June Writing Challenge: This Changes Everything.

[Admin!]

It's writing challenge time! To enter, just post a ficlet (300-4000 words suggested) in this thread. When the voting for this month's OTM winners comes around, a voting poll will go up for this as well.

The Challenge: Write a story about a life-altering event. It needs to be something major, but it cannot be a birth, a death, or a wedding. Anything else is fair game. Have fun.

The rules:

• Characters must be in Hammel canon, but the ficlets are not site canon unless expressly stated.
  
• Entries must be more than 300 words.
  
• You can enter no more than three stories. Any ficlets posted after the original 3 will not be considered for voting. If you want to post more, however, have fun.
  
• Ficlets must be titled.

[Terrance Kellam]

The Future of Translations
A.K.A. "All Your Eggs"

"98… 99… 100 percent." Terrance wasn't sure why he shelled out the money for the update, but he figure he had to know what his competition was. After all, it was 2033 and the language market had changed drastically from when he first entered it. Computer-aided translation was much more common, and companies like Google were perfecting their translating softer day by day. Luckily, Terrance always had the tools necessary to compete against the inferior technology: himself.

Being a meta-human definitely had its perks. This was apparent from day one of their manifestation. When he was fourteen, he got his abilities, went to a school for people just like him, and was able to transform from a socially-inept child into the person who had to talk to everyone. And he had a kick-ass power: he could literally talk to everyone! He knew what everyone was saying in every language, and when they visited for the first time three years ago, he was one of the main linguistic analyst on the scene to help translate their language into something the people of Earth could understand.

But apparently, "people" doing the job was something Earth was tired of. And this update to Terry -- his personalized home robot -- was supposed to be able to pretty much mimic what he could do. There had been some failed attempts in the past few years, but "supposedly" they had worked out all the kinks. Terrance rolled his eyes at the thought. There was no way possible that they could effectively write a program that would mimic his omnilinguistic skills. And he was going to be sure to prove it.

When the downloaded completed, the hologram over his head indicating the progress, Terry woke up, continuing on a list of chores he was assigned beforehand. "Hold on there, Terry," Terrance interrupted. The robot stopped and looked to him. The moment of Terry was so fluid now. He could remember ten years ago when you could see all the joints and such, and the robots looked so rigid. Now? Terrance was having a hard time telling Terry apart from a REAL Terry. Terry looked just like a real human being, and their flesh helped to hide the fact that they weren't. He could only imagine what the freaks out there in the world did with their human-like robots.

"Yes, Mr. Kellam?" And his voice wasn't robotic either. Terrance was surprised a few years ago when they worked out the robotic voice, replacing it with fluid speech.

Terrance then began the testing. Japanese, Russian, Czech, Chinese, Tagalog. Every language he could think up. A question was asked in each language in rapid succession, all in an effort to confuse Terry -- something that would have tripped him up during his days at Hammel. However, Terry was able to respond to each question at a normal conversation's pace. This didn't surprise Terrance; the last update a few months ago could do almost the same thing. It was better this time, he had to admit. But it wasn't anything to worry about. "Continue on, Terry."

"Yes, Mr. Kellam."

- - - - -

It had been three weeks since the update. The world seemed to love it. Apparently, it was working as advertised. Terrance didn't care for the hype, though. He chose to avoid most of the news regarding it, especially on his vacation to Russia. He was just getting home.

"Terry," he flagged down his servant as he walked through the house, "Did I get any messages while I was gone?"

"No, Mr. Kellam. Your usual contacts have not called for three weeks now."

For the first time, Terrance was concerned. He normally had a steady flow of business. Ever since he graduated from Hammel and started his translation business, things had been pretty smooth. He could crank out documents, files, books, everything in little to no time. All he had to do was write what his powers translated. Terrance had even accidentally monopolized most of the business; he was stealing customers from the other freelancers, putting them out of business. He had heard most of them took up new jobs and started on other hobbies. But, it was a first that he hadn't had work in this long. Someone always needed something translated now. So, he would have to do the calling himself.

"Hello. This is Terrance Kellam, from Hammel Translations, Inc. I was calling to-- Oh, you did?… Oh… I-I'm glad the update is working out so well for you then…"

"Hello. This is Terrance Kellam, from Ham-- You want to cancel the other job? May I ask what happened?… Oh, you got the update…"

"Hello. This is T--- Hello? Hello?"

All of them… All of them. Every single last one of his clients had downloaded the update. And apparently, it worked just as good as he did. The update came some cheaply, too. It was probably in every home by now.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Kellam?" Terry came by his office with coffee. It was about 11:33pm when he finished the calls. Normal coffee bringing time for the long night ahead.

"Ah… Nah. Everything's fine. Can you, um… just leave the coffee in the kitchen? I'll drink it in the morning. Looks like tonight is an early night…"

"Yes, Mr. Kellam. Have a good night."

Terrance watched Terry as he left, closing the door behind him. The sound of the door closing was the only sound in the house at the moment. Or, that's all Terrance could hear. He was at a loss for words. What the hell was he supposed to do now? There was no way he'd be able to work anymore… Robots… fucking took over… my job… It was hard to believe.

People had always talked many many years ago about how they were afraid of robots taking over various jobs. ANd even when millions of people were replaced by artificial intelligence in the work place -- at the super market, at the car shop, at the theaters, driving public transportation -- everyone always knew that the language jobs would be there to stay. Always. Is was the one job they couldn't do… right?

Terrance blinked. He didn't know what else to do. He never graduated from Hammel, simply left at the end of his third-failing Junior year. He never had any other skills, he always relied on his abilities. And getting a new job with no skills or proper education -- Especially when a FUCKING robot can do it better!!! -- would be next to impossible.

He stood up and exited the room. One of his worst fears was finding out that his ability was gone. That he'd wake up one day and return to being that pathetic 14-year-old kid with no ability. That he'd be worthless again… It was all coming true. His worst fear was coming true. No… His worst fear was true. His worst fear was already in every home, doing his job. His worst fear turned him back in to being a nobody.

He was scared.

Terrance saw Terry tidying up a few things. The robots had gotten so good that they could stay uncharged for weeks at a time. Terrance had gotten a solar-powered one, so he always stayed charged. It was such a good investment… So good you can replace me…

He was lost.

Terrance saw it… the baseball bat. Leaning against the wall by the kitchen door. He'd used it to play ball with a neighboring kid before he left for vacation.

He was pissed.

Terrance didn't quite remember how it happened, but the next thing he knew, Terry was on the floor in front of him, gears and gizmos whirring about, sparks flying, fake flesh ripped and tossed about, limbs hanging from various counters, the head trying to speak. It managed to get out a few words.

"Happy-- Happy- Happy Bir-Bir-Bir-- Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha"

"STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"

And the bat silenced him for good.

- - - - -

TK shot up in his bed, sweating as if he'd just left the shower. His eyes darted around his room, looking for some sign that what he'd just seen wasn't real. His arm darted out and grabbed his cell phone, reading the date that displayed on it. It was June of 2012. He was safe. He took of his shirt, tossing it to the floor. The TV was still on and as he grabbed the remote, he observed what was on it.

"And THAT'S why you don't put all your eggs in one basket!", accompanied by a laughter track.

That… that won't happen to me, right? He shut off the TV and laid back down, thinking about the horrible dream -- More like a nightmare… -- he had just had.

I don't rely on my power…do I?

[Stefan Spencer]

From the Bottle to the Bottom

1986

Stefan had stopped by a boxing match on his way to work that evening. Not because he was participating, but because his main competition for the tournament next week was. His ability to analyze worked best when it was someone he had seen more than once. It became easier to read them. Some might consider it cheating. But other guys did the same thing, Stefan and his power just knocked it up a step.

Still this was going to be one tough fight, even with his ability. His competition didn’t seem to give any other man much time to react. Twice his matches ended before ten seconds had gone by.

Starting to feel a little anxious about the upcoming tournament, he was a half hour late when he arrived at the bar where he worked. By that time in the evening he always had a nice buzz going. He was somewhat past that as he walked into the bar. So it was no real surprise that his boss was a bit put off. After a few severe words from his boss, Stefan assumed his spot behind the bar serving not only drinks to men and woman there, but also his wit and charm. Hopefully from here the night would have hopes of improvement.

“Stefan?” one of the girl waitresses called to him a few minutes after he had arrived. “About tonight…”

“Oh come on Roxy,” he said his voice bordering on pleading. “This is the third time you’ve back out on me. You got some other guy better looking than me?” He tried to make a joke out of the question, but the girl’s sad smile confirmed the theory.

“Sorry,” she said, as she walked away to take a table’s drink order.

Still Stefan tried to keep his mood up. So what if Roxy had other plans? The night was young and full of possibilities. But even with his “swagger”, his flirting seemed to be getting him nowhere. Sure, his tip jar was getting full as the night went on, but Stefan was looking for more than spare change. He started helping himself to drinks in between serving the customers, while keeping an eye out for his boss.

His eager flirting was slowly turning into sad desperation. It was Friday night and it looked like Stefan would be going home alone. His anxiety, mixed with the alcohol content quickly accumulating in his blood, caused him to spill quite a few drinks and drops a glass or two. Unlucky for Stefan, his boss seemed to notice those things better than the young man sneaking shots behind the bar.

“Hey butterfingers,” he hollered at closing time. “Stick around. I want a word with you.”

Stefan considered trying to sneak out, but his walking ability seemed to have deteriorated along with his hand-eye coordination. Besides, he was already in a bad mood. There wasn’t much lower an argument with his boss could take him.

After completing his end of the night tasks, Stefan stumbled into his boss’ office. The older man launched into a tirade about Stefan’s lack of work ethic, warning him that he would loose his job if things didn’t improve. Normally Stefan might have turned on the charm and tried smoothing things over, but he wasn’t really up to it. It was only when Stefan was excused to leave that the man’s tone changed as he noticed his employee’s condition.

“You okay, kid?” his asked, although his voice still held the earlier anger, Stefan picked up on the subdued note of concern.

“Yeah,” Stefan mumbled. “Just tired.”

It took a while for Stefan to get his key to go into the ignition. He might have asked one of his co-workers for a ride, but by that time the only person around was his boss. Even though he had seemed to care as Stefan had staggered out the door, Stefan wasn’t much for asking for help. Especially asking if from someone who had spent most of the night glaring at him.

After driving for five minutes or so, the skies opened up and started quickly started to flood the streets. Stefan cursed loudly as he flipped on his wipers. This night was going from worse to horrible. His next boxing match was against the one-hit wonder, his date for the night had fallen through, he’d struck out at the bar, he’d received threats of loosing his job (which he really loved), and now this. What next?

And suddenly Stefan stopped caring. Let it rain. Let his boss fire him. Who cared? He was tougher than that. And his flask would help him work through it.

“Bring it on!” he yelled, rolling down the window. “That all ya got?” He didn’t even know who he was addressing. Fate? Maybe God?

Whoever it was, they weren’t appreciative of his attitude.

Stefan lost control of his car going around a sharp turn. His tires skidded across the slick asphalt as he fought the wheel to keep it on the road. Then the car started to roll over. Subconsciously, his hand found his flask and tightened around it as the car slammed into the trees lining the road.

----------

He had half a second to wonder where he was before the pain slammed into him. It came from all over. His head throbbed. Ever inch of his skin felt rubbed raw. Breathing was difficult because of the sharp pang in his side. And his lower half felt like it was caught the sharp-toothed fangs of a monster.

