AUTHOR'S NOTE: I find it fair to warn you, this is one of my "heavier" stories, if you know what I mean. As always, The Impossibles and Big D belong to Hanna-Barbera. Everyone else you encounter in this fanfic is mine.

Our story opens this time on a house in suburban Megatropolis, belonging to a family named Phelps. The head of the household was Dr. Isaac Phelps, the chief medical officer at the Secret Security Headquarters. He was sitting at the table, reading the daily newspaper. His wife, Marjorie, was giving the couple's year-old baby, Joey, his morning bottle. The couple's nine-year-old fraternal twins (Philip and Phoebe) were sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling sugar coated cereal into their mouths (Frosted Flakes for Philip, Froot Loops for Phoebe). This left the couple's eldest son, sixteen-year-old Isaac James Jr. (or "Jamie," as everyone called him) unaccounted for. Marjorie knew he was still upstairs in his bedroom. She could hear heavy rock music coming from his room.

"Jamie!" she called, hoping her son didn't have his stereo on too loud.

Jamie couldn't hear his mother calling him. He definitely had his music on too loud. And Jamie's choice of music drove his parents, and the neighbors absolutely crazy. Jamie liked acid rock and psychedelic music, like Jimi Hendrix and The Who, especially when they began smashing their instruments.

Jamie was a bit of a rebel. He had long, shaggy, light brown hair, that hung in his face (but it didn't completely cover his eyes), and freckles. sometimes resented his father working for a government agency. And it bugged him that he knew the Impossibles. Most of the girls at school knew it, too. They would constantly bug him for concert tickets, or introducing them to the band. Jamie had been to the SSHQ many times, but he didn't particularly care for the three of them. He felt they were too goody-goody, and he hated their music. They were too bubblegum for him.

"JAMIE!" Mrs. Phelps screamed, determined to be heard over her son's loud music. Jamie either didn't hear his mother, or chose to ignore her.

"Let me handle this, Marjorie," Dr. Phelps said. He got up from the table, and went upstairs to his son's bedroom. He opened the door. The music was practically deafening. Jamie wasn't even aware his father had walked in. He was just sitting on his bed, playing an electric guitar (and badly), trying to keep in sync with his stereo. Dr. Phelps groaned, and turned it off.

"Hey!" Jamie shouted. "I was listening to that!"

"Sorry, but my ears were starting to bleed," Dr. Phelps said. "What in the world was that you're listening to, anyway?"

"What," Jamie said.

"I said what were you listening to."

"What."

"I said . . . . ."

"No, Pop. That's the band's name. What."

"What?"

"Right."

"I'm confused."

"So what else is new?"

"Never mind. Just get downstairs for breakfast, please. And try to keep your music . . . . if you can call it that . . . . down a little."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

With that, Jamie got up, and trudged down the stairs. It was a Monday. He knew what was in store. He'd go off to Megatropolis High School, Philip and Phoebe would go off to Megatropolis Elementary school, Dr. Phelps would be off to work, and Mrs. Phelps would stick Joey in his play pen for the morning and do the chores, like all normal housewives did. It was the same old same old every single day, and Jamie hated it. This was another reason he disliked the Impossibles. Since he hung out at the SSHQ from time to time, and since his dad knew them quite well, Jamie knew their true identities as secret fighters for justice, and that bugged him. He was stuck in the suburbs, leading a dull, boring, humdrum life, while the three of them were almost always off, galavanting around the world, busting up crime, collaring crooks, and playing sold out concerts to thousands of screaming girls. The most exciting thing that ever went on in his life was that one time one of the football players at school dropped a piece of the cafeteria's mystery meat on the floor, and the principal stepped on it, and slid right into the adjacent wall.

"Man, my life is a drag," he groaned. "Nothing ever goes on around here."

"I beg to differ," Dr. Phelps said. "I, personally, find my line of work to be quite eventful."

"Oh, please," Jamie said, rolling his eyes. "All you ever do for the SSHQ is sit around and wait for someone to come in with an injury, which doesn't happen that often, Pops, admit it!"

"I admit, what I do for the agency isn't as glamorous as the agents' assignments, but that doesn't mean I sit idly by and wait for something to happen!"

"Face it, Pop. Your job at the SSHQ is boring. I bet you've never even caught a crook in your entire career. I betcha can't even fight!"

"All right, all right," Mrs. Phelps said. "That's enough of that, Jamie. Now you'd better get going or else you'll be late for school."

"Oh yeah, wouldn't want that to happen," Jamie said, sarcastically. "Golly gee, sure don't want to miss school today. Mrs. Weston might give a pop quiz! Oh boy, oh boy, how thrilling!"

"Can the sarcasm, Jamie," Dr. Phelps said.

Jamie grumbled, picked up his backpack, and left. Dr. Phelps sighed.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," he said.