Flashback – Part Three

Church

Church had no clue what he was doing. He had no clue where they were going. He'd never say it out loud, because he didn't want to frighten Eddie, but he had no plan except to keep running. That's all they'd been doing for the past couple of weeks. Jumping on trains, buses, whatever... just trying to get away from what they'd left behind. They'd crossed states, and still they didn't stop except at night, because a nineteen-year-old carrying around a six-year-old at nighttime would just raise questions... But during the day, they just kept running.

But Church knew they couldn't run forever. Eddie was too exhausted and Church wasn't doing well himself. So now Church walked the streets, looking for somewhere cheap to stay. He was carrying Eddie, who was sleeping and dribbling on his shoulder. He was heavy. Church shifted Eddie's weight to his other arm, though both arms ached at this point.

Church had known they couldn't run forever, but what were they going to do? If they hadn't discovered Church's father yet, it would only be a matter of time. And then what was going to happen?

Can't wander around like this... can't wander around as Leonard and Eddie Church. Church isn't that common a last name. Need new names. Need a new ID and shit. Where the fuck do you get that kind of thing?

Maybe someone in the shadier areas of the city would know. Sure, I got no idea where I am, but... might as well have a look.

I can't take Eddie there, though. That'd be fucking stupid. Gotta find somewhere to stay.

After making Eddie hide while Church paid for a motel room with money he had stolen a few days ago, and then sneaking Eddie in so that the woman renting out rooms wouldn't ask why he was carrying around a six-year-old, Church explained what he was going to do.

Eddie didn't like it.

"You're leaving me here?"

"Just for a few hours!" Church sighed and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. He didn't like that terrified expression on Eddie's face. "It'll be fine. This is a safe part of the city, gangsters aren't going to kick down the door or anything."

"I'm scared."

"Don't be. We'll be fine. I just need to check some things in a scarier place, you'll be much safer here."

"But... But you are going somewhere scary. That's why I'm scared. What if you don't come back?" Eddie asked, his voice shaking.

"I'm not abandoning you. Alright?" Church hugged Eddie tightly. "And there's no fucking-ah, sorry... no way that I'm letting anyone stop me from getting back here. I don't want to leave you here, believe me. I just got no choice. You can be a big boy about this, right?"

Eddie nodded. "Okay... I will stay in the room and be a big boy."

"Good." Church ruffled his hair. "I think there's some food in my bag, just eat that if you get hungry. And then get some rest. I'm pretty sure you need some sleep."

I know I could use a fucking nap... but there's no time.


Church may have been robbing houses for six years, but until two weeks ago he'd never done anything criminal beyond that. Hell, he'd never even done minor things like underage drinking. When would he have the time to do crap like that? He'd been the only thing holding his home together, and even then it was like the home was being held together with really shitty glue. So it wasn't like he really had any time to do anything beyond stealing what they needed to get by.

So even though nothing too eventful had happened during that first stroll through the more suspicious areas of the city, Church had been scared shitless the entire time. It had been noisy and smelly and he was pretty sure he heard gunshots a couple of times. At one point he had to run because he offended a group of gang members that he'd assumed would know where to find a fake ID, since they all looked much younger than twenty-one and smelt like a mixture between strong alcohol and fuel.

It had, incidentally, been a bar that Church had finally found some information. It had been a hangout for cons, and the bartender, a man called C.T, had known where to find someone who could sort it out for Church. That information alone had cost Church every cent he had. So when Church finally reached the apartment of the man who the bartender had recommended – at three in the morning no less – the man, named Jimmy, had been less than pleased.

"You wake me up at three in the morning, claiming that you need fake identification, records, the whole shebang, for both you and a kid brother... and you don't even have ten cents to your name," Jimmy said slowly.

"I can pay you back later."

"No can do, buddy. You pay upfront or you don't get anything." Jimmy attempted to close the door on Church, but Church jammed his foot in to stop him. He then discovered that it hurt a lot more than it looked.

After two solid minutes of hopping around and swearing, Jimmy ended up letting him into the apartment while Church regained use of his foot. Mostly because Church had woken up half the apartment building with his torrent of creative language and had attracted a lot of unwelcome attention doing so.

"I'll pay you back, man. But I really need this stuff. Like, now. I can't wait a couple of months. We don't have that kind of time!"

"You could be planning to run off without paying. Or you could be planning to hand the evidence over to the cops. A lotta cops in this area already know and just let it slide because we're a good lead on the real nasty cases, but not all of them." Jimmy sat down opposite from Church, squinting at Church through sleep-deprived eyes. "Sorry, but no money, no deal."

"There's gotta be something I can do. Just... I don't care what. Anything, I don't fucking care," Church said desperately. "If it was just me I'd wait it out, but..."

"I hear you." Jimmy scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well... You got any criminal experience? I assume you must, since you've come here."

"Just breaking into houses."

"Hm. Greenhorn. Right. But... if you needed money that bad, I bet I could find a quick job for you. The employer would just pass the money straight to us. It'd probably be done within a few hours."

Church crossed his arms. "What kind of work?"

"Since you're already experienced at B&E, probably that. Sure there's something, hold on. Lemme get Mickey, he'll be able to contact someone who knows most of the jobs going around..."

"I can't do it during the day. I gotta keep a watch on Eddie. I don't want to have to explain why there's a six-year-old in the motel room."

"You could leave him with Sigma. He lives upstairs. He's our go-to guy for all the ID photos and forgery stuff, anyway, so you'll need to visit him anyway. He can even dye your kid's hair and everything so that he won't be instantly recognizable."

"You're suggesting I leave my brother with a complete stranger?"

"Sigma's trustworthy. ...Well, by criminal standards. He doesn't do bad stuff pointlessly. He's not going to kidnap him or hurt him. There's no reason to, you haven't pissed off anyone nor do you have anything we want. Already know you have no money. Besides, we're criminals, sure... but we're not that sick."

"What if you're gonna rat us out to the cops?"

"That'd involve explaining why you ended up here. Look, you want work or not? And do you want to risk leaving Eddie alone in a motel? Because I ain't seen a nice motel in this city yet, even on the good side of town. Cockroaches everywhere."

Church sighed, scratching his head. "Guess not. Already afraid of room service wandering in or some shit."


Roughly nineteen hours after his first meeting with Jimmy, Church had a job.

The first part was easy. Find the house. Only difficult because Mickey had written down the address and he had terrible handwriting. Apparently, Jimmy and Mickey did own a printer, but it'd been lost under the piles of paper and other garbage they had lying around.

Getting into the window was hard. Most of the windows were higher up than what he was accustomed to. It was a nice, spacious house. Whoever owned it had some fancy job. Might have been a doctor or something, hospitals were definitely involved.

Church had tried to get in through the tiny little windows that led into what was presumably the basement, but they seemed to have been sealed from the inside. In the end, he had to sneak away to a nearby house and borrow a ladder. Awkward.

Church winced as the ladder made a clanking sound while being propped up against the wall of the house. He hoped that hadn't woken the owner up. Jimmy said there was about fifty percent chance of him being out of the house. Church hoped he wasn't there, but his luck hadn't been great lately.

Church crept through the house, freezing every time there was a creak from the floorboards. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at the study. Much like the room Jimmy and Mickey ran their business in, it was covered with files. But it was much neater, with medical books stacked neatly here and there, and a row of file cabinets at the back. As Church edged in, he thought he heard a small clunk, but when he stopped to listen (prepared to run for it) he didn't hear anything else.

The note had told him to look in the bottom drawer of the third cabinet to the left. Church opened it, but all he found at first was a few medical books and a book on the keeping of parrots. Frustrated, Church felt around the bottom just in case he was missing something and found that the bottom was removable. Underneath was a small package wrapped in white paper.

