First off, the following at some point alludes to another story which I may or may not have the intention of writing. D: Sorry, but this idea came first. Plus, this was originally intended as a one shot, but... well, let's see how this goes.
I have so many other projects on hold. DDD: *shot*
"Dad! DAD!"
The man watched from the porch of a large, impressively structured house, surrounded by many others like it. 1969 suburbia was having a fairly normal day; dogs were barking, children were playing hopscotch, tag, hide-and-seek and other games. Most parents were keeping a close eye, if they weren't already participating in the activities themselves.
Except for one in particular. He watched his five-year-old with a scowl, not responding to his shouts for attention. Not that it stopped the kid; he continued to shoot around the front yard like a rocket, running through the radius of the water from the sprinkler as thunder started to roll in the distance. Others on the street took notice and were beginning to call their children inside, even though (oddly enough) it was still plenty sunny.
The child was undeterred. He continued to jump for his father's attention, the water from the sprinkler hitting his back.
"Dad!" he yelled again as some invisible hand turned the water off. Not that the child noticed. It had already begun to drizzle in some areas of the neighborhood.
The man continued to wear a scorned expression, but said nothing. His son pointed up to the sky, the clouds barely blocking the sun's rays; however, rain began to come down normally, and in one of life's little curiosities, it seemingly managed to end at a point somewhere in the middle of the yard. Excited at this oddity, the son jumped in between the two conditions, dry one second, playing in the water the next.
"Look! Look! Isn't this cool?" he shouted as his mother came walking around from the side of the house to the safety of the porch awning. She realized with a smile that there probably hadn't been much point in turning the sprinkler off.
Their son, though slightly jumpy, waited for one of their responses.
His father retained his cold stare, but spoke up.
"Don't you know what it means when it's sunny and raining at the same time?" he called out. His sternness caused his son to stop for a second, racking his brain for an answer.
"Um..." was all the child could say, a confused expression on his face.
His father's expression altered then; he furrowed his brow more, but a grim smirk played on the corner of his lips.
"It means the devil is plotting."
This visibly shook the boy; he looked around unsurely, wondering if his dad was just playing around with him, like he sometimes had a tendency to do (at least, the kid liked to think so). The mother pursed her lips, but didn't reprimand her husband.
The two of them watched their son dash over to the porch suddenly, wrapping his mother's legs in an insecure hug which she promptly returned.
"There, there, Vovochka," she comforted him in her pronounced Russian accent, stroking his damp black hair down as she reached for a towel hanging off of the swinging seat behind her, all the while giving her spouse a disappointed look. It went ignored, at any rate; he just looked at his son disdainfully, almost as if wondering why this child continued to dwell in the realm of foolish ideas.
He headed inside as she continued to dry her son off.
September, 1977; a thirteen-year-old boy jumped up and down on the sidewalk, trying desperately to snatch his backpack back from a taller boy (who honestly looked about two years his senior, but in actuality was his age), who held it tauntingly over his head, knowing well the poor kid would never reach it. A friend of the harasser stood by silently, smirking at the smaller one's misfortune.
"Aw, does wittle Masters want his bookbag back?" he chided, yanking the bag back up at the jump of the other boy, who stopped for a second to catch his breath.
"Screw you, Carmichael!" the Masters boy exclaimed in an embarrassingly unchanged voice, earning a set of sarcastic "oohs" from Carmichael and his friend and a violent shove backwards.
"Wanna talk tough, little guy?" Carmichael retorted, still holding onto the bag.
The Masters boy just recollected himself and tried to stand up straight, giving his opponent the dirtiest look he could muster, which was only laughed off.
"Come on, it would be a tragedy if Masters didn't show up with his precious bag tomorrow, wouldn't it?" Carmichael continued to taunt, sneering.
The shorter boy scowled as the two in front of him continued to laugh at his expense, thinking of a good retort.
Finally one came to him.
"It would be a tragedy if you didn't show up 'cause someone bought out your dad's crappy little sports store!" he blurted out.
Carmichael stopped laughing, alright.
"Run that by me again, punk?" he started to shout, shoving the bag into his accomplice's arms and advancing towards Masters, who realized he now had no choice but to strike a defensive pose.
"You wanna start something?" Carmichael threatened. He was dangerously close to Masters by this point, the latter realizing he had little time left to make a move.
"You think you can just wave your money around and have everyone do what you want? My dad's just as good as yours; he even helped get the mayor elected. Good thing, too; oughta run the Commies like your old man out of town for good. Daddy can't protect you forever."
Masters knew this kid didn't know what he was talking about. He had probably overheard his parents and was just spewing out whatever he had deemed insults to sound more intimidating. Making a split second decision, Masters shut his eyes and took a wild left hook to his right, hoping it would connect with something.
If air counted as something.
