Fate

Chapter One

Do not own characters, obviously.

They'd kept saying she'd been in an accident, but they never explained what kind. He hoped she was okay. They had told his babysitter, a teenage girl that he'd known for as long as he could remember, in hushed whispers across the room. Clearly she had a better understanding of the situation and with it started to cry. One of the two police officers approached him, the squeaking of his boots on the linoleum floor echoing in the sudden silence and making him wince. The fear that had slowly developed was now escalating, launching like a rocket. It seemed like the man was walking forever before he reached Skippy, as if the hallway had stretched just to keep him clueless a little longer. His fur rose in fright as a hand was placed on his shoulder, accompanied by a small chill that inched its way down his spine at a torturously slow pace. "We need you to come with us." The police man said, kneeling down to the squirrel's eye level.

"Do you need a ride home?" asked the other officer, who remained at the babysitter's side in the kitchen. She was crying too much to give a verbal answer, but did manage a slight shake of the head, which is more than the squirrel thought he could accomplish at the moment. His spine felt like solid ice, his thoughts had become incoherent, his arms felt like anvils, and numbness had claimed his legs, knocking him utterly senseless. The officers nodded to each other and tried to ease Skippy out the door in weak shoves and nudges, the girl following close behind. He was led to the black and white car parked in the driveway, a small urge to run off making more sense with each step. His babysitter shoved through the three and ran to her house across the street, trails of tears running down her face.

Skippy's mouth hung open as he watched her struggle to open the front door, something he assumed she did at least once a day since she'd learned how to use her hands. If whatever the police said had managed to turn a doorknob into a crippling obstacle for a teenager, then what was the effect it'd have on him? Would it erase his knowledge of how to grip and turn an object, forever restricting him to rely on the kindness of strangers to enter or exit a room? The thought demanded a nervous chuckle, but he was too afraid to even feign any. They opened the back door for him and, with one last consideration of running away, groaned as he jumped in, the door slamming behind him. He'd never been in the back of a police car before and never expected to be. All in all it was pretty similar to how he imagined it; iron bars blocking the front seats and a radio listing numbers and addresses on the dash.

As the car began to move Skippy found his fingers trying to dig into the uncomfortable plastic-like seats, obviously with no success. Franticly, the young squirrel suddenly began searching for the positives to calm himself down, like how they hadn't slapped a pair of handcuffs on him, something they always had to do after catching the bad guys. It wasn't the soundest argument, but it served its purpose and kept his teeth from chattering faster than they already were. For the longest time he just sat in the back seat and stared out the window, hoping that an explanation wasn't very far away. The familiar locations that he'd seen all his life slowly morphed into new ones with places and people he'd never seen before beginning to surround him.

The cops said absolutely nothing, content with the silence. If it wasn't for the small radio, buzzing to life every few seconds to deliver another set of numbers and addresses, then the silence would probably have killed young Skippy. Whenever he'd worked up the nerve to ask about his mom they exchanged a look and said they were sorry, again not bothering to explain why. "Is she hurt?" Skippy asked, expecting the same apologetic reply.

"Yes," the driving officer clarified. It was the worst answer anyone could give, shedding just enough light to increase his worry but not an ounce more. To make things worse they had already passed the local hospital about six minutes ago, which raised a lot of other questions that probably wouldn't be explained for the remainder of the drive, and if things continued as they were it might not even be that day. Luckily the car stopped ten minutes later outside a small, red bricked building, one that he didn't recognize. He must've missed the sign or identification because he didn't see any from the parking lot they had entered.

"Is my mom in there?" he asked, but as he expected he received no answer. They parked the car and whispered amongst themselves as they got out of the car. He was escorted inside the building, hands gripping each other in nervousness as a sliding door parted open. The second his paw hit the carpeted floor the breeze from the air-conditioning rushed at him, embracing him in its cold clutch. A woman dressed in a grey suit approached him, wearing what he could sense was a horribly fake smile. He had hoped his mother would be the one who greeted him, smiling and waving and apologizing for the worry she'd put him through. He looked left and right in the hope that he'd see her warm face, but was met with nothing but the sad eyes of people he'd never seen before. This place had a bad sense about it, strong enough to make the air thick with it. He turned to the cops, but they were already out in the parking lot and hopping back into the car, mouths moving in a way that had his ears burning.