Church didn't have a clue what was in the package. But it was in the right drawer and hidden in a way so that it was clear the owner didn't want it found. It had to be the right item.

Church shoved the package into his bag and sidled out of the room... only to hear a click behind him and feel a cold, metal barrel pressed to the back of his head.

"Gotcha," said the man standing behind him.

"Shit," Church muttered.

"Shit, indeed. You little thieves are just getting boring. I was expecting someone who wouldn't make such an amateur mistake, at least. You didn't even give a cursory glance before coming out of that room. Disappointing." Despite the mildly melodramatic sigh that followed this, the man sounded giddy with excitement. "Who sent an amateur like you here? Another poor man in need of a few dollars, hired through Delta's little grapevines?"

Who the hell is Delta and what kind of name is that? Church wondered, before pushing the thoughts away. This wasn't the time. Church didn't say anything, he just stayed perfectly still. The man behind him let out a very short laugh.

"You're a quiet one. The others started panicking immediately. Interesting."

Probably would make sense if I was. ...Guess having a gun pointed at me isn't as scary as stabbing Dad to death.

"Stay still, unless you want a hole in your head. I'm sure you don't want that. So... what are you going to do? You could scream for help, you could try to fight, you could just have a lie down... I'm open to suggestions."

Goddammit. Why didn't they tell me I was breaking into the house of a crazy guy? I'm really going to kill Jimmy if—when—I get back.

Church's eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. He looked at the window he'd climbed through... and realise it had been locked. That explained the small clunk sound.

"Are you going to choose a suggestion? Or should I just hit you over the head and tie you up? ...Are you going to ignore me? So rude. That decides the matter, then."

Church felt the metal barrel of the gun lift from his head for a moment, before the man brought it down on his head.

When Church came to, his hands were tied behind his back. The ropes dug into his wrists, and it hurt like hell. He heard some humming behind him, but then it was interrupted by grumbling.

"Curses. Ran out of rope. Where'd I leave the rest of it? Did I... right, with the last one..." There was a momentary pause, then the man prodded Church with his foot. Church didn't move, mostly because he was very dizzy. "Hm."

Church heard the man's footsteps walk away from him, and a door slam. Church blinked a few times to try and get rid of the dizziness.

Gotta get out... gotta get back...

Church rolled over to see if the man was gone. He was.

Can't believe he left me here, even if he thought I was unconscious. Being caught by a crazy guy has advantages, I guess...

Church rocked back and forth a little, trying to get enough momentum to sit up. Eventually, he managed it. His feet hadn't been tied. That was probably what the man needed more rope for. Who knew. Church didn't plan to hang around and find out.

Church struggled to his feet, his arms still tightly bound behind his back. That was going to make things difficult. Especially since he was losing feeling in his hands.

Church glanced around. The doors were probably locked as well. The window was his best chance. Maybe he could break the glass with something. Church spotted his bag. It was lying on a table nearby. Church turned around and grabbed it with his slightly numb hands. He wasn't leaving it behind, not after all the shit he went through to get the stuff inside. Unless it was a choice between keeping the bag and staying alive. Then Church was going to choose staying alive.

Church bumped his shoulder against the glass and resisted the urge to swear. This was going to hurt. He needed something to toss through the window so he didn't kill himself on the glass. Church moved towards a nearby lamp...

"Ah, that's not what I wanted you to do," Church heard the man say from the doorway. Church looked up. The gun was aimed at him again. He could actually see the man this time. A red-haired man in his late twenties. Apart from the crazy smile, he looked almost normal.

Hm. I was expecting some old guy with an evil mustache or something.

"Get away from the window, uh... I never caught your name," the man mused.

"Fuck off, ginger."

"Oh, that's harsh. Harsh. I'm hurt. Truly." The man gestured at the window with his gun. "Step away."

Church stared at the barrel of the gun, then his gaze darted to the window.

This is gonna fucking hurt.

Church took a couple of steps away from the window... then abruptly charged back and hurled himself right through the glass. He felt a searing pain through his right leg, and his brain flipped out. Oh god, oh god, oh god, I've been shot, oh god! Then Church hit the ground hard, which hurt even more because he'd landed on broken glass.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Church groaned. He was alive, though. That was something.

"Why do they always jump through the window?" Church heard the man complain. He tried to struggle to his feet, expecting his right leg to stop him, before realising that he hadn't actually been shot. There'd been no noise. He'd just scraped his leg against the edge of the glass. On top of that, he was somehow still holding the bag.

Guess Lady Luck hadn't completely kicked him in the balls.

Church hobbled a few steps before breaking out into a strange, jerky run. He kept looking back, seeing whether the man was following him. Church knew perfectly well that if it came to a proper chase, Church wouldn't win. But every time Church looked back, he didn't see anyone.

After Church had made it a few blocks away, he stopped and snuck into another person's shed, looking for something sharp to get the rope off. After a few minutes of rubbing the rope on some kind of electric saw, Church freed his hands and returned to running, even though his leg just burned more by the minute.

I gotta get back... Gotta get back before something else bad happens.


Church spent ten minutes straight yelling at Jimmy. After those ten minutes, Jimmy was mildly apologetic.

"I said I was sorry, alright? I didn't realise he was that, you know..." Jimmy traced circles around his ear with his index finger. "I haven't sent anyone else there, though like you said... it was something Delta sent me."

"Who the fuck is Delta?"

"A guy."

"Oh, that's specific." Church was holding a bunch of paper towels to his bleeding leg, hissing angrily every time he moved. God, that stung like a bitch. He was never jumping out of a closed window again. He wrapped a bandage around it once most of the blood had been wiped off, although the job was rather haphazard.

Jimmy was fiddling with the package that Church had stolen. He unwrapped it and took a peek inside. Church couldn't see much, only getting a glimpse of what looked like prescription medicine. Jimmy nodded and closed the package up again.

"Well, you grabbed the right thing. So you got the job done. We'll have your ID and other papers finished by tomorrow. Just lay low until then, alright?" Jimmy held the package out to him. "Will you take this up to Sigma, since you're picking up your kid anyway? He'll also need to take photos for your ID."

"Right, whatever," Church grumbled, snatching the package and heading out of the apartment.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door to Sigma's apartment. It only took a moment for the door to open an inch, although it was still locked with a chain from the inside. Sigma peered out at him, his eyes darting around and checking the surroundings.

"You weren't followed?" he asked quietly.

"Pretty sure I wasn't, or else that nutjob would have tried to tie me up again," Church said. "Let me in already."

Sigma unlocked the door. "I should apologise, but it pays to be safe. Make yourself at home."

"Yeah, not much of a chance. Where's Ed—Jesus Christ, my eyes."

Church hadn't actually stepped into Sigma's apartment before he left Eddie there, and thus hadn't seen that it was painted in the most eye-wateringly bright shade of orange he could imagine. Sigma had then painted over that with various murals in all the colours of the rainbow, and every piece of furniture was covered in homemade tablecloth and blankets. It looked like what would happen if Van Gogh and a crazy old lady who kept cats had bought an apartment together. Church felt like if he didn't squint his eyes would start bleeding.

"Seriously, what the hell," Church muttered.

"Blank wallpaper and surfaces have no use and I like to exercise my talents," Sigma said. "Complain if you must. But Eddie doesn't seem to have a problem with it." He pointed at the further end of the room. Eddie was sitting on the floor, fingerpainting on a spare bit of wall with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm. Paint coated his hands all the way up to the elbows and he was wearing a tie-dye bandana on his head.

Church tilted his head and watched Eddie paint what looked like... well, a blob with other blobs around it.

