This is my first fanfic, Psychonauts or otherwise. It's a Bobby/Chloe fic, in case you couldn't already tell. All comments, critique, flames, gushes, and all else is accepted and appreciated. Enjoy the read!
Disclaimer: I don't own Psychonauts or any of its characters. Also, Spacekase thought of the title for me. Thank you, Spacekase.
With the closing of the incident at Whispering Rock last summer, Coach Oleander had suggested a class called "Live Combat", which was different from the other classes in that it wasn't meant for teaching or mastering any one psychic ability in particular. Instead, the pupils would learn how to utilize their powers in a real combat situation (or as close to real combat as a children's summer camp could muster—namely, Morceau's mental battlefield).
Milla had insisted that the children did not need advanced training yet, at least not the likes of which they would receive under the coach's administration. Besides, didn't they already learn enough about combat in Basic Braining? All Oleander had to do was finger out the "whole thing with the brain-stealing business" that happened last year—how only one student had retained enough of his combat training to keep his head (or his brain, as the case had been)—and Ford was on his side, too, which sealed the deal quite neatly. For many of the campers, this was a good thing, for others something new and exciting, and for others still a nightmare being realized.
Notably, Bobby Zilch liked the idea, and, once it was passed by Truman Zanotto (who had probably just stamped the paper without bothering to read it, busy as he was), was stoked when he got a taste of the actual class.
It didn't suck as much as the other classes.
Today they were doing one-on-one combat and were allowed to use any and every ability, psychic or otherwise, in their arsenal. The coach had them all lined up against the walls of his mental recruiting office—all twenty of their astral projections (twenty because Raz, as a Psychonaut, now received more "professional" training), itching and nervous, tugging at their clothes, nibbling their nails, chattering awkwardly and tensely to keep the mood light. They had no say of who their opponent was. The coach kept the pleasure of choosing all to himself, because, as he said, "In real combat, a soldier doesn't get to choose his enemies."
The rickety projector spat a fuzzy, black-and-white countenance onto one wall for all the students to face. Bobby gave a wicked, rotten-toothed smile. Class was about to begin.
"All eyes front and center!" boomed a guttural voice. The uncomfortable chatter settled to a more uncomfortable silence. Forty eyes looked up at the projection expectantly. "Listen up, cadets! Today is what you've been training for all summer: the day you get to show your fellow soldiers, your commanding officer, and yourself exactly what you're made of."
The day I get to give one lucky individual a very special pounding, thought Bobby as he lined up his knuckles.
"If you fail, you'll be disappointing everyone that has ever supported you during this long and arduous course. If you succeed, you'll be one step closer to the ultimate goal."
The coach, of course, was talking about graduating from psychic training to become a Psychonaut. Bobby's father had always told him that his ultimate goal should be getting a job as a grocery bagger, because it was easy, required no college education (and thus no money), and provided a great window of opportunity to find some rich woman (the kind who could afford French bread and the nice brand of condoms) to mooch off of. But beating people up with his mind for money could be awesome, too.
"So either you give it your all out there…" the bodiless voice continued as two projected eyes brushed through the quivering campers with malice, "… or you give me twenty every morning and night until your mommy comes to save you! Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal clear, boss!" shouted Benny reflexively, as he knew what would happen should he fail to affirm one of Bobby's commands. Bobby walloped him in the back of the head for confusing him with someone as bossy and ugly as Coach Oleander.
"Good," Oleander breathed huskily. "Now…"
On cue, the wall hosting the coach's projected image exploded in a fiery torrent, chorused by a dozen surprised yelps. Many of the students had to duck out of the way of splintering wood and a hail of mental dust.
Through the jagged new opening was a vast expanse of dirty snow, interrupted periodically by star-shaped black smudges reminiscent of the marks that child-sized explosions might leave in their wake. This was not a reassuring mental image.
Once the dust cleared, the coach's face rematerialized on a scrap of jetsam—a warplane wing, seemingly torn off with such sheer, burning force as to have landed it three feet into the ground at a stiff sixty-degree angle. This was not a reassuring mental image, either. The rest of the plane lay halfway across the snowy field, sweating out a choking, black snake of smog into the gray sky. Atop, underneath, and all throughout it, fire burned away so fiercely that Bobby could almost feel the heat from where he stood. It could be assumed that the plane's crash was what had caused the explosion—but, of course, there was always the marginal possibility that the wall had just detonated of its own accord, as things in Oleander's mind often did.
"… Which one of you chickens wants to go first?"
Most of the class scrunched up tightly against the remaining three walls of the office. Milka was flickering like a faulty light bulb—visible, invisible, there, not there—as trembling Elton squeezed her arm. Franke and Kitty hugged like best friends in a desperate situation ought to; if they could have, they would have skipped this class in favor of a well-needed afternoon mani-pedi treatment. Maloof clung to Mikhail as if he were the last thing in the world he had to hold on to. The poor thing's smelling salts had been confiscated because, as the coach frequently went out of his way to remind them all, this class was mandatory. Dogen flinched sporadically while shuffling from side to side, bumping time and again into Vernon and then Elka, who made a point out of pretending to faint (into Nils' arms, conveniently).
