Need I say it again? Alas, the rules say I must. I hereby relinquish all claims on Peter Pan, and all characters therein, saving, of course, this story.
Just a morose little one-shot that I found lurking in the depths of my Word files. Funny what you don't remember writing, isn't it?
The window was open.
Peter couldn't believe his luck. Usually, well, nowadays that is, they were closed and locked tight against burglars, kidnappers, and whatever else the occupants of the house imagined lurked in the night. But this window was open.
So Peter did the most natural thing in the world, for him. He went in.
It was a nursery, like so many of the other rooms he'd frequented over the years. There were two beds, one in either corner, where a child lay sleeping. He picked his way through the scattered toys, more to avoid a sharp jab in the foot from a plastic soldier than to keep from breaking anything. He offered more adventure than these playthings did any day. He was sure the children wouldn't mind if he broke anything – they would get more than enough fun in compensation.
Despite his care, he managed to step on a game cartridge anyway. It snapped loudly underfoot, and Peter bit his lip on a pain-filled cry. If only Tinkerbell were still around, he thought ruefully, he'd have a little light for these excursions. But she was gone, slain last year when a little six year old girl had loudly declaimed that she didn't believe in fairies, never had, and that they were for "little kids." Fairies were in short supply, even in Neverland, and he hadn't found a replacement companion yet.
The sound of the breaking cartridge caused the little girl, aged about seven, to sit up, rubbing sleepily at her eyes. She was dressed in a pair of tight blue-silk pj pants with a matching, rather revealing, Peter thought, tight top. "Who's there?" she demanded imperiously, in a voice that woke her little brother, asleep in the other bed. He was dressed in GI Joe pajamas and looked to be about five years old.
Peter grinned. Playmates! he thought with a smile. Surely these two are young enough to still believe in magic. "Hi," he said to them. "I'm Peter. Peter Pan," he declared proudly. "Lord of Never Neverland, Chief of the Lost Boys, Friend to the Indians and Chief Rival of Captain James Hook." He watched their faces for the recognition and awe he knew they must feel. After all, he was famous, even here on Earth.
"Peter Pan? Who's – oh! Yeah, him." The girl looked at him incredulously. "Shouldn't you be wearing green?"
"Yeah, and where's the fairy? Tinker, or whatever her name is?"
"And floating, at the very least."
"But I –" he tried to speak, but the boy interrupted.
"Hey! You broke my game!" he leapt out of bed and pushed Peter roughly aside, scooping up the two halves of the game tenderly. "I was almost finished with it!"
"Oh, be quiet," his sister told him crossly. "I'm the champ of Vice City, and you know it!"
"Are not!"
"Are too!"
The two fell to bitter bickering, until a harsh male voice from down the hall threatened to come in and slap them if they didn't shut up and get to sleep. The pair quieted somewhat, but kept glaring at each other darkly.
Peter didn't know what to say. He glanced around the room and was shocked by what he saw. There were posters on the walls of fighting people, bloody bodies scattered around them. Punk male singers stared down with arrogant frowns, and scantily-dressed female stars added their false smiles to the gloom. The toys on the floor were all either violence-related or served to beautify the female body. Peter shuddered when he saw the My Li'l Makeup kit next to the Marilyn Manson cd case. These kids needed a couple of days in Neverland, of that he was sure. They were too close to being grown-up.
"I'm here to invite you to come to my home," he told them. They looked at him, staring blankly as if they'd forgotten he was there. "Neverland," he clarified, uneasily. "You can come and fly to the stars with me! Swim alongside the mermaids. Hunt with the Indians? Um, fight pirates?" He wasn't getting through. How could these pleasures not appeal to them? They always had before!
"Technically, they're not Indians," said the girl. "Not 'less they're from India. You should call them Native Americans."
"But they call themselves Indians," Peter defended. She glared at him.
"Are there any video games there?" the boy asked, still cradling the broken halves.
"Well, no, but we don't need those. We make our own fun."
"What fun is that?" they both asked, nearly simultaneously. Peter expected them to cry "jinx!" as any other pair of children would have, but they just stared at him in disdain.
"Well, it's – it's plenty fun!" he defended, stung. "I don't need electronics to entertain me, I have fun on my own!"
"Own?" It was the girl again. "What about the Lost Boys?"
Peter twisted his foot around on the carpet, a little embarrassed. The last of the Lost Boys had left two years ago, the lure of this mechanized world too strong for them to resist. He was the last of his troop. But he wasn't going to admit that to them, not yet, anyway. "I'm recruiting," he evaded. "I wanted you and your brother to come with me, join us."
"He's not my brother, just my half-brother. And you'd have to change the name to 'Lost Kids,'" she said. "I'm not a boy."
"Well, we do have a position for 'Mother' open," Peter tried placating.
"'Mother!'" she practically shrieked. "What are you, sexist or something?"
"No, I'm – I just – I –" he couldn't believe what was happening here.
A sleepy voice called from the hall, "Yes dear? You called?" It was the children's mother – or half-mother, as the case may be. Peter had never quite caught on how that worked.
"No, Judy," the girl said impatiently. "And don't call me 'dear.' Go away, I don't want you here. Or get me some ice cream, since you're already up."
"Ok," Judy sounded cowed. Peter was appalled. He'd gone to Neverland to avoid growing up, sure, but he'd never be so rude to an adult, except the pirates, of course. In his time, they'd taught children politeness.
He turned his back on the children and walked to the window, staring down at the two story drop. He paused, trying to marshal some happy thoughts with which to fly. At long last, he took off, circling around to watch as the girl dutifully latched and locked the window behind him.
He sadly turned his eyes to the second star to the right, reflecting grimly upon what had just occurred. The Lost Boys aren't lost anymore, he thought, but they're more lost than ever before.
Sad thought heaped on sad thought until at last, Peter had no happy thoughts left. He fell from the sky in slow motion, tears dropping bitterly from his eyes all the way down. He landed with a thud in the middle of a neglected park. There were weeds growing over the slide and climbing up the jungle gym. There were slats missing in the bridge and the tire swing was in shreds. Graffiti bedecked the place with the most horrible words he'd ever seen.
Peter cried as only a little boy could. He stared up at his star, at the Neverland he could never get back to, not with his heart as sorrowful as it was. And even if he ever did cheer up, he was out of pixie dust. He could never fly again.
Peter Pan never returned to Neverland. At first, Captain Hook was thrilled. He took over the whole island, finally discovering where his nemesis had hidden all these years. He took especial pleasure putting the place to torch.
But the glory didn't last. Neverland wasn't the pearl he'd imagined. It began to fade – whether from the destruction wrought by the pirates or the loss of its master, the Pan, no one knew.
The mermaids all swam their way to a different starry isle, and the Indians struck out in their dugouts for wider horizons. At last, even the pirates left, with Captain James Hook firing a last volley from the cannons in honor of the greatest foe he'd ever faced.
And then, Never Neverland grew dark, and its starry light grew dim, and at last, ended altogether. A grown-up Peter watched from his earthbound telescope as his old home flickered and died.
He heaved a long, sorrowful sigh before turning back to his paperwork.