Standard Disclaimer. I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Ryan Smithers is (c) Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, and used with permission.

Cover art is also (c) Gav-Imp, technically used without permission, though hopefully she won't mind.

Author's Note: This story takes place in the same world of my Nuclear Tetralogy; and falls into the timeline after Supercritical Arrangement. It was a special request by a fantastic artist, Gav-Imp of DeviantArt who does some of the best Simpsons artwork you are apt to find.

Ryan Smithers is an OC of hers. I'd been thinking about getting permission to use him in the future, but she approached me first with a special request. Considering the stunning illustrations she'd given me, I could hardly say no. Here then is the inception, the beginning and introduction of Ryan Smithers into my world.

And thus, it begins...

~ Muse

The young man with black hair and soulful hazel eyes knew he'd come to the end of a chapter in his life. His childhood had officially fled, without fanfare or drama. All that remained was him. And soon, he would be on his way as well.

Ryan threw the last of his meager belongings into his backpack and took a last look around the empty apartment. He knew he wouldn't be coming back. Everything was gone except a few appliances and a mattress on the floor that he'd been using as a bed after he sold the last of the furniture. There was nothing left to make him stay.

Once, this place had been home, decorated in that fetchingly cute rural way that some people become enamored of. Ryan used to hate the "country kitchen" feel, the cookie jar shaped like a barn, and the pot holders with roosters on them. Now, standing in the barren room, he found he missed all of it.

There'd be no more homemade waffles in the morning, his mother laughing with her faint southern accent as she poured the syrup. His mother smiling, her black hair done up, wearing a beautiful house dress, and that locket necklace she rarely took off. She always seemed so out of place in Philadelphia, her subtle southern-belle ways contrasting most starkly with the gritty urban culture of the city.

Those days were gone now. Just memories, and a few crumbs he hadn't bothered to sweep out of the lonely corners.

Once, this small two bedroom apartment had been their home. Now, it was just an empty shell. A rookery for shadows. None of those memories mattered now. His mother was dead.

She'd been laid to rest in Oakland Cemetery earlier less than a week ago. She used to remark how beautiful it looked from the window of her hospital room. Her friends from Church circled through, giving Ryan their "deepest sympathies and condolences," but no one had actually offered to help. No one had suggested a place to stay, or invited him into their home. Not that Ryan would've accepted, of course. He was too independent to be a pity-case, but still the offer would've been nice.

Oakland Cemetery was just beyond the Eastern Regional Medical Center. The place where the cancer center was located. The place where his mother had died, victim to a silent killer. His mother thought she'd just been feeling run down lately, with the school year drawing to a close and the chaos that normally ensued. Then came the back pain and nausea. Less than a week later, the whites of her eyes turned yellow and they both knew it was something far more serious than a simple stomach flu.

Lydia went to her doctor, and after a battery of tests the diagnoses came back. Pancreatic cancer. Advanced stages. Ryan, sitting beside her, asked about treatment options, about chemotherapy. The doctor explained it was already too late for any chance of those. The cancer had spread. The most we can do for you, Miss Smithers, is keep you comfortable.

Everything had happened so quickly after that. Ryan always thought a cancer diagnosis meant someone had months, even years to live. Less than five weeks after her diagnosis, his mother was dead. Ryan blamed himself. He felt like somehow he should've known. Maybe, if he'd pressed his mother to go to the doctor sooner, maybe if they had decided to try chemotherapy. The young man's mind swam with "what ifs."

The doctor had tried to console Ryan through the process. He explained that there is no test for pancreatic cancer. The oncologist confessed that even if she had gone in sooner, there was a chance a general practice doctor wouldn't have caught it until it was too late. He tried to comfort Ryan, saying the young man did all he could for his mother.

Ryan, more a boy than a man still, not even old enough to buy alcohol, tried to listen. Six weeks between diagnoses and burial. The whole of his mother's life was now summed up by a rectangle of granite to mark her grave.

The burial and funeral had been expensive. So had the hospital costs. Ryan's mother had health insurance, life insurance, but it hadn't been enough. Item by item, Ryan sold everything he could on the internet. The last thing he sold was his laptop. It wasn't much, but it kept his head above water; covered the rent till his mother passed and he decided to leave. Then there had been the brutal argument Ryan had with his landlord about getting his deposit back. Finally, in the end, Ryan won out. It might've had something to do with the fact he had a tire-iron in his hand, or that might've been coincidence. Either way, Ryan left with his deposit in cash, and his last month's rent returned.

It gave him the extra money he needed for his trip.

Ryan didn't have plans on where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay here. There was nothing left in Philly for him, and the longer he stayed, the worse he knew he'd feel.

He'd always wanted to travel Route 66, the fabled Mother Road that cut through America like a dream. When he turned sixteen, he bought a motorcycle instead of a car. A simple road bike, nothing too fancy. The following summer, he'd saved up enough to buy a small trailer as well. He hadn't expected to leave and never come back. He'd initially planned to take a summer and explore the roads when he was older.