When he opened his eyes, he realized Carmichael had swiftly dodged the attack. Even worse, he was beginning to wind up a strike of his own. Not thinking, Masters covered his face with his arms, instinctively trying to protect his head. Unfortunately, that left his abdomen open, a detail which Carmichael (for all his dim-wittedness) did not let slip by him.
The boy fell to the ground with the wind knocked out of him, his stomach stinging with the pain from the hit and not knowing what else to do. This kid was going to make a punching sack out of him if he didn't do something quick...
But it soon became apparent that he probably wouldn't need to; someone's angry cries from down the street startled the lot of them, and Carmichael started to back off along with his goon.
Masters looked to see who his protector (or at least distraction) was; he recognized his mother's head of wavy red hair and petite figure hurrying down the street, and felt a pang of embarrassment in his stomach. Still, as he looked back at Carmichael, his expression showed that her advances seemed to be doing the trick.
"Come on, let's ditch this!" hissed Carmichael, finally tossing the backpack to the ground at Masters' feet, although not without a few parting words.
"Before Masters' mommy catches up!" he shouted sarcastically, laughing with his buddy all the way down the sidewalk.
Finally his mother approached her son on the ground, helping him stand up.
"Are you okay?" she asked frantically, straightening out his hair and shirt collar. To her surprise, her son slapped her hands away, a look of shame written on his downcast face.
"Yeah," he snapped, leaning over to pick up his bag and the materials that had spilled out. He started walking at a brisk pace back to his house without even acknowledging his mother with a "thanks."
As she tried to keep up with him, she felt a twinge of sadness; maybe it was just the way teenage boys were, but she couldn't help but feel like there would be more situations like this to come, and she wondered if her boy would be able to deal with it should they do so.
She could only help when she could, and wait and see.
A loud, ear-piercing shriek from the school bell signified the beginning of fourth period. The remaining students filed into the classroom quickly, filling up the last of the seats.
Carmichael and his two friends occupied the last row, taking the spot behind a young Asian girl and a boy about her age. He had already begun to write the heading and date on his paper; April 16th, 1980 was written neatly in script up in the corner.
The J.V. jock behind the girl smirked at his two companions as he began to play with the tips of her hair, going unnoticed. Snickers from the group earned them a few harsh cries for silence but otherwise they remained undetected. Going a step further for a few extra laughs, Carmichael began to stroke the back of her recently-done perm like it was a dog of some sort. More stifled laughter was uttered from his friends.
Finally the girl whirled around in her seat to investigate the disturbance, and her expression turned into one of mild horror. She quickly swatted away the jock's hand, sighed with disgust, and turned back around to focus on the assignment on the board.
"Whoa, baby!" Carmichael cooed as his companions continued to chuckle.
"Don't call me that," she snapped without turning around, earning a series of murmuring from the cronies. Carmichael, however, snorted and tried to brush it off as nothing.
"Harriet, just…" he tried again, reaching for her shoulder.
Like a reflex, she slapped it away again, warning him, "Don't touch me, asshole!"
"Ooooh!" cried his friends, along with a few others who had happened to overhear.
Fuming, Carmichael suddenly made a much more forceful grab for her arm.
"Listen, bi-"
"She said cut it out."
Harriet used this opportunity to wrench her arm out of Carmichael's grasp while he stared at his challenger furiously.
"What?"
"You heard me," Vlad retorted, keeping his pencil to his paper but returning Carmichael's look. "Leave her alone. She already said it twice."
"Aw, what, you're gonna sit there and defend your girlfriend?" the jock retorted, smiling. Vlad rolled his eyes and went back to his work, leaving Harriet to return the chide for him.
"You wish a girl would look at you," she said bitterly, encouraging more snickering from the surrounding students, which was enough to finally make the teacher take notice.
"What is going on back there?" he inquired angrily as he turned around from the blackboard to look at his suspects.
Nobody said a word, hoping he would eventually turn back around and forget the whole thing (his usual course of action), but today he had decided enough was enough.
"I need an answer. Now!"
Slamming his fist on his desk, the students looked around nervously, giving Carmichael enough time to fix a note from out of sight.
"Masters!" he declared indignantly, causing the boy he had called out to jump. "Mr. Kennedy doesn't look like this!"
Carmichael held up the note for all to see, revealing a crudely drawn sketch of the teacher with his legendarily bad comb over. However, an extra toothbrush mustache that had been added made for a very unflattering portrait, to say the least. All Vlad could do was look in horror as Mr. Kennedy's face turned beet red.
"No!" Vlad protested. "I didn't…"
"Office, Masters! NOW!" Mr. Kennedy roared, pointing to the door.
Stunned into silence, Vlad hesitantly reached for his backpack as Carmichael and his gang chuckled behind him, bumping fists.
"That goes for you too, Baxter!"
