Lazytown Chronicles

Hi guys! This is my first actual story, so any feedback in extremely important. I like to be quite descriptive and take plots slowly, rather than have much drama condensed into a small amount of chapters. Please review. Note: Story borrows historical context from my oneshot: History of Lazytown.

Please enjoy!

Sportacus dived into the pool. He felt the cool, refreshing, encapsulating rush of the water, as he entered a world where he was flying. The short surge of water around his muscular body seemed to wash more than his sweat, but also his worries, and responsibilities, if for a short while. The pool was the only place, for this reason, where Sportacus could truly relax, and still stay active. As he lost track of time as he swam laps, he began thinking, especially about his friends, the kids, In Lazytown. They weren't kids anymore though. The group of friends was all to turn, or had already turned 14, save Ziggy, who was still on 12, but he tried not to let it show. Sportacus had been needed less and less for saving them, and more for a quick chat, a round of sports, or some help with homework. Somehow, he felt that he was becoming less of a hero, and more of a mentor to these kids. It didn't bother him. It was his responsibility to help out, if asked, any way possible. Besides, there were other kids in Lazytown, and the bumbling Mayor Meanswell would be perpetually in need of his services. Sportacus stopped swimming, as he reached the end of the pool again.

He quickly took a swig of water from his oddly shaped bottle, and panned the pool. It was empty. The Lazytown pool only really had any visitors during the weekends, during the day, as swim schools and relaxing teenagers would fill the pool to relax. During weekdays, especially at night, the water was empty. The water, also having the minimum amount of chlorine, was crystal clear. It was something of a metaphor to help Sportacus remind himself of what he should be. As he looked down, he could see his legs, and the tiles, with hardly any refraction, as the water slowed and became as quiet as the most tranquil of streams. Sportacus sighed. Being transparent, for him, especially emotion-wise, was hard. He felt that through being so 'awesome' and 'fast' and 'incredible', according to the town, he felt as if he had to uphold such pretentions. The town, unknowingly, raised his expectations of himself to be above that of a normal human, which he was definitely not above. Emotion seemed like a barren world away for him, in a cell his mind had locked and isolated in his mind, on a metaphorical Alcatraz. And yet, it was always trying to swim to land, always attempting to make its way down to his mouth, or at least into his subconscious. He felt that fighting it was becoming harder and harder each passing day.

He looked at his watch. It was only 2:45, but looking at the sky at this time of year, it might as well have been 10 at night. It was late autumn on the island of Joanna, and he had promised to help Stephanie and Trixie, who were working together on a school project for textiles, within the next half hour, just after the end of school. With that thought shoving him back into reality, out of the pool, where he felt the chill of the cold air, harshly chilling his skin. 'Reality is the coldest truth of all.' He thought to himself. After a quick shower, Sportacus grabbed his change of clothes, not his hero suit, but a singlet, and t-shirt over the top, with tracksuit pants underneath. His T-Shirt, like all his clothes, had the brace on the chest for his crystal, which he slotted in, with a satisfying click. Donning his hat, placing his goggles over it, and sliding his shoes on, he left the pool, the turnstile making a thunk as he left.

Pixel was frustrated. Feigning sickness to school to dedicate more time to work wasn't working. His school project was hitting a major speed hump. Even in an Accelerated Information & Software Technology course (IST), his mind was still being tested, as he input countless lines of code onto his keyboard, working methodically, like the machine he was operating. This wasn't a technical issue. In fact, it had nothing to do with his project at all. It was Pixel himself who needed fixing. He hadn't slept in 2 days. What he had optimistically referred to as his sleep cycle, (something that was so warped that it didn't qualify to even an insomniac as a cycle), had been broken again. Pixel always found it hard to keep a routine in general, and sleeping was the worst part of that habit, or lack thereof. Being this tired, expending the effort to go to school and engage in social norms would be too taxing. He sighed, as he typed in the long overdue 'execute' command into the command prompt, and he watched as the files organised themselves and his programs went about their work, and he filled in his logbook, something that he would need to show his teacher. Keeping at the top of the IST class, and being 2 years younger than all the others students, plus having to keep up on other school work, was taking a heavy toll on his wellbeing. It had been like this for months, ever since the school year started for him. His parents lived out of town, sending him money every fortnight, which he used to buy food and other amenities. The isolation was really hacking him off; it was starting to have an effect on him. At first, he had enjoyed the freedom and isolation his situation threw at him, but more so felt lonely over months. Before he went into 7th grade, he had had plenty of time to socialise with his friends, but high school was starting to take that away from him. He sighed again, and looked around him. Half-scrunched up bags of crisps lined the far wall, and cans of energy drink, which he had tried to futilely tried to substitute sleep for, were scattered around his recycling bin, his throws becoming constantly more inaccurate as he forced himself to stay awake.