"I think he has talent," Sigma said, smiling a little as he tried to wipe paint off his own hands. At a direct contrast with his apartment, Sigma had a very tidy appearance. Bald and dressed in plain, black pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The only part that was unusual were the eyes, which were an odd orange shade.

"Uh, great. I guess?" What good was learning how to throw paint at walls? Church stepped across the room, dodging a coffee table with a patchwork blanket on it, and headed towards Eddie. Eddie heard him approach and turned around. Upon seeing Church, he immediately beamed happily and ran towards him.

"Leo! Leo! Me and Sigma made lots of paintings. I painted a cow and a bird and a monkey and a dog and—"

"Er, that's nice, Eddie." Church looked at the various blobs as Eddie pointed at them, then back at Eddie, who was jumping around and clinging to Church's shirt, getting multi-coloured hand prints all over Church's shirt in the process.

He looked happier than he'd been in months. Maybe there was some good in throwing paint at the walls.

Sigma finished wiping paint off his hands, although there were still little bits of blue and red that hadn't come off, before wandering into the bathroom and opening a cupboard. He stared into the cupboard for a few moments, hands tucked neatly behind his back, before he said, "So, Leonard... do you have any favourite colours?"

"What? Uh... blue, I guess."

"Which blue? Cobalt? Teal?"

"What the hell does it matter?"

"I need to dye your hair before we take the ID photo."

"I'm not dying my hair blue!"

"Are you sure?" Sigma questioned, holding up a bottle. "Your brother liked it. Well, he couldn't choose between blue, pink and purple."

Church raised an eyebrow, before looking down at Eddie and removing the tie-dye bandana from his head. He immediately choked. "Buh... wha... what the fuck?! What the fuck did you do to Eddie's hair?"

"He couldn't decide, so I dyed it three colours. I thought it was a good compromise."

"No! No, no, no..."

"I like it," Eddie said happily, jumping up and down so that his pink, blue and purple hair shook cheerfully.

"Guhhh." Church covered his face with one hand. "How is that supposed to make him look inconspicuous?"

"Didn't say it would. The aim is not to be recognisable." Sigma raised an eyebrow. "Were you looking at his face just then?"

"...No?"

"Precisely. So, cobalt hair?"

Church let out another annoyed grunt. "God. No. No, just... normal hair colours, dammit!"

Sigma gazed back into the bathroom cupboard before picking up another bottle. "Blond?"

"Okay, a normal colour that isn't blond. I don't want to look like a Californian surfer."


O'Malley stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the apartment block that Jimmy lived in. He'd followed the man who had robbed his house, staying just out of sight. After all, why just stab one man in the back when he could do so much more? O'Malley would have shot him, but the gun he'd been waving around had actually been empty. He needed more bullets. O'Malley preferred knives, anyway.

Now O'Malley knew where the thief had gotten the job from. Jimmy was going to regret that.

O'Malley heard a faint yell of 'what the fuck did you do to Eddie's hair?' O'Malley recognised the thief's voice. O'Malley smiled wider before turning around and making his way back to his home.

No-one stole from O'Malley without ramifications.


Simmons

Simmons had always taken a long time to make up his mind. Just deciding on his cereal took about ten minutes.

It had taken him about three seconds to decide that he wanted to strangle Grif.

He was always smoking and hammering on Simmons' door to ask why there was only two-minute noodles in the cupboard and bitching about having to walk twenty floors to get saucepans from the car even though they were only on the second floor...

Not that Sister was much better. Especially with her habit of going through the medicine cabinet for old prescription pills. But at least she remembered to put pants on before wandering around the apartment, unlike Grif. Nearly gave Simmons a heart attack. Seriously, he didn't need to see that.

There was also the fact that both siblings had a habit of barging into Simmons' room without knocking. And Simmons didn't like people doing that, especially when he was working. And he nearly always was.

For the fifth time that day, Simmons hurriedly switched off the computer screen as Grif pushed the door open.

"Hey, you ever gonna actually leave this room? How can you stay in here all day? Smells like old noodles." Grif strolled in, peering at the computer screen. "You always turn that off when I come in here... why? Looking up porn? Because I ain't gonna judge you for that. Unless it's, you know, creepy porn. Like horses or something."

"What? No! I just... Go away."

"Oh, come on. I've been here three days and you've hardly left the room. Come on, let's go get some fast food or something. I haven't eaten anything but noodles in the last three days."

"Fine. Go."

"I meant for you to come with."

"No. I'm working."

"Aw, don't be such a nerd. It'll be here when you get back."

"I don't wa—hey!"

Grif had grabbed the back of his chair and started trying to pull Simmons out.

"Come on, it's been ages since I hung around with anyone but Sister. And since you haven't left your room in three days and you seem to live on noodles... doesn't really look like you have a great social life, either."

"I like it that way! Let go of my chair, you cockbite!"

"I'll leave you alone for a week!"

Simmons considered this for a few moments. "Deal. Just give me ten minutes to wrap up my work."

"Alright, but if you're not out here in ten I take back the 'alone-for-a-week' deal."

Simmons waited for Grif to leave before switching his computer screen back on and returning to work.

Next time, I need to pick roommates that are at least as unsocial as I am...


"Dude. How can you not eat steak? Steak is amazing. Burgers are amazing. Chicken is amazing. What are you, nuts?" Grif took a bite of his steak sandwich. "Seriously. Much better," he mumbled through his mouthful of bread and meat.

"Vegan," Simmons muttered, poking at his pancakes. Pancakes were good at any hour of the day, but after a long time of practically living off noodles, Simmons wasn't sure if his stomach could process something as solid as pancakes anymore. "And don't talk with your mouth full. It's gross."

"Yeah, whatever." Grif propped his chin on his hands, staring at Simmons. After a few minutes of silence, Grif said, "You still mad at me? Is this because of the ride over?"

"You drive like a crazy person!"

"Yeeeah... that's what Sister says. She says that the main good thing about not living in a car anymore is that I can't 'crash our house.'" Grif swallowed another huge mouthful of steak sandwich. Simmons was both amazed and disgusted at how much Grif could fit in his mouth. Mostly disgusted. "Oh man. Needed that."

Simmons grunted, cutting the pancakes into small, methodological slices.

"You eat like a prissy old lady," Grif observed.

"Fuck you."

"You're not big on cooking, are you?"

"I have no clue how. Dad said cooking was for women and when I moved out I didn't have time to learn."

"Yeah. And living off noodles is manly?"

"I... shut up. Maybe I didn't agree 100%. Did you always agree with your dad?"

"Well, I didn't always agree with Mum... and she did have a beard so she's sorta close to having a dad..."

"...Your mother had a beard?"

"Uh. No? Crap... that slipped out." Grif went bright red. "Forget I said anything."

Simmons grinned at him. "How can I forget that? Seriously? Your mother was a bearded lady?"

"Well... yeah. She kind of... joined the circus when I was thirteen."

"How can you 'kind of' join the circus?"

"Shut up."

Simmons chuckled. "Heh. Almost makes my family seem normal."

"Dude, any family is normal compared to having a missing dad and a circus freak as a mother."

"Exactly."

"What was yours like, then? If a family being weirder is such a big thing?" Grif grumbled, picking up some of his fries and dipping them in his thickshake. Simmons wrinkled his nose at Grif's eating habits.

"Uh... hard to explain."

"Oh, bullshit."

"Well, basically... they were so 'normal' that they... weren't normal? You ever seen those old-time advertisements which always had the perfect family on them? Like that."

There was a few moments of silence. Then Grif said, "Ergh, creepy."

"I know. Figured they were all robots and I was left on their doorstep or something."

"And yet you have a shelf full of books about robots."

"Yeah. Kinda weird, I guess."