It was Carmichael's turn to look terrified.
"What?" he exclaimed.
"You heard me! Both of you, OUT!"
"But Mr. Kennedy, Vlad didn't…" Harriet tried to intervene.
"You want to join them, Miss Chin?" came back the threat, forcing Vlad's only advocate into silence.
Vlad was already at the door. Giving the rest of the room an unsure last one-over, he went to grab the doorknob, only to be shoved aside and beat to it by the one who had gotten him into this mess.
Head hanging, Vlad walked out into the hallway and to his punishment.
…
"Unbelievable!" cried Carmichael with disdain as he and Vlad walked out of the principal's office, throwing his backpack to the ground. "Two week's suspension? Are you kidding me?"
The final bell had rung, and students shuffled out of classrooms like cattle, slipping past each other to reach their destinations. Carmichael's goons sauntered up to his side and inquired what had happened.
"Two weeks! That's playoffs! Gone!" Carmichael whined, kicking a locker.
He turned his attention to Vlad, his eyes narrowed.
"Thanks to you, Masters," he growled.
Vlad was stunned, but fired back.
"Me? None of this was my fault and you know it!"
"If it wasn't for your stupid girlfriend, I…"
"Harriet's not my girlfriend. She's a good friend."
Readjusting his backpack, Vlad headed for the entrance doors while muttering something under his breath.
"Not something you would know about."
Unfortunately, it did not go unheard like he intended.
"Run that by me again, punk?" Carmichael yelled, yanking the smart mouth back by his collar and pinning him against the locker with his cronies acting as back-up. A small ring of students took notice and started to form around the scene.
Oh, no, Vlad started to think, panicking. He only had a limited amount of time before they would be completely closed in.
"You got something you wanna say, smartass?" Carmichael continued to threaten, tightening his hold on Vlad's throat.
Do something! Now!
Summoning up the most courage he could, Vlad welled up a wad of saliva and spit harshly into his opponent's eye. Disgusting, yes, especially for one who had a thing for being a neat-freak like him, but it was his only option.
Carmichael let out a disgruntled cry and swung a right hook to Vlad's cheek; fortunately, the smaller teen managed to move his head away enough for his enemy to come colliding with the steel frame of the locker instead, leaving a noticeable dent. Howling with pain over the stunned gasps of the crowd, Carmichael reeled back to check his hand while Vlad made his break.
As he shoved through the crowd to the front door, Carmichael directed his accomplices in his victim's direction.
"Don't just stand there, go!" he shouted, still cringing in pain as the two sprinted after the Masters' son.
…
He ran and ran, keeping his eyes glued forward so he wouldn't have to see how close they were coming to catching up. Their threatening shouts had been following him for the past ten minutes, and he could tell they were advancing slowly. Being out in the open street didn't help, either; he knew he had to find some cover, and fast.
The only one available was the sparse patch of forest that was on the other side of the street, behind a chain-link fence. Acting on impulse, he dashed out into the middle of the road (much to the chagrin of the drivers) and quickly scaled the fence, dropping into the dirt stumbling.
The gang of three had to wait and maneuver around the honking line of vehicles, by which time their prey had already gained distance on them. Hopping over the fence themselves, they couldn't find any trace of him.
Carmichael surveyed their surroundings, a look of the utmost contempt written on his face.
"You got away this time, Masters!" he shouted, knowing that somewhere his classmate could hear him. At this, his friends already started to walk away, leaving him to monologue.
"You won't be so lucky next time! I'm keeping an eye out for you, got it? Run home all you like; it won't help you! Screw you! To hell with you, and your stupid Commie mommy!"
At that he finally walked away, leaving Vlad to sigh in defeat and collapse next to the fallen tree trunk he had been hiding behind.
The man stirred in his sleep suddenly; a pained expression washed over his face, his eyebrows drawing to a knit and a sharp inhale audible from his lips before he settled back down.
The figure opposite his bed cloaked in shadow started at this reaction; it, too, remained silent as it continued to watch over him.
He plucked another twig from his hair as he dragged his feet along the sidewalk; it had taken him an hour and a half to walk all the way around the path his pursuers had opted for, and the buses had already left the school loop by the time he could get a glimpse of the campus.
Vlad tried not to think about Carmichael's comments as he walked up to his front yard. He never understood why Carmichael couldn't see that the two of them were more similar than they thought; both of their fathers were well-known in the community. For goodness' sake, they were both Republicans! Vlad's father had voted plenty of times for the man Carmichael's father had done campaign work for!
