*~*~Friends Incorporated~*~*
*Chapter One*
GENRE: A Batman Beyond fanfic.
PAIRING IF ANY: Terry McGinnis/Max Gilbson.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Set after "Curse of the Kobra". I happen to be very Pro-Terry/Max and I don't like Dana much. (She seems too possessive and jealous. Sorry.) Anyway, I've noticed Dana hasn't been in a lot of the new episodes and Max has been getting a larger role (which finally resulted in the episode introducing Zeta [I'm convinced that was a prologue to "The Zeta Project"] and "The Curse of the Kobra" 2-parter.) with each new episode. Forgive me for the overall weirdness of this. *&.^*
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. Short enough for ya?
SIDE NOTE: This will be written from Max's POV and I'm not sure if the entire fanfic should be - tell me and I might change it to third person [if and when I do that, I'll give ya'll ample warning]. I think the martial arts sensei's name was Kyri Inaga, buuuuuuuuuut…it probably isn't. ;} On another note, this fanfic isn't of excellent quality. (No, I don't have low self-esteem. I just practice reverse psychology with surprisingly good results. *giggles*)
****
I walk down the pathways; there aren't many teens out, it's getting close to curfew. The buildings are stony and unmoving, built up like a prison. I smile bitterly for a brief moment.
"Hey, Max."
I turn, smiling weakly at Terry as he walks up to me, hands buried in his pockets. There's a sort of walled off look in his eyes, like the one he gets when he thinks about his father.
"Hey, Terry." I try to put some laughter in my voice, but it's hard.
We walk side by side for a few silent minutes, loose papers fluttering past, brushed away by the chilly wind. These cold winds only serve as a painful reminder of Kyri's demise.
"I've decided to quit," he breaks the silence, startling me. Quit? Being the Dark Knight has been his heart and soul for close to a year now. I suppose I would do the same thing in his shoes. The only thing I can do is comfort him.
"Really." My reply is pathetic and limp, but he smiles nonetheless. It's a small comfort, but it's a comfort in any case.
"What're you going to do now?" I ask after a moment and his blue eyes cloud over.
"Haven't got a damn," he finally responds with a sigh. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I stop walking and hug him, the way a sister would hug her brother. Sorrow hits my heart like, to be cliché, a ton of bricks.
He's tense, but he hugs me back and I feel salty tears drip down my cheeks. I can't tell if they're his or mine because we're both crying.
We must have made quite a picture, crying soundlessly three minutes before curfew, brown and light skin.
It feels good to cry your eyes out in the arms of your best friend.
^
I unlock the door to my apartment, the lights off except for one dim lamp in a corner beside a large, worn armchair. Pushing it open, I find the apartment empty, void of any sign of my parents. I sigh. Another business trip. God, you'd think they'd remember they have a teenaged daughter in high school, but all that information about who-knows-what must push away any knowledge of my existence.
So what else is new?
Kicking off my sandals, I wriggle my toes in the plush carpet, softly closing the heavy door behind my back. Leaning against it, I surrender my weight to it, sliding down to the floor, knees a few inches from my chest and my arms wrapped around them. Staring at nothing in particular has become a newfound habit of mine. Surprise, surprise, I'm excelling in it. I must be the Queen of it.
A half-smile tugs at my lips, curling one corner up hesitantly at the absurd thought. A feeling of guilt washes over me and I groan, hitting the back of my head against the green door, closing my almond-shaped eyes, still slightly puffy and red from the bout of crying. I hate this constant feeling of guilt.
"I feel like Lois Lane!" I laugh humorlessly. It's strange, being friends with Terry. Almost like Superman. I swear, every villain in Gotham must have some sort of radar that centers in my direction. It's gotten to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if a woman genetically spliced with a lemur jumped in my window, held me hostage, and ordered Batman to come save me. Jokers, Zeta - though that wasn't so bad, and Zander - that was - all after me. Maybe part of me is perversely happy that Terry's decided to retire from the superhero business. Less stress and anger in *my* life, that's for sure.
But at his expense?
He wants to quit. It's his choice.
So why am I disappointed?
^
Thank goodness for Saturdays. I roll over on the couch - I apparently didn't make it to my bedroom - and stare blankly at the ceiling. I haven't woken up feeling happy in ages. I shake my head, dispelling the last traces of grogginess.
