"I swear to god, face ache, if you screw up my car…"

Sweat slides down the sides of my face as I bend at the front bumper of the vehicle, wrench clutched in trembling hands. I figure, as the evil lord of hell hisses threats at me from several feet away, that if my dad isn't bitter, he must be absolutely stupid.

This morning, the man left me—me, the one who can't take a shower without finding a way to almost drown myself—and Murdoc Niccals—the one who'd rather sell his own soul than do any varying degree of hard labor—with a box of tools, a torn up car, and a little instruction manual with technical terms that seem to rearrange themselves on the page when I look at the small letters.

Does catatonia really take away the ability to read?

Our shabby compromise was for me to do the actual fixing, and for the Satanist to read the instructions out loud to me. It's been exactly sixty-three minutes and we're just starting step number two out of thirty-one.

"No, no, twist it the other way…" Murdoc murmurs irritably at me, not moving as he leans against the counter that holds many other useful little tools—screw drivers, drills, a saw (I'm thinking that maybe I should put that a little further out of the antagonist's reach). "…The other way, dullard! Christ, you're a twit! Righty tighty, lefty loosy, remember that from kindergarten?" His tone is mocking.

I screw up my expression as I twist the bolt into place and then wipe my greasy hands on my washed out jeans. I stand up and start to stretch, but suddenly a bony clawed hand takes a fist-full of my azure hair and pushes me back down onto my knees.

"Oh no, face ache, you've still got another thirteen steps to go before you get a break." I scowl at the Satanist, but he just shrugs. "You're the one who bent it." I glare, eyes lit with fury and clearly saying, It's more imperative to point out that it bent me. "Think of it this way," He says reasonably, crossing his ankles and keeping his lazy eyes on the booklet as he flips through uninterestedly. "How in the world are the two of us gonna pick up chicks in this lousy piece of crud?"

I nearly roll my eyes, but stop myself and—with a tight jaw—return to work. Like I'm going to be attracting any women with an eye like this. For a moment, I think I hear him laugh, but the small and distant sound is suddenly cut off, and I then feel his eyes burning into my back as I work.

I can almost smell the inquisitive waves rolling off the silent man, peering at me in thought.

. . . .

I lie on the concrete garage floor, face absolutely drenched in sweat, bare chest (the sticky tank top was removed hours ago) heaving up and down with the force of my exhaustion. Murdoc too looks a little worse for ware, thin dark green T-shirt sticking to his torso and usually kempt black hair sweat stained and pushed back out of his eyes with a navy blue bandana found on one of the workshop benches.

It's almost strange seeing his forehead along with his eyes, so used to the usual bangs that substitute for irritated, furrowed eyebrows, giving him a permanently evil look. Now however, he just looks terribly in need of a large pack of beer, breathing heavily and trying to wipe the moisture from his face.

Halfway through the steps, he'd had to bend down next to me and help hold down a plate while I screwed the bolt into it, and after that he decided that he'd better make sure that I don't mess the important stuff up, and had started working as hard as me. I've learned that he can survive labor, but may just need hospitalization nonetheless if ever put up to it again.

I watch him from the floor as he finally stumbles from the counter top and yanks me to my feet by the upper arm. "Well, this was definitely worth eight hours and twenty two minutes of work." He mutters, nodding proudly at the Vauxhall Astra. True, it looks almost brand new, excluding the chipped blue paint job that has yet to be fixed, but I still don't know that I can agree with Murdoc.

Eight hours and twenty two minutes is quite a stretch. I think I'd rather go to back to high school for a day than relive this nightmare.

Well, maybe.

"This should be running fine now for tonight." I glance at him in surprise, but he doesn't explain any further, and suddenly shoves me towards the open garage door. "Alright, let's get somethin' to eat. Otherwise I'll probably keel over and die right here."

So we go inside and (after the Satanist chugs about a gallon of tap water, refusing to let me anywhere near the tempting liquid) get into the (almost) brand new Vauxhall Astra and back into the road. As usual, the tires swerve dangerously on the road as I examine my nails while we drive. It appears that one is chipped from the incident when Muds accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—whacked my fingers with his wrench when I reached for the half-drunken beer on the counter.

I let out one of those toneless sighs that I've managed being catatonic—one where the air only comes out my nose—and turn to glare at the bass-playing bastard. He glances at my chipped nail, then my displeased expression, and snorts. "Don't be such a chick." He chuckles, accelerating on the nearly empty road.

. . . .

By the time we reach Murdoc's small, shabby living quarters, I'm surprised to see that Rachel, Lewis, and Aaron are already there in the driveway, leaning against their car. Were they waiting all this time? A little confused, I stumble out of the car onto the pavement as Muds is already greeting them.

"Hey, guys," He says, but the words are said in a monotone, somehow ominously, and his face is serious. They nod back at him, expressions all equally dark and mysterious, and I'm of course now suspicious of what's going on. Raising a quizzical brow, I approach the group of four, premeditated irritation brewing in my stomach.

