Chapter 2
'Well, here I am, on a walk,' Sydney reflected, wandering aimlessly through the halls of North Valley High. 'Boy, am I glad to be out of that madhouse...all those people throwing rotten fish...well, that was mostly the 'di's.' Those girls are sure strange. Hmm...I've pretty much run out of hallways,' she finished, bumping into a camera guy.
"Hey, Sydney," George the Camera Guy greeted her with a casual wave.
"Hi, George. How's life?"
"Not bad. How's the studying going? Anyone find out about that time-turner yet?"
Sydney glared.
"Well, not until you taped yourself asking me about it."
"Oh, it's alright. The sounds off," he lied. J. K. Rowling would pay a fortune for this footage...
"Oh! Great! Hey, is that Malcolm?"
"Who, that?" George pointed.
"Yeah!"
"Sydney, that's a llama."
"...Oops. Hey, what's a llama doing in the school?"
"Ask Mrs. Starkey. I think she's planning on stewing it."
"Oh, that poor llama! I must start a crusade for the rights of llamas! Ooh, there's a book! I don't think I've read that one!"
With that, she skipped down the hallway and picked up the book, flipping through the pages, utterly engrossed.
Two thousand pages and fifteen minutes later, she tossed the book over her shoulder, taking out the llama.
"I was wrong - I've read this one," she giggled, ignoring the small creature's pained squawk as it was hit full-on by 'A Brief History of the First Ninety-Thousand Years of Human Civilization: Unabridged.'
"You read the weirdest stuff," George commented, shaking his head, which caused the camera to bob wildly and give several viewers a strange feeling somewhat like motion sickness.
"Damn you, George!" a little ninja named Yuffie Kisaragi and her violent motion sickness howled in anguish from her living room where she was worshipping before the altar of all that is evil and immoral - watching TV. Then she sighed happily. "Aside from the crappy camera work, the cheesy dialogue, the one-dimensional characters, the lousy action sequences, and the horrendous acting, this show is great!"
"Yuffie, what tripe are you watching now?" Vincent Valentine sighed.
"Quiet, Vinnie! My show's on! I don't talk during your Masterpiece Theatre, do I?"
"!" he said emphatically.
"Okay, we've been married for two years now, and I still don't know what you're going on about."
"!" he repeated.
At this point, their houseguest walked in, bearing a large bowl of popcorn.
"Xellos!" Vincent and Yuffie exclaimed together. "We told you, when you pay for it, you can make popcorn!"
A silence.
"Well?" Vincent prompted impatiently. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"^_^"
Meanwhile, back at North Valley High, Malcolm was wandering the halls aimlessly, utterly at a loss as to what electronic gadget thingy he could infect with a Mega-Virus, that Tanker would likely know how to use.
"Hmm..." he mused. "I don't suppose he would be smart enough to operate a digital watch. And anyway, we've done the digital watch bit."
Smirking at the oddly hilarious recollection of Sydney knocking Tanker unconscious with a punch that ordinarily couldn't have knocked over a house of cards, or even Malcolm, he shook his head.
"I really ought to head to the gym one of these days...if only to see what one looks like. Despite my best intentions, I seem to be about as intimidating as a lab mouse."
This thought trailed off quite abruptly as a sudden impact sent him hurtling to the other end of the hallway, where he collided painfully with the wall, barely hearing an exclamation of,
"Oh, poor little llama!" as he flew.
Once he managed to peel himself from the floor, he glared ferociously at the cause of his sudden and unexpected trip.
"Why don't you watch where you're going?" he growled as intimidatingly as could someone who had just been thrown across a hallway by walking into a girl who had been barely moving.
"Oh, my goodness, Malcolm! What happened to you?"
"You happened to me!"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't feel a thing."
"Shut up!"
She frowned.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine. Go away."
"Um...okay, I guess..."
Looking slightly hurt, she turned to leave. Then, as a thought occurred, she stopped and turned back.
"By the way, your audition was really good. Much better than..." She paused, considering. "...than...a lot of them."
"Hmph! Not exactly a challenge, there. I had no competition from the males, and only slight competition from the females."
"Yeah, Jennifer was pretty good, wasn't she?"
"Er...right."
"I probably shouldn't say this," she continued, laughing self-consciously, "since almost everyone else auditioning was one of my best friends - except for Bob; he's everyone's best friend - but I really think you should have gotten the part of Macbeth."