No one wanted to go first.
Except for Bobby.
He was the first to step onto the powdered battlefield. The snow crunched beneath his bare feet but did not numb them, as it would in the physical world. What would have been a frozen hell to almost anyone else gave Bobby anxious shivers; his blue knuckles turned white with tension.
"Bring it on," he challenged the black-and-white face.
The coach grinned. It was a sadistic grin—the kind of grin brought to the surface by the prospect of a good fight. An effortful fight. A fight that would be fun to watch and invigorating to applaud for. In his mismatched eyes, a glint sprouted that even the strong-hearted Bobby found unnerving.
Suddenly, the jetsam wing, along with the old-fashioned projection cast onto it, combusted noisily, not unlike the wall of the recruiting office. A shrimpy (No, "height-challenged." Chloe said to be less offensive), devil-red astral man marched out of the white void, reeking of authority and aggression, and stood next to Bobby. He faced the nineteen remaining cadets with his head high.
"Only one of you?" he reprimanded loudly. "You make me sick."
Bobby snickered while the others donned their Ashamed faces.
The coach, though audibly mortified by his soldiers' lack of initiative, scanned through the crowd thoughtfully, taking care to pause for a nerve-racking five seconds on each individual. Bobby's eyes followed.
At long last, the coach let out a promising, "Hmm." He raised his gloved hand and pointed firmly at one of the students. "You!"
Maloof gasped.
Bobby smirked in a manner that was both unbecoming and somewhat difficult, considering the irregular placement of his teeth. Of all the campers he knew and loved (to wail on), no one screamed or begged so satisfactorily as that one. In the physical world, Bobby got yelled at for beating on the kid, but here he was actually encouraged to. Usually, Ma-loser had that one foreign kid to cower behind, but the only rule in this class was one-on-one—no helpers, especially not the Russian kind. Bobby cracked his knuckles, now unbearably eager. This would be no fight at all.
Suddenly, Maloof ducked out of the way of the coach's decisive finger, so close to the wall he may as well have been one of the posters.
Bobby raised an eyebrow when Oleander didn't budge to indicate Maloof again. His finger stayed where it was.
He was pointing at the foreign kid.
Bobby's jaw fell open.
The coach went on. "Let's have ourselves an interesting fight, shall we?" He emphasized the word as if to depreciate all the students he considered weak—specifically, all those significantly shorter than him. Obviously, he was in no mood for lackluster carnage. Only the bloodiest for Coach Oleander.
As Maloof let out a heavy breath and slumped into a shaking bundle on the floor, Mikhail took his place in the snowy arena.
Bobby's mind fought between his fearless reputation and his fearful past experiences. His subconscious kept reminding him, Deadly Nelson, Deadly Nelson, Deadly Nelson… He shook it off. This was the mental world. Nothing could really hurt him… just the all-mighty status that he'd labored for years at this stupid summer camp to build up.
"You know the drill," said the coach. "Clean fight, above the belt, stop at the whistle…" His mumblings quickly took on the tone of someone who was being made to say something rather than saying it of his own accord. As he continued along the list of obligations, increasingly unenthusiastic, Bobby locked onto Mikhail's eyes. He tightened his fists and smiled. As long as he had to do this, he might as well enjoy it.
"Other than that," Oleander concluded, not realizing his point had been lost on them both, "have at it!"
With that, the orange man vanished in a third and final explosion. The ensuing calm lasted all of three seconds—three very long, very long seconds. Bobby glared. Mikhail glared. Benny and Maloof stared on, apparently sensing the need to stifle their urge to cheer until the action began. With a final crack of his knuckles, Bobby flung himself at his opponent.
He'd never thought levitation would come in handy for his violent purposes. Using the light thoughts that everyone always had in his or her Happy Place, as Milla had instructed, he activated his levitation ball to propel himself forward at what felt like a breath-stealing speed. He made a tiny jump to get ever so slightly airborne, turned his hand into a hard fist, collided in an instant—no, half an instant—and hit the ground with something in hand.
The collision had not been satisfactory, and he realized why. What he had at the end of his fist was not a broken-boned camper, but instead a moderately uninjured, ridiculously tall fur hat. He had overshot his target.
His ugly teeth clenched as he threw the hat away from himself, psychically combusting it out of pure rage, and no sooner had he turned around to face his adversary than a massive fist of orange energy caught him in the side. Bobby fought the urge to double over, and quickly regained himself—but not quickly enough to avoid being grabbed by Mikhail's psychic claw. Bobby lost track of the ground as he was lifted higher, higher, higher, and finally, powerfully flung at a nearby snowdrift. A second before he hit, he activated his thought balloon (thanks again to Milla), and his perilous plunge became slow and steady.
He landed in knee-high snow that was not at all cold, but he still shook—shook with anger.
A barely fluent immigrant was making an ass out of him.
With a furious growl, Bobby leapt out of the snowdrift, unconsciously firestarting the white powder and turning it to liquid. He ran at Mikhail with two fingers to his temple, readying his telekinetic hand, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. A bright yellow hand materialized and grabbed the target before Mikhail could elude it. Bobby gave a toothy, yellow grin. Now this was no fight at all.
