would be whenever we find him.” Gabe watched as the ball slammed into the backing, two inches above the target.
“He's missing?” Oliver Meeps shook out his arm and took the second ball in hand.
“He's hiding,” responded Dr. Tabs, his voice echoing from inside the dunk tank. “I don't suppose you've seen him.”
“He's down at the soda fountain.” Oliver let loose another fast pitch, this one slightly to the left. “Tch, out of practice...”
“I told you!” Jeremy crowed. “Trudy's covering for him!”
“I looked there!” Gabe looked chagrined as he handed Oliver the last ball. Oliver went through a few warmup swings, and Gabe took another step back. “Is he in disguise or something?”
“Who isn't?” asked Dr Tabs, keeping a wary eye on the substitute as he wound up for the third time. “He's probably... Agh!” The ball found its mark, and the chemistry teacher plummeted into the water. The clear plastic tank gave a clear view of the shocked expression on the green-painted face, and by the time Jeremy surfaced, Oliver was laughing hysterically. “Good grief, man, where'd you learn to throw?” Gabe reset the tank's seat and helped Jeremy pull himself back up, trying to stifle a smile.
“Hah!” Oliver looked triumphant at his victory. “Still got it.”
“Ok, fine, good shot.” Tabs wrung the water out of the sleeve of his tattered Frankenstein shirt. “Hey, would you mind dragging Brian over here? This was supposed to be his timeslot, and he's got another one in an hour.”
“You sure? I mean, it'd be a waste of waterproof makeup...” Gabe said, laughing, before the teacher cut him off.
“I'm sure!”
“Alright, I'll get him.” Oliver picked up his cane again, still laughing. “Try to stay dry!”
“Gee, thanks.” Jeremy sulked on the plastic seat as the next person stepped up to dunk Frankenstein.
He should've been an astronaut.

Next

Love for Sale

Atticus, suffice to say, was not having a good day.
If it had just been the lawnmower breaking, it might have been fine. If it had just been the dog tracking mud across the freshly mopped floor, it might have been fine. Or if it had been the invasion of mice, or the car not starting, or having his flowers eaten by something (might have been rabbits. They will die), or blowing the back tire on his bike, or even accidentally locking himself out and having to break in through a window, it might have been fine. Well, maybe not fine. Tolerable, at least.
Atticus was not even having a tolerable day.
The small man projected a cloud of sheer frustration as he walked down the town's main street, so much so that passersby were consciously avoiding him. His fists clenched around two grocery bags filled with canned food and spaghetti (as he'd never managed to cook much else on the fickle gas stove of the little house, even after three years of trying) and the glower on his face was not offset in the least by Ben's three-year-old backpack that he'd been forced to borrow, which featured, much to both his and his charge's embarrassment, glow in the dark dinosaurs. The backpack had been full of overdue library books, was currently full of the third bag of cans, and in a moment would be full of thirty pounds of dog food, which had been eaten that morning by the mice.
He rounded the corner and stared down the block, realizing, almost too late, that he would have to walk directly by the barbershop. He turned around. An extra two blocks was not what he needed right now, but better than having to deal with Eugene.
To top it all off, the pet store was run by one of the most helpful, cheerful people Atticus knew, one Miles Chase. This of course meant that Miles was also one of the most annoying people Atticus knew. He didn't try to be, to be sure. He just was. And Atticus had no intentions of spending any longer in that shop than was physically possible.
The brightly painted windows fast approached as Atticus rounded the final corner, featuring a giant chameleon with its eyes pointed two different ways, along with some colorful birds in the foliage of a green jungle, aka series of giant leaves. “Sale on all cats and kittens!” it said, in total disregard of logical correlation. “These prices will disappear fast!” He stared disapprovingly at the big orange letters the size of his face. “Come in today!”
With a sigh, he set down the two bags of cans on the bench outside, along with the third from the backpack, and stepped in. The door jingled merrily as he stepped onto the smooth tile, glancing around for the shop's proprietor. Not in at the moment, thank goodness. He walked hurriedly to the back of the store where the bags of food were kept, ignoring the chatter of the budgies and the odd glance of the snake. The resident parrot that nobody wanted politely said “hello,” as he passed. He ignored it.
“Hey there!” Atticus flinched as Miles walked up from behind him. “How's it going?”
“Fine, thank you.” The older man turned, almost mechanically, to face the shopkeeper.
“How's Dragon doing? Still running you ragged?” Miles stopped a few feet away, smiling cheerfully.
Atticus made a rather forced. attempt at smiling back. “She's fine, thank you. I need dog food.”
“Oh, well, you know where that is! We've gotten some new stuff in that you might like to try though.. Or she might like to try, rather.” The younger man laughed. “Unless you're not telling me something.”
“What we've been getting is fine, thank you.” Atticus turned back to the shelf of dog food, trying to find a size of bag that would fit in the small backpack. “Yellow bag, yellow bag...” he muttered. Behind him, Miles turned to the rack of empty animal spaces that were normally used to house the strays people brought in to the adjoining clinic's humane society, and opened one of the little doors. Atticus ignored him mostly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Miles reached in and pulled out a tiny white ball of fur. The little ball stretched, and yawned, and as Miles massaged it with gentle hands, it opened its eyes and looked up. Atticus found that he was rather unabashedly staring, and quickly looked away.
“She's a stray.” Miles was more observant than Atticus gave him credit for. “She and her brother were found last week under someones deck. They said that the mother was hit by a car.”
“Is that so.” Atticus tried not to look back at the kitten again, and failed rather miserably. “What's her name?”
“Doesn't have one yet.” Miles rubbed the cat's ear gently, and she purred. “Do you want to hold her?”
“I, uh...” Atticus looked away, then sighed. “Well... why not.” He took a few steps over to Miles, and the younger man carefully deposited the kitten in his palm.
“Careful not to drop her. She's fragile.” Miles reached into the box and lifted out the other kitten, a little black one.
“She's beautiful.” Atticus held the kitten up near his face, and watched her as she examined him with brilliant green eyes. He was shocked to be able to feel her heartbeat through his hands. “And neither of them have names?”
“Well, they're not very old.” Miles carried the other one over to the register and set him down on a towel as he pulled a bottle of milk from behind the counter. “Only about four weeks, we think.”
“...What is that in cat age?” Atticus followed him over, still carrying the white one.
“Definitely not ready to leave their mother.” Miles held the milk away from the cat, and watched as it struggled to stand and move towards the bottle. “They can walk, barely, and they're about ready to start eating solid food, though they'll make a mess about it. Not litterbox trained, yet. And of course,” he said, as the little black one toppled over. “Their balance will be off until their tails become flexible.” He let the black one get it's feet under it again, and it once again started moving towards the food bottle.
“Goodness.” Atticus examined the little cat in his hands. “So basically, they're not cats yet.”
“Well,” Miles shrugged. “No, not really. But see her eyes?” He barely paused before continuing. “They're developing their permanent eye color right now. That one actually seems to be almost done; it hasn't changed at all over the past few days. That's the color her eyes will be for the rest of her life.”
Atticus went a long moment without saying anything, gray eyes roaming from white kitten to black kitten to brilliant green eyes that stared up at him, until the little bundle of fur in his hands started purring.
“...That sale you have on cats.” He never once looked at Miles as he spoke. “Do these two count?”
“You don't want to wait until they're a little bigger?” Miles finally let the black one get the bottle. “They'll make a mess.”
“I know.”
“They'll take a lot of looking after.”
“I figured.”
“You know...” Miles looked up at him, carefully. “Kittens need a lot of love.”
Atticus met his gaze with steel resolve, softened by a genuine smile. “I know.”
“Then yes.” Miles returned the smile. “They count.”
Atticus left the shop having a considerably better day than when he'd gone in.
After all, he'd never been able to say no to a sale.

