Hey readers, just wanted to give you a heads up. This is my first fanfiction, so don't go too hard on me. It's taken me months to build up the courage (ha, get it? Courage?) to actually post this thing up. Nine out of ten times I just end up deleting it. Nevermind, you got the idea, right? Okay, Enjoy.

Tim

Every day.

Every day I do the same.

Morning, coffee, rush.

Subway, Manhattan, work.

Draw.

Bus home, Brooklyn.

I shove in the rusty key, twist. The old wooden door creaks open.

Same tiny apartment.

Same sketches of robots and machinery scattered on walls and floors.

Same slanted drawing tablet.

Same.

It used to be more exciting back in China.

Way more exciting.

Missles, rockets.

Diabolical explosions.

Abacus-boarding.

Building whatever I want.

Even that stupid Courage dog was better than this.

Now all I do is draw for money, day in and day out.

It does nothing, but there is enough money to live here, in New York City.

In China, I had money no matter what.

All I wanted.

A paper rustles under my flat-soled sneaker.

I pick it up.

It is a plan for Mecha Courage 2.0.

Too bad I am far from Nowhere now… in more ways than one.

In the big glass aquarium waits my frog.

I open the jar, release the flies into the tank.

This makes him happy, but I knew he would never be happier than he was in China.

He no longer bubbles.

It is only me and Frog until I hear the door open and slam shut once again.

Hastily locking the clasp, the girl sweeps her jagged jet-black bangs out of her large, square-rimmed glasses. She looks up at me, guilt written plain on her face.

"What did you do this time?" I ask, screwing the lid back onto the Fly jar.

She responds. "Er... just set up some more food boobytraps, one during lunch and one after school; drew a few more comics, too. Passed 'em around the classroom." She shrugs. "Nothing much."

Behind the door, muffled swears descend down the stairwell.

My niece sighs with relief.

"Who were they?"

"Oh, just a few guys that happened to mess with me..." Her words trailed off as a smirk lit up her face.

Of course.

It looks like the passion for art isn't the only thing she has inherited from me.

Kaitlyn

"So, whatcha up to?" I ask. Even after being chased by Jeremy Middle's biggest and baddest brutes (what goes around comes back around, I guess), I was still pretty pumped for spending the afternoon with my favorite uncle.

"Same."

Indeed everything was, but I'm always excited to look at his robot sketches. I've always wanted to see them in action, but Uncle Tim says that it isn't possible. Here, at least. I bet I would've seen all of them built a long time ago if we were still in China.

I give Frog a little pat on his warty head. "Any new robot ideas?"

"I'm too busy."

"Oh." It was true, work did take up a lot of Uncle Tim's time. It stretches long hours here in New York, but the pay is fine. But then I remember, back then he didn't have to work for a single minute and still had all the money in the world. In all of China, at least.

"I guess I'll start on my homework now."

He doesn't respond, and I can see that he's busy popping a pack of Ramen Noodles in the microwave.

On my way to the desk, I spot a frame hanging on the wall. I don't remember it being there last time. It's a picture, of Uncle Tim. He looks the same, except I can tell that he's younger. Skinnier, with an abacus in one hand and a toothy smirk on his face. He's surrounded by all these crazy robots, inventions, and pictures of himself (with the same expression).

Then I realize, this isn't Uncle Tim. It's Di Lung, nephew of the Chinese Empresses and former evil genius. Di Lung. Big Dragon. That's his Chinese name, I think, symbolizing an entirely different person. Uncle Tim, the Uncle Tim I know, has long since built a working robot, his gigantic tools and wrenches used to build replaced with simply a pencil and paintbrush. He is just a common New Yorker.

I wonder what it would be like if it were Uncle Di Lung instead of Uncle Tim.