He was vaguely aware that he was somehow getting rained on even though the car was upside down. Groping in the darkness with his hand, he tried to find the door. Between the alcohol still in his system and the pain, it took cutting his hand on the broken window for him to locate it.

A fresh jolt of agony tore up his right side as he tried to pull himself free from the wreckage. His leg was pinned into the debris by a piece of metal. He tried to wiggle himself free, but another rush of pain made him realize the metal had broken the skin and was buried in his thigh.

He screamed for help, but the only answer was the rumbled of thunder as the storm grew. The physical suffering he felt made every second seem like lifetimes. He started to worry that no one would come. He knew he was bleeding badly and it was getting difficult to take a full breath without loosing consciousness from the wave of pain that accompanied any movement.

“I’m going to die,” he realized with horror. “Here in this heap of metal. Here…alone.”

It wasn’t the dying that scared him. Somehow the thought that with dying would come an end to the pain made it seem okay. But to be alone in his final moments…

He tried calling again for help, but his voice broke, turning into moans of fear and pain.

----------

He awoke in the hospital half a day later to his sister madly waving his dented flask inches from his nose. “This,” she said, her voice filled with anger although Stefan could see from the redness in her eyes that she had been crying. Probably for some time. “This almost killed you.”

“I know,” he croaked. Even with whatever medication they had him on, his whole body still throbbed.

Seeing his obvious pain, Kathryn’s anger dissolved into tears. “I thought…” she said, between sobs.

“I know.”

“You can’t…do this…I can’t…loose you…Please…”

“I know,” he said, tears starting to crawl down his cheeks as well. Because he did know, but he also knew he couldn’t stop.

[Brendan James]

From Bottle to Heartbreak

Brendan’s first experience with alcohol was at fifteen years old. His own experience that is. He’d seen his parents drink. Heard stories from his friends about how hammered they’d supposedly gotten over the weekend. He’d even been offered a drink before at a un-chaperoned party, he neglected to tell his parents that small detail though. But he’d always declined, never taking much interest. He was a teenage boy though. So that was bound to change.

He’d been spending the day at his Uncle’s place. It wasn’t uncommon really. Sometimes Brendan would get an earful from his mother or father that he needed to leave Stefan alone more. That Stefan was a grown man and needed more time for himself. Even as a child though, Bren wasn’t one for listening.

So there he was, again spending the day with his Uncle. They’d been talking about school. Mostly, a girl that he liked. Bren had described in… vivid detail her blessed figure. And Stefan was amused that the girl was nineteen. Go figure his nephew would be the one shooting for the sky, right? He saw so much of himself in his young nephew. It wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Not at all. In fact, Stefan was almost proud. His nephew was not lacking in confidence and he felt largely responsible for it. Which is rightfully so, mind you.

It was roughly half passed eleven when Stefan stood from the couch and made his way towards the kitchen. Brendan of course immediately followed after him as if he were a puppy his uncle had trained. The teenager watched as his uncle poured himself a drink, something Bren had seen him do a hundred times before.

“What’s that taste like?” He asked, watching his Uncle drink down about half of the small portion he poured himself. Stefan had already given him a small lesson in alcohol. So the boy knew his Uncle was drinking a scotch. And that because it there was no ice, it was neat. And based on the amount, it looked like a double.

“Kind of… Smokey. With a little spice in it.” He said as he swirled the liquor around the in the glass, watching the liquid spin around.

“Can I try it?” Bren asked without hesitation. This was Stefan after all.

It did catch the older man’s attention and he looked at his nephew, appraisingly. After a moment, “If your mother finds out, she’ll have my head.” came from Stefan’s mouth. As he said it though, he handed over his glass to Brendan.

Hesitantly, the teenage boy sniffed it. Then he took a sip… And almost immediately choked and began coughing. With a chuckle, Stefan took the glass back, and then retrieved a new glass and some water for the boy. “Yeah, I thought so.” He said, patting his nephew’s back and handing him the new glass.

After taking a sip of water, Brendan’s composure was regained. “Do you have anything else I could have?” If nothing else, you have to adore the kid’s tenacity.

“Hmmm… I think a rum and coke oughta do it.” He said with a nod, reaching for an entirely different liquor bottle. “Go ahead and get me a coke out of the fridge.”

With a skip in his step and a big grin, Bren practically dashed to the fridge. When he came back to the counter, coke in hand, the look on Stefan’s face made him stop. It was a look that said his Uncle was about to correct something he’d done. “What?”

“Just no. Bren… Don’t act like drinking is a big deal. Act like you do it all the time. Like it’s simply another day. And don’t skip when you get to drink.” He said with a smile, took the coke, and turned to make the drink. But he immediately turned back to the kid. “And don’t drink beer.”

Brendan took a timid sip of the drink his Uncle had made for him. “Tastes like… Vanilla. And coke.”

“That’s because I used vanilla rum.”

“Well it’s good.” Bren said as he took a big gulp and swallowed.

“Woooah there. Sip it. It’s not going anywhere.”

“But that’s how you drank it?”

“I have years of experience though. You have quite a while before you catch up to me.” Stefan said with an affection rub of his nephew’s long hair. “You should really cut this mane of yours. You’re starting to almost look like a girl. And you’re too good looking for that.”

With a sigh, Brendan followed his Uncle back to the couch, taking another sip of his drink. “Not you too.” He whined. “Mom and dad are already on my case about my hair.”

“That’s because they had a son, not a daughter.” Stefan said with a smile as he teased his nephew. It was all in good fun mind you. As was the rest of their time together.

By the time Brendan made it home, his head was spinning. And fits of giggles were erupting from his chest. “Brendan, you need to relax. Your parents will kill me. Just… stop.”

That did nothing but make Brendan giggle more though. With a heavy sigh, Stefan readied himself for getting chewed out. “Well shit.” Helping his nephew to the door, Stefan got out their house key and walked in with the boy.

“Thank goood! I’m home! That felt like the looongest drive!”

“I live like five minutes away Bren.”

“Yeah, but I gotta pee.” And with that his nephew stumbled down the hall and into the bathroom.

“Damn it.” Stefan said as he hung his head.

And then Kathryn began making her way down the stairs. “There you are. We were wondering what you boys were up to.” She smiled at her brother when she reached the bottom of the stairs. “Well? Where’s my son? If you lost him, I’ll hurt you.” She said, teasing in her voice.

“Oh uh… He’s in the bathroom… Look, I should really be going.” Yeah, it was a weasel move. But he hated when his sister was mad at him.

However, Brendan took it upon himself to take that moment to come out of the bathroom, nearly face planting into the hall rug. But the boy managed to brace himself, catching the edge of the hall table with his hands. “Woah…” After righting himself, he blinked multiple times as if he were trying to clear his eyesight. “Moooom! How are you this woooondrous evening?”

Kat looked back at her brother as if she were confused. Surely, Stefan didn’t get her son drunk… right? But motherly concern quickly took over and she went to her son, feeling his forehead to be sure he hadn’t broke a fever so high he was delusional. Then, her jaw set and she sniffed her son’s breath.

The look that she shot at her brother made his heart sink. It was only two and a half drinks. Bren had said his stomach was too filled up to be able to finish the last of it.

“Get out.” She hissed at him, cradling Bren against her.

“Kat… Come on.”

“Tim! Get down here!” She hollered up the stairs, angrily. “Get out of my house Stefan. Now.”

Stefan looked to Tim as he came running down the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

“Brendan’s drunk. Get him to bed.” Tim glared at Stefan as he took on the weight of his son, and then slowly and carefully helped him up the stairs.

The two stayed quiet until both Tim and Bren were out of earshot. And even a few moments after too. Stefan couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Not with his sister’s death stare burning holes into his being.

“I’ve put up with a lot of shit Stefan. A lot of it. I was there when you nearly killed yourself.” She said as she took strides towards him and began whacking him with her hands. “But you will not turn my son into a drunk like you! Do you understand me?”

Raising his arms, he tried to deflect her blows, which weren’t all that hard, but still. “Kat, I’m sorry alright! I didn’t think it was that big a deal. It was barely two drinks after all.”

“He’s a fifteen year old boy!”

“I got you drunk when you were fourteen.”

“He’s my son! And you’re an alcoholic Stefan!” She turned away from him. Angry didn’t begin to describe how she was feeling. Betrayed. Outraged. Horrified. Scared.

“I said I’m sorry Kat. Please. Just… I’ll do better. I promise.” He said, wrapping his arms around her and hugging his sister close.

For a moment, she hugged him back. Kathryn loved her brother. Very much. They’d always had a close relationship, since they were children. He’d been her friend and protector for years now. But it seemed now was the time for her to start protecting herself. Gently, she pulled away from her brother and looked at him. “I don’t want you seeing him anymore.”

Stefan blinked at his sister. She couldn’t mean that. Not allow him to see Brendan anymore? “Kathryn… You can’t do that. You can’t take him away from me.”

“He’s my son. I’ll do whatever I damn well please. You, Stefan, are not to see him anymore. Now go.”

Feeling as if he’d just been socked in the gut, Stefan was at a loss of what to do. Had he just ruined possibly the best thing in his life? With tears in his eyes, he turned, whimpered another apology, and left their home.

The next morning when Brendan woke, his head was spinning. He groaned and pulled his covers over his head. “Sheets don’t make a hangover go away.” His mother’s voice said. He pulled them back and peeked at her, afraid of the fury that might begin at any moment. But her face didn’t say she was angry. She actually seemed calm. “There’s a glass of water and aspirin right there for you.” She said, tilting her head to indicate they were resting on his nightstand.

After downing both pills and the entire glass of water, Bren lay back down and sighed. “I’m sorry mom.”

“I know. Even if you aren’t really, the hangover is punishment enough. For right now.”

“Aren’t you mad?”

“Not at you.”

“But… Why? I was drunk.”

“Your Uncle Stefan needs to learn to say no. And that there are boundaries. Ones he shouldn’t cross.”

“It’s not his fault though. I asked him for a drink.”

“I thought that. But he should’ve said no.”

“But mom-”

Kathryn raised a hand to cut him. “Enough.”

And Brendan listened. He knew when to stop with his mother. And he almost always would. Almost.

“There’s something you should know about your Uncle Stefan. You know that he drinks.”

Brendan had to bite the inside of his cheek not to giggle. Everybody knew Uncle Stefan drank. But that didn’t stop a smirk making it’s home on Bren’s face. But it quickly disappeared when his mother shot him a look. “Yeah, I know Uncle Stefan drinks.”

“Too much actually. He looses himself in it sometimes. You’re old enough to know that’s not good, that people sometimes get into trouble when they drink.” She couldn’t bring herself to sully the image that her son held of her brother. So she avoided using the ‘a’ word. “Because of that… Your Uncle Stefan has been told not to see you anymore.”

“What?!” Brendan shot up, in bed. But the room began spinning. “Oh god.” He cradled his head in his palms, trying desperately to make it stop.

His mother didn’t move, didn’t try to comfort him. The hangover needed to be a lesson to her son. “Not forever. Just… for awhile. Until he gets his drinking under control.”

Slowly lifting his head from his hands, Brendan scowled at his mom. “That’s not fair though!”

“Brendan, look at you. Think about how you’re feeling right now. That’s his fault.”

“It’s not his fault. And it’s not that bad!” His own yelling made him cringe and hold his head again.

Standing up, Kat looked at her son sadly. “I know you’re upset. And that you might hate me for this. But you’ll see. One day you’ll have kids and you’ll understand that all I’m doing is trying to protect you. But this is my final decision.”

