Author's Note: Well, I was going to go in a different direction with this chapter but I thought it might be nice if I bridged the gap between the last adventure and this one before starting the havoc. Next chapter will be very interesting, though, I promise that. So, for now, enjoy this one (even though it took forever for an update…). Woot.
Disclaimer: The character of TARK is an adaptation of the distribution center worker in Disney's 1992 live action musical, Newsies. He has been a running joke within the fandom for over nearly five years now. Anyone one else in this story will either be a Newsies character or an NML listee. Neither of which do I own.
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What do you do when, after four years of being stored away in a sock drawer,
you wake up to realize that you've been given a second chance at wreaking havoc?
That's right! You laugh. Evilly.
--
Aw man. Not again…
--
TARK was not too sure where he should whisk off to now that he was free again. Though he was not too sure just how much time had passed since his incarceration in that blasted sock drawer, he could just feel how things had changed.
And he did not like that one bit.
Using his special-rific super dee duper AMAZING TARK POWERS ™, TARK started to feel around for the minds of the girls that he used to terrorize. Using said powers, he proceeded to gauge the level of TARK awareness in those girls – because, really, would it be fun to wreak havoc on someone who could care less that you could?
The first girl he sought out was Quipster. Because hers was the first sock drawer that he had even been trapped in, TARK was able to find her quite easily. But, when he did, what he found was upsetting to the terror: her reading indicated that she was only at a twenty three percent level of awareness.
Hmm, TARK thought to himself – quite a difference from his 'get the lead out of your pants' tirades as it was more of a coherent thought – Quipster has forgotten about me.
How long was I in that damn drawer anyway?
He did not dwell on her much longer – even if it was a blow that the only girl he had considered a quasi-ally had all but forgotten about him.
There were many more Newsies fans out there. And they all deserved the chance to take on the TARK. Woot.
Tunes was next. She had been instrumental in his last capture. She couldn't have forgotten about him… could she?
Well, it turned out that she could. Her awareness level was even lower: nineteen percent.
Now, if TARK really could focus on anything other than pushing around newsboys and annoying the fans that love them, he might have started to get a wee bit nervous.
Whirling through the list of girls that he had opposed during his last adventure, TARK took readings of a good handful of them:
Wish: twenty four percent.
Better but not quite good enough.
Spin: thirty six percent.
Even better but still… Only thirty six percent?
Squibble: ten percent.
Prankster: seven percent.
Stripes: four percent.
Well, this don't look too promising. Maybe I won't be getting to laugh evilly as I toy with these poor Newsies fans again…
Holiday: ninety five percent.
Wait.
Ninety five percent?
Really?
TARK narrowed his beady eyes as he turned his trademark super powers back onto the girl that he had just thought about. At first, he thought maybe that his powers were malfunctioning because he was stretching all the way across the US. But no. He was right.
Holiday had a ninety five percent awareness level of TARK.
They still remember me, he smirked. Good.
The extreme level of TARK awareness sent a warm tingly feeling down his spine. Holding onto that feeling, he sought out someone from the Old Days were could match that level.
Or beat it.
Ninety seven percent.
He found someone in the middle of the country whose TARK awareness level was ninety seven percent: Aki.
His smirk got just a little bit bigger. Why? Because, even though ninety-seven percent was really impressive, there was another blip on his TARK awareness gauge-o-matic.
Somebody out there was walking around with a ninety nine percent level. And, with such a high level, what kind of terrible, havoc-wreaking entity would he be if he did not fulfill the girl's obvious paranoia by jumping out and scaring the bajeezus out of her?
But who was the girl?
TARK allowed himself a small chuckle when he realized that the reason why it took so long to realize who she was was because of that stupid sock drawer. Even though he was now just floating… somewhere… the drawer was still expanding its considerable powers in protect the owner of those socks.
If I can't wreak havoc in Stress's room, TARK thought, then I'm going to have to bring her and those other TARK remember-ers to me.
The only question was: How?
The last time he had gone about trying to wreak havoc on these girls, he had done it through modern technology. By sending an email message to a select thirty-some odd NMLers, he used his special-rific super dee duper AMAZING TARK POWERS ™ to suck them all in through their computers and bring them to Limbo. And that had only been the beginning of his evil plan.
Now, would they fall for that same excuse again? Probably not…
… but that didn't mean that he couldn't change his evil plan around just a tad and then shower it upon a bunch of unsuspecting girls.
Letting himself a few seconds to cackle – Mwahahahahaha!! – TARK summoned all the spare magic that he could to put his plan into play. Then, once the outline had been established, he snapped his fingers and transported himself back into Stress room.
Purposely making himself invisible – it wouldn't do well to alert Stress to his return, given that the girl was still sitting, confused, on the floor – TARK cast his green eyes around, only smiling triumphantly when he saw the black laptop that was resting in the center of an orange bed.
Luckily for him, Stress had left it open, with the power on. All he had to do was shrink himself to the appropriate size and bum rush the bright screen. Courtesy of his limitless power, TARK was able to disappear through the lid, effectively finding himself inside of her computer.
And then he waited. Again.
TARK was really good at waiting.
--
As if someone had just waved a hand in front of Stress's face, she came back to. Shaking her head, she slowly moved around to her knees before rising up. Without saying a word – which really was quite unlike her – she approached her sock drawer and, calmly, shut it.
Even though she was well aware that a red and plaid tornado had just torn through her room, and the little voice in the back of her head was telling her that it was going to come back and haunt her, Stress was trying as hard as she could to pretend that nothing had just happened.
Maybe, if she was lucky, TARK would just go back to 1899 Manhattan and leave them all alone. He couldn't possibly want revenge for being shut up in her sock drawer for four years.
Could he?
Purposely trying not to think about that, the girl decided that maybe going on the computer and signing on would occupy her attention. Hey, you never know, right?
The laptop was still on so all she had to do was click on the AIM desktop icon. Her screen name and password were already there and, because she was lazy, she had it set so that it would automatically log in.
"Doo doo doo," she muttered under her breath as the little yellow AIM MAN logged her on and brought up her buddy list. As that was loading, the AIM homepage popped up and, not for the first time, she remembered that she meant to disable that.
However, before she could do that, a chat invitation popped up on the screen.
SexyRedHead99 has invited you to chat in Room ForTheNewsies
Would you like to:
Accept or Decline
Without even thinking about it – or paying attention to what the popup message really said, Stress automatically maneuvered the little red knobby thing (the thing that pretended it was a mouse) over to the Accept option.
But, strangely enough, the action did not take her into a chat room. Curious, she went to check that she was still logged on AIM. She was, of course, but, in the few seconds it took her to check on that, a smoky red cloud began to emit from the back of her computer.
She only noticed the cloud when it seemed to solidify and form a massive hand shape. Before she could jump off of her bed and make a run for it, the hand gripped the front of her t-shirt and pulled.
It kept on pulling until she had been sucked straight through the screen.
The laptop monitor glowed bright white and, as if there was someone invisible still lurking in her room, the computer shut off and the lid slammed down.
Stress sighed, her voice not more than a whisper escaping from the closed black box. "Aw, man. Not again."