Now, there was nothing holding him back. The sooner he left the hollow apartment, the better he'd feel.

Ryan grabbed the last few items he had and slung his backpack on to his shoulders. He unfolded his map and looked at it, memorizing the route. It was quite straight forward. Leave Philadelphia, head north west, connect with Interstate 90, I-90, then follow that to Chicago.

Chicago was the start of Route 66.

The journey Ryan had drawn in red on his map was one way. He'd drive to Santa Monica, California. He'd stand on the edge of the pier that Route 66 ended into, and there, toes to the Pacific ocean he'd… well, Ryan didn't know what he'd do next. Die, most likely, he thought with an oddly morbid laugh. Was that what he really wanted to do? Die?

Ryan didn't think so.

He enjoyed the feeling of being alive.

Ryan tended to take a rather philosophical approach to life. Tried to anyhow. Sometimes life and death… the really seemed like the same thing, just backwards, when one thought about it.

He grabbed two packs of Oreo cookies out of the cupboard, the last thing he wanted, and left his apartment for the last time. He locked the door behind him, and slid the key into the landlord's mailbox downstairs. It was time to leave. He had one last stop on his way out of town, to visit his friend Mitty and pick up one critical item. He tossed the Oreos and his canteen into the saddle bags of his Indian motorcycle, adjusted his helmet, and headed out.

Mitty tended to keep his activities on the less-legal side of the law. He didn't draw attention to himself, but if anyone wanted a special favor on the streets, Mitty was the first person they saw. Mitty knew people. Mitty could get things.

Ryan had asked for a small favor before he left. After some negotiations, Mitty had agreed. It wasn't anything substantial. It was an identification card, a fake ID. All the information was largely the same as Ryan's driver's license: his name, address, the day he was born. All that changed was the year of his birth. Instead of nineteen, the fake ID listed him as twenty-two. It almost made him laugh. He'd be twenty in a few weeks, but there was something about a teenager traveling alone across country versus an adult on the same trip. He knew he'd raise fewer eyebrows as a guy in his twenties.

He pulled down an alley to Mitty's garage.

Mitty was expecting him.

A stout man of some undeterminable heritage stepped out of the garage, wiping his hands with a rag. Mitty did some basic engine repairs on the side. It provided pocket change; and a good alibi.

"You're for real leaving," Mitty observed, glancing over the trailer and the saddlebags on Ryan's motorcycle. "Can't say as I blame you, but I'm still surprised. You're a Philly kid. Won't you miss home?"

Ryan leaned forward on his bike and folded his hands across the dash. "No, not really. Didn't you hear about the shooting over to the north."

Mitty shrugged. "Heard about it, but it was no one I know or cared about. One of the two." He tossed the rag across his shoulder and pulled a greasy envelope out of his pocket. "You didn't come here to talk though. Got something for you, right here."

Ryan reached for the envelope, but Mitty jerked it back out of reach.

"Ah ah," Mitty said, shaking a warning finger. "Not till I see the cash."

"Fine," Ryan grumbled. He reached into his wallet, and pulled out a handful of twenty dollar bills, fifteen in all. He counted them out on the table next to Mitty. Mitty took them, recounted and grunted. "You know," he remarked as he stuffed the money in his pocket. "I was going to charge you three. But today, two sixty." He handed a pair of twenties and the envelope back to Ryan.

Ryan eyed the man skeptically. "Why…?" he began slowly, taking the envelope to inspect the ID, but not reaching for the money.

Mitty threw up his hands. "Why? Do I really need a reason? Okay, it's simple. Bereavement rate, what with your mom dying and all. Perhaps I need an excuse as to why I can't pay Savedro right now." Mitty shrugged. "You're leaving town, I'll tell him you stiffed me. You're not coming back so even if he decides to go looking for you no harm your way, eh? Or maybe I just like you, kid." Mitty spat into a nearby trashcan. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Now get going before I set the dogs on you."

Ryan walked the motorcycle in a half-circle, safer than turning around in Mitty's narrow driveway. "Always the charmer, Mitchel."

Mitty pointed a grubby finger at Ryan. "Hey, you don't get to call me that. Only my mother calls me that."

Ryan tilted his head flippantly. "Yeah? Well, as you said, I'm leaving; right? So no one has to know."

"Get out of here, you bastard," Mitty barked through a smile. "God forbid I see your ungrateful hide around here again. I won't wait for Savedro, I'll be coming for you myself."

Ryan flashed a toothy grin. He had known Mitty since they were in grade school together. Theirs was a complicated relationship. He'd hardy call Mitty a friend, definitely not a confidant, but the rough man knew him longer than anyone else. They'd helped one another out from time to time. Ryan realized he was going to miss Mitty.

He didn't say that, however. Instead, he fired up the bike and revved the engine loudly. "I'm not scared of you Mitty! If I ever come back just you try and get me." He dropped his helmet on, threw the bike into gear and roared down the ally. If he'd looked behind him in the side mirror, he would've seen Mitty give him a crisp salute. Mitty stood in the door of the garage, watching Ryan go.