Brendan waited. He waited until he was sure he heard both his parents’ voices downstairs. Then he slowly got out of bed and tiptoed across the floor, creaking his door slowly open. His father sounded as if he were sitting at the kitchen table, while his mom was walking around the kitchen. He didn’t bother listening to what they were saying, unwilling to hear what he assumed was negative talk about the man he admired so.

As slowly and as quietly as he could, Brendan snuck down the stairs and out the front door. Then he began running. Which quickly became the obvious wrong choice. So instead he walked. It only took about fifteen minutes with cutting through people’s yards. But once there, Bren was exhausted.

Pounding on his Uncle’s door, Brendan had to lean against the frame. When Stefan opened the door, he was at a loss for what to do. Seeing Brendan was awful. But great all the same. His nephew loved him so much that he came over; breaking the rules his parents had no doubt made him aware of. But he also knew it was wrong. He’d come to terms with his sister’s ruling last night once he’d come home. Yes, it would be awful not seeing his nephew. But Kat was right, Stefan had to get things under control. He refused to be a bad influence in his nephew’s life.

“Brendan… You shouldn’t be here.” He said, yet he still opened the door for the boy. What? The boy was obviously tired. And the sheen on his face indicated that at any moment, he might be sick.

“It’s not fair Uncle Stefan. It’s not fair.” The boy struggled to speak regularly.

“It is fair. Your parents are right, Bren. I need to… I need to stop being so immature. I have you guys that I have to think about. It’s not just me. But I refuse to be a bad influence on you.”

“But you aren’t! You ar-” He stopped mid sentence and braced himself against a wall for a moment. “Oh shit.” Then he raced off to the bathroom.

Uncle Stefan was on his heels, following the boy. “It’s ok, just relax.” As his nephew made it to the toilet in time, Stefan took hold of Bren’s long hair and rubbed his back. “Just breathe. It’ll be over soon.” He’d caused this. He’d caused his poor nephew to be physically sick. Sure, it would’ve happened eventually at some point. Everybody threw once in his or her life from drinking. But this was Stefan’s fault.

After Bren had finished, Stefan allowed the boy to use his toothbrush to clean his mouth. Obviously, he threw it away immediately after. Then got the boy a glass of water and allowed him to lie in his bed, where he almost immediately fell back to sleep.

After a brief phone call, Stefan waited. It would only be a matter of minutes before there was a kno-There it was. Standing, he answered the door and saw his brother-in-law before him. “Tim, I’m really sor-”

“I don’t care. I’m here to get my son and I’m leaving.”

Sighing, he stepped out of the way. “He’s in the bedroom.” Tim strode in, going directly to the room. There he was, his little boy, passed out. Bending over, Tim picked his son up, fireman style, lifting with his knees.

Brendan began to stir as he was jostled. “Shhh… It’s ok. I’ve got you know Brendan.” His father whispered to him. Stefan offered his help and received nothing but a cold stare in response. As Tim walked past him, he informed Stefan of his own feelings. “If I had my way, you’d never see him again.”

Following them to the door, Stefan hung his head. Couldn’t they tell he was already ashamed? Horrified at what he’d caused?

He watched as Tim loaded his nephew into the car. He watched as they drove away. The worse part of all this was that he didn’t know when he’d see his beloved protégé again. It was awful. But he knew he had nobody to blame but himself.

When he could no longer see the car, he closed the door and went back inside. And immediately went to the kitchen and poured himself a scotch. A tear ran down Stefan's cheek as he slammed the liquid down his throat.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright

So long, Frank Lloyd Wright.
I can't believe your song is gone so soon.
I barely learned the tune
So soon
So soon.

Few people had ever seen Sean Neville upset; fewer still had seen him angry. But as he crossed the administrative conference room to the door, those few familiar with his emotional tells knew that he was downright livid. He had retreated fully into his “stoic mode,” and his lips were drawn into a thin line as he reached the door. Despite the turmoil of the past hour, his posture was impeccable.

“I’ll let myself out.”

“We expect you’ll bring the files with you by Monday.” Marshall Walken scratched his Westie behind the ears. While the telepath was sensitive to people’s emotional bonds, he wished the other man had left the dog at home; it had made the meeting even more draining.

“You can subpoena me through my attorney; his office is in Burlington.”

“We need those files.” Nicholas Kells was as harsh as ever, and he relished the ability to give a veiled command to the tall psychiatrist.

“You can subpoena me through my attorney,” Sean repeated coolly.

“We need them now.” Nicholas said. “And we’ll get them one way or another. The law doesn’t look kindly on obstruction of government interests, and that tends to end badly for the people doing the obstruction. It’s considered treason.”

Sean turned around to make eye contact with Nicholas. “I’m willing to take my chances with a court telepath.” He reached up to tap his right temple with an index finger.

“Doctor Neville-”

“I’ll be off the premises in ten minutes.” He dropped his hand to his side and then turned his back on the whole lot of them: on Yvette, on the Hammel Board of Trustees, and on the attending members of Operation Patriot.

True to his word, he was off the Hammel grounds within ten minutes of leaving the conference room. He only stopped at his office long enough to pack a box of necessities; he could send for everything else. He stopped to speak with none of the other staff; he simply walked to his car, put the box in the back seat, and then drove away, watching the building grow smaller in his rearview mirror until it disappeared from his vision completely.

He had three hours before he typically returned home from work; with no set obligations now, he chose to stop off at the bakery to buy a pound of Italian wedding cookies. He needed the glucose boost.

When he returned home, he locked himself in his study to organize all of his records. He had never been gladder about the fact that he handled all of his records in writing as opposed to using technology.

When Josh returned home that night, the house was filled with the sounds of “Overs” from Bookends and the aroma of stew. A peek in the kitchen verified that there was, in fact, stew simmering on the stove.

Neither of those was particularly problematic. While Graceland was Sean’s favorite album, Bookends was widely considered to be Simon and Garfunkel’s best collaboration. Also, Josh liked stew; he appreciated every meal that Sean found the time and energy to make for them. But, having observed his partner make stew on multiple occasions, it was somewhat peculiar for a mid-week meal.

“I thought stew needed hours to simmer,” he said, as he stepped into the living room to find the telepath on the sofa reading the newspaper.

“It does.” Sean replied. He folded up the newspaper and set it down carefully on the coffee table; this was followed by rising from the sofa and crossing the room to turn down the volume on the stereo. “I’ve been home for three hours.”

“Oh.” Josh blinked at him, wracking his brain for Sean having mentioned that there was a half-day at Hammel, but he came up empty-handed. “Was there a pep rally?” Josh didn’t know if Hammel had pep rallies, but it was a possible explanation.

“No. Actually, I was fired today.”

“What?” Josh furrowed his brow, certain that he had misheard that.

“I was fired today.” The telepath’s voice was eerily calm, as he relayed the fact that his job of over two decades had been terminated. “There was a meeting of joint Board of Trustees early this afternoon, and they chose to let me go. I didn’t stay for any of my afternoon sessions, so I had a few hours to spare. Why not use that time to make something we can’t otherwise have often?”

“You were fired? Why?”

“Could you help me set the table? The kitchen table is fine; there’s no reason to bother with the dining room tonight.” The telepath left the living room for the kitchen to check on their supper. Josh followed behind him, still bewildered and fuming on Sean’s behalf.

Once they were in the kitchen, Sean went to check on the potatoes roasting in the oven. With his back to his partner, he said, “We had an irreconcilable difference of opinions about Hammel policies.”

“What does that mean?” Josh went to the cabinet to pull down the plates and glasses.

The potatoes required another few minutes, and the telepath replaced the pan in the over, shutting the door. “The current administration wants to implement a policy that I can’t support, and they fired me for obstruction.” He shrugged slightly and crossed to the refrigerator to retrieve the water jug.

“How could they do that? You’ve worked for them for twenty-two years.”

“I know.” The telepath shrugged again, but his tone was carefully even. He was still livid, but he was keeping it to himself. “Since I have that much seniority, they couldn’t cut my pension or my benefits package; I’m entitled to collect those because I hit the twenty-year mark.”

Sean filled both of the glasses on the table with water, and then he sat down. “We should be fine. I still have my license, so I can open up a private practice; my employment contract forbade private practice while I worked at Hammel, but it’s no longer in effect. I’ll need to find some available office space, possibly in Burlington; I spent some time considering a home practice earlier this afternoon, but I’d rather not.” The telepath shook his head to himself and sipped from his water glass. “At least the house is paid off so we don’t need to worry about the mortgage.”

“They can’t just fire you over ideological differences; that’s discrimination!” Josh was officially outraged on his partner’s behalf. While his opinions on Hammel’s monopoly and recruitment policies had long been unfavorable, he had still expected more of the school than to throw away one of their most dedicated employees like so much garbage.

“They can do whatever they want; they’re a private school.” One that received government grant money, which was at the heart of this matter in the first place, but a private school nonetheless.

“There are still legal protections. This is Vermont, not one of those ‘right to work states.’”

The telepath shrugged and took another sip from his glass. “They didn’t fire me for trying to unionize,” he pointed out. “They didn’t fire me for being a man or for being in a relationship with another man or for being an atheist or for voting Democrat in every election since I turned eighteen. So I’m sure they didn’t violate the law by firing me.”

That was carefully phrased, because the crux of this matter was that Sean thought that if they hadn’t violated the law already, then they would soon. And if they didn’t violate the letter of the law because of a governmental power grab, it violated the spirit of the law and every sense of right and wrong that the telepath had.

Admittedly, Sean’s sense of ethics was dictated by the law and by adopted psychiatric, medical, educational codes, but his sense of morality was wholly unrelated to anything so written.

Josh frowned at the telepath. “Don’t tell me you’re defending them. You don’t owe them any loyalty anymore.”

“I’m not defending them.” Sean’s voice was devoid of all emotion, as he set aside his glass.

Josh gave him a curious look, conveying that it sounded exactly like defending them as far as he was concerned. The attorney had a tendency to pile on his dislike when he had no reason to hold back (subtlety and nuance weren’t his strongest suits), and Hammel had landed itself squarely on his enemies list.

The telepath rose from his chair to return to check on the potatoes again; he didn’t want to get into a debate on the matter. Thus, he changed the subject, albeit marginally. “I don’t know how long it will take me to open up a private practice, so we’ll need to rely solely on your income for a while. For that, I apologize.”

“Don’t. It isn’t your fault,” Josh rushed to assure him. He blamed Hammel, but he could never blame Sean; the school took away his livelihood. “I know cases can be a little slow, but Janice and I are earning enough that we can tend to all of the bills.” That he could promise.

Sean pulled the potatoes out of the over and set the pan on the counter to cool for a minute before serving. “I’m relieved by that, truly. I’ve been going over my other accounts, and I could shift money around, or sell off some investments, but that isn’t my area of expertise, and with the market the way that it is...”

“The law practice is fine.” He and Janice didn’t have trouble paying bills, and even when it could be slow, they managed. At least they didn’t have to take cases from out of the area the way that Cobalt and Leila did. “And I have stock.” It was impossible for the child of a stockbroker not to have market investments; Josh didn’t have a strong financial background, but he always asked Matt for advice.

Of course, that was the only nod to practical matters that he could provide, and only because Sean had redirected the conversation. He was still indignant on the telepath’s behalf, because he deserved better.

Sean crossed to the table to pick up both plates. Bringing them to the stove, he put a healthy portion of stew and potatoes on Josh’s plate and then a smaller portion on his own; he didn’t have much of an appetite. The telepath then brought both plates over to the table, set Josh’s in front of him, before sitting down across from the attorney.