With one hand to his head and the other in a remote-controlling fist, he squeezed, hard and then harder, taking a disturbing degree of delight when his rival let out a pained growl. Mikhail stared at him with wide eyes. To Bobby it looked like a pleading stare. It was only too late that he sensed his control over the telekinetic hand weakening, the yellow energy dissipating, and his captive's psychic presence growing stronger and stronger until something snapped.
By the time he did realize it, Mikhail had severed the psychic connection between them, effectively disarming Bobby's mental grasp and hurling them both backwards with the effort it took. Bobby landed beneath the remaining wing of the wrecked warplane, though he paid no mind to the pains of his fall. He was as astonished as he was livid. He hadn't learned that in Telekinesis Class.
Bobby managed to rise as quickly as he had fallen, and readied a fiery PSI-blast for release. He felt the heat at his forehead, his aggression gathering at a central area… and at the moment of discharge, he heard a crack overhead. He looked up just in time to see the plane's wing splitting off at the seams, crackling and still very much alight. It was directly above him. He didn't have time to think as the last bits of metal securing it to the plane's body smoldered and snapped, and closed his eyes to let his instincts do the acting.
He caught the wing telekinetically, two hazardous inches before impact. It was heavy. A heavy weapon. He lowered his head and grinned a sinister grin.
On the opposite side of the white field, Mikhail was still getting his bearings from his psychic feat. It was an opportunity from heaven.
His teeth digging into his lip from the effort, Bobby heaved the hunk of metal as far as his mind would let him—with his eyes tightly closed. He cracked open his eyelids to a dreadful sight: his heavy weapon missing its intention by at least a mile.
To make matters twice as bad, Mikhail managed to catch the flying, spinning mass, with hardly half the difficulty that Bobby'd had just picking it up.
Bobby's lip began to turn pink as he bit, now angrily. He hurriedly prepared a psychic shield—one of his most seldom-used powers, and thus understandably one of his weakest—expecting a return throw from the opposition.
Mikhail hesitated, as one logically would in light of an enemy's blunder. He took the time to aim so as not to share in Bobby's mistake. However, Bobby recognized taking one's time as a mistake in itself. His nails dug into his palms as he rose and donned his levitation ball. He crashed through his own shield—useless thing anyway—and soared across the field, hailing up a flurry of snow wherever he crossed like a snowboarder in a mad dash for the finish line. He made sure not to make himself an easy target, swerving this way now, darting that way then. And while rapidly closing the distance between them, he prepared a little something behind his back.
Twenty yards. Ten yards. Two.
Mikhail desperately flung the metal; Bobby flung his confusion grenade. An explosion of green overwhelmed the whiteness as Bobby ducked, the wing sweeping across his heap of hair. He didn't wait to watch it fall; he stopped levitating, turned his attention back to Mikhail, and cackled excitedly.
It was always a sad, devilishly hilarious sight when a fellow Psicadet was in the midst of that plague they call confusion.
Mikhail, once tall and threatening, was lying still as the grave, limp as a rag doll, while his eyes swam back and forth across the smoky sky (or perhaps what he thought was the ground, in his current state). His lips worked for words that came out half-formed. Even as Bobby gloated with his trademark victory dance, he heard a voice above the crowd of engrossed conversation from the peanut gallery.
"You're the best, boss! You sure showed him!"
For the first time, the Nose's voice wasn't totally grating.
Bobby looked down at the defeated as a king to a peasant. He smirked in a way that might have been sinisterly charming if he weren't the most hideous thing to ever crawl out of a hole since the Great Hulking Lungfish of Lake Oblongata.
After what seemed like an hour of magnificent victory-wallowing, Mikhail's eyes focused and locked onto Bobby. He made no move to get up. Bobby would have put him right back down if he tried, anyway.
Blinking heavy traces of confusion from his eyes, he ran one golden-brown hand through his dark hair, and all at once his senses seemed to connect. He looked up at a sneering, cross-armed Bobby, feeling around for his hat, and murmured something unintelligible.
Bobby quirked one thick brow and guffawed. "A little slow, ain't ya?"
Mikhail lowered his gaze, resulting in a dark shadow over half his face. "You burned it," he said.
Bobby obviously found this hysterical. "And I'll burn you, too," he lisped, "if you try any funny stuff. Hands where I can see 'em."
Mikhail lowered his head once more, and Bobby took this as an affirmation. The defeated cadet raised his arms in surrender.
It was really a grand moment. One of the best, Bobby realized, that he had ever known. Such an awesome win after that humiliation last year… Ugh… Deadly Nelson… As far as he was concerned, this revenge was his ultimate goal. He waited for the whistle, the coach's proud voice announcing the victor, the applause of his peers.
Instead, he heard a voice that he would have preferred to come in the form of screaming or begging.
"Drop it! Drop it! Squish him!"
Bobby's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. Turning his head, he looked through the hole in the recruiting office. There was Maloof, shouting something stupid for reasons even he probably didn't understand. There was Benny, looking shocked and stupid as his mouth worked to shape words that he somehow couldn't muster, pointing at the ground near Bobby shakily. There was stupid Mikhail, still half-buried in snow, still with his arms up… correction, now with one arm up and one at his temple.