"Hello little boy, it's nice to meet you." He looked back to see the woman holding out her hand. He gingerly shook it, too confused to hide his discomfort and usual shyness. The sincerity in this woman's voice, even the way she smiled, raised alarms from deep within Castle Skippy. She was faking everything and trying to lure him into thinking this place was safe and friendly, that everything would end with lollipops and praise. "You're Skippy, right?"

"Yes," the squirrel answered in a hushed voice.

"I need you to follow me to my office, I have some questions and I need you to answer them as best as you can." She again offered her hand, as if expecting him to hold it as she led the way, but the shake was about as much as he could tolerate. It took her awhile to get the hint but eventually her hand did fall to back to her side. She continued to smile and turned around, walking past the front desk and into a long hallway. He took a deep breath and followed her, taking one last look at all the sorry faces of the people in the lobby before he rounded a corner. He didn't know why she expected him to have answers, especially when no one would offer him any, but he would do his best.

What happened next was so quick that it fit in the blink of an eye, but the feeling of his world crumbling when he finally received an explanation would last his entire life. His mother wasn't coming back, would never come back. She was dead, had been for the past two hours ago. She was lying in a hospital morgue awaiting her ultimate fate, leaving him behind. This had to be a joke, some cruel prank, maybe some sick lesson that he was supposed to learn. Just this morning she had rushed out the door, running so late for work that she didn't have time to fix him breakfast. There was no way that was going to be his last memory of her? No way that she could have died in such little time? In what was probably a total of ten seconds a truck had ran a red light and now she was gone, it was impossible. Tears were shed as he cried into his hands, the urge to scream and shout and make irrational demands to bring her back overwhelming him until he had to give in.

The woman did not try to comfort him; instead she stood by and let him cry his heart out. After a good twenty minutes he finally calmed down, too tired to continue. The woman said nothing of his display, but merely opened a drawer from behind her desk and pulled out a beige folder with his name written on it. Skippy leaned back against the chair, his irritated eyes squeezed shut to block out the intense light. "Where's your closest relative?" she asked.

His lungs were exhausted, strained by the large amount of shouting. "Mom says we're the only two left in the family," he explained in a hoarse voice, his hand rubbing at his throat. "Grandma died when I was five, and Grandpa died three years ago." It finally struck Skippy that he was the sole barer of the family name, left to carry it on until Death decided it wanted to complete its collection. He was unable to push that thought out of his head, the pressure and enormity of it being all he could think of. A migraine formed as his thought process failed to slow down, one so painful that he actually found himself crying again despite the belief that he had no more tears stored up. He gripped his head and wept, an act that had his head feeling like it was on the verge of exploding. On the bright side his throat was way too sore to continue wailing, instead sending out almost soundless little grunts and sobs. After five minutes he had used up the little energy he'd recovered since his first outburst and was left feeling even more worn than he had earlier. He took several deep breaths, hands still cradling his head in some small sense of security.

"What about your father, do you know where we could find him?" she asked. Either too polite or too sorry for him, she had yet to acknowledge his multiple breakdowns. In a way it kind of annoyed Skippy, as if saying it wasn't important enough to acknowledge.

"I've never met him." A single word popped into his head: orphan. It was his new label, his lifestyle, the first thing anyone would think of when they saw him. Holidays would be filled with the faces of strangers, people celebrating new customs and traditions while his would vanish into obscurity. There wouldn't be hot chocolate with little walnuts used as sweeteners drank at five past midnight on Christmas Eve, or sitting in front of the tree and shaking presents to guess what was inside while his mom offered up the occasional shrug. Skippy could feel himself on the edge of his third emotional outburst of the hour, but it wasn't sadness this time. He didn't have the energy for something that hard, not again. This feeling was simple and clean. This was hate and rage and all the things that boiled his blood and turned his knuckles white beneath the fur. Even better was that he could direct it to whatever and whomever he felt deserved it, like this woman sitting before him with that faux look of compassion, as if she knew what he was going through.

"Did your mom ever mention god-parents?" her voice was suddenly grating and unpleasant on his ears, like nails being dragged across a chalkboard.