Denial

“Gramma!”
Eleanor winced as the little girl's ear peircing shout carried across the parking lot, then smiled as the six year old tackled her knee in a hug. “Hello, Bianca. And how are you today?”
“I'm ok! Up up up up!” She held out her hands pleadingly. Eleanor laughed, and picked her up. “How're you?”
“I'm good. Where's your brother?”
“Camping.” She stuck out her tounge. “Dad and Gabe are camping cause they like icky bugs and dirt. They're weird.”
“Silly boys.” Eleanor giggled, despite herself. “And your mother?”
“Right behind her!” Denise Stonewood followed her daughter across the parking lot, breathing hard. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take care of her today, I...”
“It's no trouble.” Eleanor smiled. “I have to spend time with my favorite granddaughter sometime, don't I?”
“Gramma, I'm your only granddaughter!” Bianca pouted in her arms.
“That doesnt mean you're not my favorite!”
Denise smiled. “Thank you. Can you drop her off back at the house at... oh, four, I guess?”
“You'll be lucky if I ever bring her back,” joked the older woman and the little girl squirmed in her arms.
“Mama, gramma's kidnapping me!” squealed Bianca.
“You better bring her back, or I'll send her daddy to rescue her.” The young mother smiled, laughing, and Eleanor understood not for the first time why her only son had fallen for her.
“Hah! Roger never won against me when he was a kid, and he still can't.” Eleanor started tickling her granddaughter, who was giggling uncontrollably. “Anyway, don't you have a doctors appointment to get to?”
“Oh!” Denise glanced at her watch. “I'm late! Thanks again, bye!”
Eleanor smiled after her daughter in law as she drove away, then turned to her granddaughter. “Well, what do you want to do?”
“Swimming! Swimming swimming swimming!” Bianca squealed. Eleanor flinched again.
“Bianca, not so loud, please.”
“Why?”
“Because it hurts my ears.”
“But Mama said that I need to talk loud so people can hear me!”
“Well, not quite so loud, ok?” Eleanor set the girl down, and took her hand as they walked towards the little green car. “I can hear you just fine when you talk normally.”
“Gabe says I'm good at being loud. I'm louder than anyone else in my class!”
“Honey...” Eleanor took a moment to process just how much her granddaughter must annoy that poor teacher. “Louder isn't always better,” she finally said as she fiddled with her car keys.
“Why?”
“Because if people can hear you, that's loud enough.”
“But the louder I am, the more people can hear me!” Bianca was jumping up and down in her seat as her grandmother tried to buckle her in.
“But what if you don't want someone to hear you?”
“But I like people to hear me! They all look at me when I'm loud!”
“That's not a good thing, honey.” Eleanor buckled herself in and started the car. “You use your inside voice when you're talking to people.”
“I can be even louder inside!”
“That's not what I mean.” The stoplight at the edge of the shopping center parking lot turned green, and Eleanor's foot hit the gas.
Bianca was strangely silent for the next few minutes. Eleanor glanced over at her, somewhat worried.
“Oh, honey, you're so pale!”
“Look out Gramma!” The little girl squeaked, and Eleanor swirved without taking her eyes off her granddaughter.
“Are you feeling alright? Maybe we shouldn't go swimming.”
“Car! Car car car car!”
“Bianca, didn't I just say not to talk so loud?”
The little girl covered her eyes as her grandmother screeched into the parking lot of the city pool. It took her a few minutes after the car had come to a complete stop to open them again. “Gramma, why do you drive so fast?”
“I don't, honey, it just seems faster because my car is lower.” Eleanor was digging around in her huge purse for that medicine that she was sure she had in here somewhere.
“But the dialy thing said 80!” Bianca pointed to the spedometer, still white as a sheet.
“No, honey, you must have misread it. I wasn't going faster than thirty.”
“Gramma, your car is scary!”
“Don't be silly, dear, I have anti-lock brakes and air bags! If someone runs into us, we'll be fine.” Eleanor finally gave up on the medicine and took Bianca's temperature with the back of her hand. “You feel fine to me, dear. I wonder what that was...”
“Gramma, they've gotta catch us to run into us!”
“Bianca, dear, didn't you want to go to the pool?”
Bianca nodded, then unbuckled her seatbelt and stumbled from the car. “Mama can pick me up here, right?”
“No, honey, I've gotta drive you home.”