Bobby suddenly recognized the heavy, warplane-wing-shaped shadow surrounding him.
He looked up. The wing fell.
Before his vision failed him, he lowered his gaze to Mikhail, who gave a rare smile. There was the coach's whistle. There was the proud voice, except all it said was, "Ha, ha, ha!" in that way Oleander did.
The last thing Bobby knew was the cheering of half his class, not for Mikhail's triumph, but for Bobby's mortifying failure. After three seconds of a spiraling, green-and-blue mental ride, he found himself in the physical world once again, where the entranced bodies of his nineteen fellow cadets swayed to and fro almost in unison.
And for the first time in his life, Bobby Zilch was the first one dismissed from class.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Bobby was highly irritable. Everyone he passed by just looked at him. They didn't say anything, but he could guess what they were thinking. They were all laughing at him. Not out loud, of course, but he could feel it. He wanted to pound every single one of them.
Since everywhere else was populated by his classmates' mocking eyes and scalding snickers, Bobby decided that the off-limits parts of the forest were his best bet for some peaceful, uninterrupted sulking—besides that, it was the best place to find squirrels and little birdies to torment, and Ranger Cruller was no longer around to stop him. While he was ambling along, kicking rocks from their moorings and setting cute, furry woodland creatures on fire, he unexpectedly spotted Chloe underneath a grassy overhang on the river, fiddling with a test tube and a microscope with no lens. He knew she wouldn't make fun of him; she was already too busy doing… that thing that she was doing.
He jumped the river (it took two jumps because the first one landed him right in the middle of it) and took a seat next to her under the overhang with cold, soaking feet. At a closer range, it became clear that her test tube was halfway filled with water. Even in such a small container, it was slightly green. "Hey, Chloe. Uh… so… whatcha doin'?"
Chloe didn't reply, but rather pondered something aloud to herself. "Two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen…"
Bobby stayed quiet for a few seconds, and then most eloquently muttered, "Say whuh…?"
She lifted her eyes for just a second, and even that little glance was enough to make him feel better. "I'm trying to calculate the efficiency of different Earth substances as rocket fuel," she said, and finished with, "So stop talking."
He shut his mouth obediently and observed as she adjusted the microscope in front of her helmet with one hand, swirling the tube in the other. She made some interested noises, although he didn't know what kind of breakthrough a person could make with a cracked tube, a lens-less microscope, and dirty river water. Then again, Chloe was awesome enough to do just about anything with whatever she was given, in his book. Still, that didn't mean she had to use mediocre materials. "Uh, you know, I bet Sasha has some better junk you can use… I mean, if you want me ta go ask 'im."
Chloe lowered her instruments and glared. "Where's that specimen of the large-eared variety that you usually annoy?"
Bobby waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, he's off being stupid somewhere else." He had told Benny to get lost for the rest of the day. Most likely, the little snot would prattle on about how it wasn't his fault he'd lost, how Mikhail had cheated or some-such, never realizing that all he was succeeding in doing was reviving a subject that Bobby wanted to drop. That would be even worse than the laughing and the pointing.
He knew why Chloe wasn't laughing or pointing—she was too cool to care about stupid Coach Oleander's stupid class (which he now realized did suck as much as the other classes, if not exponentially more)—but she was probably as interested in his demonstration as the rest of camp. She wasn't used to seeing him lose; she might be confused and disillusioned. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't as bad as that—maybe she hadn't been paying attention when he lost because the class was so stupid. Even so, she would have heard about it from one of the other kids… He would probably have to explain himself. For the past few days, he decided, he'd had a cold, and his senses weren't as sharp as they usually were. That might sit well with her. He turned to Chloe and opened his mouth, only to realize he was about to talk to air.
Chloe had left and was halfway across the river. Bobby jumped up and made to follow her, keeping his arms extended in case the current made her teeny legs give out.
On the opposite side of the river, Maloof was pulling Mikhail (the last person Bobby wanted to see) by the hand, pointing and talking. He got to the foot of a tree and pointed frantically up into the branches, then looked way up at his friend with wide, shiny doll eyes. Mikhail levitated up into the mass of leaves, never pausing to think. Bobby sneered at their display of best-friendship.
Why Chloe was walking up to Maloof, he had no idea.
By the time Bobby was shaking droplets from his feet and making his way over to them, Chloe had already begun talking to the tiny boy.
"What kind of proposition?" said Maloof. Bobby didn't like the sound of that.
Chloe answered, "I wish to speak with your foreign friend."
Maloof crossed his arms with a superior frown. "I am Mikhail's exclusive agent. Any proposal you have for him can be routed through me."
Bobby rolled his eyes. He came up and placed a hand on Chloe's shoulder to let her know he was still there. Neither she nor Maloof acknowledged his presence.
There was a rustling and a crack from above as Mikhail fell from the tree, barely catching himself with his thought balloon, with something colorful under his arm. Maloof smiled at him, and he smiled back as he handed the boy his kite.
Chloe turned her helmet to look at him. "There you are."
Mikhail looked down at her, seeming about as lost as Bobby. He pointed to himself questioningly.