"Yes, so do I. I was so good! Better than the rest of you. You were good, but I was better."
"Well, I wasn't auditioning for the part of Macbeth, was I?" she reminded him a trifle on her dignity.
He gave an incredulous snort.
"You would have done a better job than the bozo who got it."
"A twenty-pound sack of creamed spinach would have done a better job than Tanker."
"That's a rather odd thing to say about one's boyfriend, isn't it?"
"Well, Tanker's a lot of things, but an actor isn't one of them."
"No, he certainly isn't," Malcolm agreed shortly. "I could list some of the other things that he isn't, but I don't think you have that kind of time."
"I think you'd be surprised how much time I have," Sydney said with a secretive smile, patting her book bag in which lay the trusty Time-Turner.
"I won't ask," he assured her, rolling his eyes.
Both were silent for about fifteen seconds, glancing awkwardly in opposite directions.
"Oh, alright, I'll ask," Malcolm said abruptly. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"U-um..." Sydney stammered slightly, looking somewhat like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. "Never mind."
"This isn't that Harry Potter thing again, is it?" he demanded, exasperated. "Do you honestly think that J. K. Rowling has nothing better to do than chase you down because you've stolen a time-traveling gimmick from her little heroine?"
"Ah-HAH!" a voice with a heavy British accent exclaimed in triumph.
The next moment, a woman who may or may not have been J. K. Rowling burst around the corner.
"So it is YOU who have stolen my Time-Turner! Prepare to die!"
"U-um..."
Before Sydney could say another word in her own defence, the crazed woman leapt.
"Ow!" she shrieked as the woman's fist connected with the back of her skull several times in rapid succession. "Malcolm, you wanna help me out here?"
"No," Malcolm replied flatly, leaning against a locker to watch the carnage unfold.
Five minutes later, the woman who may or may not have been J. K. Rowling strode away, clutching her Time-Turner, and glancing smugly over her shoulder.
"Try to keep up your ninety-six hour days NOW, you little Mudblood!"
"Little...what?" Sydney asked weakly, collapsing to the floor. "...Ow..."
"Hey, was that who I think it was?" Amp demanded as he sprinted around the corner.
"It may or may not have been," Malcolm replied with a shrug. "Or so I'm told."
"Wow! I've got to go get her autograph!"
And with that, Amp bolted from the hallway.
"What a numbskull," Malcolm sighed, turning to leave.
"Hey!" Sydney exclaimed.
"Yes?"
"You're seriously just going to walk away and leave me here, bleeding profusely?!"
He shrugged.
"And why not? One of your friends'll find you eventually."
"Don't you have a single spark of human compassion?"
For a moment, he fell silent, considering this. Perhaps he had lived his life as an altogether too callused and inconsiderate person. Perhaps this could be his chance to show another side of his personality, to truly get a new start.
"No," he finally replied as he sauntered away. "I don't."
"Yup," she sighed. "He'd make a great Macbeth. "'She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word,'" she quoted sadly.
"Oh, fine," he sighed, stalking back around the corner. "I'll help."
"What brought about the change of heart?"
He smirked as he knelt by her and helped her to stand.
"Do you really want to know?"
"I'm not sure..."
"Likely the wisest course of action. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
He let go of her arm abruptly and started back into the cafeteria.
"Wonderful. Then I don't need to be here."
"Bye," she called after him distractedly.
"I do hope those moronic girls have stopped throwing fish at everyone who isn't Tanker," Malcolm mused as he made his way back into the cafeteria and over to a table in the farthest corner from the door.
"Ew!" Jennifer shrieked as a fish hit her in the head. "I'm all slimy and icky now! I have to go wash up before my hair starts smelling all bad!"
With that, she fled from the cafeteria...or tried to, at any rate.
"Ow!" she exclaimed as she ran headfirst into the wall right next to the door. "Oops...I feel stupid now."
She backed up and tried again.
"Ow!"
And again.
"Ow!"
"Ah, Jennifer," Malcolm sighed, watching this scene unfold from his table. "You are divinely beautiful, but sadly, you seem to have the IQ of...of...of twenty pounds of creamed spinach," he finished with a smirk.
"Ow!" she shrieked again. It seemed that the door was just too great a challenge for her to handle.