Josh also didn’t have much of an appetite, but he wouldn’t mention that; not when Sean had spent hours on meal preparation. Instead, he prodded at the meat and potatoes and took idle bites. “If you don’t want to take them to court, there are other ways to let people know what happened. We could call the newspaper or stage a protest-”

“No.” Sean’s voice was forceful enough that Josh looked up in surprise. “I don’t want to take this to a public arena; I just want to move on. The ball is in their court.”

If Josh was less indignant, the cryptic statement would catch his attention, and he would ask for clarification. Instead, he let it slip by without comment, choosing instead to focus on a different aspect. “Why would you want to keep this a secret? People need to know about it.”

The telepath mechanically ate the food on his plate, forkful by forkful. He didn’t respond to the other man’s question for several bites. Finally, after agonizing silence, he set his fork down on his plate and said, “I’m entitled to handle this in my own way; this is my life.”

Josh had difficulty arguing with that point.

Sean continued, “I’m going to buy a security system tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’ll sleep easier knowing that we have one.”

Josh couldn’t ignore that cryptic statement as easily as he had the last one. “Did they threaten you?” He knew that Hammel had government ties, and who knows how many connections to powerful meta-humans around the nation and around the world. “If they did, we can call the police.” He ignored the irony of how he hadn’t allowed the police to become involved when he’d been assaulted, for similar reasons of not wanting to invoke anti-meta-human backlash. This was different; this was Sean who was potentially in danger.

The telepath pushed his plate to the side, no longer interested in eating. “Of course not. Only an idiot would threaten a telepath who has access to decades-worth of knowledge. What would anyone hope to gain?” Nicholas Kells had impliedly threatened him, but Nicholas was also metaphobic, and, as far as Sean was concerned, his common sense was lacking. The Board members knew better.

Still, it was better safe than sorry. Sean didn’t trust Operation Patriot; that was what this entire matter was about. He didn’t trust them, he wouldn’t let them have access to his records, and he knew that they weren’t too keen on him either.

“I think I’m going to go upstairs and use the hot tub for a little bit,” he announced, as he rose from his seat. “You’re welcome to join me after you finish eating. I’ll take care of the dishes later.”

Josh had no intention of finishing the food on his plate. Looking over at the telepath, he asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Let me handle this in my own way.” Sean made eye contact with the attorney, as he added more quietly, “You told me you wanted me to ask things of you. I’m asking this of you: Trust me to handle this myself. Everything will be fine.”

Josh did trust Sean to handle it, because the telepath was competent and this was his arena. However, he didn’t trust Hammel, and he was still too keyed up to reflect fully on the hints that Sean was giving him. “But-” he began.

“I’ll handle it.” The telepath’s voice was firmer. “That’s all I’m asking for tonight.”

It was difficult to argue with that. “All right,” Josh answered after a long pause and a longer sigh. He still planned on drafting a letter to his congressperson, but Sean didn’t need to know about that.

“I’ll see you upstairs.” The telepath put his dishes in the sink and left the kitchen. However, instead of going directly to the bedroom, he stopped off in his study. Closing the door behind him, he went to the wall safe, entered the combination and pulled open the door. All of the files were still there. Dozens and dozens of files of his observations and of student and faculty progress.

Shutting and locking the safe, he left his study for the bedroom now. The records were safe, and he’d make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands. No matter what delay tactics that might involve. Despite the fact that several of the Operation Patriot agents underestimated his dedication, he knew that even Marshall Walken wouldn’t try to attack on his home territory; it was a dangerous proposition.

And anyone who spent time with Sean in a professional capacity knew just how dangerous he could be.

[Brendan James]

The one with the realization

Sam hadn’t been feeling well. At all. He’d been up most of the night, unable to get comfortable enough in his own bed for a good nights sleep. And when he’d finally risen for the day, he was dragging. He felt off. His entire body just felt heavy. And it took it’s toll on him to even get dressed. As desperately as he wanted to crawl back into bed, he knew he couldn’t. Classes.

And throughout the day he was shivering. Which was unusual. It was nearly summer and here he was wearing one of his hoodies. Forget about paying attention in classes. When he didn’t sit next to a wall, his head ended up on the desk, his hair splaying across his face and the surface. At least showing up to class counted for something, right? Whether or not he was paying attention at all was a different matter.

The boy must’ve dosed off during his third class of the day because the next thing he knew his teacher was nudging his shoulder awake. It wasn’t normal behavior for him. But he couldn’t help it. When she asked if he left alright, he gave his head a small shake. Without hesitation, she sent him to the nurse’s office.

Dragging his feet across the tiled floor, he walked slowly to towards the office. If he had more energy, he would’ve gone faster, a normal pace. But this was all he could manage. Slow. And it was making him even colder, so he had his arms wrapped around himself.

When he finally made it to the nurse’s, the one on duty had him lie down while she retrieved a thermometer. Coming back, she gave the same instructions they always gave. “Open your mouth and keep this under your tongue. Keep it as still as you can.” Then she left again when the door opened to reveal another student. Sammy grasped the thermometer to keep it as still as possible until the beep said it done and that it could be taken out. Though, he didn’t do that himself, he waited for the nurse.

“Oh my.” She said in concern. “You’re going to need to go to the hospital. Your temperature… Well it’s much too high. We should be sure nothing else is wrong.”

Groaning, the young boy shook his head. “Nooo. I don’t wanna go. I’ll just lay here.”

“This isn’t up for debate young man. You’ll be going.”

“I want Vin. He can come with me, right?”

“Who?”

“Vincent… Verax. Please. I don’t wanna go without him.” He gave the nurse a pleading look. “Please.” He added, dragging the word out. He didn’t have the energy to fight, but he wasn’t going to some creepy hospital with gross doctors and needles. Not without Vincent.

With a sigh, she nodded. “Fine. I’ll call him out of class. But you’re going.”

When Vincent was called out of class, he didn’t question it. The only reason he’d been in class in the first place was because Brendan said if he didn’t start applying himself a little more, he was going to start holding out. Plus, Fifi dragged him anyway. They’d teamed up against him. The assholes. But he did it anyway. It wasn’t his fault though his presence was needed in the infirmary though. He figured the nurse’s just wanted a good, long look at him. So he’d put a little extra strut in his step, just to make them smile a little brighter.

Swinging the door open, he stomped in and turned around in a circle. “Her’ I ‘m laaadies! Take a good look. ‘is man ‘s taken!”

Doing his best ‘pimp walk’, he strutted up to the desk. “Vincent Verax. Ya’ da one who done call’ me ouda class?”

After rolling her eyes, she said, “Follow me.”

“Oooh. We goin’ all pr’vate? ‘is ‘ill be good.”

She led him to the back, where he spotted Sammy lying down, looking absolutely awful. If he had a bag, this is when he would’ve dropped it. But if one didn’t have books, then why would they need a bag? He did however scamper over to the kid and kneel beside him.

“Sammipants… Whass da madder?” The boy opened his eyes when he left Vincent stroke his hair from his face. He would’ve answered him, but the nurse beat him to it.

“He has a temperature of a hundred and four. He’s going to go to the hospital, just to be sure nothing is wrong. But he won’t go unless you go with him.”

“’f course ‘m goin’ wit! Ya mus’ be stuped ‘f ya think I ain’.”

So off the two boys went. Vincent held Sammy close to him the whole way there, even though he’d been warned not to. They weren’t sure if the young boy had something that might be contagious and being near one another would only spread it. Did that stop Vin? No. The boy was sick. The little boy that he had come to care deeply for was sick and Vincent would be damned if he wasn’t going to sit a little closer and hold him a little tighter.

And he probably should’ve called Brendan right away. After all, his boyfriend cared just as much about Sammy. But he didn’t of it. Not until they were already at the hospital and in with a doctor.

Brendan’s day had been pretty regular. Woke up. Made breakfast. Shower with Vincent and Fifi. Then off to work with Eugene. Just like everyday.

And like everyday, Brendan was being somewhat ridiculous. Singing ridiculously girly songs. Ok, not girly parse. But singing songs that most men his age would refuse to sing at all. And at the very least, in public.

“I’m feeling sexy and freeee!
Like glitter’s raining on me!
You’re like a shot of pure gold!”

Of course, singing wasn’t much of a distraction from his work. The dancing was though. Jumping around, while waving his arms around and wiggling his hips, wasn’t exactly conducive to sketching out designs for the scenery of a new play.

That was when his phone started to ring. And he smiled wide when he saw it was Vin. Instead of answering, he continued singing.

“Don’t you knoooow?
You spin me out of control!
Oh oh oooh
We can do this all night!”

“Baby, stop.”

“Baby come on!
Oh oh oooh!
Pull me like a bass drum!”

“Breeendaaan!”

With a laugh, the very mature thirty in two days year old stopped. “Sorry baby, I’m at work. So you gotta be quick.” Because he was at work. And Bren guessed Eugene would be none to happy about the time he’d been wasting.

Vin explained to his boyfriend what was going on. That they were at the hospital. That Sam had a high fever. A few tests were being run.

Brendan’s day had gone from delightful and normal to horrible in about two seconds. “Why did you call me sooner?!” He hissed angrily into the phone. “You should’ve called me on your way there Vincent!” Without saying anything else, he hung up. Hollering out to Eugene, he informed his boss he was leaving. “I have an emergency! I have to go!” Then he left the theater.

Racing to his car, Brendan’s mind was filled with all sorts of different possibilities. Chicken pox. Strep throat. Some kind of infection. What if it was an infection? And they didn’t know what caused it? What about Lime Disease? That came from a tick bite, right? Did that cause a fever? What if it had been something from all the time he’d spent at their apartment? Could that be? But than they’d probably be sick too, right?

Bren cursed himself out loud for not asking anything else. Like if the boy was ok. Or if there was anything else wrong. What if he were throwing up? What would that mean? Or worse… What if he were throwing up blood? Oh god. Brendan thought process, while purely filled with concern for the boy, was not exactly sane or healthy. Neither was his driving. Speeding and swerving around cars in front him wasn’t exactly what most would call the driving of a mentally stable person.

And by the time Brendan got to the hospital, he was convinced that the boy he’d come to see as another member to their bizarre family was in dire need of… something. He was sure whatever Sammy’s ailment was these doctors would be unable to help.

When he finally found the room, after a long argument over the woman at the front desk that he did in fact need to find and see the boy, he raced in without a moment’s hesitation.

Though, he didn’t find a boy in agonizing pain. Or with needles in his arm. Or with those… thingies that go in a person’s nose. Nor was he throwing up immense amounts of vomit OR blood.

What he did find was his boyfriend and Sammy lying in the hospital bed, Vin’s arm around the boy as they pushed cars back and forth on the tray that was in front of them. And if he weren’t so concerned, he would’ve thought the sight of them together like that was absolutely adorable.

“What’s wrong? Is Sammy ok? Sammy, are you ok? How are you feeling?” Brendan bound right over to the boy, sat on the edge of his bed, and kissed the boy’s hair. “What have the doctor’s said? Where are they? Have they run any tests yet?”

Sammy, of course, was glad Brendan was there. And Vin, of course, rolled his eyes at his boyfriend shot question after question at them. “Oh shut up and play cars with us.” Bren ignored him though, smiled at Sammy and kissed the boy’s forehead. “I’m going to talk to Vin in the hall. We’ll just be right there though. Will you be ok? If you call for us, we’ll hear you. Is that alright?”