Chloe nodded. "I believe I need your help. Earlier you displayed skill in the field of what the Whispering Rock prison directors refer to as 'telekinesis'."
Bobby's face fell. So she had been paying attention—and she'd seen his horrifying loss, too.
Maloof broke in, believing he knew what she was after. "We are the best in the business," he averred, using his kite to indicate he and his friend.
"I'm obliged to agree," said Chloe. "That's why I'd like you to meet me here tonight for a special experiment I've been wanting to run."
Bobby felt his heart fall. Whenever Chloe wanted to run a psycho experiment on someone, he was the first one she turned to. Why hadn't she asked him first? What did the foreign kid have that Bobby didn't?
"If you need to 'experiment'," said Maloof, "we're currently having a special: three days of protection for half-price, with total satisfaction or your money back. It's limited edition. I suggest you take it."
Chloe glared at him and shook her head. "That's a negative. I require his assistance." She pointed to Mikhail sternly. "Your participation in this experiment would only hinder it."
"What kinda experiment is this, anyway?" Bobby asked. "An' why d'ya need him?"
Chloe kept looking at Maloof as she answered, as if he were the one who had asked the question. "As you may know, I have heard the voices of intergalactic extraterrestrial entities since I was a kid, but the messages are never clear enough to make out. I think that if I could just get up a little bit higher—"
Mikhail finally caught on. "So you want I should give you boost?"
"Affirmative," said Chloe.
Bobby, tired of being ignored and depreciated for a foreigner, stepped forward and placed a protective arm in front of Chloe, who made a displeased sound. "You gotta be kidding me! You don't really trust this guy, do ya?"
Maloof, for once, was on Bobby's side. "We have other orders to fill. We simply can't waste time doing favors."
"I can pay you, if that's what it takes," Chloe said.
While Maloof thought about this, Bobby spat out, "I wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw him."
There was an uncomfortable silence, permeated with a longing to say the words on everyone's mind. Finally there came, "And, as we've all seen, that isn't very far." Maloof snickered at his own comment, and Mikhail, per usual, followed suit.
Bobby chose to ignore this, though he could swear he felt the red in his cheeks deepening. "He'd probably drop ya."
Maloof stiffened. He wouldn't have his service insulted. "This isn't our standard type of business, but… I'll tell you what…"
"No," Bobby spat, "I'll tell you what. There's no way I'm gonna let that commie touch Chloe, 'specially not with his commie brain. I'll do it—for free." The words came out before he consciously decided to say them.
"So be it. We have business to attend to anyway." Maloof took his leave and used his kite to beckon his bodyguard, who shrugged off Bobby and Chloe in favor of his tiny boss.
Chloe finally looked up at Bobby. "Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but… are you sure you're able to—?"
"I'll do twice the job those bozos could," he said, polishing his knuckles proudly.
Chloe nodded, albeit reluctantly. "If you say so. Meet me outside the Geodesic Psychoisolation Chamber in eight Earth hours." With that, she left to do whatever it was she did during the day, and Bobby stayed to wallow in victory for the second time that afternoon, this time trusting that it would be uninterrupted.
He arrived at the GPC at 10:30 PM, a full half hour early, because for everything that could go wrong with this plan, he refused to let it fail due to his own negligence.
It wasn't very dark—out here in the wilderness, the moon shone brighter than any streetlight, and even Bobby had to admit that the billions of stars looked kind of cool with nothing to disrupt their light. Nature made irritating and creepy noises all around him, but all the things that could attack, crawl on, or otherwise upset him were at the back of his mind.
He waited with a pounding heart, now realizing just how stupid he was for volunteering. Just like most others, he was aware that Chloe's "alien voices" were, in fact, the thoughts of regular old humans that she picked up unconsciously. The only one who didn't know it was Chloe. What if she didn't hear anything tonight, no matter how high she got? What if it made her sad? Would she blame him? … Would she cry? No matter what he had promised, he simply couldn't be the one to break it to her. If the truth hurt her, it would hurt him twice as much.
He continuously tapped his foot to keep the silence at bay. He read all the posters along the tall fencing twice, and tried pronouncing the ones that weren't in English. He leaned against the fence and closed his eyes, and was about ready to fall asleep when a voice startled him.
"Are you ready?"
Bobby looked down at Chloe and nodded hesitantly. The dread he had felt before became intense and made his every move stiff. Instead of climbing to the top of the GPC, as Bobby had assumed they would, Chloe led him behind the fence and up a sheer hill, where trees and shrubbery dominated every inch of the terrain and you couldn't tell if a bush was snagging you or if it was something with teeth. With the silence, the darkness, and the doubtful thoughts whispering in his ears, it felt like a death hike.
By the time she stopped, he could look out to the distance see that they were almost parallel to the roof of the main lodge, the highest point in camp. Chloe had him levitate up to a high branch in an oak tree so that the maximum reach of his telekinetic grasp would be higher up.
"We're in position," she said formally. Then, more like a kid in a candy store, she added, "Now lift me up!"
Bobby obeyed. He was still adjusting his balance on the branch, so at first he acted slowly, raising the girl at a pace that made her kick her legs and grab for the sky eagerly. When she reached his level, she asked, "Can't you go any faster?" She was surprising cute when she took on that snappy tone. He couldn't say no.
