At long last, I update!
It's not like HB is air. They don't need phanfiction to survive...
Beg to differ!
...at least, not all of them.
In other news, I got wicked sunburn today. (cringe) And I am trapped in a camp I hate, and my mother made me attend. But luckily, I won't have to go next year...
Good thing too. No offense to anyone who goes to camp with the Authoress(although they probably don't read phanfiction), but these people are IMBECILES. They didn't know what the term "relieving yourself" meant...
And they treat me like an alien because I like to read! Asshats.
Um, I hate to stop the angstfest, but I believe your reviewers need to be thanked...
Wow, the growling and foaming at the mouth TOTALLY didn't make it obvious.
Shut UP! Now, Catalina Fioght and Company would like to thank:
WanderingTeen
Octopus Knight
Phantomfr33k24601
The Magic Pickle Fairy
psychonerd5
Lisha Lane (The delivery guy is actually a below-averagely-brave person...it's the coffee-deprived Azzie. She could fend off a hungry tiger. No, a PACK of hungry tigers.)
Captain Samantha Lovegood
Oh, and the nameless man in this chapter does not belong to me...the young girl he takes care of does. A stuffed armadillo to anyone who recognizes him! (Clue: The book he belongs to is on my favorites list in my profile)
Chapter Five: Morning-Bound Train
It was three in the morning, and all was still, which was fairly rare in this case. The lights were all turned off, and through the ajar window, curtains flung back, the moon tinted the room blue. The floor was covered in blankets and crumbs, cards and faux pearls, ripped paper and stained pillows. In the midst of the chaos, a small radio played a staticky rendition of "I Write Sins, Not Tragedies". (a/n: I joined in, with a haven't you people ever heard of, closing the goddamn door?) In the loveseat, under an intricately patterned duvet, Carlotta slept, with the tiara entwined in her gingery hair. Sometime between the bath(they had finally got the bathroom cleaned, thank Gawd) and the pre-bedtime "quiet play" (which wasn't all that quiet, come to think of it), her hair had gotten impossibly tangled. In her little hand, she clasped her spoon like a sceptre, a little princess in her throne in the living room. Little Czarina, little dictator. Even asleep, she wore a smug smirk on her three-year-old's face.
At her feet, Rayla lay on a group of blankets, covered by a cotton sheet and a drape, in black shorts and a lavender T-shirt that said "Reality is for people who lack imagination" in darker purple letters. She clutched her Stage!Erik plushie(complete with little black fedora) close to her as she mumbled something about the Angel of Music and recyclables. Rolling onto her stomach, she snored slightly, and then smiled. She was obviously enjoying her dream.
Next to her, a small ghost was scowling at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Sighing agitatedly, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried again. After three seconds, Erik opened his eyes and huffed. Curse you, juvenile insomnia...
But what to do instead of sleep? He had already glared at the sleeping fop nineteen times, stared at the slumbering Christine intently for six whole ten-minute periods, counted the little bumps in the popcorn ceiling(five thousand, three hundred fourty-two), contemplated the meaningless void of existence, and used the little Phantom's room more than he needed to... Erik sat up. There was only one thing to do.
Tenatively he slipped out of the sheets, oh-so-carefully manuevering around the others deep in slumber. He approached the chestnut-haired inventress as one would approach a sleeping lion--actually, a lion would have been less dangerous. Squatting beside her quietly snoring form, he tapped her on the shoulder and whispered fervently:
"Azzie...Azzie...Azzie..."
"Mmmpph," she replied.
"Azzie, wake up..."
"Five more minutes, Mom..."
"AZZIE!" he hissed, jabbing her in the shoulder with a ballpoint pen he had discovered on the floor.
A head slowly turned in Erik's direction, the face livid. Eyes sprung open to reveal murderous forest-green orbs. The masked toddler grew increasingly uneasy as a single word was hissed between gritted teeth:
"What?"
Okay, innocent act. He gave her his best puppy dog eyes and attempted to look as pitiful as possible.
"I can't sleep," he whimpered.
Azzie gave him a venomous glare. "Then I suggest," she growled, "that you do not interrupt those who can." She buried her face in the pillow and a completely theatrical snore could be heard.
There was silence for a moment.
Miazma looked up. "You aren't going to go away, are you?"
Erik shook his head.
She sighed resignedly.
"Fine. I'll stay up with you."
Azzie snagged the radio from the midst of the chaos, which had promised to play Jimmy Rankin's "Morning-Bound Train" after a not-so-quick word from their sponsors. He slipped his little hand into hers and they walked into the kitchen together.