"Sportacus would never approve". He thought to himself. His eyes were starting to feel like they were hooked up to his dumbbells. His mind was on its last legs, as he then leaned his chair back, and slid into his bed, in one fluid motion, wasting little of what energy he had left. Pixel then muttered, to no one in particular.

"Maybe I should talk to Sportacus about this, he always has a schedule. That's it, I'm talking to him in the morning."

With that, he glanced at his digital clock on his bedside table, which in eerie green glow, which seemed to show 00:51. Pixel thought to himself.

"Damn, must have spent a lot of time to be in the small hours already."

Satisfied he had dedicated enough hours to his work, he pulled the covers over himself and drifted off, his hand knocking the digital clock to the floor, and it landed upside down, upon which, it corrected the previously incorrect display, finally proving how out-of-touch Pixel really was with the rotation of the planet.

Ziggy looked up from his paper. The clock ticked. Another bead of sweat trickled down his face, as he furiously scribbled in answers and filled in bubbles. He couldn't fail this math test, not another one. Being at the bottom of his maths class, failing this meant not being able to show face to his classmates for all the remaining math classes for the year, let alone his parents. He wasn't sure if Pixel and the others would understand either. The clock ticked again, the long hand teasing the 5 on the clock, as the end of the allotted time for the test came nearer and nearer. Ziggy, quickly flipped over to the last page, hoping for an easy question, only to face a number series question, requiring extensive mental firepower to answer:

0, 0, 3, 8, x, 24. Solve for x.

X=_

He mentally cursed. He was never good at math, especially logic puzzles. Sure, formulas could be remembered, but just using critical analysis on a set of numbers never came naturally to the boy. Forgetting about the clock, he just thought for a moment, about the question.

Ugh, what relates all these numbers? Two zeroes?...Not getting anything. Of course, Stephanie breezed this test when she was sitting it, two years ago. Why am I so hopeless?

Ziggy looked at the question once more, and, with a half-confident analysis, he scribbled some illegible working, and solved the question. Not one moment sooner after he had finished writing, he let the pen fall flat on the paper, which made a satisfying sound as it made contact with the paper. With that, he regained his composure, and looked around. His classmates had all finished their tests, and were merely flipping through the pages, double checking their calculations, a luxury Ziggy couldn't afford. He sank into his chair. He had expended so much effort, listening to the helpful, kind tuition from Stephanie, and had Sportacus drum up his self-esteem and help him fix his sleep cycle in previous weeks. Failing this test, in spite of this effort he had dedicated, would crush him.

Then, the loud, shrill ring of the schoolbell echoed throughout the school. Ziggy, in a flash, put away his stationery and zipped up his bag, before the others had even put down their pens. The teacher, Mrs. Davis, stood up, and placed her hands on her desk.

"Alright students, pens down, stop writing, ensure your name and class is on your paper and you deliver it…."

Ziggy rushed down the aisles, his loose bag straps slapping the sides of desks as he went, and almost dropped his paper on Mrs Davis' desk, rushing out the door, before she could finish her sentence.

"On my desk…."

She huffed in frustration, but let Ziggy go. After this, the class in a semi-orderly fashion, stacked their papers on her desk, and trying to squeeze out the door, two abreast, bags colliding as they did, as they joined the flow of students filing out of their classrooms in the corridor.

Ziggy was already at the front gate as the others left the building. He didn't like the clatter and the mindless "How was the test?" or "What did you get for question…" or "Hey! How's it going?" questions, especially after a mentally taxing exam. Besides, he hadn't had many friends for two years in his school. Ever since Stingy, Trixie, Stephanie and Pixel had left for high school, Ziggy felt like a log floating on a sea, with the flattest of horizons. He didn't care where he ended up, just that he needed to stay afloat and not be engulfed and drown from F's. As he boarded the school bus, he sat down next the window, on the last row, where the vibration and heat from the engine would surely keep him warm. He stared, towards the darkening sky. As he stared, he realised that the school year was coming to an end, and maybe, just maybe, when that happened, his piece of driftwood would see the silhouette of land on the horizon…