“Jeezus! Bren, jus’ get off ya’ ass! He’s fine.” Vin stood and strode outside.

Again ignoring Vin, Bren spoke to Sammy. “If you need us, just call us.” Then he too stood and walked out. Out in the hall though, he punched Vin in the arm. “You should’ve called me sooner asshat.” He spoke quietly so the boy wouldn’t hear him.

“Oooowww! ‘m surry, ‘k? I was worried too, ya know!” The younger man said, no concern if Sammy could hear or not, as he rubbed his arm.

Pacing back and forth, Bren shook his head. “I don’t care. You should have called me. You should’ve called me immediately. The moment you left the school you should have called.”

“Calm da fuck dooown. He’s ‘ere now. ‘erythin’ ‘ill be alrigh’.” Vin said as he leaned against the wall, watching his boyfriend move back and forth as if he were watching a ping-pong ball.

“What if he’s not Vin? What if something is really wrong? What are we going to do? If he has to stay at the hospital, if it’s serious, they might not let us see him. We aren’t his family.” Stopping in front of his boyfriend, he looked at the boy with a worried expression on his face. “Vin…”

The boy wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and pulled him close.

“We have to do something Vin. You know we have to.” Brendan said as he buried his face into his boyfriend’s neck. “He has to be ours.” He could feel Vin nod against him, but the boy said nothing. Everything running through his head, there was still something he wanted to know. He pulled back and looked at Vin’s face. “Where’d you get toy cars?”

“’ere’s some sick like kid down da hall. I snadched asome.”

“….. You stole toys from a sick kid?” He looked at Vin in disbelief.

“Yeah?” His boyfriend shrugged.

Snuggling back into his boyfriend, Brendan sighed. “Ok.” Because he didn't care if the toys were stolen. Even from a sick kid. They were for Sammy.

[Adrianna Carstyn]

What If?

~Set 17 years ago

Early! She was so early! This wasn’t supposed to be happening for another week for crying out loud! Amelia wasn’t ready for this, not yet. She was only sixteen! Having a baby was one thing, but not having that last week to prepare for it was a total other thing. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t have the baby. Then again, it was a little too late for that decision. Where was Xavier?! And cue the sharp pain in her abdomen. No one had prepared her for this, she didn’t have her mother there to help her and Xavier wasn’t there yet. Thank God for Mags because otherwise, she’d have been giving birth in her bedroom.

“Okay, Amelia I need you to breathe. Follow me, hee hee hooo, hee hee hooo.” The nurse repeated that breathing pattern over and over again and there was Amelia trying not to giggle at the sound of it. Hee hee hooo? It was a little funny. That being said, Amelia took the nurse’s suggestion and began breathing. As she breathed, the sharp pain came back and was happening a lot more frequently. It felt as if she were being stabbed in the stomach repeatedly. Now she understood why her mother had been out to get her since she was born. After all, it was only fair after she’d put her through so much pain.

“Mother f!” Amelia screamed.

The nurse smiled and looked at the sweating teenage girl, “Okay sweetie, now I’m gonna need you to push for me. It’s gonna smart a bit, but it’ll all be over shortly.” Clearly this nurse was high on some prescription medicine. It was gonna ‘smart?’ Who said that?

“I can’t! Not yet! Her father isn’t here. Mags where the hell is Xavier?”

Just then, a young man came skidding into the room with flowers and balloons, “I’m here! I’m a little late, but I made it!” After he finished speaking, Amelia let out another wail. Xavier dropped everything frantically and rushed to her bedside, grabbing her hand. “I’m here, baby. C’mon you can do this.”

Amelia gritted her teeth against the pain and glared at her boyfriend, “Stop talking! I can’t do this! I’d like to see you try giving birth!” She screamed again and the nurse gave her the look that said ‘you think that hurts, wait until you push.’ And she pushed.

Repeating the process several more times, finally it was over. Xavier nearly gagged when he cut the umbilical cord, but successfully did it without fainting. Finally, the nurse came back with a fluffy pink covered baby girl. She handed the infant to its mother and Amelia took it excitedly. Xavier stood beside her and smiled, “She looks like you, Mel.”

Amelia’s face brightened at the sight of her daughter and she held the baby close, “Hi, Adrianna. You’re such a pretty baby.” Amelia looked up at Xavier and reached up to pull him down for a kiss. This was just the start of a beautiful family.


~Set 11 years ago

“Daddy, daddy wake up! C’mon you gotta wake up!” Bouncing up and down on her parents’ bed was a six year old Adrianna Farley, curly hair slinking up and down each time she hopped on her father. “It’s Father’s Day wake upp!” She turned around and looked up at her mother who was standing in the doorway with a smile lighting up her face with a healthy glow. After getting up early in the morning to put together a huge breakfast for her father, Adrian was dying to see her father’s reaction. “Momma make him get up!”

Amelia chuckled and shook her head, “Xavier, you know she’s not going to stop until you get up.”

A muffled groan came from beneath the piles of pillows and comforters, “I was hoping she’d give me a few more minutes, but that clearly isn’t happening. Alright, Adrian, I’m up.” Xavier sat up in the bed, his dark brown hair sticking up in several directions, his eyes still half closed. The young girl hopped once more and giggled. He couldn’t help but smile at her as he looked up at his wife. The two women in his life that meant more to him than life itself, so similar and yet, so different from each other. As much as they seemed to look alike, their personalities were quite different. Amelia was the wild one, always acting like a teenager, when really she was only a few years off from being one. Adrianna was much more reserved even if she was a bouncing ball of energy. She was the cutest damn thing in the world and Xavier couldn’t imagine a life without her.

Adrian curled up in her father’s lap as her mother brought in the tray of their favorite breakfasts. Pancakes, two grapefruit halves, fried potatoes, pretty much carbs upon carbs. Smiling wide, Adri watched her father’s face while he appraised her creations. The smile that flashed across his face only made her smile widen. “Do you like it Daddy?” She asked quietly with the innocent hope of any child. All she wanted was for her father to be proud of what she’d done. Her father and mother were the two greatest people in her life, well besides her Grandma Mags.

“I love it baby girl, thank you so much!” Xavier wrapped his arms around the little girl and kissed her temple.


~Set 7 years ago

Lung Cancer. Two words that had silenced a room full of people worrying about Amelia. The hospital was bustling, but the waiting room was eerily quiet. Adrianna was sitting beside Mags, looking around the room in confusion. What did those words mean? Of course, she knew cancer was an illness, but what she didn’t understand was why everyone around her wasn’t saying anything. She didn’t understand why her father was leaning against the wall with his fist clenched.

As Xavier listened to the doctor whisper to him about Amelia’s vastly declining condition, his lower lip trembled and he turned around smashing his hand against the wall. Adrian jumped and her eyes widened as she watched her father crumble to the ground. Mags put a hand on his shoulder and tears streamed down his face. Adri had never seen her father cry before and seeing it now had her truly terrified. She stood up and walked over to Xavier, “Daddy? Is Momma gonna be okay?” She asked innocently.

He pulled her into a hug and kissed her forehead, “She’s gonna be fine, sweetheart. We’ll all be okay.”

~Set Present Day

The fact that Xavier was coming to Hammel for Father’s day was more scary to Adrianna than it had been when her mother caught her making out with her boyfriend a few days before Mother’s day. She hoped desperately that Amelia had talked well about Lani and that she hadn’t mentioned what she walked in on before. Luckily, Adrian was expecting Xavier and had prepared Lani beforehand. Whatever he did, he had to keep his hands to himself. Thankfully, Xavier could not bring his shotgun with him on the plane. That being said, Xavier would most likely scare the bejeebus out of Lani as it was. Boggarting tended to be a handy power for fathers. Adrian just hoped he wouldn’t scare Lani too much.

“Okay, just be polite. Uhm, call him sir until he says otherwise. Don’t make any smartass comments, and yeah that should be good,” Adrian said in a frantically rushed tone as she fixed the collar of Lani’s shirt. She had helped him pick out some nice clothes before and was secretly going crazy. She was a total daddy’s girl, she really wanted Xavier to like Lani. The fact that Lani reminded her so much of Amelia was probably going to help him a lot. Xavier was a lot like Adrian and so she hoped that it would allow her father to see what she loved so much about Lani.

“Adrianna, I think I can handle this, but just in case, keep the window open,” He said nervously as he watched her. It wasn’t helping him with her freaking out as well. There was a knock on the door and he jumped.

Adrian made her way to the door and opened it with a bright smile for her father, “Hi Daddy, come on in. I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

Xavier stepped in behind Adrianna and his eyes settled on the younger boy in front of him. He was clean cut, not what he would expect to be much of a rebel, but then again he never could tell. “Lani isn’t it?” He asked with a stern tone. Whenever he was with Adrian or Amelia, that tone rarely came out. The women had him pretty wrapped around their fingers, which was why it would be best for Lani to not do anything to his daughter. “I’m Xavier, Adri’s father. She’s told me quite a bit about you.”

It hadn’t taken long for the two men to begin talking after Xavier had done what she’d hoped he wouldn’t. Shifting into death personified, well it had left Lani rather spooked, not that he’d shown it much. The way he stood up for himself was what had captured her father’s approval. It wasn’t often that a young man was tough enough to look Death in the eye. If this boy could do that, surely he could protect Adrian.

By the end of the night, the two men in Adrianna’s life were laughing and joking with each other. Adrian really didn’t have much to complain about with her life. The only bump was her mother’s cancer, but with Xavier around, she wasn’t too worried about it. He’d take care of his wife until the end, after all he’d stuck with her through everything so far. Nothing could scare him away.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

I Know What I Know

I know what I know.
I'll sing what I said.
We come and we go.
That's a thing that I keep
In the back of my head.

In the five and a half decades that Sean Neville had been alive, he had experienced more than his fair share of emotional burdens. After all, his job was, essentially, to serve as an emotional repository for the Hammel student body. He listened to all of the problems that the students had, he offered advice to students and to faculty alike, and he was also charged with the task of disciplining those students who acted out or who failed to comply with the school rules. The telepathy also guaranteed his eternal involvement in the lives of others.

Like it or not, he was exposed to other people’s needs and problems, their most intimate thoughts, desires, hopes, and fears, every waking moment. His mental shields, if kept at their strongest level, prevented much of that awareness, but not all of it. Besides, he had been taught that it was wrong to turn a blind eye to an existing problem; that his telepathy granted him more awareness than the average person only made him more responsible than the general population had to be. He was charged with keeping secrets for other people; there were so many secrets that he had to guard, secrets that belonged to everyone else and now belonged to him.

If that wasn’t enough pressure, he also always had to take the more mature route, because there was no excuse for him to lose his temper with other people. He knew better, even if nobody else appeared to, or if other people did know better but for whatever reason chose to give into baser instincts. That created its own set of problems; Sean couldn’t name a single other faculty member who had an entire game devoted to him or her, designed to see if the students could make him lose his temper.

He knew about the game, of course, due to both telepathy and the rumor mill. No student in the history of Hammel had ever won the game.

The game was built upon a flawed premise; it equated expressions of ill-control with experiencing emotions. Sean wasn’t a stoic, as much as he might feign otherwise for work reasons. He experienced (almost) the full gamut of human emotions: from irritation to sorrow to joy to anger to love (of all types) to lust to embarrassment to pride to helplessness to worry to fear to addiction to loneliness to protectiveness to paternalistic impulses to inebriated irreverence. With the exceptions of jealousy, greed, sadism, vengeance, and shadenfraude.

