Author's Notes

In writing this story, it was my intent to stay as true to the series as possible while creating an interesting story with engaging characters that would entertain readers both young and old. With one exception, I chose to follow the rule that the only canon to be followed was the series itself as presented on television and DVD. I neither considered nor referenced other fan fiction works when writing this story, nor did I consider the unproduced story "Requiem." When it comes to details that are not mentioned in the series such as the characters' backgrounds, surnames and ages, I chose to follow my own interpretation of the series rather than that which might be generally accepted by the fan community at large.

I believe that there are only two instances in which my story appears to deviate from the series as produced. Both are intentional. One deals with a date, an issue that I plan to make a plot point in an upcoming story if I get the chance to finish it. The other deals with the characterization of Diana the Acrobat.

I mentioned one exception to my self-imposed canon rule. In one episode, Hank mentions that she competes at the Olympic level back home. This detail contradicts the series "bible" which repeatedly refers to the heroes as average teenagers with average abilities and which specifically describes Diana as just "plain ol' Diana" without her javelin. In my opinion, the concept that these are ordinary teenagers in extraordinary circumstances is one that is essential to the story itself and one that should not be violated. Making Diana an Olympic level athlete seperates her from the group, diminishes the importance of her weapon and makes it more difficult for the viewer/reader to identify with her. In light of this, I chose to follow the original description of the Diana character and I interpret Hank's comment as an exaggeration intended to impress a boy Diana is attracted to. Diana is certainly athletic, but not extraordinarily so. She is, as originally described, "plain ol' Diana."

I have one final note regarding continuity and canon. It is my philosophy that when one translates a work of fiction from its orignal medium to another (such as from a television show to a written work) it is expected that in the translation process there will be some natural changes between the two versions. For example, in the cartoon version of the show it was necessary that the characters be somewhat one-dimensional. Eric is the complainer, Presto is the nerd, Hank is the hero, and so on. With several main characters and only twenty minutes or so of show, there isn't much time for deeper development and children wouldn't sit through it if there were.

However, in a written work it is expected that the characters be more fleshed out and more real. The characters are less cartoonish in my story because I am not writing a script for a cartoon. I am writing a short story version of a cartoon. In my opinion that is a different kind of project that requires a slightly different treatment of the characters. It is my goal to stay true to the original vision of the characters while correctly translating that vision into a new medium.

I am pleased that you have chosen to read this story. Writing it was a lot of work, but it was also a lot of fun and I hope that you find it enjoyable and entertaining.

Chapter One

Eric

Tuesday, May 31st, 1983

Four Hours Before the Roller Coaster Ride

Eric Pampier stood in his bedroom, glaring out through the window at the long, gracefully curved driveway of his palatial home. The boy was tall with short, dark hair and large, brown eyes. He was dressed well, wearing a red button-down Ralph Lauren shirt with a yellow Izod sweater vest and khaki pants that were cuffed over his brown loafers. At sixteen, he still had yet to totally clear his awkward phase and whether standing or sitting, he never quite seemed to know what to do with his long, gangly limbs. His large ears, which often earned him the scorn and ridicule of some of his older classmates were tinged with red at the edges as he stood leaning forward with his shoulders hunched and arms folded tightly across his chest.

His bedroom was luxurious by most standards. He had a walk-in closet on one side and a door in the opposite wall which led to his own private bath. The high ceiling, large windows, white walls and thick blue carpeting were all designed to give the room a light, airy feel that was currently being wasted on the room's sole inhabitant to whom the room, and the entire house for that matter, often felt more like a cage than anything else.

Eric glanced at the digital clock on his dresser and inhaled sharply when he saw that it read 7:07. "Come on, Hank, hurry up," he muttered between tightly clenched teeth. Just then, the phone next to his bed rang. He shut his eyes and clenched both fists so tightly that his nails dug into the the fleshy part of his palms. The phone rang again while he stood there, unmoving. Another sound caught his attention while the phone was ringing for the third time. Eric opened his eyes and looked out the window to see a beige Ford Country Squire station wagon pulling up the drive. "Thanks a lot, Hank," he grumbled. "You're about a minute too late." The fourth ring was suddenly cut off as Eric headed out his bedroom door. Maybe I can get outside before she catches up to me, he thought. But he wasn't going to avoid the confrontation that easily. As Eric was heading down the wide staircase that led to the foyer, his mother was coming up to find him.