"Jennifer!" Tanker exclaimed, hurrying to her aid. "You okay, Jennifer?"
"Yeah," she replied gratefully, backing up and trying again. "Ow!"
"Perhaps I ought to think about what exactly it is I see in her," Malcolm noted to himself.
"Rrrgh..." a muffled noise of anger drifted toward him from a table over.
Malcolm turned to behold Sam Collins, glowering at the door that his friend and his girlfriend had finally managed, with a little assistance from Mrs. Starkey, to walk through. More interesting, though, was the doll clutched tightly in Sam's hand. It was a crude representation of a football player with brown hair and a vacant expression. With his other hand, Sam was grinding the tip of a sharpened pencil into the doll's stomach.
"ARGH!" the howl of pain drifted back into the cafeteria. "FOOTBALL!"
Sam smirked in satisfaction. After all, if Tanker was going to try crap like stealing his, Sam's girlfriend, he deserved no mercy. He grabbed the doll around the stomach and slammed its head repeatedly into the edge of the table, cackling silently to himself as more exclamations of pain from Tanker echoed through the hallway.
"Not much of a likeness. Perhaps a stuffed monkey would have been more appropriate," a voice a table over, drawled. "I must admit, though, that it was a good idea, for a Collins."
"Gee, thanks, Malcolm. You want to try?"
Sam stood and started over to the other table.
"Well..." Malcolm began hesitantly, taking the doll from Sam, "it's out of character, but I'll try it."
Giggling with delight, he set the doll on the floor, and squished it soundly beneath the leg of his chair.
"Now you're getting it!" Sam proclaimed jubilantly.
"So, tell me, not that I'm objecting to putting one of you two in a great deal of pain - I would prefer both, but one's fine, too - but why are we doing this?"
"Sometimes I just get so sick of Tanker," Sam confided, aggrieved. "He's the best quarterback on the team that I was too small to make, he's...um...well, that's about it."
"This is...bitterness that he made the team and you didn't?"
"Well, yeah! The football team gets to ride to all the games with the cheerleaders. I just don't think that's fair! I want to ride with the cheerleaders! Or just ride the cheerleaders."
"Sam! Do you want to take this story up to an 'R' rating?"
"Well...we could do with some blood and guts..."
"Come, now, do you really think there's any room in the budget for that? And keep in mind, we only have one hallway and a cafeteria in this school."
"Yeah, that's true. Oh, look who's back," Sam said resentfully, shaking his fist at Tanker, who had just sauntered back into the cafeteria, looking rather battered, but perfectly happy, clutching his brand new Walkperson.
"Hey, Sam!" he called, making his way over the table. "How's it goin'? Ice, ice, baby," he sang under his breath as he sat. "Ice, ice, baby..."
"Uh...I'm almost afraid to ask, big guy, but what are you listening to?" Sam asked.
"Dmitri Stepanovich Bortnyansky," he replied absently.
"The obscure 18th century Russian composer?" Amp said, approaching the table and seating himself.
"I dunno," Tanker shrugged. "But it sounds cool. Ice, ice, baby..."
"I love that one by him!" Amp proclaimed. "Do you have the next movement, 'Fire, Fire, Baby'?"
"Uh...not on this tape, man," Tanker replied apologetically.
'Wonderful,' Malcolm thought, rolling his eyes. 'Now not only is he stupid, he isn't paying any attention to where he's going or what he's doing, because he's got what few brain cells he has plugged into that little box of wires and circuitry. If only I could somehow use this to my advantage...but how?'
At this point, a little Kilokhan appeared on his left shoulder, gesturing frantically.
"Meat thing!" it exclaimed. "This is it!"
"Oh, no, Malcolm," a little Servo said as it appeared on his right shoulder. "You can't prey on a poor, sweet, helpless boy."
"Who, Tanker?" Malcolm asked the little imaginary Servo. "What's sweet about him?"
"Tanker?" Servo echoed. "Go nuts!"
And with that, he promptly disappeared.
"How odd," Malcolm commented. "Hold on! I just thought of a plan!"
"What, Malcolm?" Sam asked with a frown.
"Er, nothing. I just thought of a wonderful way to...increase school spirit. I should go find the Principal and tell him."
With that, he grabbed his book bag and disappeared, leaving a Malcolm- shaped dust cloud in his wake.