The girl paled again. “Gramma, can we take the bus?”
“No, honey, my car works just fine.”
“But I like the bus!” Eleanor flinched at the return of the full fledged outside voice. “The bus is... the bus is cool!”
“But yesterday you said the bus was full of icky boys and...”
“The bus is cool! I like the bus!”
“Maybe we can ride the bus some other time, honey.” She opened up the back of Bianca's backpack and pulled out her swimsuit. “Now go get changed. And stop talking so loud!”
“I like the bus....” mumbled Bianca as she trotted dutifully off to the changing rooms, swimsuit in hand.
“Strange girl.” Eleanor turned to the ticket window directly in front of which her car which her car was parked. “Two, please.” The attendant was white as a sheet as she took Eleanor's money, never taking her eyes off the green car parked less than six inches away from the front of the building. Eleanor glanced behind her at the attendant as she headed for the changing room herself. “Huh.” She shook her head. “Must be a virus or something.”

Gym

Atticus stared increduloulsy at the high school's office secretary. “You want me to do what?
“Teach gym.” She fidgeted. “Just for today! I know you can't do it every day, but Mr. Clemmence finally agreed to go see a doctor about his... um...” she coughed. “And Mr Meeps is already teaching history, and nobody else could come in...”
“And so you're flagging down random people on the street?”
“Well, I was gonna go to the temp agency, but I've heard Mr Clemmence talking about you before, Mr. Knott, and so I just figured...”
Atticus set his grocry bags on the sidewalk and crossed his arms. “I doubt Mr. Clemmence has been saying anything even remotely resembling a reccomendation.”
“Well, no, but please sir, the first class starts in fifteen minutes and nobody else is available, not even Gabe cause some kid threw up in the bleachers, and I have to watch the study hall and the only other person that could do it is Ms Knockings, and that just doesn't work, sir!”
Atticus tried to picture the small, stern woman trying to coach a group of highschoolers, and failed. “But... don't you need background checks or something?” he protested weakly.
“No time! Just don't shoot anyone and we're good.” She grabbed his arm, and his groceries, and dragged him into the school, something that if he'd been at all in doubt of her intentions would've gotten her shot. Two minutes later, he was standing in the large gym, staring at the ceiling and wondering how exactly he'd gotten here. He sighed visibly.
“Well, what exactly am I supposed to do now?”
“Well, I'd recommend changing into tennis shoes, at least.” The door of the janitor's closet opened, and a blonde head popped out. “You're gonna have some trouble in loafers.”
Atticus jumped back, startled. “And you are?”
“Gabe. Gabe Stonewood. I'm the janitor around these parts.” He tipped his blue box cap to one side respectfully. “I take it you're the famous 'infernal brit'?”
“That would be me, yes,” he replied as he looked the younger man up and down. Tall, blonde, blue eyes. Ben could probably disguise as him fairly well, if he ever had to. “Any idea as to what I'm supposed to be doing here?”
“Well, if I overheard correctly, teaching gym. Good luck with that.”
“Well, yes, but what exactly does that...”
“Laps, pushups, whatever.” Gabe shrugged. “Mostly just yell at them.”
“Yell at them. Oh, joy.” Atticus turned his gaze back to the empty basketball court, wracking his brain for an activity that could entertain sixteen high school boys for an hour, especially given most of them were significantly larger than him. “I don't suppose you could teach gym, and I could go clean the...”
“Nope!” Gabe grinned. “I've got a date with the bleachers. I'm happy to leave the hard job to you.” He watched cooly as the first of the students made their way through the double doors at the far end of the gym. “Careful. I've heard they can sense fear.” With a chuckle, he picked up his bucket and started walking away.
He was a little surprised to find himself unable to move. The smaller man had some kind of nerve grip on the back of his neck, and his whole body was tingling.
“Um.”
“Sorry. Getting your attention.” Atticus wasn't even looking at him, just staring at the students congregeating at the other end of the room with a look in his eyes that would've sent anyone who knew Atticus running. “I need your help for one last thing.”
“Speak, o master, and I shall obey,” the blonde quipped as Atticus let go of his neck.
“Unroll that wrestling mat.”