After dragging in a phone book, which, rather curiously, had what looked like a cross between a mongoose and two housewifes with beehives fighting over a can of paint depicted on it in white-out, Erik was seated on top of the phone book on top of the chair. Azzie was at the counter, pouring heated milk into an old Barney sippy-cup. Taking a bottle of water out of the fridge for herself, she then plunked the milk in front of Erik.
"Drink," she barked. "It'll make you sleepy."
"But I don't like milk..." the small Phantom whined.
Azzie's eyes narrowed. "Drink."
Erik gulped, and took the cup of warm milk.
The reluctant babysitter pulled up a chair beside him, and unscrewed her bottle of water. The radio station's commercial break finally ended, and an acoustic guitar began to play softly. The soothing, dusky combination of notes turned into a melody reminescent of early-morning rain. The sky is no longer black, but lightening to blue with the coming of the sun. The grey clouds obscure the moon, and all is still and peaceful, silently, ecstatically enchanted. A weary smile appeared on Miazma's face; this was one of her favorite songs. Taking a gulp of water, she sang along with Jimmy Rankin, in his space in the old radio:
"Over the walls I hear laughter
Under the light of the devil's moon," she warbled. Taking another sip of water, she continued.
"Down the halls somebody's creeping
Singing an old familiar tune..."
Erik sipped his milk and observed his caretaker with an approving eye. For somebody who had just woke up ten minutes ago, lived on coffee, and was fiercely bound to reality, Azzie's voice wasn't half bad.
"Still I wait, without a sound
On this train that's morning-bound
Whoa-oh-ohhhh...
I can't sleep tonight,
I'm climbing the walls to feel the rain."
He was moving his head back and forth to the music now, continuing to drink the milk.
"I go through dark to see daylight...
On this morning-bound train..."
Halfway across town, on the lap of an odd-looking man sitting on a bench with a towel draped across his shoulders, a laptop computer played the same song. The person at the laptop was also distractedly singing along, whilst searching a job listings website. His face was bathed in light from the screen, making his already unusual face--pale, with features that were striking but not particularly handsome, highlighted by acrid green eyes and framed by an auburnish halo of semi-long wavy hair that stuck out in all directions--look even more so. His clothes were wrinkled and of nondescript shades, and he obviously had not been exposed to any kind of hygiene product whatsoever in a long period of time, and yet showed no sign of facial hair. His fingers occasionally brushed the touchpad, and his gaze was fixated on the screen.
Sitting on the same bench, a girl who looked about twelve sat, with her knees tucked up to her chest. She stared at nothing, her wide, bright, electric-blue eyes looking a bit too wide, bright, and electric-blue to be real. Hanging down her back was a sable mane, seperated and formed into perfectly curled ringlets. She wore a stained beige jacket over a mustard-colored T-shirt, tucked into a pleated teal skirt. Under it were red-and-white-striped wool tights, and on her feet were hiking boots. Her head was cocked to one side, as if about to ask a question, or get a different perspective. Really though, she was listening to the man, her guardian, sing along with the Media Player:
"In the jungle,
It's the same thing," he sang, his voice a British-accented tenor that sounded like it sang a lot of country-folk songs in the wee hours of the morning on park benches.
"Feeling the noise rise up like rage
I drift around inside a daydream
Watching the lion face the cage...Do you think I'd make a good chicken breeder's apprentice?" he asked the girl off-handedly, without taking his eyes off the screen.
"Uncle, do you even know anything about caring for Earth poetry?" the girl replied, her voice babyish and breathy.
"That's a requirement?" The man sounded genuinely surprised. Turning his attention back to the music, he sang the chorus:
"I can't sleep tonight,
I'm climbing the walls to feel the rain.
I go through dark to see daylight
On this morning-bound train..." He sighed, frustrated, as it launched into the interlude. "I can't decide, come over here and help me, kid."
The girl obiediently rose to her feet, walked a bit over, then sat down again, almost robotically, then sat primly down next to him. Taking the laptop onto her own lap, he leant against her fragile-looking shoulder like a small child as she sifted through the webpages with the patience of a saint.
"Oooh, silverware polisher looks like it'll get us off the streets..."
"Not in several aeons. You would use the microwave to rig up a distress signal and be dismissed before you laid a hand on the Palmolive."
"How about the want ad for a secretary...no, you missed it. Scroll back up. That one?"
"You'd eat all the hard candy, construct a hat from the foil wrappers, and scare every person out of the building."
"Spoilsport."
"Maybe it's better that I choose," the girl said quickly. "How about paper-cutter?"