Mrs. Pampier was a slim, attractive woman in her mid-forties with dark brown hair in a "Farrah do" that matched her son's hair in color. She was simply, but elegantly dressed in a cream blouse and brown skirt with matching flats. She wore an understated gold necklace and a pair of similar gold bracelets on each wrist. Her blue eyes looked at her son through large, round glasses. "Eric," she said in a voice that was stern, but yet not without some sympathy. "Your father is on the phone. He wants to talk to you."

"Well, I don't want to talk to him," Eric answered, trying to push past her. A hand on his shoulder stopped him.

The doorbell rang and both mother and child looked towards the door. The hand on Eric's shoulder tightened. "Gregory can answer the door," she said. "You're not going with your friends until you talk to him." Eric sighed and slumped his shoulders in defeat. "Fine, I'll talk to him," he said, stomping down the rest of the stairs and turning to enter the study as the elderly butler Gregory tottered into the foyer from the other side to answer the doorbell.

Eric closed the door to the study behind him. From the other side he could dimly hear Gregory's clipped, prissy voice as he greeted the visitor. There was a red light blinking next to one of the buttons of the black phone that sat upon the glossy, intricately carved cherry wood desk. Eric pressed the button and picked up the receiver. "Eric Pampier," he answered neutrally. "How may I help you?"

There was a short pause and then a voice full of false cheer answered. "Hi Eric," his father said, "How are-"

"Are you coming back to live with us," Eric interrupted, "or are you going to keep living with your secretary instead?"

There was another pause and this time, when his father spoke, all trace of false cheer was gone. "Listen, Buddy, it's not that simple," he said. "You see-"

Eric hung up the phone. He turned, threw open the door and stomped back through the empty foyer and into the parlor where his mother was seated on the couch, talking to Hank, who was politely nodding his blond head in response to whatever it was she was saying to him. They both stood as Eric stormed across the room. "My," his mother said, "that was a short conversation."

"I talked to him, Mom," Eric replied. "May I go now?" His mother looked as if she were about to deny his request, but then her face softened. She reached out and touched the side of his face softly, something she hadn't done since he was a little boy. Eric's face reddened and he glanced at Hank, who suddenly had found something terribly fascinating about the sculpture on the end table. "Go," his mother said then, "and have a good time." She let her hand drop back to her side. "You'll come straight back here after the park closes, right Henry?"

"Yes, Mrs. Pampier," Hank replied, turning from his study of the sculpture, "I promise."

A few minutes later, the two friends were sitting in the front seats of the station wagon, fastening their seat belts. Hank kindly had said nothing of what had happened in the house. Of all the members of the group, Hank and Eric had been friends the longest and nobody understood Eric or his relationship with his parents better than Hank did. He knew when to ask questions and when to let things slide. Still, Eric wasn't ready to completely let Hank off the hook.

"You couldn't have come two minutes earlier?" Eric asked. "What, was the girls' softball team hosting a free car wash? If so, I have to say, it doesn't really look like they got around to washing this tub."

"Aren't you ever going to let that go?" Hank asked with mock annoyance. "You know that only happened once. Besides," he continued with look of innocence, "the car did need a wash that day. Now, are you ready to kick off our summer break or what?"

Eric turned the crank that rolled down the passenger-side window, letting in the cool morning air. He breathed it in deeply. For the first time that day, Eric smiled. "Henry," he replied, laughing at Hank's grimace at the use of his proper name, "you have no idea how ready I am. Let's just get the heck outta here already."

"Can do," Hank said, smiling as well as he pulled the car around the curved drive.

As Hank turned the car left onto the boulevard in front of the Pampier estate, Eric pulled on the handle that adjusted the position of his seat, pushing it back a foot or so. He then tilted it back about forty-five degrees. He kicked off his loafers, leaned back, put his hands behind his head and stuck his socked feet out through the window. He sighed contentedly. "You know, it's going to be good to get away for a day," Eric said.

Hank nodded in agreement as he turned on the radio. The familiar chords of Abracadabra by the Steve Miller band filled the car. As they drove down the road, the morning sun flashed brightly through the leaves on the maple trees that lined the median and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.