"No," he answered immediately. She seemed a bit taken back by the harshness that had corrupted his voice, but continued to smile. He simply stared back at her, so intensely that he might as well be trying to set her on fire with his gaze. She didn't seem to mind his anger though. Her job was to be the messenger of bad news so it was to be presumed that she was used to hateful glances and misplaced anger, in fact it was likely one of the first things she was warned of when taking on such a job. Still, a reaction would've been appreciated, even the fake ones she was only capable of delivering.

He resisted the itch to reach behind his back and bring out a mallet to slam down on her desk. It was only in times like this, when he was being pushed by anger, that he could produce the instrument of destruction, and passing it up meant he might never get the opportunity again. Just when he was about to give in to his urge his stomach began to growl, pulling him out of his way-too-brief anger and eliminating the mallet option altogether. The woman closed the folder, laid her pencil on the desk and rose from her seat. "Let's get you some food."

He was led to a cafeteria farther down the hall, the woman ignoring his protest. The constant growling from his belly obviously did not help his argument. She sat him at one of the many tables in the shiny white cafeteria and brought him a tray of food. What little he did try tasted bland at best and left his mouth with a horrid aftertaste that managed to push his appetite even further into nonexistence. Was this how all food would taste from now on or was it just this particular location? Truly a thought provoking question, but he had worse things to consider at the moment. Unfortunately the woman refused to stop talking, leading Skippy to miss the silence of the cop car. She repeatedly cautioned him that the cafeteria was closing and that, should he be hungry later, he'd be out of luck. It did nothing to make the food more appetizing, but he shoved down a few more bites of what vaguely resembled mashed potatoes, if only to silence her. "So where am I sleeping tonight?" he asked, dragging his spoon absentmindedly over the plate.

"We're going to have to keep you with us for the night, but we do have a room prepared." The squirrel nodded and – sick of both the food and the company – faked a yawn. She must've gotten the hint, as he was quickly placed in a small area for the night and reminded that it was only a temporary accommodation. There was a couch to sleep on, a small black and white television nailed to the wall in the corner, and a handful of broken toys to keep him occupied. They gave him a blanket and pillow to help him sleep, though both were far too itchy and uncomfortable to actually use. The last thing worth noting was a wooden chair that had been placed in front of the television for him to stand on so he could reach the buttons, making up for the long lost remote.

Skippy sat deep in the couch, the glow of the television illuminating the room in its bright glow. He paid it no attention, too caught up in his thoughts to focus on anything else. He was alone now, left to wander the world without the guidance of his mother. What would happen next, an orphanage perhaps? From what he knew they were scary, frightful places where he'd likely be bullied because of his small size. There was also very little privacy and no toys or possessions to call his own. The more he thought about it the more he pictured the building as a monster, with a set of terrifying red eyes and pointed sharp teeth, its claws reaching out and grabbing his legs, dragging him closer and closer towards its mouth until–

Ha-ha-ha!

A massive amount of applause and laughter came from the television, effectively breaking him out of his horrid nightmare. Skippy took a deep breath and tried to imagine a less frightening possibility. Foster-care was another option that came to mind, but he hadn't heard much about it personally. From what other kids at school had said there could be as many as five or six kids living in a small trailer, all trying to coexist with mixed results, and yet again his small size made him an easy source of torment for the older and tougher kids. Even if he was placed with the perfect family, one that treated him as their own, it could never be the same. They would never be his family; they'd be strangers with a strange home and strange smiles.

Of course there was the desperate last resort, one simple in concept but hard in execution. He could run away and never look back. They hadn't locked the door, and the building was small enough to make a quick getaway. The security was nothing more than a handful of night watchmen and janitors, which didn't scream state-of-the-art. There was no actual chance he'd survive in the outside world on his own though. He'd most likely end up in a police station being lectured about the stupidity of his actions, or, less preferably, dead. Sadly his common sense had been frayed through the large emotional turmoil of the day, making such a crazy notion look entirely too possible for him.