"What a weird guy," Sam commented, grinding the Tanker-doll's head beneath his heel and smirking as Tanker gave a shout of pain.
"Kilokhan, I call you. Come to me from the digital world," Malcolm muttered under his breath to the screen of his laptop, still set up in his locker.
"I am already here. I am in your laptop, stupid-head. It is not like I have anywhere to go."
"I have decided where to send my new virus," Malcolm announced proudly.
"Oh?"
"Yes. We will send the virus into Tanker's personal cassette tape player."
"And what will it do?"
"It will destroy Tanker's brain."
Kilokhan was silent for a moment.
"And so the virus would be, what? One, perhaps two lines of code?"
"Six. I decided upon one for each brain cell."
"I still say it's overkill. What is the virus's exact function?"
"I've utilized a standard search and replace software code. Tanker will be unable to utilize any noun or proper noun. Hmph. If people think he talks a lot about football now, then just wait."
"What is this foot ball of yours?"
"It's a ridiculously stupid meat-thing pastime. It involves two groups of men trying to steal each other's land with a ball as their marker. And apparently, there's some sanction that requires them to wear tight pants as they do so."
"It sounds utterly pointless."
"Right you are, Kilokhan. But try telling that to the armchair jocks."
"I could, you know. I am the overlord of the digital world. I could send a virus to infect their televisions to tell them-"
"Anyway, Kilokhan," Malcolm interrupted, exasperated. "Just bring my virus to life, and we'll call it a day, alright?"
"Oh, very well. I give this virus life!" Kilokhan proclaimed, the screen dividing in two to display Kilokhan on one side, and the virus on the other. Then a beam of energy shot from Kilokhan's eyes, and the virus started waving its little virus-arms and squealing frantically. "It is a rather small virus, isn't it?"
"Oh, mega-byte me, Kilokhan. It's six lines of code! What do you expect?"
"Servo might accidentally step on it," Kilokhan warned.
However, as with all such seers, he was ignored. Malcolm simply smirked.
"You can't destroy what you can't find, now can you?"
"Then how do you suppose that this virus will destroy the Tanker-thing's brain?"
"Just send it, and we'll hope for the best!"
"I'm growing used to that," Kilokhan sighed.
'Well, here I am, on a walk,' Sydney reflected, wandering aimlessly through the halls of North Valley High. 'Boy, am I glad to be out of that madhouse...all those people throwing rotten fish...well, that was mostly the 'di's.' Those girls are sure strange. Hmm...I've pretty much run out of hallways,' she finished, bumping into a camera guy.
"Hey, Sydney," George the Camera Guy greeted her with a casual wave.
"Hi, George. How's life?"
"Not bad. How's the studying going? Anyone find out about that time-turner yet?"
Sydney glared.
"Well, not until you taped yourself asking me about it."
"Oh, it's alright. The sounds off," he lied. J. K. Rowling would pay a fortune for this footage...
"Oh! Great! Hey, is that Malcolm?"
"Who, that?" George pointed.
"Yeah!"
"Sydney, that's a llama."
"...Oops. Hey, what's a llama doing in the school?"
"Ask Mrs. Starkey. I think she's planning on stewing it."
"Oh, that poor llama! I must start a crusade for the rights of llamas! Ooh, there's a book! I don't think I've read that one!"
With that, she skipped down the hallway and picked up the book, flipping through the pages, utterly engrossed.
Two thousand pages and fifteen minutes later, she tossed the book over her shoulder, taking out the llama.
"I was wrong - I've read this one," she giggled, ignoring the small creature's pained squawk as it was hit full-on by 'A Brief History of the First Ninety-Thousand Years of Human Civilization: Unabridged.'
"You read the weirdest stuff," George commented, shaking his head, which caused the camera to bob wildly and give several viewers a strange feeling somewhat like motion sickness.
"Damn you, George!" a little ninja named Yuffie Kisaragi and her violent motion sickness howled in anguish from her living room where she was worshipping before the altar of all that is evil and immoral - watching TV. Then she sighed happily. "Aside from the crappy camera work, the cheesy dialogue, the one-dimensional characters, the lousy action sequences, and the horrendous acting, this show is great!"
"Yuffie, what tripe are you watching now?" Vincent Valentine sighed.
"Quiet, Vinnie! My show's on! I don't talk during your Masterpiece Theatre, do I?"
"!" he said emphatically.
