A/N: So, I decided to post another chapter even though I'm pretty sure this all sucks. Eh, I like writing even though it's one of those many things I'm not good at (though I have been told otherwise by a few people, but they're supposed to say junk like that). I mean, everyone that knows me knows I'm only good at scheming and playing on people's emotions. Oh whatever. Enjoy?

Disclaimer: I did not come up with F29Dwn; therefore please do not sue me. I'm a copy cat, not a felon. That's why I'm here, not producing a Japanese version of the show. See?

Oh, and, yeah, it'll be slow for this chapter and after this one everything should speed up. Hopefully. I'd like there to be some suspense...but I'll probably just write a yawn-fest. Dang it.

Chapter One: Home Can Be Just a Noun

Jackson walked Toby and Tyler home, bored out of his mind. They were chatting excitedly about something, but it didn't have anything to do with him so he ignored it.

At least they're close in age, so they can be friends. I'm the oldest stray Miranda has ever taken in.

"Cody!" Miranda called, shouting loudly.

He frowned. He never had liked his first name; he always went by Jackson or Jack nowadays. Mostly Jackson (but kids will be kids).

"Yeah, Miranda?" he asked, his voice sounding tired to his own ears.

"That's Ms. Sanders to you, Cody, and you know it," she berated, as she crossed her arms under her chest.

He shrugged. "What is it?" he asked, somewhat warily, just as the two twin terrors ran off to play with the three-legged dog Miranda had also taken in, some Lab Mix that liked just about anyone. Well, except him, of course. Obviously, a man had maimed the dog and he didn't like adult males anymore.

Miranda sighed and brushed a dark coil of hair out of her face. "I have some bad news."

His heart clenched in his chest at that. "What sort of bad news? I'm being kicked to the curb bad or somebody died bad?"

"Aren't those about equal?"

"Not in my mind," he growled harshly.

She winced. "Well, you see, I run a home for kids who need emergency help. You weren't able to be placed." He heard the add-on: because you're trouble, because you're old, because you're weak.

"I realize that," he said, crossing his arms as well, as he felt hostility in the air. He could always feel things like that, always had. Reading people was easy when you learned how.

"I can't keep you anymore, Cody," she said softly. "I only keep children for about five months and then they tend to go somewhere else."

He grunted in response, not sure what to say to that.

So it is I'm being kicked to the curb bad.

"You've stayed with me for eight months and, well, other children need help, too. I've done what I can. I'm sorry," she said, her dark eyes slightly sympathetic but mostly guarded.

She was always guarded, and oftentimes a little scared (of him).

"Well, where am I going to live?" he asked finally, feeling resigned. He'd lived on the road before and it wasn't too awful (even though indoor plumbing was amazing on so many levels). Plus, his life's belongings could be shoved into a single oversized backpack.

"You'll be staying with your father for a little while," she said, very quietly, like she was nervous about telling him. He stepped up another step, getting onto the porch with her. She took a step back.

"What?" he asked; his voice low. "If they were going to give me back, why did they take me away from him in the first place?"

She blinked at him, her face carefully blank. "He's attended a lot of AA meetings now. He's better."

He scoffed, as he looked around the porch, noting the peeling smoky-blue paint and yellow glider. He didn't want to leave, even if this place was a dump. He felt some sense of belonging here. At home, he didn't. He was a foreign invader.

"Better how? Does he not cuss out everything that moves or press broken glass bottles against people's throats?" Jackson asked, and his teeth grinded together as he waited on her answer.

Instead of answering his question, Miranda just started talking about something else, while pulling her gray, wool shawl closer around her narrow shoulders. "You won't have to stay long. A couple in L.A., a better part of it, are willing to take you in. They lost four children and have adopted, too, one who is Dyslexic. They want to help more children now that their adopted kids are getting older."

He scowled. "How long will I have to stay with my father, then?"

"Two months," Miranda squeaked out, obviously getting intimidated.

He almost rolled his eyes, once again. He wasn't that scary. He was tall, sure, and he was fairly muscular, fine, but he wasn't more dangerous than the average Joe. Anyone could pick up a kitchen knife and slam it into another person's chest, after all. It didn't take a hoodlum to do so. Plus, most crimes were done by freaks with odd fetishes or vengeful old boyfriends. He was neither (in his mind at least).