Grif shrugged. "Okay, so we both have weird-ass families. Mine is still freakier, so in your face."

"Great. So this is a contest now?"

"Yeah. Winner gets the others' last pancake."

"You didn't get pancakes, that isn't fair... Besides, you so obviously win. I mean, my family is weird precisely because they're so 'normal.'"

"Exactly. Hand over your fries."

"I never agreed to that!"


"Oh thank god, steady land!" Simmons gasped, pushing the car door open and stumbling out. "Jesus, I thought you were gonna park up a tree or something."

"You're just making a big deal out of nothing. 'Grif, stop speeding. Grif, you drove through a red light. Grif, stop trying to drive on two wheels.' Man, you bitch something awful," Grif complained. "Jeez, I didn't get us killed. We're fine."

"Great. Great. I'm living with a crazy person. Great. I'm just gonna go barricade my door so you can't get in anymore."

Simmons heard Grif's footsteps behind him. "Or you could just get a lock on the door, y'know? Then you wouldn't have to carry wood up all twenty-something floors."

"For the last time, we're on the second fucking floor! There's probably only twenty or thirty steps!"

"That's still a lot of steps..."

"Hold that thought, I still have motion sickness..." Simmons held out his hand, trying to stop the world from moving. "Jeez, I think I'm gonna throw up..."


"Hey, Grif. Hey, bathrobe guy," Sister greeted them cheerily a couple of hours later, wandering in through the door holding a bag of what seemed to be several bottles of strange-coloured alcohol. "What'd you do today?"

"Simmons is a wuss," Grif muttered.

"Grif's insane," Simmons insisted.

"He can't hold his food after just a tiny five-minute car ride. I had to hold back his hair while he vomited!"

"Not my fault! Grif drives insanely, it's like being on a roller coaster that's just gone off the rails!"

Sister looked at the both of them. "So, it was a good day?"

Simmons groaned. "You're all insane."

"And yet you're sitting out here watching television instead of locking yourself in your room," Grif pointed out.

"Yeah, well... shut up."

Simmons had to admit, although the life-threatening car rides and subsequent loss of lunch had been horrible, the actual lunch hadn't been that bad. Maybe it was just because it had been practically the only long unnecessary conversation Simmons had had with, well, anyone for the last four years.

"Sis! Did you spend all our money on alcohol again?"

"No! This stuff was, like, half off! And, like, a third of it is actually paint thinner!"

Maybe Simmons could get used to having insane people as roommates. Although next time he was going to walk. He was not getting in that deathtrap that Grif called a car again.


"Bill... bill... junk mail..." Simmons muttered, tossing various letters on the table. Just regular everyday stuff... until he came across an envelope that had nothing but Simmons' name and address typed on it. That was a little odd.

Simmons tore the letter open carefully as Grif stumbled in, looking throughly hungover. "Oh man... Hey, did you see me drink any of Sister's paint thinner? Feels like I did."

"Nah, don't think so..."

Simmons unfolded the letter. There wasn't much on it, just a few typed sentences.

'To Richard Simmons, also known as 2.0,

'Please do not send or copy onto disc any programs intended to affect our computer systems negatively. It is most unwelcome and would require us to take action against you. This action would possibly involve violence. Since you were commissioned to do so, we will not take action this time. But as the arrival of this letter indicates, we do know it was you, where you live, etc.

'Do not do it again.'

Printed at the bottom was some kind of Greek letter. Simmons frowned a little at the symbol. He knew that sign. There was only one hacker alias he knew of which involved a Greek letter.

"Something up, Simmons?"

Simmons shook his head, crumpling up the letter. "Nothing at all."

Note to self. Don't do any work that affects that Delta guy from now on. Regardless of how well it pays.


Tucker

When Tucker entered C.T's bar, there were fewer people than at night. Most of them were probably out pulling their stunts. There were a few people around, although the only ones Tucker recognised was C.T and Smith, who were talking at the bar. Not that Tucker could understand them, as they were conversing entirely in blargs and honks. When C.T spotted Tucker, he waved him over.

"Tucker, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"How have the hustles been?"

Tucker shrugged. "I guess it could be worse. Learned some tricks off that Gary guy. Although he's pretty weird. If I hear one more knock-knock joke I'm gonna shoot myself in the head just to make it stop."

C.T smiled slightly. "Join the club. The jokes get old really fast. But what you learn off Gary is worth it, when you're not sitting through that 'orange you glad I didn't say banana' joke for the hundredth time. So... things are okay but not great, is that right?"

"Yeah. I've been paying someone to let me sleep in their laundry room. Which is crap. You ever woken up after five hours next to a washing machine? Hurts like a bitch. But I can't afford to pay the rent on an apartment yet."

"I can help with that."

"Is this another 'pay me for the information' thing?"

"No. I happen to need help with a particularly rewarding con. I'm not going to lie... this is going to be one con that is a few shades of awkward, especially for a newbie con. Uh, first off... you're sixteen, right?"

"Yes?"

"Good, then this won't be breaking any laws about the age of consent. Sit down."

"Wait, wait, wait. Age of... you better not be pimping me out. I don't—"

"Calm down. Let me explain. Appletini without the tini?"

"Sure."

"In answer to your question, well... You have, among all the cons who frequent this place, the unique ability to pass for both a twelve-year-old boy and, I assume in the right clothes, a twenty-something-year-old woman. It's the young face and girl-butt."

"Girl-butt?" Tucker said indignantly.

"Don't take offence."

"Dude, you just said I had a girl-butt, why wouldn't I be offended." Tucker paused. "Hang on... why is looking like both a woman and a twelve-year-old dude so important for this?"

"Well, technically we could do this job with either a woman or an older guy dressed as a woman... But it wouldn't net as much cash. Plus, there aren't any female cons around here..." Smith snorted and C.T glared at him for a moment before continuing. "None that are available to do this particular piece of work, anyway. And there's no other guys that have the ability to pass off for a girl. Or any cons that look like little kids."

"And this is important because...?"

"Badger game."

"Badger what?"

C.T sighed and rolled his eyes. "You say you've been conning since you were a kid and you've never heard of a badger game?"

Tucker shook his head. "I don't know the names of cons, man. I just do them."

"Basically, a badger game involves finding a mark, maneuvering him into a compromising position, taking photos or video and blackmailing him with them. Easy."

"And do you mean what I think you mean by 'compromising positions?'"

"Most likely."

"No way. I'm not doing it."

"Really? It'll pay a lot. You'd get forty percent of the cut, being the main ingredient in the scam as it were. The target is very wealthy. And I really mean that. Seriously loaded. Runs a chain of hotels, Smith tells me. And likes blindfolds. Blindfolds! It's like he's asking to be the mark."

"No." Tucker shook his head. "No. I ain't touching some old guy in his happy place just to get a few extra dollars. I ain't my mum, dude."

"Oh, it's easy. You just have to close your eyes and think of an old girlfriend or something."

"But I've... uhm... never had a... um..." Tucker turned bright red and shook his head. "Never mind. I'm still not doing it."

"You sure? I mean..." C.T tapped his fingers against the counter. "Look, I won't force you into it. But conning isn't all fun and games. Sometimes it involves doing weird things. If you don't go along with it, we'll just find someone else to do it. But getting a compromising photo that only implies adultery doesn't net as much money as a photo that implies adultery, homosexual acts and pedophilia." C.T grinned. "And if you do this, some of the other cons will know for sure that you aren't someone who will be likely to flake out in the middle of a con. That's the main problem with newbie cons, they flake out quickly. Maybe the other cons will let you help out more often with the big scams."

Tucker glared into the depths of his glass of apple juice. "Urgh... I don't want to."