The boys were milling around near the locker room when Atticus finally approached them. “Right. Get changed, you lot.”
One of the football players spat on the ground. “What do you want, Brit?”
“Where's Mr. Clemmence?” another asked.
“Does it matter?” Atticus's voice had an edge like a knife. “Get. Changed.”
The football player, a huge boy almost a head taller than Atticus and twice as thick, stepped up. “We don't take orders from you.”
“Well, then, I suppose you'd like to run twenty laps without changing.” Atticus's glare spoke volumes. “Get moving.”
The boy didn't move.
“I said...”
“We heard you, brit.” The boy glared. “Mr. Clemmence warned us about you.”
“Oh, did he.” Atticus stared at the boy for a minute before he broke into a wide smile. “Well, if you don't want to get changed, I can't make you. Follow me, then, boys.” He waved them to follow them as he walked back to his original end of the gym. They followed, bewildered at this sudden change of attitude. The football player who'd stood him down puffed his chest out like an overblown turky as he walked, reveling in this newfound power.
The small man stopped at the edge of the wrestling mat, kicked off his shoes, and stepped onto it. “Ok, here's the deal. I'm just an old guy, and a tiny one at that, right?” There were a few reluctant nods, with some of the brighter bulbs wondering where this was going. “So if any one of you can pin me down, you have the rest of the class to do what you want.” He spread his arms, letting the whole class see just how skinny he actually was. “Shouldn't be too hard, right?”
The class murmured for a moment before one of them stepped up, a boy that Atticus vaguely remembered as someone Ben had talked about, somebody Johnson. Tristan? “I think I can do it.”
“Ten laps if you can't.” Atticus held out his hand to shake on it. “Agreed?”
“Fine.” The boy took his place across from Atticus on the mat, assuming what he thought was a proper fighting position. Atticus barely shifted his feet. Gabe watched them from atop the bleachers.
“Whenever you're ready.”
The boy lunged at him, and it was over almost before it began. Atticus whirled out of the way, barely tapped the boy's knee in the right place, and had him on the ground before he fully realized what had happened.
“One. Two. Three.” The brit calmly counted off. “Don't rush your opponent like that. I win. Go get changed and start running.”
The boy stared up at him in shock for a moment, then dumbly went and did as he was told. His classmates hooted at him as he left, and Atticus dusted off his nice slacks before he turned back to them.
“Who's next?”
There was a sudden silence. Then the football player stepped up. “Let's see how you do against a real man,” he muttered as he took his place. “He's a wimp anyway.”
“Fine.” Atticus shrugged as he moved into position. “Sometime today, please.”
The boy swung for Atticus' head, and he stepped back neatly. The boy didn't overbalance nearly as much as he'd hoped, and almost managed to make a recovery before Atticus wound up behind him.
“You're moving your torso too much. Try that again.” The boy obliged, Atticus dodged, and tripped him neatly. “One, two...” The boy sprung back to his feet. “Oh, you're still up!” Atticus dodged another fist. “Don't lock your knees. Move your feet! Oh, for goodness sake.” He caught the boy's arm as he tried to hit him again, pulled his fist apart, and put his thumb on the outside. “Are you trying to hurt yourself? Try that again.” He almost touched Atticus that time. “Much better, but...” he quicly ducked under the boy's arm, and with a simple push the boy was on the ground again. “One...” he jumped back to avoid the kick. “Oh, finally using your feet, I see!”
The other boys were cheering their compatriot on, forming a ring around the wrestling mat. Gabe was laughing hysterically. Atticus smiled brightly as the football player scrambled to his feet. “Well, you're pretty good, I'll give you that, but let's give someone else a turn, shall we?” He dropped quickly, sweeping the boy's feet out from under him, then put one hand hard on his shoulder. “One, two, three. I told you not to lock your knees.”
Atticus smiled. The boy glared.
And then he got up and walked slowly to the locker rooms.
“Alright,” said Atticus, stretching, “Who's next?”
Forteen hands shot into the air, amid shouts.
“Right. You lot would probably stand a better chance if you changed first, right?”
The rush for the locker room was overwhelming. Atticus just smiled.
“How the heck?” Gabe dropped down from the bleachers with his bucket. “I thought you were gonna get creamed.”
“I know some tricks.” Atticus didn't look at him.
“You think you could teach me some?”
“You think you could beat me?”
“Never hurts to try.” Gabe put down his bucket and stepped onto the mat.
“Oh, I beg to differ.” For a moment, the small man looked genuinely scary.
And Gabe really hated to admit that he was right.