Lachlan Devlin sat in his rather expansive room. Many would have very reasonably called it a small unit. He looked around. His room was absolutely pristine, tatamount to his obsession over cleanliness and organization. His computer was right up to date, having cost his parents over £3000, and his bed would have accommodated 3 people abreast, in sumptuous comfort. For just him, it was overkill. His wardrobe harboured more suits that possibly anyone in town, and his piggy bank, now more of a talisman than to hold money, which he now kept in a safe behind a painting, was sitting, imploringly, on his desk, staring at him. Despite living in luxury however, Stingy felt…..different, and sparsely..sad. His father was a successful businessman in Dublin, working as an accountant for some corporations stationed in the European tax haven, and his mother, the only relative he lived with, stayed at home with him, although his uncle would pop in time to time, as he was an engineer, working on an offshore oil rig near Newfoundland. His uncle was a kind-hearted man, who would come back, with his characteristic chiseled beard, and a stout build, and a whiff of sea salt and crude oil followed him. Stingy's mother loved him unconditionally, as if he were the world itself. She taught him as many things as she knew, but ultimately, the void left unfilled by his father could never be substituted. Stingy once had to, rather reluctantly, swallow his pride when he asked Sportacus how to wear a suit properly, and how to write essays. Of course, Sportacus was always there to help, but Stingy would always wonder whether his father would have done the same. It had been this way for as long as he could remember.

Pushing aside the brief mental lapse, Stingy went back to his History Assignment. It was about the Irish Potato famine, and the repercussions it had around the world. Stingy lucked out with this one, all he had to do was dig up ancestral log books from when his ancestors left Ireland for Joanna Island, when blight destroyed potato crops throughout Ireland. He typed in a topic sentence there, an evaluation there, and finally, his conclusion, as he wrapped up three days of hard work. After citing his sources, rather satisfyingly, to himself, and his own family, he turned off his computer, and decided to go hang out with Pixel. He dialed his number, but he did not get a response. Stingy wasn't surprised; Pixel probably was hard at work or asleep. With that, he shrugged his shoulders, and decided to check the latest in financial news.

Trixie Burgess was in a hurry. She had to gather up her papers, and some of her sample textiles, before she had to dash off to Stephanie's, where the two had agreed to work on progressing their project. It wasn't due for weeks, but Stephanie had insisted that, because she didn't have any spare time to 'hang out' or work on it in following weeks, they had agreed on finishing the collaborative section of the project. Trixie didn't really have that much interest in textiles, she was very much a tomboy, (she even wore trousers to school, rather than the dress that the school recommended) and would have paired with a different classmate, to work on metalwork instead, were it not for the boys that would always try and dominate the project if they were paired up with anyone of the opposing gender, a sort of 'pissing contest' as her father had put it.

She chuckled silently at the thought. Her father had always been the closer parent. Her mother wasn't exactly a witch, but she didn't show the affection or paid the attention she received from her father, which to her, from watching plenty of television, and listening to Stingy, was kind of a strange concept to her. She had always thought of the stereotypical father to be a less affectionate parental figure. Then, as she was fumbling throughout her wardrobe, she pulled out a sheet, which had once been white, but had faded from misuse. The main reason for the misuse became obvious, once one noticed the googly eyes drawn on it, to resemble a ghost. Embarrassed, she stuffed it behind her other clothes. She then glanced over at her school uniform. Out of almost a hundred girls at her high school, only her and a select few wore trousers, the rest opting for the white dress the school sold to them. (Except Stephanie, often use mixing her dress and red clothes in the washing machine as an excuse). Her mother had protested, but ultimately, it was her father, and some input from Sportacus which had saved her. Boys at school would often avoid her, instead either flirting with some more, feminine females or sticking together in their small gangs. She was sometimes bullied for it to, as some boys would offhandedly call her 'trans' or a 'crossdresser'. It hurt, and she talked to a therapist, who was pretty damn sure she wasn't a transgender. She had agreed too. Ultimately, her choice of attire was down to trying to be unique, something that school didn't seem to encourage in her. But the price was isolation. She some very good friends in her inner circle, many being the other tomboys in the school, but although her circle was watertight, it wasn't very large and didn't have much variation in character either. She wanted to change that, but it was hard. The compromise between quantity and quality didn't strike her a worthwhile exchange. Also, her choice in attire was that she didn't like…girls in general. The gossip, makeup, social media and other topics like that didn't strike her fancy. She liked what boys liked, cars, electronics, games, and the like. But in the end, her strategy of fitting in with boys was backfiring. With that rather somber thought, she hefted up her bulging schoolbag and set out for Stephanie's.

Please don't shoot me for the British terminology, I swear, it's not my fault!

Also, anyone who figures out the answer to Ziggy's question gets a cookie, pwomise. ;)