Chloe was at least eighty feet off the ground when he stopped for fear of losing his psychic grip. She didn't seem to notice the halt in ascension. Rather, she began talking to her alien entities.
"Hello?" she called out. "Is anyone there? I think I can hear you better now. Speak up!"
Bobby could feel his heart twisting.
"Give me your message again. I think I'll be able to understand it this time!" With every word, the desperation in her voice elevated. For all the logic in her alien brain, she just couldn't work out why the voices had suddenly stopped. This made Bobby sadder than he had ever been before. He wished there were aliens out there—that way she wouldn't be disappointed. Why couldn't the stupid things just exist already? Stupid…
"Hello! I'm here! I'm listening! Why won't you talk to me?"
She sounded about ready to cry. That was where Bobby drew the line. He had never used two psychic powers simultaneously, but he hardly even had to think about it when it came to Chloe.
Here we are… uh… Earthling, Bobby said telepathically.
Chloe gasped. "I-I can hear you! It's so clear!" The excitement in her voice made his heart lurch. "Tell me, what are you?"
Bobby scrounged around in his mind for some answer that might make sense, but found it disappointingly blank. Um…
"Are you from Polarissima Australis? Or Fath 703? Cygnus A?"
Uh… Yeah, one of those.
Chloe could barely contain the squeal in her voice. "I know that your technology far surpasses that of any Earth mechanism…"
Oh, God. He wouldn't have to tell her about advanced technology, would he? He hardly knew how to work a VCR (he'd ended up dropping it off the edge of the grocery store roof on Take Your Child to Work Day, instead. Then his dad had had to pay for some guy's dog's vet bill).
"Do you have some device that can lift me up out of the atmosphere and take me far, far away from this horrible planet and its violent, primitive species forever and ever? Or something like that?"
Bobby hesitated at this. He knew it wasn't possible, but even in his mind, the prospect of losing her forever… and ever… was something he did not want to deal with or say aloud—or telepathically. Never seeing her again would be like losing a really rad new car with a DVD player, super-size cup holders, and sweet hydraulics before even getting to drive it (years of bad experience in this field told him that that would sound a lot less sweet and sensitive out loud than in his head, so he made a mental note never to tell her that). He couldn't even admit to himself that she might leave. Besides, he didn't want to give Chloe false hope of seeing the universe when she might not, if not for her own good then for his.
Actually, our stupid person-taker-awayer is on the fritz right now. Might take a while to fix it. Maybe two, three years… or thirty…
"Oh," was all Chloe said. Bobby had underestimated the empathic affect of a telepathic connection; he felt her melancholy as if it were his own. He wanted to punch himself for being so touchy-feely, but that could come later.
"Well, can you at least send help? I've been detained here for as long as I can remember by alleged 'parental units', and now I'm trapped in a prison for young suspected extraterrestrials. I can't survive here much longer. There's too much nature!"
Bobby was surprised at how much this irked him. Was it really so bad here? Didn't he make it any better for her? He certainly tried. Why were all girls always so unsatisfied with the effort that boys made for them? He couldn't tell her that now, of course. Well, you see, uh… we're very… very… Crap, what was that word? Geodesic Psycho… We're very isolated right now. And, uh, we're not as advanced… in technology… as all the other galaxies, so our stuff isn't… Think of a smart word, think of a smart word, go back to sixth grade computer class… compatible with their stuff. You can just pick up our messages 'cause, um… you're really smart. Yeah.
Chloe tilted her head. "Where are you?"
Ah, you've prob'bly never heard of it.
"Can you give me the name?" she urged on. "I catalogue everything I find out about the alien life that I communicate with. It helps me to better understand the culture so that I won't be naïve and awkward once I can finally interact in person."
Bobby tried to remember the name of any "alien" civilization that she had ever mentioned, but ended up piecing together syllables from the surnames of the characters from South Park instead.
The conversation went on this way for some time. Bobby had never realized that Chloe had so many questions. He was beginning to understand how much she'd thought about this. He'd always known about her interest in space travel, but he now realized how much it consumed her. This degree of passion was a foreign idea to him—he'd never had much passion (or compassion) for anything—but now it hit him full-on. It was sad how long she'd had to wait to get a few answers—and even more so that those answers were being thrown together haphazardly by a thirteen-year-old boy who spent more time in the cooler than in school. He sort of felt guilty about lying to her, but at the same time he knew that the truth wouldn't be much better for her.
Even though Chloe's happiness could have fueled him for a lifetime, keeping up his telekinesis and using telepathy at the same time was tiring. At times he found himself slipping in his part of the conversation. Once he accidentally let Chloe fall a few feet before catching her, and she scolded him for falling asleep during the greatest moment of her life.
When she asked the alien why it had been sending messages to her for so long, Bobby was exhausted. Against his better judgment, he neglected to think about how an alien might answer and instead sent her the first thing that came to mind. Because you're the coolest being in the universe.
Chloe paused at this. "You think I'm… cool?" She sounded incredulous. "Wait… isn't 'cool' an Earth term?"
Bobby gulped. Yeah… well… you've been stuck on Earth so long that we thought you might, uh, be more comfortable using Earth terms… so… yeah.