There was one aspect of the game that wasn’t entirely flawed: Sean wasn’t perfect, and every person – with the exception of Robert Hopkins (May he rest in peace) – had his breaking point. Enough pressure applied and a crack would form; enough pressure on the crack and then the breaking point was reached.

Life at Hammel wasn’t without its frustrations; after more than two decades as the school’s repository, after fighting a terrorist organization, after watching a military program cozy up to the administration, after successes and failures with students, and after the mess in his personal life bled into his professional life and vice versa, there were more than a few cracks.

The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back came in the form of his annual performance evaluation with Yvette. They had an argument about his filing system; she wanted him to transfer everything to the mainframe, since the Hammel Technopaths would be able to guard the information from hacking. He politely – the strongly – refused. She informed him that if he didn’t want to comply with Hammel policy, then perhaps he needed to reassess his priorities; she also informed him that seniority at the Institute did not provide a pass from general compliance with administrative rules.

The crack became a fissure and the inner dams burst open.

Before he could stop himself, he asked her if she thought Charles might be interested in hearing about the affair with Marshall Walken.

Then there had been a shouting match, and he’d been ordered out of her office, and the door had slammed shut behind him.

Despite the headache, he actually felt better than he had in a long time. The pressure had lessened a bit, and the weight he carried felt lighter. Perhaps it was time to turn over a new leaf regarding honesty and holding himself back.

Since the shouting match with Yvette hadn’t culminated in his being fired, Sean decided he would drink some tea to help his headache, and he wandered into the faculty lounge. The room was empty save James Campbell. The bespectacled man smiled at him; Sean smiled at James. He brewed himself some tea and sat down on the sofa across from the armchair, which the Head of Recruiting occupied.

“How are you today?”

“I’m fine.” In fact, he was remarkably well for someone who had just lost it with his boss. “Yourself?”

“It’s a good day.” James sipped his coffee and added, “Clarisse is taking Niko out for us tonight, so Chase and I can have a night in together.”

The telepath knew exactly what that meant. Anyone who gave the slightest consideration to what parenting entailed understood the inherent lack of free time. Any time alone with one’s spouse was cherished, and such nights had to be specifically set aside. Sean was also quite aware of what James and Chase did in their free time when they were intimate; his telepathy had the side-effect of granting him more insight into the sex lives, fetishes, and desires of others than he might otherwise have asked for. Using powers in the bedroom was a common practice; so common, in fact, that the telepath postulated that every single meta had done so at one point or another, if their powers lent themselves even slightly to such application.

It was unsurprising that James and Chase would enjoy using Chase’s powers in the bedroom. More concerning was the fact that Chase’s powers created a gray area for consent, and Chase didn’t possess telepathy to instinctively know if he went too far. Sean didn’t for a moment think that Chase would ever want to take advantage of James, which would make the situation even more tragic if it occurred.

Occasionally, this kept him awake at night. But he had never mentioned it for the sake of propriety.

In the aftermath of his argument with Yvette, Sean could safely say “To Hell with propriety.”

As such, he actually said, “I hope you use a safe word.”

That resulted in James becoming somewhat flustered. “What?”

“For when you have your date night with Chase. I’m actually very glad that you feel comfortable with him using his powers that way, given everything that happened two summers ago, and I’m the last person to ever cast judgment on someone’s kinks or on another psychic’s powers. That said, you’re playing with fire.” The telepath sipped his tea thoughtfully. “’Banana’ is a fairly common safe word. If he has you mentally gagged, then some form of Morse code with blinking. Anything to make sure that you don’t get your signals crossed.”

James then proceeded to turn a most interesting shade of red. “...I don’t think that’s-”

“I’ve known for a long time; you don’t need to get flustered.” Sean tapped his temple with his index finger. “A lot of people find it arousing; I know there’s an entire subculture dedicated to it. But you’re both friends and I would hate to see something disastrous happen because you didn’t have a safe word.”

The telepath shook his head to himself. “I’m not asking you to tell me what it is; I’m only asking that you promise me you’ll work one out together, if you don’t already have one in place.”

Still flushed, James quickly rose to his feet. “I have to go check in with Midori,” he announced, before rapidly retreating towards the door of the staff lounge. The Head of Recruitment was so flustered that he didn’t wish Sean a good afternoon, and he left his coffee out on the table.

Sean also left it there, because, today, he decided he wasn’t going to pick up after everyone else.

Fortunately, he had an afternoon which consisted primarily of paperwork; he tried to accommodate his annual evaluations by shifting his appointment schedule around. This didn’t mean that his afternoon was free and clear; merely that he could work on his own time.

He had to transfer notes into the filing system that Yvette had so loudly disapproved of; everything was done by hand, because his thoughts tended to drift to Mia whenever computers were involved these days.

His afternoon tranquility was interrupted by Sam Rixon, who had been sent to his office by Morgan Tonaya, after the boy had had an outburst. He was better behaved with Vincent at his internship, but he was hardly perfect.

Also, the pyrokinetic was obviously high as a kite.

“Hey Doc!” He said with a wide grin; apparently, that he was in Sean’s office for discipline had yet to fully penetrate.

The psychiatrist was in no mood to deal with the regular pattern of cat-and-mouse. “Give it to me.”

“What?” Bleary red eyes blinked at him in surprise; it was obviously that he didn’t understand what Sean wanted.

“The marijuana. All of it. I’ll send Mister Romanov up to your room to raid it for any alcohol or other stashes, but I want everything on your person and I want it now.”

Sam began to giggle nervously.

Sean found nothing humorous about the situation; in fact, he glared at the boy. “This isn’t funny, Sam. You have ten seconds to empty your pockets, or else I’ll tell Spencer about the naked best friend bonding time you’ve had with Vincent.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.” He’d also conveniently forgotten, up until that moment, that Sean knew about the times he’d slept with Vincent.

“Ten,” the psychiatrist said, his face completely serious. “Nine. Eight...”

Two dime bags were tossed hastily onto his desk, as well as a loose joint and his matchbook.

Sean gathered them up, locked them in his desk drawer, and then pocketed the key. “You have afterschool detention for the rest of next week. Get out of my office.”

The no-nonsense tone coupled with the memory of the threat made Sam leap out of his chair and bolt out the door.

The telepath’s afternoon of paperwork was interrupted twice more. Once by Zac LaRousse, whom Sean had pointed out that he was a self-entitled spoiled brat who ran the risk of hurting everyone due to indifference. Then the telepath had informed Zac that if he had one more outburst between now and graduation, Sean would make sure he lived out the rest of his life (or at least Sean’s) under the impression that he was a six-year-old girl. And once by Jessica Pruitte, who had been sent there for failing spectacularly at her internship. The telepath actually didn’t care, but he took the time to explain that he didn’t want to be listed as a reference without his consent again, and that if he caught her making trouble for her uncle, whom Sean considered a friend, he’d isolate her from all other people and material objects that Mia’s punishment after last year’s Talk would seem reasonable by comparison.

Thinking about last year’s Talk caused him to scowl. He considered telling Yvette to find someone else to do the Talk this year, but he resolved to do that tomorrow after sleeping on the thought. He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t think anyone else would be better-equipped to tackle the task, either.

Such was his life.

When the day was over, he called Josh to find out what time his partner intended to come home. Josh said it would be a late night, and that he needed another couple of hours at the office at least. Sean volunteered to pick him up, and they made plans to meet at Josh’s office at six-thirty.

On the way out, Harmony Muller-Barton glared at him. The telepath glared back. You have another six years here, and you had better get used to it. Your attitude is only going to come back to haunt you, he informed her telepathically; he smirked at her obvious discomfort with his telepathy.

“Stay out of my head, Old Man,” she said.

“Make me.” Then he’d winked and left the Hammel campus. Fortunately, her teleportation power was largely untrained; he didn’t want to have this extend off the Hammel campus, since he wanted to put the workday behind him.

As he didn’t feel particularly up to the task of cooking supper tonight, and he didn’t want to spend time alone in the house, he had to find a way to pass the time before he was needed to pick Josh up from the office. He decided on a café, since this was Pilot Ridge, a town without an active nightlife; besides, he liked coffee, he liked pastries, and he didn’t want to go to a nightclub at this hour of the evening, even if there was one nearby that catered to his demographic.

The café wasn’t crowded; Sean was grateful. He bought a latte and a black and white cookie, before sitting down at a table near the window.

While he sipped his coffee and ate his cookie, the café grew more crowded. As the end of the day approached for more people, tables began to fill. By the time Cobalt Weaver entered the café, the only empty chair was at Sean’s table. The two men made eye contact.

Cobalt glanced towards the door; Sean continued to eat his cookie.

With a sigh, Cobalt took his coffee and sat down in the chair across from Sean. The attorney murmured a vague and gruff greeting; Sean continued to eat his cookie.

The telepath did, however, hear Cobalt’s unvoiced thoughts about how absurd life was that, yet again, they found themselves stuck together by fate. This time, there was an exit, as opposed to the elevator and the bank vault, but this was similar to how their social circles had merged so that they couldn’t ever get away from one another. The universe was conspiring against him.

“Nobody is conspiring against you,” Sean told the other man, as he sipped his latte. “It’s that persecution complex that makes you take everything so personally.”

“I don’t take everything personally,” Cobalt whispered, lowering his voice so that nobody in the crowded café would overhear this discussion. The whisper was accompanied by a glare for emphasis, as though that would cause the telepath to back down from his assertion.

“Actually, you do take everything personally.” The telepath also lowered his voice for the sake of the conversation. “I would say it’s narcissism, but we both know it’s actually a combination of low self-esteem and paranoia. Perhaps it’s because you work in a profession based on the idea that arguing about something enough will change the facts, but it doesn’t work that way outside of politics and court.”

Cobalt grew indignant, justifiably so considering the venue of this conversation. “I don’t know where you get off trying to diagnose me in the middle of a public place like this. But-”

“Because I’m tired,” Sean replied, cutting off the shorter man’s rant before he could begin yet another one of the many tirades to which he had subjected the telepath over the past two years. “There’s no reason for me to hold back my thoughts, because doing so doesn’t achieve anything. When I try to be polite to you, it doesn’t work. When I try to help you, it doesn’t work. When I try to give you space, it doesn’t work. When I try to ignore you, it doesn’t work. I can’t think of a single reason not to get all of this out in the open, because maybe, just maybe, you’ll take it to heart and do something, instead of trying to make other people as miserable as you are to verify your self-perceptions. It’s a perverse form of confirmation bias.”

The telepath sipped his coffee and maintained eye contact with the other man. He spoke quickly, albeit quietly, because he didn’t want Cobalt to interrupt him. “I’ve tried to help you become less self-loathing, but that didn’t seem to do the trick. I might have miscalculated how much comfort you take in being miserable, since you also don’t like to try new things. Perhaps blaming yourself for everything gives you a shield, so that you don’t have to take responsibility for the things that really are your fault, since those fall into a background of everything is already your fault. Maybe you simply like having the excuse to be mean to other people and to speak and act with little consideration for other people’s feelings, because you’re already a misanthrope, so what does it matter? Whatever it is, I’m tired of it interfering with our social circle. You’re waiting for a fight that is never going to happen, so you should stop preparing for it and try to actually live your life.”