"Could be worse. Once I tried posing as a member of these guys who ran a drug racket. Had to shoot a rival drug trafficker to stop myself from blowing cover. At least you're not shooting people in the face."

"Yikes. That's not a normal con, is it?"

"Nah. Most cons are physically harmless for the victims. But occasionally things go very wrong. Besides, I wasn't a con artist back then." C.T shrugged. "Anyway. The matter at hand. Forty percent."

"Screw you, I'm the main part of this con. I want sixty."

"Forty."

"Fifty-five."

"Forty."

"Fifty, then. Take it or leave it, C.T."

C.T tapped his fingers against the counter. "Forty-five. You take it or leave. That'll still earn you money in the thousands, easy. As an added bonus, when you apply for an apartment you can write that you work here. If you're unemployed and have that much money, it might look a little suspicious."

Tucker shuddered. "God. This is gonna suck. ...So, it's just a bit of groping, yeah?"

"Most likely. He can't really do much to you without realising you're male, so it wouldn't go far."


Maybe it was because he'd grown up with a prostitute for a mother, and his mother had informed Tucker of much more than he'd wanted to know in regards to the profession, but Tucker did not have any interest in sex. He really didn't understand why it was so great. And his mother didn't seem to like it, if her over-reliance on alcohol was any indication.

So he'd never really tried to envision how that sort of stuff happened, or when it would happen to him or anything. Hell, he'd never even held hands with a girl, let alone done anything near groping. But he'd never thought that the first time doing anything like that would happen like this. Never with a man, never with someone over twice his age and never when he was dressed like a woman.

Tucker glared angrily into the mirror. Maybe it was because he knew his own features so well, but he couldn't see how he passed off for a girl. Granted, he was only wearing the wig and a girly shirt, although without the fake boobs. At the moment, he was only putting the top and wig on so C.T could take a photo to be used in manufacturing a fake ID. Just in case the bartender or the mark needed non-existent proof that Tucker was 'twenty-one.'

"Why, exactly, did you have fake boobs, a wig and make-up in your closet?" Tucker questioned, tugging at the long, dark brown wig he was currently wearing.

"The situation at hand, Tucker. The situation at hand," C.T said, rummaging through a box. "Short version is I know a lot about cross-dressing, okay?"

Tucker continued to glare at the mirror. "Well, I don't look like a drag queen at least."

"Of course not. Then it'd be far too obvious you were male. Less is more. Now turn back so I can do the make-up."

"I swear, if this traumatises me for life you're paying for the therapy."

"No deal. Besides, you'll easily have enough to pay for your own therapy once we're done. Be thankful I'm not going to make you wear a skirt."

"Oh, whoop-de-fucking-doo. So what, they wear skirts in Scotland. They don't go around packing fake boobs," Tucker snapped.

"That's a kilt, Tucker. Not a skirt. It'll be over within two hours. Just do the usual friendly chatting, mix in some flirting..."

"I don't know how!"

"Yeah, so you're a bit prissy. Jones or Joannes or whichever one of them I'm thinking of... they'll give you a crash course in it. This man isn't especially bright, so you won't have much to worry about. And the Jones-Joannes I'm thinking off... one without the accent... he's a bit of a flirt, he's good at it. He'll tell you how before you two get there. He'll be tracking you and the mark with the camera, so keep the man distracted. Especially when you two are going through the door of wherever he's staying, try to distract him from locking the door..."

C.T continued to talk about things Tucker should and shouldn't do. Once he was done, he took a photo of Tucker with the camera.

"Okay. What girl name are you going to be using? Since your name is Lavernius, I could just shorten it to Laverne. Reduces the chance of you slipping up."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever. You can call me Sunshine McGirlyness for all it matters. Urgh, this is gonna be so gay."

"I think there's rules that say what is gay and what isn't. A rule some of the guys had a while back was that if you called 'no homo' beforehand, then it wouldn't count." C.T checked the camera to make sure the picture had come out properly. "Just say 'no homo' inside your head, and it won't count as gay."

"Great. That makes it so much better," Tucker muttered sarcastically.


Later, C.T was serving drinks the next night when Jones or Joannes or whoever strolled in.

"How'd it go, uh, Jones?"

"My name's Joannes, but it's cool. And it went fine." Joannes grinned and handed the camera over to C.T. "Got the pictures. Intervened before that Tucker kid freaked out too much. He was totally on the edge of it. Told the guy he's gonna have to negotiate a hefty amount of money. Looking at 50,000 minimum. Probably more. He was pretty peeved about it, but there's no way he's chancing these photos getting out."

"Great. How's the new guy taking it?"

Joannes pointed upwards, in the direction of C.T's apartment. "He's washing the make-up and such off, and possibly trying to cut off his hand. That was the main point of conversation on the way back."

"Tell him not to bleed all over my sink."

"Can do." Joannes left the bar for a few minutes. When he returned, Tucker was following him, looking throughly pissed off, traumatised and, C.T noted, had forgotten to take off the girls' jeans and shoes.

"Drink," Tucker muttered.

"Appletini witho-"

"No. Goddammit, something manly. Seriously, calling 'no homo' didn't help much. It was disgusting and I see it when I close my eyes. Gimme scotch or something."

"You're sixteen."

Tucker held up the fake ID C.T had made the previous day. "This says I'm twenty-one, doesn't it?"

"It also says you're female."

"Just give me the fucking scotch."

"Okay, okay."

Tucker covered his face with his left hand. He was holding his right hand away from him. "...I'm not doing that again."

"Never say never, kid."

"Fuck that. Never doing it." Tucker attempted to toss back the shot of scotch, but choked on it. "Jesus! That's strong..."

Joannes snorted. C.T just continued washing glasses, while Tucker stared down at his shot glass.

"Jesus. I really am becoming my old lady," Tucker muttered. He prodded the shot glass, using his fingers to turn the glass around. "I got out of the house to avoid becoming like her... and where'd I end up? Giving a fucking handjob to some old, gross businessman and drinking scotch in a bar afterwards. Fucking bullshit..."

"You'll be fine," C.T told him. "Next con will be less disgusting. And that was a bigger payoff than prostitution."

Tucker shut his eyes a few times. "Fuck. I'm still seeing it when I close my eyes." He continued to stare down at his shot glass. "Screw it." He grabbed Joannes' sleeve. "Come on, we're going."

"Uh... where?"

"To pick up chicks. If I gotta see a naked person every time I close my eyes, it's gonna be a chick. Can't be any more gross than what I'm seeing right now."

"Oh. Okay!"

"Might want to change out of the girly pants first," C.T reminded Tucker.

"I'm still wearing the girls' jeans? ...fuckberries."


Grif

When Grif returned back to the apartment after a long, unexciting day of standing at a counter and serving coffee to people (his third job in three months, hopefully this time he wouldn't be fired quickly) he found Simmons standing outside his bedroom door, attempting to fasten a lock to it.

"Why are you putting a lock on your door?"

Simmons glanced in Grif's direction briefly before continuing. "Well, neither you or your sister seems to remember the whole 'stay out of my room' rule, especially when you're both high on paint thinner. So, I decided the lock was necessary."

"Man. You're sensitive about your privacy. I only ever went in there when you were in there."

"So?"

"Eh... The lengths someone will go to protect their porn collections..."

"It's not porn!" Simmons snapped. Grif snorted.

"Sure. Need any help?"

"No. I'm almost done. I can put a lock on without any help..." Simmons muttered under his breath.

"By the way..." Grif looked back at the living room, then in the kitchen. "Where's Sister?"

"Bedroom."

Grif froze momentarily. "Bedroom? She didn't have a guy with her, did she?"

Simmons tapped the screwdriver he'd been using to fix the lock against the wall thoughtfully. "Um... I think there was someone with her. I wasn't really paying atten—"

"Fuck... If there is a guy in there with her, I am going to blame you."