"Okay," he said finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, his slightly too-small black shirt riding up a little. He needed some new clothes, he noted.

"Okay?" Miranda looked baffled, her brow scrunched and plastered-on-red lips puckered; her version of a confused face.

"Yeah," he barked out. "If what you said is true, I don't have anything to worry about, right? I mean, if I get killed they might fine you, too."

"Cody, no one is going to kill you."

"And you're sure about that how?" he asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he scowled at her, his eyes flashing. "I'm assuming my father still lives in a shotgun style house in a majority impoverished black and Hispanic based neighborhood?"

"Well, yes, his address hasn't changed."

"I'd better put 911 on speed dial, then. I might not have time to punch in all three numbers."

Miranda actually gulped. Good for her. Now she understood how his world worked. You lived fast, you died young. That was how it worked. It was a mini society, his Dad's neighborhood, unlike anything he'd seen before. Police were afraid to go near and they'd tell you just to deal with your problems yourself, or laugh at you over the phone. If you were white and driving around, you'd get pulled over. Guns were shot so constantly you could find bullets in your roof if you redid it, like a neighbor across the street had. Things were not good. There was even a pet store that advertised Pit Bull Puppies of All Breeds (probably designed by an idiot who didn't understand that pit bulls were all part of one breed).

He'd been told when he was younger, when he was nine or so (he forgot the year), when they'd first taken him, that they'd protect him, that the government could take care of him and find him a new home. He'd thought those people were insane. He'd never known a life without his Dad in it, a life apart from the isolated backwater neighborhood he'd grown up in. Everything they talked about had confused him more, especially when they'd asked him about his mother.

Where does she live? He'd shrugged.

Does she live with you? He'd said no.

Did she pass away? He'd shrugged.

What's her name? He'd said I don't know; I never met her. (Which was the truth, more or less—he couldn't remember ever meeting her to this day.)

Twenty-four minutes had passed, with him just glancing at the clock and then at his bags, while trying to finish a book he'd started called City of Thieves.

And it's probably one of the most depressing books I've ever read. What an ending!

He shuddered, thinking about the cruelty and horror that was in the book, along with the actual place—the U.S.S.R.—where it was based it. It made his life's troubles seem like child's play.

Whenever he felt down, he always tried to read something that made him feel sorrier for someone else than himself—it was better than reading happy books, since they always made him feel sorry for himself. It was like, oh, yeah, so you save your family's life and get the girl with the perfect personality and body, that's sure to happen in real life.

Of course, most people's version of reality seemed fake to me. They lived in a world all their own, where people who were depressed or sad were handed off to people they didn't know, to talk to them, as if that helped anything. It was like what they'd done to him. So his Dad was drunk a lot. So what? He didn't hit him, after all. He was mean as a kicked rattlesnake but he'd never gotten physical (unless you counted on random incident when he'd been drunk and high). Everyone got upset, everyone had a temper. It wasn't too big of a deal, honestly.

And how could you blame someone for something if you were just the same as them? The apple didn't fall far from the tree. That had something to do with him. He was a version of his father, fifteen years younger with a little bit more emotion to him. That was all. Sooner or later, he and his father would be the same people.

Unless I make different choices…but when have I ever? We're programmed to act a certain way…and how can I forget…?

A/N: Yeah, so review if you like (or don't like). Or just read. I don't really care. Just don't flame unless you plan to sound snobby and have perfect British grammar, because then it's funny. I can laugh at about anything, however (knee jerk reaction), so it won't really matter anyway.

Just don't act stupid. If one more person says something stupid I'm going to punch the wall. I swear, between reality TV, the news, and people around me looking at me like I'm a circus tiger I'm about to go insane. Get a grip on reality, PLEASE. Please, please, please...

Otherwise, I'll have to drag you downtown with the rest of the useful idiots of the world and show you spots loved by hobos and women of questionable integrity. THEN maybe you will get some sense in your melon.

Don't be a useful idiot. It's a very sad pastime. Trust me.

Anyway... See ya next time if I didn't completely scare you off. I don't handle "people" well. You all freak me out. Even online. Luckily, YOU can't stare at me like a circus tiger about to eat someone. That's why I'm here...