"Okay, we've been married for two years now, and I still don't know what you're going on about."
"!" he repeated.
At this point, their houseguest walked in, bearing a large bowl of popcorn.
"Xellos!" Vincent and Yuffie exclaimed together. "We told you, when you pay for it, you can make popcorn!"
A silence.
"Well?" Vincent prompted impatiently. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"^_^"
Meanwhile, back at North Valley High, Malcolm was wandering the halls aimlessly, utterly at a loss as to what electronic gadget thingy he could infect with a Mega-Virus, that Tanker would likely know how to use.
"Hmm..." he mused. "I don't suppose he would be smart enough to operate a digital watch. And anyway, we've done the digital watch bit."
Smirking at the oddly hilarious recollection of Sydney knocking Tanker unconscious with a punch that ordinarily couldn't have knocked over a house of cards, or even Malcolm, he shook his head.
"I really ought to head to the gym one of these days...if only to see what one looks like. Despite my best intentions, I seem to be about as intimidating as a lab mouse."
This thought trailed off quite abruptly as a sudden impact sent him hurtling to the other end of the hallway, where he collided painfully with the wall, barely hearing an exclamation of,
"Oh, poor little llama!" as he flew.
Once he managed to peel himself from the floor, he glared ferociously at the cause of his sudden and unexpected trip.
"Why don't you watch where you're going?" he growled as intimidatingly as could someone who had just been thrown across a hallway by walking into a girl who had been barely moving.
"Oh, my goodness, Malcolm! What happened to you?"
"You happened to me!"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't feel a thing."
"Shut up!"
She frowned.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, fine. Go away."
"Um...okay, I guess..."
Looking slightly hurt, she turned to leave. Then, as a thought occurred, she stopped and turned back.
"By the way, your audition was really good. Much better than..." She paused, considering. "...than...a lot of them."
"Hmph! Not exactly a challenge, there. I had no competition from the males, and only slight competition from the females."
"Yeah, Jennifer was pretty good, wasn't she?"
"Er...right."
"I probably shouldn't say this," she continued, laughing self-consciously, "since almost everyone else auditioning was one of my best friends - except for Bob; he's everyone's best friend - but I really think you should have gotten the part of Macbeth."
"Yes, so do I. I was so good! Better than the rest of you. You were good, but I was better."
"Well, I wasn't auditioning for the part of Macbeth, was I?" she reminded him a trifle on her dignity.
He gave an incredulous snort.
"You would have done a better job than the bozo who got it."
"A twenty-pound sack of creamed spinach would have done a better job than Tanker."
"That's a rather odd thing to say about one's boyfriend, isn't it?"
"Well, Tanker's a lot of things, but an actor isn't one of them."
"No, he certainly isn't," Malcolm agreed shortly. "I could list some of the other things that he isn't, but I don't think you have that kind of time."
"I think you'd be surprised how much time I have," Sydney said with a secretive smile, patting her book bag in which lay the trusty Time-Turner.
"I won't ask," he assured her, rolling his eyes.
Both were silent for about fifteen seconds, glancing awkwardly in opposite directions.
"Oh, alright, I'll ask," Malcolm said abruptly. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"U-um..." Sydney stammered slightly, looking somewhat like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. "Never mind."
"This isn't that Harry Potter thing again, is it?" he demanded, exasperated. "Do you honestly think that J. K. Rowling has nothing better to do than chase you down because you've stolen a time-traveling gimmick from her little heroine?"
"Ah-HAH!" a voice with a heavy British accent exclaimed in triumph.
The next moment, a woman who may or may not have been J. K. Rowling burst around the corner.
"So it is YOU who have stolen my Time-Turner! Prepare to die!"
"U-um..."
Before Sydney could say another word in her own defence, the crazed woman leapt.
"Ow!" she shrieked as the woman's fist connected with the back of her skull several times in rapid succession. "Malcolm, you wanna help me out here?"
"No," Malcolm replied flatly, leaning against a locker to watch the carnage unfold.
Five minutes later, the woman who may or may not have been J. K. Rowling strode away, clutching her Time-Turner, and glancing smugly over her shoulder.
"Try to keep up your ninety-six hour days NOW, you little Mudblood!"
"Little...what?" Sydney asked weakly, collapsing to the floor. "...Ow..."
"Hey, was that who I think it was?" Amp demanded as he sprinted around the corner.