Leaks

Atticus awoke sharply to a particularly loud crack of thunder. It was a sound that he was beginning to get used to, but forty years of sleeping with both ears open made the habit hard to break. He glanced at the red numbers on the little digital clock he'd bought for himself the day before, and sighed. 4:30. Could be worse.
He groaned as he sat up, rubbing his eyes wearily. Another bolt illuminated his sparsely-furnished room, with the still packed up boxes stacked tall in one corner and two empty bookshelves standing next to the door like sentinals. A thin coating of dust still lay on the dual windowsills, from the house's long emptiness before they'd moved in. Atticus resolved to clean as soon as he had the time, or sometime eventually, at least.
The long downstairs hallway of the brick house was empty. He moved along it silently, headed for the kitchen. A soft clicking greeted him as he made his way in, and a wet nose shoved itself against his hand. The dog was trembling, scared stiff of the thunder. He scratched her soft ears and made a comforting noise, which sounded so strange coming from his own throat. The lightning flashed again, and Dragon dashed back under the table. She cowered in her dog bed, and Atticus sighed. He was no good at this comforting thing.
He flicked on the kitchen light, and moved to the sink. The dishes from all three day they'd been there were piled in the sink, and takeout containers overflowed from the white trash bin. He vaguely considered starting breakfast, but then realized that they were out of eggs, and the toaster hadn't been unpacked yet, and the diner wouldn't be open for another half-hour, at least. The dog's wet nose found his hand again, and he scratched her almost subconciously, mulling over the situation.
He wondered if Ben would mind leftover pizza for breakfast. Probably not, come to think of it.
Another crash of thunder sent the golden retriever skittering under the table again, and Atticus wondered how Ben was doing. The boy had been doing better, as far as he could tell, but an illness like this could reverse in a moment. He sighed, and headed upstairs to check on the boy.
The old wooden stairs creaked wearily as Atticus went up. The second door on the left was cracked open, and the orange night-light shone through like a beacon. Atticus pushed it open with all the quietness of a man who's long known how to move unheard, and stepped in.
He made slightly more noise when he nearly fell on his face. He cursed under his breath, and warily let go of his death grip on the doorframe. Water. There was water all over the floor. A quick glance upwards told him why as a water droplet hit him in the face
The roof was leaking. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his nightshirt, barely refraining from cursing again. Bloody American craftsmanship! And in the one place in the house where it actually mattered! Ben needed dry air, for...
Ben. He glanced over at the bed, and was relieved to see his young charge still sleeping. The twelve year old's small frame was twisted all around the blue-checked bedspread, and both of his pillows had somehow migrated to the floor. But he was still breathing, and still sleeping, and that's what mattered at the moment. The two de-humidifiers next to his bed were both still functioning, though the puddle was beginning to reach the one on the far edge. Another drip hit him in the back of the head, startling him. He sighed, and went back downstairs.
He wasn't entirely sure if they'd unpacked a bucket, or if there even was a bucket to unpack. Atticus eventually grabbed his tea kettle off the stove and a towel out of the downstairs bathroom and creaked his way back up the stairs.
Benjamin almost stirred this time as another huge flash of lighting broke the sky. He twisted another rotation, wrapping his bedspread more tightly around himself. He mumbled something as Atticus set down the tea kettle where he thought the drip was. One of Ben's feet was sticking out from under the covers now, and Atticus almost smiled. And then another drip hit him in the shoulder. The smile vanished, and he went back downstairs.
He returned this time with the frying pan. The dog followed him upstairs, tail tucked between her legs. She slid across the wet floor, suprise and fear painted on her face. He rubbed her head again as Ben flopped one arm out, still sleeping, looking for his pillow. Atticus handed it to him, and in a moment the boy was still again.
And then the splash of water in the puddle hit his ankle, and he knew there was a third leak.
All he could find this time was a teacup. By this time, the kettle was beginning to get full, and the dog smelled wet, and there was a fourth leak somewhere, he was quite sure of it, because a full half of the ceiling was shining with water at this point, and he went downstairs to get another teacup.
Nearly half an hour and his full tea set, two cocoa mugs, a couple of dirty glasses and a cereal bowl later, Atticus sat on the now-mostly-dry floor, leaning against the annoyingly-damp wooden door and staring at the absurdly-wet ceiling and feeling almost helpless. Ben had started coughing, and no matter how many times he emptied the teacups, the room wasn't getting any drier. The dog picked it's way through the teacup maze on the floor, headed for the closet as lightning flashed again, and in a panic Dragon knocked two of them over. Atticus sighed, and grabbed another towel from the pile he'd set outside the door. He hadn't felt this frustrated since... well, for a very long time.
He didn't know why this was bothering him. He'd stayed in leaking houses hundreds of times, many times worse than this. It barely crossed his mind anymore; if it didn't mess with his mission, it didn't matter. He'd always been able to deal with it himself. Why was this different?
He threw the wet towel at the bathroom across the hall and stared upwards. He was retired now. The mission wasn't what mattered anymore; he knew that. He'd spent the past year trying to convince himself of that, but forty years is a heavy weight to shake off.
Lightning flashed. Ben coughed. The dog wimpered, and Atticus swore under his breath. Bloody rain, bloody leak, bloody retirement. He wasn't himself without a mission.
Or maybe he was himself, and he had yet to figure out what that looked like.
He sat back, taking stock. Who was Atticus Knott? Not a spy anymore, not a retiree, technically, not even who he'd told them he was. Just an old man who'd spent his life learning what to do in situations that he would never encounter again. He didn't even have a family anymore.
He sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rain hitting the roof and the drips falling into the teacups, and thunder rolled in the distance, and Ben was breathing softly, with the same sick rasp to his voice that had brought them both to America, and to this bloody leaking house. This bloody leaking house that was going to keep him sick, with this bloody rain that had followed them all the way from England and this whole bloody situation, and Atticus wished that he just had to steal someone's briefcase so it would be over, and he could get on with the next bloody mission.
And then it hit him.
Ben. Ben was his mission. He was in another country, in a leaking house, with unknowns on every side and the odds against him, and he had an objective and a base and a full town to recon and two people to report to and quite possibly some enemies. And maybe, he barely thought, he did have a family, kind of. He twisted his ring around unconciously as he mulled it over.
And quite suddenly, he was alright.
“Alright.” He stood, stepping around the near-overflowing teacups to pick up his twelve year old charge. “Come on, Ben, we're going downstairs.”