The squirrel hadn't expected to sleep that night, for obvious reasons, but all that crying had worn him out. He fought it as best he could, but it was an uphill battle. His eye lids grew heavier with every passing moment and every few minutes he'd nod off, awoken by the jerking of his head as it quickly fell to one side. Eventually he found it sitting was too much of a chore and, despite vowing not to, found he could no longer keep from lying down. Using his arm as a pillow and wrapping his tail around his body as a blanket, Skippy found enough comfort to make the couch bearable, but he was so tired that his standards had no doubt dropped. The squirrel, his eyelids growing heavy, still held onto a small hope that he'd wake up the next morning in his own bed to the sound of his mom calling him down for breakfast. Tomorrow was Saturday and she always made walnut pancakes for breakfast.

Some nightmares never end.

The young squirrel woke up, disappointed to find that he was still lying on the scratchy couch from the night before. Skippy spent quite a while trying to think of some reason, large or small, to get up and start moving. Learning he had none the boy just laid there, tightly cuddling his tail. The television in the corner played the early morning cartoons, the ones he'd always watched with a plate of hot pancakes in his lap. He didn't even move his head to glance at the glowing box, its sound practically white noise amongst his rampaging thoughts. He doubted a rhino stampeding through the room would have the capacity to catch his interest. Eventually someone did manage to grab his attention, the woman from yesterday whose name he had yet to learn and little desire to.

She opened the door to the room with a tray in her hand that she needlessly explained was breakfast for him. There was a cup of fruit, an egg, two pieces of burnt bacon and an orange juice, but yet again none of it looked edible. Skippy wondered if his appetite would ever return to him or if it was as far gone as his mother. The woman sat beside him on the couch, watching his every move in fear that he might kill himself with the plastic spork, or so he guessed that was her reason. After forcing down a few bites he was led back to her office. The nameplate on her desk, something Skippy had failed to notice in his first visit, read Linda, finally putting a name to the immense hatred he was feeling. "Did you sleep okay?" she asked.

No, he hadn't. It was filled with nightmares, all waking him up sporadically through the night. The worst part was that it was always the same vision: a simple replay of how he imagined his mother's accident had happened, right down to the crunching of the metal as the vehicles collided. Sensing honesty was certainly not what she wanted, he nodded his head and glanced around the room in fear that his facial expression may give him away. Even with a full night's sleep he was an awful liar, there was no telling how bad he'd be in his drastic exhaustion. "Good, now we've looked through your medical and birth records. There are no god-parents listed and your father's name wasn't printed on your birth certificate. Are you sure your mother never mentioned him?" Linda asked. He nodded instantly while suppressing a large yawn. She was visibly disappointed by his answer, but continued smiling as she pulled out what he assumed was the same beige folder from the other day.

"So what's going to happen to me?" Skippy asked, leaning forward in his chair to stay awake.

"What do you mean?"

He kept from rolling his eyes, too tired to even bother, and thought of how to simplify it. "I'm an orphan, right?" he questioned, awaiting her confirmation. It took Linda some time and quite a bit of stuttering before she was able to admit it, but a yes did eventually find its way to the surface. "So where will I go now?"

"Well there are quite a few things we have to do before it comes to that, like searching for next-of-kin. If we can't find any remaining family members then yes, you'll be sent to an orphanage and put up for adoption."

For the last few years his mom had made it clear that they were the last of the family, which meant that there was no "if" about it. By the end of the week he'd either be at an orphanage or in a foster home, it was just a simple matter of time. Somehow he had a reserve of anger that chose that moment to burst, the last of his grogginess disappearing. "What if I don't want to be adopted?" he asked, feeling the wakening powers that came with being angry.

"Well it's . . . not really up to you Skippy, you're only a boy." Skippy had expected that answer but wasn't expecting the boost in rage that came with hearing it aloud, accompanied by the shaking of his arms.

"So I don't get a say in this?" his voice raised a few octaves, just a little under shouting level. He didn't want to waste what little energy he had from his anger by using it up quickly, instead he wanted to let it build until he reached his limit. "It's my life and I don't get to decide what happens next, where I go or who I go with? I just have to deal with it!"

"Skippy, we can't just send you back to your house. You need supervision and guidance and someone to take care of you." She explained, though it fell on the deaf ears of a stubborn and frightened child.