"It may or may not have been," Malcolm replied with a shrug. "Or so I'm told."
"Wow! I've got to go get her autograph!"
And with that, Amp bolted from the hallway.
"What a numbskull," Malcolm sighed, turning to leave.
"Hey!" Sydney exclaimed.
"Yes?"
"You're seriously just going to walk away and leave me here, bleeding profusely?!"
He shrugged.
"And why not? One of your friends'll find you eventually."
"Don't you have a single spark of human compassion?"
For a moment, he fell silent, considering this. Perhaps he had lived his life as an altogether too callused and inconsiderate person. Perhaps this could be his chance to show another side of his personality, to truly get a new start.
"No," he finally replied as he sauntered away. "I don't."
"Yup," she sighed. "He'd make a great Macbeth. "'She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word,'" she quoted sadly.
"Oh, fine," he sighed, stalking back around the corner. "I'll help."
"What brought about the change of heart?"
He smirked as he knelt by her and helped her to stand.
"Do you really want to know?"
"I'm not sure..."
"Likely the wisest course of action. Can you walk?"
"Yes."
He let go of her arm abruptly and started back into the cafeteria.
"Wonderful. Then I don't need to be here."
"Bye," she called after him distractedly.
"I do hope those moronic girls have stopped throwing fish at everyone who isn't Tanker," Malcolm mused as he made his way back into the cafeteria and over to a table in the farthest corner from the door.
"Ew!" Jennifer shrieked as a fish hit her in the head. "I'm all slimy and icky now! I have to go wash up before my hair starts smelling all bad!"
With that, she fled from the cafeteria...or tried to, at any rate.
"Ow!" she exclaimed as she ran headfirst into the wall right next to the door. "Oops...I feel stupid now."
She backed up and tried again.
"Ow!"
And again.
"Ow!"
"Ah, Jennifer," Malcolm sighed, watching this scene unfold from his table. "You are divinely beautiful, but sadly, you seem to have the IQ of...of...of twenty pounds of creamed spinach," he finished with a smirk.
"Ow!" she shrieked again. It seemed that the door was just too great a challenge for her to handle.
"Jennifer!" Tanker exclaimed, hurrying to her aid. "You okay, Jennifer?"
"Yeah," she replied gratefully, backing up and trying again. "Ow!"
"Perhaps I ought to think about what exactly it is I see in her," Malcolm noted to himself.
"Rrrgh..." a muffled noise of anger drifted toward him from a table over.
Malcolm turned to behold Sam Collins, glowering at the door that his friend and his girlfriend had finally managed, with a little assistance from Mrs. Starkey, to walk through. More interesting, though, was the doll clutched tightly in Sam's hand. It was a crude representation of a football player with brown hair and a vacant expression. With his other hand, Sam was grinding the tip of a sharpened pencil into the doll's stomach.
"ARGH!" the howl of pain drifted back into the cafeteria. "FOOTBALL!"
Sam smirked in satisfaction. After all, if Tanker was going to try crap like stealing his, Sam's girlfriend, he deserved no mercy. He grabbed the doll around the stomach and slammed its head repeatedly into the edge of the table, cackling silently to himself as more exclamations of pain from Tanker echoed through the hallway.
"Not much of a likeness. Perhaps a stuffed monkey would have been more appropriate," a voice a table over, drawled. "I must admit, though, that it was a good idea, for a Collins."
"Gee, thanks, Malcolm. You want to try?"
Sam stood and started over to the other table.
"Well..." Malcolm began hesitantly, taking the doll from Sam, "it's out of character, but I'll try it."
Giggling with delight, he set the doll on the floor, and squished it soundly beneath the leg of his chair.
"Now you're getting it!" Sam proclaimed jubilantly.
"So, tell me, not that I'm objecting to putting one of you two in a great deal of pain - I would prefer both, but one's fine, too - but why are we doing this?"
"Sometimes I just get so sick of Tanker," Sam confided, aggrieved. "He's the best quarterback on the team that I was too small to make, he's...um...well, that's about it."
"This is...bitterness that he made the team and you didn't?"
"Well, yeah! The football team gets to ride to all the games with the cheerleaders. I just don't think that's fair! I want to ride with the cheerleaders! Or just ride the cheerleaders."
"Sam! Do you want to take this story up to an 'R' rating?"