"I didn't do anything."

"I will blame you! Now, do you have any guns around just in case?"


It may have been five, nearing six years, since those days when Grif would spend most of his time shooing ten-year-old boys away from his kid sister... but nothing much had changed. Grif had not lost his habit of chasing Sister's various male 'friends' up trees.

Now, Grif was standing at the foot of the tree and holding a baseball bat, while Sister's latest boyfriend clung to the branches, wearing nothing but his underwear and mumbling something about his mother. Sister was standing a bit behind Grif, arms crossed and pouting. And Simmons was watching the spectacle from the apartment window.

"Don't you think you're going a bit too far with this?" Simmons asked.

"Shut up, Simmons!"

"The bathrobe guy is right! You're such a killjoy!" Sister whined.

"Well, sorry for not wanting you to have to go through a third abortion! Now go back inside!"

"Fuck you! You're not my mum, even if you look a lot like her..."

"Hey!"

"You can't tell me what to do!"

"I think there's bees up here!" Sister's boyfriend yelled.

"Well, then come back down the tree and let me hit you with this bat. It'll be over in five minutes, you'll only be half blinded at most," Grif said impatiently. "Come on, I've got better things to do!"

"I can't get back down!"

"Dex, you suck!" Sister turned around and stormed back towards the apartment.

"So. This a normal chain of events?" Simmons asked, resting his chin on his hand and staring down from the window.

"I said shut it!"


Grif did, eventually, get tired of waiting for Sister's boyfriend to climb down the tree. Especially once it became obvious that he really had no clue how. When Grif wandered back inside, Simmons was back to sitting outside his room and fiddling with the lock.

"You're weird, you know that?" Simmons told him, while fastening the small screws that held the lock to the door.

"Oh, fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

"I mean, sleeping with a guy is bad but drinking paint thinner isn't?"

"Okay, first off... she only sniffed the paint thinner," Grif protested. "And second, it's better her sniffing a little bit of paint thinner than running off to some shady club and drugging herself up on ecstasy or some shit like that. At least here I can keep an eye out on her."

Simmons shook his head. "Okay, then... Weird way of looking out for someone."

"Yeah? What would you do if your sister routinely brought guys into her room? Getting STDs and having to get so many abortions and—"

Simmons frowned. "Wouldn't know. J-walking would be too 'wild' for her. Never had to think about it. She was the good kid."

"Right, family of robots and all." Grif grinned. "Hah... I actually thought the same about you. I mean, you're so nerdy and anal. Didn't think you'd ever J-walk without worrying about breaking the law."

Simmons' ears went bright red. "Whatever." He concentrated on the lock again. "Don't you have something to do besides stand there? Besides, I still got another five days before you're allowed to annoy me again."

What's up his butt? Is he annoyed because I said he was anal? Wuss. Grif walked towards the bedroom he and Sister shared. He attempted to push open the door, but was instantly greeted by a scream of 'get lost, assface!' Grif quickly shut the door again.

"Okay, she's gonna be angry at me for at least tonight... I'm gonna go sleep on the sofa."

"Don't get Oreo crumbs all over it again."


Sister crept out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. She just wanted to get some water, but if Dex caught her sneaking around the house he'd think she was sneaking out to a local club again. Dex was kind of paranoid that way, even if it was often true. The kitchen light was already on, but Sister knew Dex wasn't in there because she could hear him snoring in the living room. If there was anyone in the kitchen, it was probably the Bathrobe Guy.

Sure enough, it was him. Resting against the counter and drinking coffee, in his maroon pyjamas and bathrobe.

"Why are you awake?" Sister asked curiously.

"I don't go to sleep until late. It's easier to get work done at night," he mumbled into his coffee cup. Guess that made sense. A lot of things were easier to do at night. Night was a good time to do things. Although Sister wouldn't consider work one of those things, since the night was for parties, sleeping and fucking, not boring things like work.

"Okay. I'm just getting a drink."

"You're not drinking paint thinner again?" He didn't seem as nervous as usual. He might have been growing used to her awesome presence, or maybe he was just too sleepy to care.

"Sniffing, not drinking. And not now. Not a paint thinner night. It's more of a pot night, but I don't have any around, so..." Sister trailed off. After a few minutes of quiet, punctuated only by the sounds of both of them drinking either coffee or water, Bathrobe Guy spoke up.

"Out of curiosity... um, how much crazy stuff do you do? I'm sorry, it's just... all that stuff is kind of a weird concept to me."

"Is this because you had a robot family? Did your dad have, like, metal plating and lights and stuff?" Sister asked. Bathrobe Guy opened and shut his mouth soundlessly a few times before shaking his head.

"Uh. Never mind that."

"Aw, but I want to know. Having a robot mum or dad would be awesome. A robot dad, especially. I mean, I never had a dad, but on television they always did things like flying kites with their kids... Although me and Dex tried that once, it was super boring... Uh. What were we talking about?"

"You doing crazy stuff."

"I don't do that much... Grif just makes a big deal about it. He's so anal about that stuff. It's just paint thinner. And pot. Maybe a little bit of ecstasy, and I did try to overdose on aspirin once. And once I chewed on something that looked like an undersea cucumber. Just everyday stuff, you know."

"Yeah. Everyday stuff. Right." Bathrobe Guy drained the rest of his coffee. "Sounds like Grif's just... just worried about you, I guess."

Sister rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well... he's too worried!"

"Better than not being worried enough. Or being concerned about nothing but how well you're doing on the sports team or your grades or how you should date girls because that's what guys are supposed to do."

Okay, I have no idea what he's talking about. I mean, Dex never made me date any kind of girl. Except for that one time when he said he'd prefer it if I did since girls can't get me pregnant. I don't think they can, anyhow.

"Girls can't get other girls pregnant, right?" Sister asked. Bathrobe Guy just stared at her for a few moments.

"No?"

"Oh, okay. Cool."

Bathrobe Guy rinsed the coffee cup out with water. "Well... Guess it's just me, but... I wouldn't do that kind of stuff."

"But it's fun..."

"I'm sure it is. It's just..." Bathrobe Guy hesitated. "Nah, I don't want to get pushy."

"But... but now I'm curious! That's no fair... You gotta say what you were gonna say."

"Oh, well... it's just... A lot of those drugs make people go wrinkly and yellow really early on. So, you'd look eighty when you're twenty-five. And I just think that'd be a waste on... on, uh... I mean, you're just-" Bathrobe guy coughed and flushed pink before muttering, "Just kind of good-looking, is all."

"Yeah, I do look pretty awesome." Sister frowned. "So I'll get wrinkly and old before I'm twenty-five? That's, like... only fifteen years away."

"I'd say it's closer to ten..."

"Ew! I mean, old people are gross. Like, really gross. Like dried fruit. I don't want to be a piece of dried fruit." Sister continued to frown down at her glass of water. "Hm."

I don't want to look like one of those dried up raisins... Maybe if I just cut down on some of the drugs. Not all of them, but... maybe stop with the weirder ones.

"Hey, um... Bathrobe Guy? Thanks for telling me all that."

"It's Simmons, actually. But no problem."


"Huh. Paint thinner is gone." Grif raised his voice. "Hey, Sister! You didn't use all the paint thinner that quickly, did you?"

"Nah. I just threw it out," Sister shouted from the living room. "That's fine, right?"

"Yeah." Grif shut the cupboard where the paint thinner had previously been stored. "Hm. Weird."

Can't remember Sister ever throwing anything like that out before. Not that I'm complaining or anything...

Simmons was in the kitchen, waiting for his two-minute noodles to finish cooking. Grif wandered in and prodded him.