"So I need a mother, but since mine is dead it needs to be a new one?" he asked, finding his voice beginning to lose its hostility and start to crack. He was close to tears, the only thing holding them back being his anger.

"Skippy, you need to calm down."

The squirrel threw his arms up in an exaggerated shrug, bent on voicing every thought he could before the approaching tears broke through. "Heck, let's throw in a father and maybe a sibling or two, just to sweeten the pot!"

She had a brief look of anger, but it disappeared almost immediately. It was a mild relief to find that she actually had honest emotions and feelings, to learn that she just might be human after all. He started to have his doubts when all her emotions came off as fake and insincere. "No one can replace your mom Skippy, but–"

"But you'll sure try!" he yelled, eyes watering. He hands were shaking beyond his control, to the point that he clutched at his armrests just to try and keep them still. That wasn't the only reason he gripped at the wood though because there was also the increasing need to reach behind his back and summon his mallet. Skippy was scared that if he didn't restrain himself he'd do something regrettable.

"Listen young man," she began, but the young squirrel refused to hear the rest. He jumped out of the chair and stomped out the door, slamming it shut as she called his name. He was in too bad of a mood to cry in front of this woman again and despite all his anger he didn't want to swing his mallet at her face, not yet anyway. The squirrel ran down the halls, dodging everyone he passed along the way and hoping they didn't notice the tears that were starting to fall down his cheeks. Skippy rushed back into his room and slammed the door, burying himself in the couch and starting to sob into its cushions. Earlier that morning he had questioned what point there was in getting out of bed and now, a breakfast and argument later, he still had no reason to get up. The confirmation of his fears had given him even more reasons to just curl up on the sofa.

For the majority of the day he was left alone in the room, free to cry and whimper and hug his knees in privacy. The only interruption had come at noon when a knock on the door broke his solitude. The voice of a man offered to escort him to the cafeteria so he could grab lunch. Skippy stayed quiet in hopes that the man on the other side of the door would just leave him alone. "You awake?" the man asked, remaining persistent. Skippy rolled over so his back was to the door, aware of the chance that the man might poke his head in the room. The young squirrel didn't want anyone to see his tear-stained eyes and damp fur, didn't want their pity or apologies. "Right, okay, well the cafeteria's open until eight if you need anything."

Skippy heard the sound of footsteps moving away from the door and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that once again he was left alone. He spent the rest of the day sealed off from the world, something that he desperately needed. His ticket was stamped and soon he'd be sent to complete strangers, leaving his friends and home behind just as his mom had left him. Still, with all she had said, Skippy couldn't deny that he felt a little guilty over how he'd yelled at Linda. She was only trying to help him and he blew up at her, but in his defense he couldn't control that spark of anger. She was both the closest person at the time and the one that wanted to discuss his less-than-bright future, which made her the perfect venting target. But his mom would've scolded him for that outburst had she still been alive and that was more than enough to make him regret his actions. He vowed to apologize later, if his emotions didn't get the better of him again.

Slappy Squirrel, a name that sounded familiar and yet one he knew for a fact he'd never personally used. Linda had entered the room with a large smile and a folder in her hands, clearly not holding any ill feelings towards him for their last meeting. She explained that the police had found an envelope tucked in his mom's closet drawer, slightly ripped and unopened. Inside were two fifty dollar bills and a card, addressed to him. She sat in the wooden chair beneath the television and handed him the card to read. It had an illustration of a cake with the caption wishing a happy birthday. "Dear sis, sorry I couldn't make it to Skippy's birthday party, but you probably wouldn't want me there anyway. Tell the kid to buy himself something nice and wish him a happy birthday from his aunt. Love, Slappy."

He was torn; on one hand relieved to know that it wasn't off to an orphanage, and on the other sad that life was still moving forward, despite the loss of his mother. As unbelievable as it sounded he couldn't imagine a world without her aid. He had no idea what Slappy was like, obviously caring enough to send him a hundred dollars, but not enough to ever introduce herself. Why wouldn't his mom have wanted her to come to his birthday, or had denied her existence to him? Was she a criminal of some kind? What conspiracist paradise had he found himself in? And lastly why was his mind digging to find a face and description for the name of someone he knew beyond a doubt he'd never met? "So we looked her up and she lives in Burbank, California. Have you ever met her?"