Dr Doctor and the Viking Kid

“Is it on?”
Timothy peered up at the camera from under his plastic viking helmet. Seth nodded, making the camera rock up and down.
“Ok! Um... Hi! I'm Timothy! And... um... Seth?”
“You're introducing your story.”
“Um...”
“Start with Joscar.”
“Yeah! Joscar's great. He's a pirate, and he fights bad people and stops them from taking stuff cause that's what pirates do! I wanna fight crime with Joscar someday, so I've got my viking helmet cause I'm gonna be the viking kid!” The camera followed Timothy as he climbed onto a picnic table in the middle of the park. “And this is the story of... Viking Kid!” He posed dramatically, and the camera shook slightly as Seth tried to keep from laughing. Timothy looked out of the corner of his eye at the camera. “Is that good?”
“Yep.” Seth pushed the stop button on the camera and set it on the table next to Timothy. “Now all you have to do is think of a story.”
Timothy scowled. “This assignment is hard.”
“It could be worse, you know. She could've made you write it.”
“No she couldn't have, cause we don't know how to write yet.” Timothy crossed his arms over his knees as he sat on the tabletop. “I don't know how to make a story!”
“Well, you've got your protagonist already, so it shouldn't be that hard.”
“Pro..” Timothy struggled to pronounce the word. “Protag...”
“Main character. Hero.”
“Oh! Hero! Ok.” Timothy thought for a moment. “But if there's a hero, there's gotta be a villain.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, there's always a villain! Haven't you been paying attention?” Timothy stood up again, and Seth quickly rescued the camera from being kicked to it's death as Timothy marched up and down the table. “Whenever we go to the store, there's a villain, and whenever we go to the bank, there's a villain, and sometimes even when we're at the park! Villains are everywhere!”
It momentarily occurred to Seth that Timothy was actually right, and he didn't know quite whether to be disturbed by that or not, but he shook off the thought and went on. “So your story needs a villain, then.”
“Yeah.” Timothy thought for a moment, hovering without actually meaning to. “But if I'm Viking Kid... You're the villain!”
“But if I'm the villain, who runs the camera?”
“You do. You can hold it up with your powers, right?”
“Tim, that's not how we're supposed to use our...”
“But you can!”
“...Yeah.”
“Ok, you're the villain!”
“Fine.” The teen sighed, and put his free hand into his jacket pocket. “But you have to tell me what sort of villain to be.”
“An evil one,” Timothy said, as if it were the most obvious thing since the sky being blue, or his parents being able to fly. “What other kind is there?”
“Um... Misguided...”
“Those are boring! You're evil.”
“Ok, I'm evil. What's my villain name?”
“Um... Dr Doctor!”
“Dr Doctor.” Seth was not impressed.
“Or you could be Dr Dentist, cause that would definitely be worse.”
“Let's stick with the first one.”
“So you're Dr Doctor, and I'm the Viking Kid, and I'm gonna stop your evil plan!” Timothy was looking heroic again, and Seth almost laughed.
“What's my evil plan?” Seth went digging through their big red bag of costumes, looking for something evil. Timothy flew down next to him and started helping.
“I don't know, it's your plan!” Timothy examined a jester's hat and stuck it on Seth, looking critical.
“But it's your story!” Seth took off the hat and continued looking.
Timothy pouted. “This is too hard!”
Seth looked a top hat over, removing two plastic daisies from the rim, and put it on. “How's this?”
“Not evil enough!”
Seth tried to look very evil. “Now?”
Timothy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “You don't make a very good evil.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“A what?”
“A good thing.” He found a fake mustache and went searching through the bag's infinite pockets for the glue. “Now what's my plan?”
“You're trying to take over the world, I guess.”
“How am I gonna do that?”
“Um...” Timothy thought for a moment as Seth tried to stick the mustache on with double-sided tape. “You're gonna... um... You're gonna use a baseball bat.” He pulled the offending item out of the bag, and examined it. The purple plastic could not have been less intimidating.
“To take over the world.”