"Risk of paper cuts."
She sighed and clicked around. "Commercial fisherman?"
"No way. I'd get hooked."
In the background, a Comical Drumroll with Cymbal Crash was heard.
"The typical burger-flipping, then?"
At this moment, he began shrieking like he'd just been burned. She immediately slid a good six inches away.
"What are you so frightened of?"
"Cholestorol poisoning...or worse...SANITY!"
Azzie hummed along with the instrumental interlude, her chin cradled in her hands. Erik had sent her milk down on the table, and he smiled a sort-of half-smile.
"Very good."
She gave a nod of thanks and took a swig of water.
"You know," he continued, "I thought you hated music..."
The woman nearly dropped her beverage. She looked shocked as she turned to the toddler, quivering a bit.
"What kind of person would I be," she asked quietly, "if I hated music?"
He gave no reply, but simply stared.
Azzie chuckled. "No, I don't hate music...I don't think anyone does. I just don't have time for it lately, what with taking care of the house, Rayla, keeping up my site--"
"Your what?"
"My webgraphics site, Blue Marker Enterprises. I design website layouts for people and they pay me."
"I have no idea what that means, but go on."
"Yes...I have to take care of Rayla, the house, BME, and now you guys. It's a lot of work, and now that Mom and Dad are gone, I'm...I'm on my own." Miazma dragged an arm across her eyes. "Basically it's just me and my baby sister. We are all we have."
"Wow," Erik sympathized.
Azzie nodded. "It's wow, definetely."
The man set down the laptop and sighed. "Break time, kid," he said to the girl, stowing his computer away along with with another laptop-resembling thing, stored in a plastic cover which read "Don't Panic" in large, friendly letters.
The girl was staring up at the sky, her eyes filled with the different constellations. She looked on the verge of tears as she whispered:
"Uncle...? Do you ever miss home?"
The man gazed at his shoes, sighed, and swallowed hard.
"All the time," he replied. His green eyes suddenly lit up with an angry fire, and he ran out onto the empty road, raising his arms Galaxy-ward and glaring up at the sky as if the Universe had screwed him greatly in some way--which, in his opinion, it had. His face contorted with rage as he roared out:
"GET ME OFF THIS BLASTED PLANET!"
After the words had left his mouth, the raven-haired girl glimpsed the headlights of a Mack truck barrelling down the street that seemed intent on doing just that. Rushing out onto the road herself, she managed to shove her guardian out of its path just in time. The man looked stunned, but then burst out laughing as she helped him to his feet. He ended up falling down again, and she helped him once more.
"You're good for something after all, kid," he remarked genially as they headed back to the bench. He opened the laptop again, just as the last verse of "Morning-Bound Train" came:
"Could it be I'm only restless?" he sang along.
"The wild inside cannot be tamed..."
"Could it be," Azzie was warbling, "I'm only lovesick?
This wild inside cannot be named..."
"Still we wait, without a sound..."
"On this train that's morning-bound..."
"Whoa-oh-ohhh..."
And in unison, the two people on opposite sides of the city sang out, two complete strangers of two different worlds(in more ways than one) who would soon be brought together in a mysterious (okay, not really) way:
"I can't sleep tonight,
I'm climbing the walls to feel the rain.
I go through dark to see daylight
On this morning-bound train..."
The man finally alit upon a single ad:
"Caretaker wanted for four children, all aged three. Must have past experience with children, be responsible and trustworthy. Caretaker will be provided with room and board in exchange for work. Contact Miazma at 905-555-6184 for more information or e-mail nudged the girl with his elbow.
"Uncle, you have none of the attributes listed here, and you know absolutely nothing about any kind of child, let alone Earth children..."
"Hey, I have the Guide.."
"The entry on Earth is two words."
"And I have you.."
"I am an adolescent Betelgeusian..."
"Same difference."
"I don't believe so.."
"Oh, be quiet. We get free lodging and food, so I'm putting a resume together."
"Uncle, I deeply feel you are making a large mistake..."
"QUIET. Now how do you spell "prestigious" again?"
And Jimmy Rankin played on:
"On this morning-bound..."
Erik's little head was drooping, and the milk cup was empty. The small form dressed all in black was leaning against Azzie's leg snoring. She stroked the dark head almost fondly, and crooned one last note:
"Ooooooh..."
Ah, so the toddlers have a caretaker now...! Butdon't worry, the mayhem isn't over...in fact, it's just begun. Again. Eheheh...
You know the drill, my loving readers who will TOTALLY review! (right?)
Your humble and obiedient servant,
C.F. & Co.