Another quick sip of coffee before raising his hand to prevent Cobalt from speaking; it was a less than courteous gesture, but the telepath was truly beyond caring. “So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to learn how to become comfortable in your own skin; this will involve therapy, and it isn’t some moral failing to need therapy. Which you do. I’m going to set up an appointment, and you’ll either go of your own volition, or I’ll drive you, because I swear on my mother’s God that if you don’t take care of this, I’ll make your life miserable before I’ll let you continue to make everyone else miserable. ”

Sean took the last few sips of his coffee and then wiped his mouth before rising from the table. “And, while you’re at it, just tell Ben that you love him. No pretense, no arguing, just say those three words and move on from there.” He looked down at the attorney before adding, “And be grateful that I told you this on your own instead of staging a big, embarrassing intervention in front of Ben and all of your friends.”

With that, Sean crossed the café and walked out the door towards his car. Cobalt remained in the café, glaring daggers at the telepath’s back, with his mouth frozen open in shock.

Unfortunately, there was still another hour or so before Sean could reasonably pick Josh up from the office. After weighing his options while driving up and down Main Street, he finally decided that the park was the best option. It was warm outside, and there weren’t enough clouds to indicate that rain was on the horizon.

After parking his car, he settled on a bench with a copy of the New York Times’ daily crossword puzzle. He’d gotten through the first five clues when he noticed someone approaching from the corner of his eyes. Sean recognized him, vaguely, as someone he’d seen at the Operation Patriot office on the couple of times he’d encountered them during his Hammel duties. If memory served, his name was Nicholas Kells.

And he was metaphobic.

Sean offered the other man a smile, but it was devoid of mirth. He was tired of metaphobic individuals in government positions; he was tired of metaphobic individuals who lived in his town, the town with the highest number of meta-humans in the United States. He was tired of people who distrusted him for his telepathy.

The least they could do was dislike him for reasons that were deserved. It was simple enough to rifle through the thoughts and memories of a baseline human, even one as paranoid as Nicholas Kells. It was simple enough to do so undetected, since only those familiar with psychic powers, possessed of psychic powers, or otherwise sensitive (such as James) were able to detect mental touches in the first place. Sean was both disappointed by what he found, as well as unsurprised. Metaphobes were dangerous, but they were often consistent.

“I know what you’re up to,” he told Nicholas as he approached.

The other man glared at him. “What?”

“I know what you’re up to,” Sean repeated. He tapped his temple with two fingers. “I know that you’re up to. I know what you want to do with your organization, and I won’t let you do it.”

Nicholas looked properly repulsed and concerned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure that you do.” Sean folded the crossword puzzle and set it down in his lap. “If you hurt my children, I’ll have you fired. If you try to abuse the information you have, I’ll become your worst nightmare.”

“I don’t have to listen to threats.”

“Of course not.” Sean smiled again, as mirthless as the first one. “If you do try to call the police, do give Officer Davis my affection. And give me some warning, since I’m sure he’ll be interested in some of your secret projects.” Again, the telepath tapped his temple.

Nicholas shivered and walked off, muttering obscenities under his breath.

“You too!” The telepath said with a wave.

Sean managed to finish his crossword puzzle, although the last few clues proved more difficult than he’d care to admit. The New York Times did pride itself on a difficult crossword puzzle. Upon finishing, he called Josh to see if the other man was ready to be picked up. He wasn’t, but Josh suggested he wait at the office, since “hopefully it wouldn’t be too much longer.”

Deciding that would be more productive than the park, Sean took one last stroll and returned to his car. The drive to Josh’s law office didn’t take too long, and he smiled at the receptionist upon entering. Janice was nowhere to be found. Vincent was nowhere to be found, and Sean could overhear Josh in a conference with a client in the conference room.

The telepath could also overhear the telltale sounds of moans coming from the closet.

He didn’t want to know. He told himself he didn’t want to know, but unfortunately, he already had a sinking suspicion as to what the origin of the moans was. There were precious few explanations, and worse yet, he’d already heard those same sounds once before. Steeling himself, he opened the closet and found Vincent and Brendan, only half-dressed, lips locked, and oblivious to his presence.

“Stop it right now.” His voice was firm and a bit louder than it might otherwise have been.

Brendan, not Vincent, broke the kiss and turned, looking at the telepath in horror. Sean could hear his thoughts: what was he doing here? Was he spying on them? He had to zip up his pants...

“This is a law firm,” he informed the two of them. “Vincent, you’re still on the clock, and this is totally inappropriate. Brendan...”

It wasn’t illegal or unethical for them to be together, since Vincent was of the age of consent, and Brendan was no longer his teacher. It still didn’t mean that this was the proper forum for this behavior, and Sean remained sensitive to it because of what had happened on Valentine’s Day. “Save it for tonight. Just go, now, before I find Mister Bernstein to have him revoke your visitor’s pass.”

Brendan showed more common sense than Vincent did, because he zipped up his pants, offered an apology to Vincent before promising to see him at home, and then didn’t meet Sean’s eyes as he slipped out of the closet for the door.

Vincent, however, decided to argue. “What’s th’ problem? He’s not a teacher anymore.”

“Because you’re supposed to be a legal intern, and you don’t make out at work. It isn’t professional.” Sean was quite familiar with the circumstances under which Vincent had been hired, and while nobody had great expectations for the young man, the telepath did believe that he could be held to the bare minimum in terms of professional standards.

“Wha’s the big deal? It’s not hurtin’ anyone.”

“Actually, you hurt the law firm, and that, in turn, upsets my partner and stresses him out. When he’s stressed out, I’m miserable, so you hurt a lot of people.”

Vincent’s blank stare told Sea that this was making no impression on the boy. Sean considered the best way to answer, but every explanation was a waste of breath. Finally, with a loud sigh, the telepath shoved Vincent back into the closet and slammed the door. The crashing noises from inside the closet would be more concerning if Vincent didn’t have cellular regeneration.

Dusting off his hands, he went to sit down in the waiting area for Josh. A few minutes later, his partner emerged with the client, shaking hands and mentioning a court date that they had later that week. The attorney then turned tired eyes on the telepath. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Sean rose from the chair and crossed to his partner’s side, leaning in to press a kiss to his partner’s cheek. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” Josh admitted. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“It’s no problem.” The telepath wrapped one arm around the other man’s shoulders and then walked with him towards the exit.

“It is a problem,” Josh said with a tired sigh. “I shouldn’t rely on you to do so much for me; I should do my fair share.”

“Not tonight.” Sean’s voice was harsh enough to catch Josh’s attention, causing his partner to stare at him in surprise.

“We’re both tired, and I don’t want to have an argument about the division of labor. For once, don’t over-analyze every little aspect of our relationship. Just let me do one nice thing for you so that we can both go home, eat and rest. All right? I know I don’t ask that much of you, so please, do this one thing for me.”

Josh opened his mouth to protest but then shut it without making a sound. He nodded submissively. “Okay. We’ll just go home. Do you want to order something?”

“We can stop off at the Chinese restaurant before going home.” Sean flicked the light switch before exiting the office.

“That sounds good.” When they reached the car, Josh slid into the passenger seat. Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Have you seen Vincent?”

“Don’t worry about him.” Sean’s expression invited no questions, and so Josh resolved not to worry.

[Marcel Fritz]

The Way I Will Linger
Character Canon
1994

The water rushing over his head cleaned his hair, and the water over his body would clean his skin, but Marcel's hands would never be clean, no matter how long he washed them. The droplets of water that would collected under his arm traced the underside of his forearm as the shower head ran overhead. They would travel down his skin, which was white and a pale white at that, until they reached his wrist.

It started at his wrists, as the blue veins in his hands could be seen directed towards the palm of the hand. It didn't fade from white in one uniformed motion, but with a wavy border that would start sooner in some places across the wrist than others, and less abrupt in other places. Marcel would always look for gloves that had tail ends that covered more of the wrist and beyond the wrist, his right hand had a blemish that would often peek out the edge of short gloves, allowing a casual brush with friends and strangers to become something terrible.

When Marcel Fritz saw the change happen, just before the argument with his father that would change his life forever, he thought he was still dreaming, or more specifically still having his nightmare. In his dream his hands would ache and pain, and it would grow thick purple sores that blotched out the white of his skin so fast he could see it change. He tried to tell everyone around him, but his teeth would fall out, a few here and there, whenever he tried to speak, until only a few hanging teeth left. Then he would wake up, and while his teeth remained in place, his hands had changed. Maybe the teeth was a metaphor, although any kind of interpretation wouldn't change the confusion and fear he felt as those hands brought his father to the hardwood floor, clutching at his glasses in blind muscular reflex, breaking the metal frame as his heart suffered its last struggle.

The shower wouldn't wash away the color or the marks he left, but it could remind him of the lesson he kept on his fingers. Each finger represented a victim, thumbs included, and he only counted nine. His father, five trainers, a mugger, Roger Euclidean and Ebeneezer Obey. Nine would he keep, standing on the shores of ten's finality, willing and able to watch the end from a distance sure that he would never see it unless it was necessary. He would always tell the story of his nine to student when he became a trainer, each finger could reach someone's spine and made it shiver, thus no one wished to become number ten. Training was always done with gloves, and when words didn't work he showed the hands. Just a flash, a peek at the burden he carries. “I live with this.” He would say. “You live with your own. Own it. Live your life with the weight you carry. Stop worrying about why or how, this is your grindstone. Let it carve you sharp and straight, you will defeat your demons without ever unleashing yourselves.”

Demons, Marcel thought to himself in the early morning of May, the hot sun of the south equator rising to meet the reflecting moisture that clung to his chest. A demon is a title for the thing we're afraid to talk about. I keep nine so close that it's become a demon of the worse kind. People say I scare people. Something fierce. Like I'm Orson Wells as the Shadow, or I'm the goddamn Batman. Fear doesn't warm me and soften my sleep. It keeps me awake in the dark and wires my brain. Don't touch her, him, watch for children, watch for animals, watch for everyone. Now I'm the one fearful, I'm the agent of paranoia, spreading it to others while I keep infecting myself. I say the demon can be defeated, but it's defeated me. I'm a hypocrite, and I have a job to do keeping myself a hypocrite.

Roger Euclidean had always seen Marcel from the wrists up. Save for the incident involving a bet pushed way to far that put him in the rehab ward of Kocher for psychological trauma. But with that bet came a promise made to Marcel, one that Roger would always keep. He promised Marcel he would never describe the effect to anyone unless under a doctoral oath of secrecy. Marcel was certainly in a position of power then, but again he acted in moderation, himself controlled by the fear if his ability and its effects could ever grow more notoriety. In that way, with the time they spent together as students and trainers, they grew a bond that Marcel had to keep close, bonds meant vulnerability and a willingness to open up.

So when Marcel opened his hotel room door to Roger, their facial exchange was enough trust validation. Today was not about either of them, they were stagehands in a larger play, but they were necessary to make this show a success South Africa had a new Metahuman, and he would be a Kocher student. Their drive was slow and congested, which gave them time to talk.

“We don't know his power? Roger, this is the most important aspect, we have witnesses and we didn't get descriptions from the police?”

“No, Marcel, you know I wouldn't miss that. The power is just unclear, it might be mental or spacial. Granted, this is the slums, we're not dealing with a cohesive system here. Witnesses said they saw illusions, but of what they couldn't say. Like mirages or water rippling in the air disguising something, but that could have been the heat or ninety-nine other problems that factor into an urban sprawl with non-existent infrastructure.”

“Neither of us make excuses for Kocher, or our student roster. I don't ask you to limp, I ask you to run. I'd run for you, so give me something more. Any Metahuman is a danger to himself and to others, I am hurting his chances by being so blind at this moment.”