"Hey, Sister's acting weird. Wouldn't know why, would you?"

"Not a clue," Simmons replied. "I mean, she was wandering around the kitchen last night, but we didn't talk about much. Just some stuff about eighty-year-old fruit, I dunno. I was sleepy, I don't remember much of it."

"Okay?"

"Want some noodles?"

"Nah, stomach's gonna implode if I keep eating them. Noodles ain't a breakfast food, man. Move over, I'll make something."

"I already started making these!"

"They're just two-minute noodles, you've only been standing here for thirty seconds. Weirdo."

"Dumbass."


Caboose

Everyone was acting strange. Even if Caboose was asleep most of the time, he could tell that much.

His mama and his stepdaddy kept coming in to see him. The first time they'd arrived, Mama had tried to hug him but had stopped because she probably would have knocked one of the tubes that were stuck in him. Papa had tried to talk to him, but Caboose didn't understand it. After a while, both his parents just sat down and didn't say anything.

That was not the weird thing. The smiles were the weird thing. They were not proper smiles. They were the fake ones that people wore when they were sad or angry but pretending to be happy. Caboose's old fifth-grade teacher had worn that smile.

Why did his parents have fake smiles? Caboose would have thought that they would be happy that he hadn't been killed. Lots of people got killed when they hit a tree that hard. Caboose thought he must have been lucky, or had a really hard head or something. He was alive and he would probably get better. People get better in hospitals. So why were his parents so depressed?

Mama said something. Even though the noise shook Caboose out of his very slow-moving thoughts, he didn't actually understand. It was just noises to him. Caboose nodded anyway, although that turned out to be a bad idea. His head hurt more when he did that.

Maybe Mama and all the other people were just speaking a foreign language? Did the country change the language it spoke while I was asleep? No, that was silly.

Mama and Papa kept sharing looks. Very worried and sad looks. Which was kind of weird. If they wanted to talk about something without Caboose knowing, they could just talk. It was not like he'd be able to understand it.

None of Caboose's sisters had visited. Maybe they were really, really busy. A lot of them had school and the older ones had work and had to take care of their own kids. But Caboose had been in there for a long time. Wouldn't one of them have been able to visit? Maybe it hadn't been a long time. Maybe it just felt like a long time because he'd been sleeping and because clocks no longer made sense to him.

Caboose decided it didn't really matter. He was asleep most of the time, anyway. That meant he didn't have to think about it.


"Keep your eyes open while I do this." Sheila attempted to communicate to Caboose using her hands. After a few tries, he seemed to understand. The next time Sheila tried shining a light into Caboose's eyes, he didn't shut his eyes and whine. Sheila studied his eyes carefully. One of the pupils wasn't dilating properly. Sheila wasn't surprised, since the pupil had been blown when Caboose was first brought in. She was merely checking for improvements.

Caboose's stepfather was sitting in the corner, arms crossed. He was watching carefully, as if to make sure Sheila was doing everything exactly right. Not that he would likely know if Sheila was doing something wrong. Normally, Caboose's mother would be here as well. But she couldn't stay there all the time, not with so many other children at home and another baby on the way.

"Alright. Lift your left arm. Good. And now your right..."

Caboose had had trouble moving his left arm at first. It seemed he was gaining more feeling there, however. He could at least lift it now, although he was more clumsy with it and accidentally knocked the IV over once. That had been a little messy.

"Can you say words, Caboose?" Sheila asked slowly, making talking gestures with her hands.

"Sheila?"

"Yes, that's my name. Is that all you can say?"

"Sh...She. Lah." He followed this with a lot of noise that was clearly meant to be conversation but didn't make any sense, typical of patients with aphasia.

Sheila sighed, tucking the light back into her pocket. "...Get some sleep, Mr. Caboose."

Caboose looked up at her, then his eyes traveled to his stepfather. He pointed at him, then at the ground.

"Yes, your father can stay. I just need to have a word with him for a moment." Sheila accompanied her words with motions of nodding and pointing at her watch, among other things. Caboose nodded and settled back on his pillow. "Sir, if I could speak to you outside..."

One of the more difficult portions of Sheila's job was trying to explain to relatives of the patient what was wrong. Especially when Sheila couldn't use much medical jargon in doing so. Or at least not without explaining what terms like 'aphasia' and 'cerebral hypoxia' meant. And the stepfather's medical knowledge seemed to be comprised entirely of what he had learnt from sport magazines.

"So... all that 'not understanding English' stuff. That's temporary, right?" he asked. The man kept glancing back into Caboose's room nervously. "It's definitely temporary, right? I need something good to say to Margie."

"His brain is still swollen from the collision, but that should improve soon. After that, patients generally reacquire some of their speech recognition or ability. He will most likely need a speech therapist to help him improve further. There is a very large chance that he will carry some residual effects for the rest of his life, but in most cases patients get well enough to communicate understandably."

"And he won't have the tubey things sticking out of his head?"

"The catheter is there to help judge and control intracranial pressure. It will not be attached for an extended amount of time."

The stepfather's expression brightened a little. "So... he'll be okay? Apart from just a couple of little things with his language, he'll be fine?"

Sheila tapped her pen against her chart, the only sign of nervousness she let slip through. Talking to relatives was always difficult, especially when it came to informing them of bad news. Even just possible bad news.

"We can't be sure until we can subject him to more tests. But there will most likely be more problems." Sheila tapped her pen against the chart again. "Judging by his reaction to gestures, he seems receptive towards body language... But we can't rule out other deficits until we've carried out more tests, which Mr. Caboose is not in any condition to manage yet. There will almost certainly be some complications."

He looked back through the glass screen. What little of the man's face that Sheila could see through his beard looked apprehensive.

"But he'll still be the same kid, right? He'll still be Michael, won't he?"

Sheila didn't hesitate to say yes. Technically, he still would be. Even though she knew what the man really meant... As to whether her patient would still be the same person in an emotional sense... Sheila couldn't guarantee he would. But it was always difficult to say that.


It felt like a really long time before Sheila removed all the itchy tubes from Caboose's head and arms. Caboose was happy to not have them stuck inside any more. They had itched and Caboose had been forbidden to scratch them. He was still not allowed to scratch there, but it didn't itch as much.

Sheila and the other people who often checked the beeping things moved him into a different room. A room where everything was less noisy. There were less beeping monitors, just like there were less tubes stuck into Caboose. As Sheila wheeled Caboose in on the wheelchair they had placed him in, Caboose enjoyed the small fact that he was actually moving. Sort of. The seat he was sitting on was moving, at least.

Caboose wondered if he could still walk. He could not think of any reason why he wouldn't be able to. His legs didn't hurt like other parts of him. Although, looking down, his legs looked skinnier. But that was probably because they hadn't let him eat in ages. As Sheila wheeled him up next to the bed, Caboose waved his hands around.

Being wheeled around is kind of fun... but I want to try walking.

Caboose made walking motions with his hands, then pointed at himself. Sheila looked reluctant. She didn't seem to want him to try. Caboose widened his eyes and pouted, like he always did when Mama was angry at him or when he was trying to steal cookies out of the cookie jar.

Sheila sighed and raised a finger. One try. She wheeled the chair around again, so that Caboose had space in front of him, and motioned for him to stay still. She left the room and returned with one of those walking stands that old people sometimes used. She placed it in front of him. Caboose reached out and grabbed the stand, although his left arm didn't want to hold on as tight. Caboose attempted to pull himself out of the wheelchair. It was hard. But after a few long moments of effort, Caboose managed to pull himself out.