Ryan saw none of that however. He was on the road, and not looking back.

The summer sun was hot against his back as he rode, following the main interstate I-76 out of Philadelphia. He was making good time, though he kept his eye on the fuel gauge. He hadn't been out into western Pennsylvania before. It was mostly forest and rolling hills and farms outside of the city. Eventually, he arrived at an interchange in Harrisburg, about a hundred miles west of Pennsylvania.

Ryan got off the interstate, and stopped at a truck stop gas station. He refueled his bike, and stretched his legs, thinking. His black vest was becoming unbearably hot in the relentless sun. Ryan took it off, and tucked it into one of his saddlebags.

He wore a sheer, white riding shirt, with blue cuffs and matching collar. A pull-over shirt, hot in the still air, but warm enough on the highway.

It felt good to stretch his legs, but Ryan was restless. Harrisburg was still far too close to home. He hopped back on his motorcycle and kept going. He was glad he'd made such an early start. Even after the hour and a half driving, it was only ten in the morning. The sun, while rising, was not yet directly overhead. It made him feel cooler.

Ryan followed his preplanned route, following the Susquehanna river along its eastern bank. Eventually, the highway cut across via a wide-arched bridge. Ryan slowed down as he crossed the water, glancing, visor up, at the water below.

The sunlight reflected up at him, a thousand tiny jewels winking along the grey green muddy river. When he'd been a boy, he'd often gone to play at the creek by his school. His mother, the school librarian, often didn't leave until after class hours. Ryan would come by the library, borrow a book, and find himself a spot to read. Much of his time was spent with his nose in a book.

As a young boy, he enjoyed the children's mysteries of The Hardy Boys, and even Nancy Drew. As he got older, he became fascinated by tales of survival and morality. He spent many fond afternoons ranging in the urban excuse of a forest behind his school. It might've just been a few overgrown lots, but in Ryan's imagination it was an uncharted wilderness. Often, he pretended he was the character from a favorite book.

Gary Paulsen was one of his favorite authors. He remembered a book he read called Hatchet that stood out in his mind. The plot seemed simple enough. A thirteen year old boy named Brian found himself stranded in the Canadian wilderness after a plane crash. He was the only survivor. Alone, he had to survive with nothing but a hatchet his mother had given him before he left.

The story always resonated with Ryan. It struck him that there were so many parallels with his own life.

Brian was the child of divorced parents. Brian lived with his mother; and he had to deal with the memories of his parents' bitter divorce. Even the name was similar.

Reading helped Ryan understand how he felt. It gave him an outlet and an escape at the same time. In some ways, Ryan reflected, he was not like Brian. It hadn't been his mother who had cheated, and he hadn't been born when his parents' divorced. From what his mother said though, it had been a messy, awful thing. She told Ryan his father had left her without warning, running into the arms of another.

When he'd asked his mother where his father lived, she told him west, and north, on the other side of the country. Initially, in his youth, Ryan wondered if his father didn't like him. When he got older, he realized his father probably didn't even know he existed. Ryan had been born in Philadelphia. "East, and north," as his mother would say.

Lydia Smithers had painted a very vivid, and unpleasant picture of his father in young Ryan's mind. Ryan tried not to remember the stories. The idea of anyone treating another person like that, much less his own mother, made him feel ill.

The hours and miles spooled away, and the sun rose higher. After a few hours, it was no longer chasing him. Soon, he would be chasing it. Pennsylvania was a deceptively long state to drive through. Aside from the occasional urban setting, the state was uninterrupted shades of green.

Eventually, at a small city named Bellefont, Ryan stopped once more for fuel and a walk. He left the switch-backing highway he'd travelled for the past few hours, and merged onto a three lane interstate that cut west like a knife. His next stop, aside from the occasional pit stop, would be Cleveland, Ohio.

By his calculations, he wouldn't be arriving until evening. It was, factoring in traffic, easily an eight hour drive from Philadelphia.

While the highway he'd previously been on was dotted with small towns and way stations, I-80 was a ruthless device of travel. Ryan began to wish that he'd stopped along the way to admire some of the scenery, except every time he slowed, some phantom urge bit at his heels, driving him forward.

Perhaps it was the ghostly memory of his mother. Maybe it was because he hadn't even allowed himself time to grieve. Whatever it was, Ryan wasn't ready to face it quite yet. He let it egg him onward, relentless, into the afternoon sun. It was as subtle as a gun to his spine. Small, yet unignorably significant.

The pressure at the back of his neck made him think of another book, one he'd actually packed. It was a play actually, a short one called The Glass Menagerie. One of his favorite stories ever. As he drove, visor down against the sun, he found himself replaying the scenes in his head. He knew the protagonist's closing speech by heart. He'd heard it playing over, and over in his head after his mother died. Perhaps an obsession, perhaps soothing. He wasn't even sure yet. The answer would come in time, he knew. He couldn't rush it. So for now, as he rode, he recited the lines, and let the words bring what solace they might.

"I didn't go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between two places," he muttered softly.