"Why is he here?" Rachel asks my caretaker, gesturing to me in annoyance. At her unusually harsh words, my body does that annoying thing where it seems to cave in on itself all on its own. Muds shrugs.

"Why not?"

"What the hell are you playing at, Murdoc? Don't get a teenage boy involved in this! You promised that Stu would be with his family!"

I watch the two arguing, feeling both curious and offended at the same time. A teenage boy? Hardly. Nineteen isn't that young…at least, not when being grouped with them. I'm not that much younger than any of the people here…Except maybe Aaron.

"We're not taking him!" Rachel yells at my caretaker, dark eyes flashing with fury.

"Why not?" Murdoc repeats in disinterest, leaning against the hood of the vehicle and examining his long nails, much the same way as I did in the car.

"Because it's not safe! Besides, he shouldn't get mixed up in this anyway."

"It's not like I can just leave 'im at his house. His mum's at her job and so is 'is dad." I snort, now feeling the offence, and the sarcasm. Offence now, because they're discussing what to do with me like I'm some five year old, and sarcasm because I know that this is just an excuse. Like Murdoc cares if I'm left home alone or not—just as long as I'm not left alone in HIS home.

"Listen," He says, cutting her off as she looks like she's about to argue again, "I know that it doesn't really 'ave anything to do with 'im, but I figure that this is good for 'im. Ya know, it's good to experience this kind of thing when you're young."

"That is so completely wrong, I can't even—"

"Don't worry 'bout it. He's stayin' in the car anyway."

"I won't allow it."

"Why not ask if he wants to go?" Lewis muses, gazing at me with a sneaky smile.

"Sure!" Rachel says mockingly, and turns to me, seemingly very confident. "Stu," She says, "Do you want to be labeled as a criminal for the rest of your life and never get a job and never get a girlfriend, and never get married?" I stare at her for a long time, waiting for her to explain, but she doesn't.

"What she means, mate," Aaron says, grinning at me, "is do you want to break into someone's house with us?"

I watch all of them, waiting for the punch line. But it doesn't come.

Slowly, my jaw drops open. So they ARE criminals? Maybe I could understand the store thing, even if it was a horrible plan that almost got me killed, but this? Breaking into somebody's home? "Ugh, you look so sappily disappointed!" Murdoc groans irritably, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "It's not like were just robbing anybody. We're robbing Chester Finch."

"The lousy git's got more cash than 'is tiny brain can handle, anyway. He ought'ta share." Lewis says with a wicked grin. Again, I just stare, and Rachel smiles proudly.

"See?" She says, turning to Muds. "He doesn't want in on your little criminal games." But as the three men grumble to themselves and turn towards the car, I stumble forward and catch the elbow of Murdoc's recently equipped black leather jacket, and he looks back over his shoulder at me.

I meet his eyes with depthless, wide irises, one hazel and twinkling, the other black and becoming an innocent reminder of what he did to my face (just because I can) and a small hint of determination in my gaze that answers, Yes.

He grins and even hangs his arm over my shoulder as he pulls open the passenger door and pushes me inside. "Face ache's on board!" He says, and then slams my door shut before walking around to the other side. Lewis and Aaron whoop and clap me on the back from the rear seat, but Rachel growls and glares at my caretaker as he puts the key in the ignition and turns it sideways.

"Don't be such a buzz kill, Chel." He smiles back at her, yellow pointy teeth glistening in the small light offered by the setting sun. As we back into the road, my face is flushed and my eyes are wide.

I don't know why I'm doing this. I really don't. Perhaps it's because I've never experienced anything so wild sounding, or maybe because I think that they once again have good enough reason—starting a band is obviously something that my caretaker really wants—but then, maybe it's also because, as they all turned towards the vehicle without me, I'd felt a strange sense of longing and regret, as though I have nothing to lose anyway.

And really, I don't.

I have no goals, so a criminal record isn't going to damage anything important, I have no other life now outside of my comatose state and these four people right here, so there's nobody to disappoint (besides my parents, but they get disappointed in me all the time), and anyway, it's not like I'm clouding a perfect record. I wasn't exactly the angel of holiness in high school, or junior high, or grade school for that matter. Specifically, I've never robbed a house, but I've robbed warehouses and stores, so this really isn't that much different.

Lewis and Aaron are laughing like maniacs in the back seat, Rachel has a distinctly distraught expression on her face, and Muds has something akin to excitement twinkling in his mismatched eyes.

"Just do what I tell ya to do, and it'll all go smoothly, face ache." He murmurs to me, the others not paying attention.

I nod vigorously and, in spite of myself, a large grin creeps over my lips. This is exciting, I realize. This is new. This is fun.

This is exhilarating.

Hey guys! Sorry for taking so long to update. This chapter is kind of blah, but I did want to get this to you guys quickly since I've been putting it off for so long. I may be able to get two more chapters of catatonic 2D out of this, but I'd like to move along with 2D's singing abilities pretty soon since he obviously can't sing if his voice is gone. Thanks for reading, and please review,

-TTDW