Pushing his front gate open, Vlad didn't notice the Corvette missing from the driveway. It was only until he was at his door that he picked his head up from looking at his feet. Much to his surprise, there were no lights on in the house. The only sign that anyone had been there was a note taped to the front door, which he inspected, recognizing his father's hand. It read:
"Son,
We got the call from your school today; however, we had already made plans to go visit your mother's sister down in Florida. We waited for you to come home, but after your principal reached us we realized you shouldn't be in too much of a rush to get anywhere. You're old enough to be on your own for a while. Hopefully you remembered your keys this morning. We'll be gone for about a week; there's plenty in the fridge to satisfy you. Don't forget to water the plants.
-Your father"
Vlad stared at the note incredulously. His parents had ditched him? What about his mother? What did she say to all this?
He leaned with his back to the door and realized that she had probably had no choice but to go along with it; she didn't handle confrontation well.
With a sigh, he reached into his pocket for his house keys. Grabbing a handful of air, he began to panic; he frantically searched the rest of himself and his backpack until he realized he probably did forget his keys inside this morning on his dresser. Pathetically, he began to wrestle with the doorknob, realizing that there was no use.
Vlad sank to the ground and buried his head in his hands. Why couldn't his father just ground him like other, normal parents?
He picked up his belongings after a few minutes and made way for the nearest restaurant; the only thing he could do now was try to get a decent meal for the night (if his school money could afford him even that).
If he had bothered to look in the window he would have seen his keys lying neatly on the kitchen table, moved from his dresser.
"Mail's here."
Vlad looked up from his magazine only to have Jack slap his mail down messily on his lap.
"Thanks," he replied sarcastically, to which Jack offered a small two-finger salute.
Looking through the envelopes, he noticed one had his mother's hand written on it in red ink. Puzzled, he immediately ripped it open and unfolded the letter inside. The entire body of script was written very shakily. It was dated September 23rd, 1982.
"My dearest son,
I regret to tell you this terrible news; your father has passed away from heart failure. Doctors said that his cardiac muscles were unusually weak and they were bound to give out any time. Fortunately it happened quietly, in his sleep. I know it is sad to hear this in only your first year of college, but try to remember, he was quiet man. He suffered alone, and would have not wanted for you to preoccupy yourself with matters like this in beginning of your studies. I also ask that you do not worry about me, either; there will be quiet funeral in week's time.
Your loving mother,
-Sonia"
Silence. He could only stare, dumbfounded, at the paper.
He waited for it to hit him.
…and waited… and waited. Nothing.
He didn't feel anything. Couldn't feel anything. Not a thing.
That was what struck him the hardest.
Jack noticed his friend sitting in complete silence on his bed.
"…hey. V-man. You okay?" he inquired.
It took Vlad a second to respond.
"…yeah. I'm fine."
He looked blankly out the window.
He shuffled through the papers on the table, trying to get an estimate or reading of some kind.
"Vlad?"
He looked up to see Maddie standing in front of him, looking unsure.
"Yeah?"
She seemed nervous.
"…it's just… if you don't want to go through with this today, it's not a problem. We're not exactly upsetting any audience, either, so…"
"Maddie, it's okay," he assured her. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."
He smiled warmly at her, a gesture she halfway returned.
"I just know you must've gone through a hard time lately, with your dad and all…"
He cut her off.
"I'm perfectly fine."
At this she looked surprised. She usually expected something…else from someone who had just lost a parent.
"Well, uh… okay then," she responded a little more cheerfully, returning to her previous work.
Vlad was about to do the same, until he started to let his mind wander. At this rate, he figured, now was as good a time as ever.
"Actually, Maddie, there's been something I've been wanting to tell you for a long time…"
"One second, Vlad… Jack, did you remember to fill the filtrator with ecto-purifier?"
"On it, baby!" came their large friend's enthusiastic reply.
On his way, Jack couldn't help but give Maddie a certain look. Slightly upset, but not wanting to make a scene, Vlad crossed his arms and walked over to the mechanical portal that rested on the table.
Inspecting it, Vlad finally gave an exasperated cry of "I'm telling you, Jack, it won't work!"
"Bogus, V-man," Jack responded cheerfully. "It totally will! This Proto-Portal is guaranteed to bust the wall open into the ghost dimension!"
Skeptical, Vlad leaned in to give their contraption a closer look as his friends went for the controls.
Maddie swept up a stack of papers, giving them a cursory glance. She frowned.
"…Jack, these calculations aren't right."
Unfortunately, Jack had already grown a little too enthusiastic about his experiment, and her warning fell on deaf ears.
"BANZAI!" he shouted ecstatically, throwing on the switch on the control pad.
A dangerous grumbling sound came to life in the generator; the portal began to glow and shake violently, shocking Vlad out of his stupor and forcing him to take a step back.
But it was too late; there was an all-consuming burst of light…
A/N: Okay, definitely not a one-shot at this point. :P
Also, Vovochka is something of a diminutive for "Vlad" in Russian; I just hope it's the right one. Seriously, there's like a list…