I must be certifiable.
Throwing my legs over the couch and sitting up, I stretch and yawn.
I stand up and make my voice go lower, announcing, "And on another thrilling episode of 'Trials of Maxine Gilbson,' the ever lovely Max Gilbson must face a crucial point in her life - will she have cereal or pancakes for breakfast? Tune in later to find the answer, same Max-time, same Max-channel."
Giggling at myself, I saunter into my kitchen, rubbing the sleepies out of my eyes and flinging open the cabinets. There are at least thirteen different brands of cereal inside and only one box of pancake mix.
"Pancakes it is!"
Whistling cheerily, I begin reading the instructions and blanch.
"To hell with pancakes, on to cereal!" I cry, tossing the box of pancake mix over my shoulder and I rub the back of my head, ignoring the loud thud accompanying the box's rendezvous with the tiled floor. I'd get back to it later. As for right now, I need a massive sugar rush. Actually, it's more like I *want* it, not *need* it.
After careful reflection, I grab a bag of coffee beans and turn the machine on, listening to the whirring sound with a satisfied smile.
Nothing like the decades old Frosted Flakes cereal brand and good, weak decaf to brighten my Saturday. Add Saturday morning cartoons and life is perfect.
My cell phone suddenly rings into life, vibrating visibly. Jumping a little, I set the milk jug back on the counter and snatch the phone up, turning it on.
"Hello? This is Max Gilbson. Who's callin'?"
"Hey, Max, it's me, Terry."
Helloooooo, reality. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Infinitely Gloomy has checked in. My joyous mood evaporates swiftly, bringing me back down to cold, unwelcoming Earth. Rapture.
"I was wondering if you'd meet me at The Custard Shoppe on Maple Third," he continues.
"Sure, Ter. How urgent-o is this?"
"Big time, Max." There goes that serious, nerve-wracking Bat-voice.
I sigh and grip the phone tightly. Anything for a friend. "Be right there, bro."
I barely hear his soft "Thanks" before he hangs up and I click the phone off.
Looks like the ride's just begun.
~TBC~
*Chapter One*
GENRE: A Batman Beyond fanfic.
PAIRING IF ANY: Terry McGinnis/Max Gilbson.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Set after "Curse of the Kobra". I happen to be very Pro-Terry/Max and I don't like Dana much. (She seems too possessive and jealous. Sorry.) Anyway, I've noticed Dana hasn't been in a lot of the new episodes and Max has been getting a larger role (which finally resulted in the episode introducing Zeta [I'm convinced that was a prologue to "The Zeta Project"] and "The Curse of the Kobra" 2-parter.) with each new episode. Forgive me for the overall weirdness of this. *&.^*
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. Short enough for ya?
SIDE NOTE: This will be written from Max's POV and I'm not sure if the entire fanfic should be - tell me and I might change it to third person [if and when I do that, I'll give ya'll ample warning]. I think the martial arts sensei's name was Kyri Inaga, buuuuuuuuuut…it probably isn't. ;} On another note, this fanfic isn't of excellent quality. (No, I don't have low self-esteem. I just practice reverse psychology with surprisingly good results. *giggles*)
****
I walk down the pathways; there aren't many teens out, it's getting close to curfew. The buildings are stony and unmoving, built up like a prison. I smile bitterly for a brief moment.
"Hey, Max."
I turn, smiling weakly at Terry as he walks up to me, hands buried in his pockets. There's a sort of walled off look in his eyes, like the one he gets when he thinks about his father.
"Hey, Terry." I try to put some laughter in my voice, but it's hard.
We walk side by side for a few silent minutes, loose papers fluttering past, brushed away by the chilly wind. These cold winds only serve as a painful reminder of Kyri's demise.
"I've decided to quit," he breaks the silence, startling me. Quit? Being the Dark Knight has been his heart and soul for close to a year now. I suppose I would do the same thing in his shoes. The only thing I can do is comfort him.
"Really." My reply is pathetic and limp, but he smiles nonetheless. It's a small comfort, but it's a comfort in any case.
"What're you going to do now?" I ask after a moment and his blue eyes cloud over.