"Well...we could do with some blood and guts..."
"Come, now, do you really think there's any room in the budget for that? And keep in mind, we only have one hallway and a cafeteria in this school."
"Yeah, that's true. Oh, look who's back," Sam said resentfully, shaking his fist at Tanker, who had just sauntered back into the cafeteria, looking rather battered, but perfectly happy, clutching his brand new Walkperson.
"Hey, Sam!" he called, making his way over the table. "How's it goin'? Ice, ice, baby," he sang under his breath as he sat. "Ice, ice, baby..."
"Uh...I'm almost afraid to ask, big guy, but what are you listening to?" Sam asked.
"Dmitri Stepanovich Bortnyansky," he replied absently.
"The obscure 18th century Russian composer?" Amp said, approaching the table and seating himself.
"I dunno," Tanker shrugged. "But it sounds cool. Ice, ice, baby..."
"I love that one by him!" Amp proclaimed. "Do you have the next movement, 'Fire, Fire, Baby'?"
"Uh...not on this tape, man," Tanker replied apologetically.
'Wonderful,' Malcolm thought, rolling his eyes. 'Now not only is he stupid, he isn't paying any attention to where he's going or what he's doing, because he's got what few brain cells he has plugged into that little box of wires and circuitry. If only I could somehow use this to my advantage...but how?'
At this point, a little Kilokhan appeared on his left shoulder, gesturing frantically.
"Meat thing!" it exclaimed. "This is it!"
"Oh, no, Malcolm," a little Servo said as it appeared on his right shoulder. "You can't prey on a poor, sweet, helpless boy."
"Who, Tanker?" Malcolm asked the little imaginary Servo. "What's sweet about him?"
"Tanker?" Servo echoed. "Go nuts!"
And with that, he promptly disappeared.
"How odd," Malcolm commented. "Hold on! I just thought of a plan!"
"What, Malcolm?" Sam asked with a frown.
"Er, nothing. I just thought of a wonderful way to...increase school spirit. I should go find the Principal and tell him."
With that, he grabbed his book bag and disappeared, leaving a Malcolm- shaped dust cloud in his wake.
"What a weird guy," Sam commented, grinding the Tanker-doll's head beneath his heel and smirking as Tanker gave a shout of pain.
"Kilokhan, I call you. Come to me from the digital world," Malcolm muttered under his breath to the screen of his laptop, still set up in his locker.
"I am already here. I am in your laptop, stupid-head. It is not like I have anywhere to go."
"I have decided where to send my new virus," Malcolm announced proudly.
"Oh?"
"Yes. We will send the virus into Tanker's personal cassette tape player."
"And what will it do?"
"It will destroy Tanker's brain."
Kilokhan was silent for a moment.
"And so the virus would be, what? One, perhaps two lines of code?"
"Six. I decided upon one for each brain cell."
"I still say it's overkill. What is the virus's exact function?"
"I've utilized a standard search and replace software code. Tanker will be unable to utilize any noun or proper noun. Hmph. If people think he talks a lot about football now, then just wait."
"What is this foot ball of yours?"
"It's a ridiculously stupid meat-thing pastime. It involves two groups of men trying to steal each other's land with a ball as their marker. And apparently, there's some sanction that requires them to wear tight pants as they do so."
"It sounds utterly pointless."
"Right you are, Kilokhan. But try telling that to the armchair jocks."
"I could, you know. I am the overlord of the digital world. I could send a virus to infect their televisions to tell them-"
"Anyway, Kilokhan," Malcolm interrupted, exasperated. "Just bring my virus to life, and we'll call it a day, alright?"
"Oh, very well. I give this virus life!" Kilokhan proclaimed, the screen dividing in two to display Kilokhan on one side, and the virus on the other. Then a beam of energy shot from Kilokhan's eyes, and the virus started waving its little virus-arms and squealing frantically. "It is a rather small virus, isn't it?"
"Oh, mega-byte me, Kilokhan. It's six lines of code! What do you expect?"
"Servo might accidentally step on it," Kilokhan warned.
However, as with all such seers, he was ignored. Malcolm simply smirked.
"You can't destroy what you can't find, now can you?"
"Then how do you suppose that this virus will destroy the Tanker-thing's brain?"
"Just send it, and we'll hope for the best!"
"I'm growing used to that," Kilokhan sighed.