"Oh… That makes sense, I guess," said Chloe. "So you really think I'm… 'cool'? You really like me?"
More than you know, said Bobby, and he meant it.
"What was that? You're getting quieter. Is there a problem with your transmitter?"
No, no! We're good. He was just tired, was all. More tired than he would care to admit. He could feel his voice slipping. It felt like trying to speak clearly with a bad case of strep throat.
"I can barely hear you," Chloe called. She twisted her body around to see Bobby below her. "Bobby, take me up higher!"
"Sure thing!" he shouted up at her.
She and the alien talked for quite some time longer, Bobby's mental voice all the while getting weaker, and his purchase on the tree branch becoming looser. She had to tell him often to raise her higher, and he did so. He knew the more distance there was between them, the quieter his voice would sound to her, but what was usually one of his favorite words ("no", preceded by "stupid", "ass", "hell", "stupid", and anything beginning or ending with "butt") wouldn't leave his mouth. It would offend her, and that wasn't an option. Offending Chloe was like running a red light with a cop watching—he was able to do it, but he seemed unaware that he could just because it was so unthinkable.
No one his age should know this kind of mental exertion. His legs ached after forty-five minutes of sitting perfectly still on a none-too-stable tree branch. He had the kind of headache that old people got on plane rides. He was sure he would fall and take Chloe down with him. He had to stop. But somehow, he couldn't allow himself to give up on her. They had a psychic connection right now, whether she knew it or not, and all the excitement, wonder, and curiosity she had felt thus far had impacted him—had been his drive. Now it was the prospect of feeling her disappointment if he should fail.
It was almost painful how drained he was. Even the coach would say this much exercise was unhealthy. Before long, he had to close his eyes, just so he couldn't see how much his hands were shaking. His body and mind throbbed like his fist after a good beating, except it wasn't as satisfying. Or maybe it was more satisfying. He couldn't tell anymore. All he knew was that he felt horrible, and it was worth it; he was lying, and it felt more honest than any truth; and Chloe's excitement reached a fever pitch every time she yelled, "Just a little higher, Bobby! Just a little higher!"
When she finally asked why they had been sending her messages all these years, Bobby had to admit that his transmitter was low on power and that even extraterrestrial beings with a limitless capacity for knowledge had to sleep sometimes (though not in so many words). Chloe told the alien to contact her immediately once his equipment was back in order. Bobby was so grateful that he actually, genuinely thanked God once he had both feet back on the ground
He held his head most of the way back to the cabins. His brain hurt as though he'd just spent a straight twenty minutes doing math homework (he hadn't known that kind of pain for a long time). For the most part, Chloe stayed quiet. She was either still in awe at having held the conversation she'd dreamed of for so long, or lamenting the fact that it had only lasted an hour and fifteen minutes. If the latter was the case, then Bobby was lamenting it too, but not because it had been too short.
When they had just passed the main lodge, Bobby dared to break the silence. "So… what did they say?"
"I won't be able to leave the planet for some time still. And they can't send help. And they're in a far-away galaxy called Cartlovmarshmick where the only two seasons are winter and July," she replied. She didn't look at him once. For the first time that night, her voice was completely devoid of emotion.
"Uh-huh," said Bobby.
Chloe stopped abruptly and stuck her arm out in front of him to make him do the same. Her helmet inclined toward her feet. "Also… I learned that you're one determined Earthling."
Fear seized Bobby's chest. Had he made a mistake? Did she know? Was she angry? He barely managed to look at her, and when he did his bottom lip was trembling. "… Whaddya mean?"
Finally, Chloe lifted her head. Her eyes shone more brightly behind that helmet than they ever had before. "Do you know what time it is?"
Bobby scratched his neck and tiredly checked his wrist, neglecting the fact that he didn't own a watch. "Naw. Why?"
Chloe looked high up at the sky and pointed. "Look at the moon." He did so. "I've been watching its position since we initiated the experiment. If you look at its placement in context to the surrounding stars…"
Bobby's head began to hurt again. "You're losin' me."
Chloe lowered her hand and her gaze. "It's past midnight," she concluded. "The experiment took over an hour."
"Hm," said Bobby.
"You held me up all that time."
"Izzat so."
Chloe stared blankly at him. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Bobby rubbed his arm. "Uh… it's late, and… we should go to bed?" Even he found it odd that he wanted to sleep, but he was too tired to think about it now.
Chloe took a tiny step toward him, seeming awkward and every bit as socially uninformed as she'd always been. But now it seemed like she was actually trying, not just for the sake of understanding a strange and interesting culture, but as if she were applying what she had picked up for the very first time. The light filtered through her helmet caught her eyes, causing them to glimmer for a moment.
Bobby could feel his temperature rising. He fingered around behind his back for something to lean against casually in case he needed a contingency option; as it seemed, this was turning into the kind of situation in which he always made an ass of himself.
Chloe looked at her feet, slowly opened her mouth and said, "Your internal fuel cells must be drained."
"Sure, I guess I'm pretty beat," Bobby said with a shrug.