He almost fell over instantly, since his legs didn't want to hold at first. Sheila stopped him from falling, reaching out her hands and steadying him. She was very strong, especially for a woman. She was also, Caboose noticed, quite tall. She only stood a couple of inches shorter than him, while most girls were at least a foot shorter if not more. Caboose wondered idly if that was a requirement for being a doctor. Probably not. Most other doctors he had seen were smaller.

After a few moments, Sheila let go. Caboose had to rest heavily on thewalking stand, but he was on his feet. Caboose smiled, looking around. He could stand, he could stand. And then Caboose looked at the glass screen that was part of the wall between him and the busier part of the hospital.

Immediately Caboose screamed. He'd seen something through the glass screen. Something weird and white and funny shaped. Sort of human-shaped, but... not right. See-through and with deep shadows under the eyes. Caboose attempted to back away from the glass screen and almost fell over, again saved by Sheila. Caboose pointed at the screen, and voiced the conclusion that made sense most in his head. He knew the word for it.

"Ghost! Ghoooost!" Caboose shrieked. Or at least, that was what he meant to say. He didn't understand his own words when they came out of his mouth, even though they had made sense in his head. The ghost raised an arm and pointed at him, too. It's mouth moved, but no noise came out.

Some of the people on the outside of the glass screen had jumped when Caboose had screamed. Sheila hadn't. She'd looked at the glass screen, then back at Caboose. She turned him away from the screen and guided him towards the bed. Once Caboose was lying down, he looked at the glass screen again. The thing was gone. It had to be a ghost, what else could it be?

Caboose tried to stay still, since Sheila was trying to put a tube back in his arm. But he was scared now. The hospital was haunted. Of course it was, lots of people died in hospitals. But the more Caboose thought about the white creature that had stared back at him, he realised that it looked strangely familiar. And it had copied him... But...

A mirror. He needed a mirror. That was hard to tell Sheila with his hands, especially since he could only use one. Sheila looked confused when Caboose tried.

"Mirror... Mirror... Need," Caboose attempted to say. It didn't make sense when it came out of his mouth. But Sheila stopped looking confused. She raised an eyebrow. Was he sure? Am I sure? Caboose wasn't... But there was something in the back of his head telling him that he needed the mirror to know if he'd really seen a ghost or not. Sheila eventually walked away and came back with a small, handheld mirror. She handed it to Caboose and Caboose stared into it.

At first he thought the ghost was there and staring back. But it wasn't see-through anymore. It was pale like a dead person, it had no hair and the head was a weird shape... maybe it looked that way because of all the fresh, red scars that were there. The ghost's face looked too hollow, the eyes looked too big and the shadows beneath them were too dark. But it blinked when Caboose did. When Caboose raised his hand, it raised his hand. Caboose felt his head, even though Sheila moved forward to try and stop him. Caboose felt scars there. The ghost in the mirror was touching his scars, too.

Caboose didn't scream this time. But he had to fling the mirror away. Fling it away and cover his eyes so he wouldn't have to stare at the ghostly monster that was his own reflection.

He heard Sheila move beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. Caboose peered through his fingers. How could Sheila look at him when he looked like a ghost monster? No wonder his parents always looked so sad and nervous when they were around him. It made more sense now.

Caboose reached up and gripped Sheila's hand. It was warm and comforting. And Caboose really needed that right now.


Donut

Donut didn't quite know how to tell his mothers he was thinking of moving out. But if he had to break it to one of his parents first, he'd rather tell Mama Liz. Maybe because Mama Liz was more relaxed about that kind of thing. But also because Mama Julie was in a phenomenally bad mood due to indigestion, and when she was that grumpy she'd explode if one did so much as move the toothpaste. Let alone propose moving to another state.

Mama Liz looked over the top of the thick book she was reading. Probably one of her fluffy romance novels, although it was a lot bigger than most of those. And Mama Liz had been reading it with a more depressed expression than usual, but maybe she was just at a sad part of the novel. Donut knew the sad parts always made him sniffle.

"Can't you move somewhere closer?" she asked. "I mean, the next state? Really?"

"It's not super far. I mean, yeah... it's in another state... But it's close to the border," Donut explained. "Close-ish, anyway. And, well... I kinda want to see some other places. And there is a great nightlife over there and I love all those lights and fruity cocktails..."

"Uh, don't hear Mama Julie hear you say that. That was the deal, you can drink the coconut-flavoured alcohol I keep at the back of the shelf as long as you don't tell her about it." Mama Liz returned to turning the pages of her book. "She'll throw a fit."

"Right." Kind of unfair, Donut thought, considering how much alcohol Mama Julie drank. Although she mostly drunk scotch and whiskey and all those drinks that Donut thought tasted gross. But Mama Julie was a stickler to the rules, especially concerning underage drinking.

"I'm sure there's closer cities that have a lot of places with fruity cocktails..."

"Yeah, but there were also some classes on interior design there, and the interior design courses around here suck. They don't know the difference between amaranth and cerise..."

"Uhm..." Mama Liz raised an eyebrow. "Difference between... what?"

"Amaranth and cerise! They're shades of red, Mama."

"Oh! Right, they're the dark shades of red? Like maroon, right?"

"Never mind. Also, I'm hoping there will be guys that... you know, I can hit on without them completely freaking out. Or taking my clothes and making me walk home in my underwear. Again." Donut shuddered at the memory. Why had he chosen to wear Hello Kitty underwear that day? Why?

"Hm." Mama Liz lowered her book. "You sure, crumbcake? Can you handle moving that far? You're still so young..."

"I'm eighteen!"

"Right. I just forget sometimes. We've only had you for eleven. That is not enough time!"

"I'll visit loads. I'm not going to hide in a cave or anything." Donut promised.

"I know, crumb. If you tried to live in a cave you'd go mental before a day had gone by. Partly because of the lack of lace and nice colours."

"Liz! Where's the toothpaste? Did you move it again?" Mama Julie shouted from the bathroom. Mama Liz winced and Donut instinctively edged away from the direction of the shout.

"Nuts. You're not moving out right away, are you?"

"Well, no. Not until after graduation at least... "

"Then... Wait until Ju-Ju's feeling a bit better to tell her. You know what she's like. Iffy about things changing and all."

"Yeah... I'm kinda scared at telling her now. I think she'd explode," Donut admitted. "Not in the good way, like pinatas. More like in the cold but angry way... Like snowballs with firecrackers in them..."


I never realised how much stuff I had...

Donut rummaged underneath his bed, searching for his box of Chantilly lace. He thought it might be nice to make some curtains with that lace on it, but he hadn't actually seen the box in forever...

How am I gonna drag all this stuff to another state?

"Come on, where are you..." Donut felt around under his bed, feet waving around in the air.

"What are you doing?" Donut heard Mama Julie say. He heard her enter the room and sit down on the bed. "Are you looking for something?"

"Box of chantilly lace."

"That's in your cupboard. Next to that box of persimmon-coloured fabric you never used.."

"Ohhhhh. Thanks, Mama."

"Hn."

Donut crawled out from under the bed. "Uh... Are you still feeling sick?"

"Yes. Nothing to worry about... In a rare violation of common sense I ate too much of your mother's 'special' chili."

Donut shuddered. Mama Liz wasn't a bad cook, exactly... She just loved making very spicy food, even concerning foods that weren't normally spicy. Her 'special' chili was inhumanely strong, to the point that Donut believed it could probably stand up by itself, were he to check by tipping it out on a flat surface.

"Okay..."

Still afraid of telling her. Maybe I should ask Mama Liz not to cook anything too spicy for a while. That'll make Mama Julie less grumpy. Although getting Mama Liz not to cook spicy foods is next to impossible.

Maybe I could make cake with a message on it or something. Cake works... Why are all my solutions food-centered? ...Man, this would be easier if they had greeting cards for this sort of thing...