“Um...” Timothy tried on a pair of purple glasses as Seth's mustache fell off.
“Destroying the world would probably be easier.”
“Yeah, probably.” Timothy put the jester's hat on top of the top hat. “That way we can just say you're using a bomb.” The hat fell off, but Timothy wasn't paying attention anymore. “A really big bomb.”
“Is that alarm clock still in here?” Seth wondered aloud. “That would make a good bomb...”
“Yeah, I think so!” Timothy laid waste to the bag as he searched. “And we can use the beach ball for the world! My mom drew a map on it a couple weeks ago!”
Seth decided against objecting to using a red-and-yellow striped earth, and clipped a bow tie to his collar. “Right. So I'm blowing up the world, with my evil alarm-clock bomb, and you're going to stop me.”
“Right!” Timothy thought for a moment more. “I need to be saving someone.”
“You're saving the earth.”
“That's not the same! Joscar always has to save one person every time, even if he's saving the earth too! So I've gotta save someone.”
“But if I'm evil, and you're the Viking Kid, who are you going to save?”
Timothy thought for a moment. “You.”
“But I'm Dr Doctor.”
“You can be the daring explorer too! He's always getting captured.”
“But then I'd have to capture myself.” Seth looked skeptical. “And that wouldn't work.”
“This is too hard!”
“Just think it through, it's not that bad. We'll get ice cream when we're done.”
“Promise?”
“Sure.”
Timothy sat silent for a moment as Seth rustled through the bag, finding a black sheet that made for an excellent evil cape. He shed his jacket and tied the sheet around his neck.
Timothy suddenly had a moment of epiphany.“Maybe I'll be the daring explorer for the first part when you capture me, and you'll be the daring explorer when I rescue you!”
“But then it'd look like there were two explorers.”
“Not if we have the same hat!” Timothy had that it's-so-obvious expression again. “And we have an explorer hat, see?”
Seth blinked, and shook his head. “Right. Well, we'd better get started, then.”
“Right!” Timothy jumped on top of the table again. “I've come to stop you, Dr Doctor!”
“Not until the camera is on!” Seth shoved most of the costumes back into the bag and stood. “And don't I need to capture you first?”
“Oh! Right!” Timothy snatched the explorer hat from his bag, and switched it with his viking hat. “I'm exploring, daringly, exploring for all the world to see!” he sang, switching keys in the middle.
Seth winced. “Um, no singing, ok? Just look like you're exploring.”
“I need to explore over there! Trees are much more exciting to explore!”
“Right, um, ok.” Seth followed his young charge over to a big pine tree. “Ok, so you're exploring here...”
“And you kidnap me.”
“Why?”
“Cause you're evil! Duh!” Timothy adjusted his hat. “Is the camera on?”
“Um...” Seth flicked the switch to the on position. “Yep.”
“I'm exploring, exploring, oh look a tree!” He shot Seth a sharp glance, which Seth took to be his cue. He suspended the camera carefully by it's own battery power, giving it a faint blue glow as it hovered. “A fantastic tree of wonder!”
“Not so fast, er, Daring Explorer!” He tried to look dramatic as he burst into the camera's field of view. “I, the villainous Dr Doctor, am here to capture you!”
Timothy tried to look shocked. “Oh no!”
“Muahaha!” He picked the first grader up and slung him over his shoulder. “You'll never escape from me!”
“The Viking Kid will stop you, evildoer!”
“The Viking Kid has no hope against my bomb of evil!” Timothy produced the alarm clock with a flourish, taking care to keep the camera on them. “When it goes off, the world shall be destroyed!” He finished with another flourish of maniacal laughter, vaguely hoping that no superhero was in the neighborhood to hear and come to the rescue, then turned off the camera. “Good. Go get your viking hat.”
A sudden jingle filled the air as the ice cream truck rolled past the park, and Timothy's attention span followed it all down the street. “Are we done?”
“Not unless you want the world to get destroyed.”
“Ok.” Timothy was off like a bullet after the truck. “Come on, we're getting ice cream!”
Seth sighed, and stuffed the camera into his hat as he followed Timothy across the park.
Destroying the world was easier anyway.