He shook his head, "No . . . I don't think so, but the name sounds familiar."

"About thirty years ago she was a cartoon star with Warner Brothers. She was never as big as Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck, but she had a few classics. I think they still show some reruns every weekend." At once everything clicked into place, at least everything that involved Slappy. He'd seen her once about two years ago while channel surfing and was immediately hypnotized be her actions. He watched for three or four minutes as the grey and white squirrel outsmarted a wolf in red overalls at a construction site, bouncing from one situation to another as she spat out one-liners and bombs. He enjoyed her antics and planned to watch more until his mom walked into the room and changed the station, bluntly stating that Slappy was a bad influence. He never would have considered that the person his mom had strictly forbidden him from watching would turn out to be his aunt, her sister.

Skippy had been scared by the belief that he was all that remained of his family, but knowing that there was one other eased the strain on his mind. Unfortunately while that fear had disappeared a new handful had formed to fill its place. He still had no idea what Slappy was like, if she was as happy and bouncy as she was in those cartoons, or if she'd even want to take him in. His mom must've had some reason to keep her a secret, but what could it be? What could she have done to deserve being ignored for ten years? "I just thought you'd like to hear that there isn't a hundred percent chance of an orphanage in your future as far as I can tell." Linda explained, breaking the silence that had fallen. "I knew you were scared about that."

Skippy bit his tongue, quite uncomfortable with what was to follow, but there was no doubt it was necessary. His mother had taught him to admit to his mistakes, to remain calm and clear minded and never snap at a person. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to snap at you earlier, but I was just so – "

"Scared?" she interrupted.

Skippy shook his head, "Angry."

"Well of course you were," she placed a hand on his shoulder, unaware of just how much he hated it. "You've suffered a great loss Skippy and you think it's not fair." The squirrel found her tone rehearsed, much like everything else she'd displayed since they'd met. It was a shame as she'd actually been doing well up until that moment. She'd shown genuine excitement and happiness at finding his aunt but now reverted back to the usual false sincerity. He knew he wasn't the only orphan she'd ever dealt with, only the most recent, so why hadn't she learned to properly fake emotions before meeting him? "And it isn't, but just because her life has ended doesn't mean yours goes with her." Skippy nodded, hoping that she'd stop speaking if he just humored her enough. As surprising as it may be, her scripted speech wasn't exactly lifting him out of his depression.

"Is she married, does she have kids?" he asked, hoping to move her past the justification he really didn't want to hear. Skippy wanted to know everything he could about Slappy, especially if he was supposedly going to live with her, not about how unfair things had become. Linda shook her head, finding that answering his questions without the use of syllables was the best option. His eyes went from her face to the beige folder tucked under her arm, a sudden desire to snatch it and read through the pages. He assumed that it had a decent amount of knowledge on his newly discovered relative. Why would she bring it all the way to his small quarters if it wasn't relative to his situation? "Is that folder about her?" he pointed to it, finding it just a few inches away from his finger. She nodded her head, giving the squirrel and tiny moment of positivity.

"Unfortunately you're not allowed to look as it is confidential background information, but you can ask her all the questions you want when she comes to get you."

Skippy found himself sitting a little taller, unsure if he'd correctly understood her. "What do you mean I can ask her myself? Is she here?" Skippy was suddenly filled with nervousness, describable only as stage fright.

"No, but we have tried calling her. We got the machine and had to leave a message, but we expect to hear back from her soon." Linda explained, glancing at her watch. "Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?" Skippy gave her an incredulous look, amazed at the sheer stupidity of the question. She had given him very few answers and stated that he should ask Slappy herself when they met, giving him very little information on his current situation, and now she wanted to know if he wanted to talk about it? His hand curled into a fist, so tight that he could hear his knuckles snap. He bit his tongue and just shook his head, fighting the urge to yell and shout. This was his room, which meant he had no other place to go if he needed to get away. "Okay, well I'll be in my office if you change your mind." With that she rose from the couch and left the room, leaving the door open. Skippy stomped over to it and slammed it shut, kicking it for a few seconds afterwards and building up an aching in his foot.

A/N: And here we go.