She stared at him for a while more, at a loss for words that might seem "normal" by Earth standards. She placed her hands on her helmet, and for a moment, Bobby thought she might finally remove it; instead, she just adjusted it to see him better. "I'm curious as to why you would assist me without compensation. You skin-apes are usual so selfish."
Bobby rubbed the back of his head, trying to remember the meaning of "compensation". "Well, uh… why pay for what you can get for free, right?" He was aware that that didn't answer her question, but he no idea how he should answer, so it would have to do.
Chloe nodded slowly. "I see." She obviously didn't. "But… you don't seem like… I don't quite understand…"
Bobby shrugged. "I dunno. I guess I just… felt like doin' something nice for you… is all."
"For me…" Chloe mused. Funny how she had picked up those particular words—and how Bobby just now realized he had included them. For her. Not for anyone else. He wouldn't ever just "feel like" doing something nice for anyone else. That would be stupid. It didn't seem stupid when Chloe was the case. "Response acceptable," she said tersely, and turned away.
He couldn't see her face at this angle. Her tone carried no preference. Had she also picked up on his racing heart? The sweat trickling down the side of his face? Did it give her the same feeling he had right now? Did it make her uncomfortable? Was he pressuring her without meaning to? Peer pressure was one lesson that school constantly tried to shove down his throat. Not that he knew from experience—nobody would ever dare try to pressure Bobby Zilch—but he'd heard it could be really stressful, especially if it was from a boy to a girl. He didn't want Chloe to be stressed around him.
"Hey, can we walk or somethin'?" he asked. To his relief, he could feel the tension in the air settling. Chloe nodded and continued along the path, Bobby plodding after like an orange-haired puppy.
Once they were struggling over the massive roots of the coach's tree house (the direct path was too well-lit; someone might see them out of their beds after lights-out), Bobby felt it was safe to speak again. Softly, so no one would hear. "You're welcome, by the way."
Chloe paused halfway over a root and gave him a fleeting, over-the-shoulder glance. She said nothing, but he had a feeling she was saying "Thanks" on the inside.
"If you ever need anything else, uh… you know, some jerk beat up…"
"I'll let you know," Chloe said.
They stopped in front of Chloe's cabin. There was a silence, but it was more peaceful than awkward, almost as though they were both reading each other's minds. A thousand fireflies made star-flickers in the bushes; the total psychic contamination gave everything a very faint, purplish aura; for once, Bobby's unyielding desire to pound someone deaf absolutely failed him. For the first time since meeting her, he found himself wanting to see under the small girl's metallic mask—this time, though, he didn't want to look for something to make fun of, but rather something to kiss. He had never kissed a girl before—he couldn't imagine why—but the moment felt right. Well, as right as a moment at Whispering Rock could feel. Right enough. Whatever "right" was.
He swallowed thickly. His throat felt raw. "Guh… Hey, Chloe?"
He didn't get a reply, nor did he get a chance to ask again. Before he knew what was happening, a pair of tiny, short arms were wound around his waist, a helmet digging into his chest, uncomfortable and awkward but endearing. His hand shakily found her back without his brain's help. It was a very strange sensation he felt in that moment. He felt as though a mission had been completed, even though none had been decided in the first place. Despite whatever his father or Coach Oleander had told him, he could feel a new ultimate goal unwrapping in a previously unapproachable region of his mind, and he was more determined to achieve it than ever before. He didn't need a rich woman at the grocery store—he had a girl that was truly out of this world.
After a minute that was far too short, the contact was severed. Chloe craned her neck up and spoke clearly and with less emotion than one would think possible under the circumstances. "As I understand, a 'hug' is an affectionate gesture expressed when one is overwhelmed with grateful, content, or otherwise desirable emotions."
Bobby stared, mouth agape, until he realized that she was fishing for a response. He nodded dumbly.
All at once, her eloquence collapsed. "What I mean is… I mean, as for your favor… I believe, according to Earthling tradition, there's a certain gratitude that I owe…"
"You can just say thanks," Bobby offered.
Chloe nodded. "Thank you, Bobby."
She ascended the steps to the cabin, forcing Bobby to release the small hand that he hadn't even realized he had been holding.
Bobby stared at the dark opening to the girl's cabin for a long time, reveling in the silence. Tonight had been a test. He had volunteered for something unbelievably dangerous, gut-wrenching, and borderline impossible—hanging out with a girl he liked. And he had done it without complaining or making himself look stupid or devolving to a Nils—not even once! And he'd had actually impressed her! What was a play-fight in psychic P.E. compared to an awesome date (maybe)?
He didn't need some stupid coach to tell him about his endurance—he could hold a telekinetic grip for over an hour and never whine. He didn't care if people laughed and called him stupid—could a stupid person use two psychic powers at once while making someone believe he was an alien from Cartlovmarshmick communicating to human life for the fun of it? Why should he sulk over failing a class? He had succeeded in charming the awesomest girl on the planet.
If this was what Chloe called an "experiment", then it was a rousing success, the best kind of victory. And he was the victor.
Bobby smiled a yellow-toothed smile.
Suck it, Bulgakov.
Come to think of it, I don't own South Park either.
Well, I hope you liked it. If you didn't, I hope it didn't waste too much of your life. Again, all comments are appreciated.