Solar vs Bottom Dweller

“And with a push of a button, I shall destroy your puny hydraulic dam, and destroy this city!” The man in the fish suit laughed maniacally. “And the river shall once again be free for fish to swim in! Freedom, my brethren!” He spoke to the two catfish swimming lazily around in a walking robot tank. “For I am... The bottom feeder!”
Solar could only stare. “You cannot be serious.”
“There is a fish ladder. It's not like they're stuck,” came Susan's voice from the huge robot panther beside him. “I remember I rescued a cat from it once. Dear Duplo, he was such a wonderful kitty.”
“He spit everywhere, and smelled to high heaven,” complained the robotic voice of Todomi, who was the one actually running the robot. “You said yourself that you should've left him in the fish ladder.”
“I didn't really mean that, dear, any more than I meant that I wished I'd kept the cat-cannon to launch you into the sun.”
“Focus please,” said Solar, as he watched the maniac below dance in front of his camera via which he was threatening the city; namely all four people watching his videoblog. “He might not have a brain, but he has a bomb.”
“And a rather interesting robot! Do you think we could manage not to break it, dearie?”
“Sure, why not.” Solar pulled a staff out of a beam of sunlight. “I'll distract him, you take care of the bomb.”
“Right! Let's go, Todomi!”
The agile robot leapt into the forest surrounding the dam, disappearing into shadows as Solar stepped into light. He was off and running down the slope, head down, headed straight for the fishman.
It didn't take long for the man to notice him, especially once he started attacking. “Heathen superhero! How did you find us?”
“Gee, I wonder,” said Solar, as he landed a solid hit to the man's chest, knocking him back. “It's not like three people a day threaten the dam or anything, and of course there would be no reason for someone to be up here watching for it!”
“How dare you suggest the plan of the great ones is unoriginal?!” The Bottom Dweller threw a handful of muck at Solar, which he dodged.
“Quite easily!” Solar twisted around and struck the man again. “You've put your bomb down by the generators, right next to one of the central pillars. It has a digital timer, I'm guessing.”
“You spy!”
“I'm no spy, you're unoriginal! What you fail to realize is that the pillar you intend to destroy won't actually bring down the dam! It's still structurally sound without that support!”
“That's why there are two bombs!” The fishman looked triumphant as he finally managed to hit Solar with a fistful of mud.
“On the same pillar!” Solar wiped the mud off with the back of his hand and struck again as the man squawked.
“You spy!” He struck with the fury of a thousand flopping goldfish. Solar caught his fist and twisted it around his back until he cried uncle. “I.. I surrender! You win this round, land dweller!”
“Big surprise.”
“Fool!”
Solar stared at the robot containing the catfish tank. “Excuse me?”
“You dare surrender to this pathetic human? You make us ashamed to call you our brother.”
“I'm sorry, Oh great ones!” The man in the fish suit cowered, bowing as much as he could without breaking his still-twisted arm. “Forgive me! My human body is weak!”
“You shall pay for your disobedience!” The catfish-mobile began charging what appeared to be a high powered laser. “Now, speak your last, and be honored to do it in our presence!”
“I shall love and serve the fish of the world, even in my death!”
The robot stood high on it's spindly legs and the two catfish inside did their best to look imposing and merciless. “Now, then, die!”
Solar caught the laser beam in midair, freezing it in place.
“What is this treachery?” asked the fish.
“What is this lunacy?” countered Solar.
“The great and mighty catfish, heathen!” The man in the fish suit had regained some of his self righteous confidence. “They will transform this puny human town into the beginnings of a new Atlantis, ruled by catfish, where humans are slaves to the superior race! You shall be no more than a pebble washed away by the mighty river of their greatness! All hail the mighty...”
“Done!” Susan's robotic panther sprang out of the top of the dam. “Bomb's gone. All taken care of. How's the madman?”
“Ruled by fish.”
“All hail the mighty catfish!”
The panther gave as incredulous a stare as was possible with a robotic panther face. “Seriously?” it asked in Todomi's voice.
“Dearie, bring that fishtank robot back. I'd like a look at the robot, and I'm sure you and the other kitties wouldn't mind a snack...”
The fishtank backed away. “Do not touch the tank of the great ones, mortal... shining cat thing! For we are great, and we shall destroy you when we conquer...” It didn't get any further before the robot panther leapt. The smaller robot didn't stand a chance. It was trapped before it could even start it's laser charging.
“We'll have to leave you alone for a while, Solar. I need to take a closer look at catfish technology.”
“Right. You call Sam?”
“She's on her way with the police. Do try to be nice, dearie, the poor girl's had it rough recently.”
With that, the robot panther leapt from the dam, landing neatly on it's feet hundreds of feet below, and took off toward Susan's little cat-filled home.
“Oh, yeah...” Solar stared after it. “Right.”



Wrote this as a part of a much larger story, in which I've been making all my characters ten years older than I originally thought them up as. Apologies for the lack of conclusive ending, but it makes sense in context. For now, laugh at the insane fish cult member. And comment!