“You expect the looking glass to be too clear. Use what you know. People get scared, the like a man whose wound up tight walking around talking slowly. People like you. You let them see your burden, and it lightens theirs. It's schadenfreude, and you're its expert, just in a humbling sort of way.”

“Funny. How's Katie?”

“Good, and I'm glad you mentioned her. She likes you.”

“Don't start. I asked how she was doing, and that is it, Roger. I am not the type to start... something like you're suggesting.”

“You deserve to be happy.”

“I didn't expect you to be so blunt this time. Are you being desperate for me? Should I be flattered? Maybe I should be insulted. I don't care, I don't have time to think about a life after this, and I wish I didn't have one to be honest. It's easier to just think of an end. Now hold on, I didn't mean it like that, don't give me that look. I meant just an eventual end to my career at Kocher, and a quiet retirement with benefits paid in surplus. Benefits not being another risk for me to juggle. But... tell her I said hi. We can be friends. I'll let that happen. Nothing more.”

The ride would be much longer than their conversation, and for every side street and alleyway they forced the company car through the silence twisted with a growing an anxiety. Neither of them knew what kind of Metahuman ability this recruit would have, but that was one problem that was compounded above others. With ability one has to understand the local feelings of that ability, family, friends, and neighbors. It hadn't been very long since the Vatican called them holy, but as with every speech, it doesn't usually translate to the microcosm of any ghetto, slum, or closed community without modern access to global communication and television. Marcel and Roger could only hope these folk appreciated John Paul the 2nd as much as the next catholic, they weren't crossing any fingers. After a long winding path and more than one bout of incorrect directions from locals, they reached the apartment complex where the student resided. There was a moment before Roger and Marcel left the car. Everything would change the moment they opened those car doors, but in that moment before they spoke once more. Just last minute checks, small talk.

“His name is Opal Baptiste, and he's fourteen years old. Kocher dropped the ball in some respects, the local police were still confused about the meaning of Metahuman, and this problem only compounded with the citizens. South Africa isn't a third world country, but like every country its infrastructure lacks in the urban areas.”

“Got it. Roger before we go, I have to ask you something. I know, not the best time, but there's something I noticed in your voice, or maybe it's something I thought I heard. How much longer are you going to be an officer at Kocher?”

“I didn't expect you to be some kind of reader, Marcel. You're the quiet one, but maybe that does it explain it. Yeah, I'm nearing my end. What about you, sounded like you were the same.”

“Well, no actually. I know the end of our careers is a comforting thought, and I will be happy when I decide to retire, but I'm starting to change the way I think. It's these hands, Roger. Nine times I've broken the promise I was born to keep. But it means more, and I'm seeing this now. My hands--”

Whatever Marcel hands were supposed to mean to him at that moment would be forever lost. An interruption not only put that revelation on hold but subsequently destroyed it, pushing Marcel to his limit. A spacial disruption threw a mailbox onto the hood of the car, denting the rental deep, and crippling the engine. Another shock finely crushed the car glass, like it was plate glass, disintegrating it into fine dust. There wasn't time to say what or wait or stop. A half second waiting or thinking could mean their lives, or someone else. They forced the car doors open, and with that click of the car door hinge everything would change forever.

Light waxed and waned in waves above them, with a young man hanging off the balcony in the apartment complex above them. Marcel's moment of contemplation cost them the attention, Opal had already seen them pull up, realized they were the strange men the police said would take him away, and he panicked. Opal had a life already planned out, he wanted to stay in his local school and be a doctor. His grandmother was sick, and had always been sick in this way since Opal was young. The child wish that his grandmother would recover turned into a determined goal that drove him through school books and grades. He needed this life to stay on the path he made for himself, to fix everything that was wrong in his world, and he didn't want to change his world for someone else from across the planet. It wasn't his intellect, though, that brought his mind to try and destroy the car, but it was fear. There was a misunderstanding about the dates, he was expecting the Kocher men to arrive two days later, and seeing them early was the crack that grew into a fissure of anxiety.

Opal ran. Through his apartment, with his family screaming in confusion and fear burning as bright as his own, and through the complex. There was an intoxicating yet disgusting thrill about his raw and untrained power. Open doors here, push people there. They became objects where before they were his neighbors and the world he knew and loved. It was slash and burn to escape, and the power helped. Strange though it was the power that was his enemy of change, the only reason men from across the planet came to see him. He should hate it, and he did, but it made him more than human, more than his name, more than his world. In this confused and conflicted struggle to escape rationality waned like low tide. It would be hard to talk him down.

So the chase happened. In total, the incident lasted less than five minutes. It was frantic, chaotic, and damaging. Some walls collapsed, some light poles toppled over, and some people had minor injuries. But none of that mattered. Even in rural areas there's always the risk of something going wrong, Marcel and Roger ran through the urban track trail at Kocher many times, this claustrophobic labyrinth of the human condition was not keeping the agents hindered. What mattered was a brief moment were something separated Marcel and Roger. Looking back Marcel cannot remember exactly what happened. Maybe some collapsed, maybe someone tackled Roger, or Roger accidentally tackled someone, the other way around. Either way, it left Marcel alone, but it didn't stop him.

His lungs heaved in clouds of dust. Construction site. He saw the white shirt tail from Opal. He kept running, his eyes were searing from the dust. Hard to see. Hard to think. He coughed to keep out the dust, a stupid thing. His mouth was full of particles. Someone yelled at him. A worker, he thought. “Unstable, keep out, danger, danger, danger.” But he was there, Opal was there, just before him, slowing down. He ran to fast, too frightened. Marcel was reserved, running to keep his breath, to keep paced. But the dust, god the dust. Must had torn up the earth something bad, it was like a fire. People were screaming. He couldn't remember why.

Seconds turned longer, minutes seemed to crawl, he could only keep time by the count of his breath. Black suit with white shirt underneath, black pants, and brown shoes. It's what Marcel was wearing, but it was all brown, bright brown. So was his face, everything turned into the same color. Brown and dry, his mouth and eyes were losing the fight.

They reached a pit of some kind, an area walled off. There were broken bits of building, snapped rebar and half chiseled concrete blocks. Opal turned back to see Marcel, Marcel was still running. Opal gripped his head, the short brown hair twisted around the fingers as he gripped his skull. From beneath him Marcel felt lifted, but in the next second he knew he was thrown. The pain he felt against his legs was the sign that this would not be like other assignments. This would be violent. Marcel was thrown into something sharp, and it nearly killed him. In the dust he saw red stain the dirt beneath him. He coughed up red, staining the dirt wet with saliva mixed in. The gloves came off.

Marcel ran towards Opal, a sprint. It wasn't professional, it was desperate. No nine mistakes to remember, no nine reasons to keep his hands away, no fear to restrain, no power to conserve. The people kept shouting, the dust kept rising, the sweat stained his eyes more now, and his chest heaved. He touched Opal's face. Then he gripped it. The purple grew dark. The dust coated his hands. His heart pumped. There was an explosion, maybe, so he couldn't hear. So loud, so quiet. Everything screamed at him, but nothing came in. He saw Opal's face. It shook out of reflex, muscled froze up. Opal bit his tongue, almost hard enough to lose it. Opal cried, but just tears, no heaving or gasping or sobbing. His lunged locked up. His arms locked up. His legs locked up. Marcel had both hands on him. It didn't end. It just kept going. Everything stopped and froze, dying inside. Dirt stung at Marcel's wound. Opal's heart was giving out.

It was blurry after, no one remembers what happened perfectly. Marcel was pulled off Opal, and Opal crawled back to a ledge, falling down and breaking both his legs. He kept crawling, but people remember his mouth. It was wide open, and his eyes were fixated forward, like Marcel was still on him, but it was the fear. The police restrained him, but he was so weak his limp body's struggle was like a child’s. The police ordered the construction to a halt, the dust was too much of a problem, they couldn't see across the yard, and it was hard enough keeping their eyes open. Roger reached the yard with the police, saw to Opal and directed the authorities off to the hospital with the young man. Regulation required that he accompany the recruit, to avoid a risk of another incident, but everything had broken down in so many ways, he wasn't thinking straight.

The next few days went by like wind. Kocher sent representatives, officials argued, and many people called for Marcel's expulsion, many more called for his arrest. Opal stayed in critical care for three weeks, dealing with nearly fatal heart failure, fractures, and an overwhelming paranoia that attacked him every moment he was awake. When he was aware enough, he would scream, pull out his tubes and stumble off the hospital bed. Restrained were used, but it couldn't stop his anxiety. Eventually, the hospital decided that most of his waking time he would be under heavy sedation.

Marcel spoke to no one, not even Roger. Other Kocker agents escorted him back to the institution in a hushed and secure transport flight. The Meta-community felt a brief period of backlash and protest, but as more of the situation came to light by investigators, the protested died out. It was a mistake, most people accepted. Coverage of the incident was light and more centered around worries about client treatment, not particulars of the incident. What exactly happened would be kept secret but to a few leaders of Kocher and the other institutions.

The next time Roger saw Marcel would be the last time. After being stonewalled from seeing him, and after numerous heated conversations with the dean, he was given a brief meeting with his partner. Marcel had lost a serious amount of weight, and wasn't keeping himself. Hearing Roger's voice his eyes perked up, with an expression of fear and wholesome shame. “Why? I didn't want to see you. I didn't want to see anyone.”

“Marcel, I had to see you.”

“See what? What did you have to see? Did you have to force this on me? I tried saying no, I told Walter enough people enough therapy I'm done and I'm tired and I'm dead. Dead, and I want to leave everything, everyone. So you see this, you see me, are you finished?”

“I know it was bad.”

“Really, you don't, and you're insulting me by saying you know anything. But... I guess you do know. Everyone knows. I'm sorry, just go. I wrote my resignation letter, so I had to think about, his face, alright I'm done no more, just go.”

“Marcel.”

“No, Roger, no Marcel this or that or I can help you, you can't! I am broken, he is broken, everything is broken! I can't fix it, I just want to leave. I just want to go and leave everything. I'm not making sense, I'm not fit for this anymore.”

“Marcel...”

“Roger he will never live a normal life now after what I did to him. Deep fear, it doesn't leave. It's a burn on him, and I burned him. He will live under sedatives for the rest of his life. He's brain-dead, I killed his mind.” He counted his fingers, hands trembling. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. No, not ten. More than ten. Not a touch, like the others, or a brush. I choked him, I blew him away, I destroyed him.”

“We can get through this.”

“You can, you didn't do anything. Stop acting like you're part of this, no one is part of this but me. You can go home and feel bad about me for a few more years, then retire and have your family and your good memories. I don't have your family, I don't have any family. I don't get to go home, home isn't there anymore. It's not the safe I can go back to, I've ruined all the good I can run back to. You will live, yeah, but I won't. I will linger. I feel so tired, and no matter how long I sleep, I wake up tired. He couldn't scream back then, his throat locked up. But when I sleep, I hear him scream. Like a child, like a baby. Please, go. Please, please, please, please.”

Marcel Fritz left Switzerland the next day, and the day after that he left Europe. A speech was given in his behalf of the good he did at Kocher, and Roger gave the speech. People talked about Marcel with a fondness, although sometimes there would be whispers and half-truth rumors. They never lived long. Marcel Fritz was just a name that became forgettable, and his actions were unremarkable to everyone thereafter. Durban would live on, Kocher would live on, and even Roger would forget when the years turned through and through. But Marcel remained, and for the next eighteen years of his life he would, at times, alone in the dark and silence of an early morning, remember. Marcel would remember, and he would weep. It would always be the saddest memory of his life.