"Haven't got a damn," he finally responds with a sigh. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I stop walking and hug him, the way a sister would hug her brother. Sorrow hits my heart like, to be cliché, a ton of bricks.
He's tense, but he hugs me back and I feel salty tears drip down my cheeks. I can't tell if they're his or mine because we're both crying.
We must have made quite a picture, crying soundlessly three minutes before curfew, brown and light skin.
It feels good to cry your eyes out in the arms of your best friend.
^
I unlock the door to my apartment, the lights off except for one dim lamp in a corner beside a large, worn armchair. Pushing it open, I find the apartment empty, void of any sign of my parents. I sigh. Another business trip. God, you'd think they'd remember they have a teenaged daughter in high school, but all that information about who-knows-what must push away any knowledge of my existence.
So what else is new?
Kicking off my sandals, I wriggle my toes in the plush carpet, softly closing the heavy door behind my back. Leaning against it, I surrender my weight to it, sliding down to the floor, knees a few inches from my chest and my arms wrapped around them. Staring at nothing in particular has become a newfound habit of mine. Surprise, surprise, I'm excelling in it. I must be the Queen of it.
A half-smile tugs at my lips, curling one corner up hesitantly at the absurd thought. A feeling of guilt washes over me and I groan, hitting the back of my head against the green door, closing my almond-shaped eyes, still slightly puffy and red from the bout of crying. I hate this constant feeling of guilt.
"I feel like Lois Lane!" I laugh humorlessly. It's strange, being friends with Terry. Almost like Superman. I swear, every villain in Gotham must have some sort of radar that centers in my direction. It's gotten to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if a woman genetically spliced with a lemur jumped in my window, held me hostage, and ordered Batman to come save me. Jokers, Zeta - though that wasn't so bad, and Zander - that was - all after me. Maybe part of me is perversely happy that Terry's decided to retire from the superhero business. Less stress and anger in *my* life, that's for sure.
But at his expense?
He wants to quit. It's his choice.
So why am I disappointed?
^
Thank goodness for Saturdays. I roll over on the couch - I apparently didn't make it to my bedroom - and stare blankly at the ceiling. I haven't woken up feeling happy in ages. I shake my head, dispelling the last traces of grogginess.
I must be certifiable.
Throwing my legs over the couch and sitting up, I stretch and yawn.
I stand up and make my voice go lower, announcing, "And on another thrilling episode of 'Trials of Maxine Gilbson,' the ever lovely Max Gilbson must face a crucial point in her life - will she have cereal or pancakes for breakfast? Tune in later to find the answer, same Max-time, same Max-channel."
Giggling at myself, I saunter into my kitchen, rubbing the sleepies out of my eyes and flinging open the cabinets. There are at least thirteen different brands of cereal inside and only one box of pancake mix.
"Pancakes it is!"
Whistling cheerily, I begin reading the instructions and blanch.
"To hell with pancakes, on to cereal!" I cry, tossing the box of pancake mix over my shoulder and I rub the back of my head, ignoring the loud thud accompanying the box's rendezvous with the tiled floor. I'd get back to it later. As for right now, I need a massive sugar rush. Actually, it's more like I *want* it, not *need* it.
After careful reflection, I grab a bag of coffee beans and turn the machine on, listening to the whirring sound with a satisfied smile.
Nothing like the decades old Frosted Flakes cereal brand and good, weak decaf to brighten my Saturday. Add Saturday morning cartoons and life is perfect.
My cell phone suddenly rings into life, vibrating visibly. Jumping a little, I set the milk jug back on the counter and snatch the phone up, turning it on.
"Hello? This is Max Gilbson. Who's callin'?"
"Hey, Max, it's me, Terry."
Helloooooo, reality. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Infinitely Gloomy has checked in. My joyous mood evaporates swiftly, bringing me back down to cold, unwelcoming Earth. Rapture.
"I was wondering if you'd meet me at The Custard Shoppe on Maple Third," he continues.
"Sure, Ter. How urgent-o is this?"
"Big time, Max." There goes that serious, nerve-wracking Bat-voice.
I sigh and grip the phone tightly. Anything for a friend. "Be right there, bro."
I barely hear his soft "Thanks" before he hangs up and I click the phone off.
Looks like the ride's just begun.
~TBC~
