A/N: Okay, Wolfie. ::chains self to computer chair:: Just give me drugs, water, food, and periodic bathroom breaks and I'll be just fine doing nothing but writing for you! Two nights of Fulton-dreams?? I'm jealous as hell! ...But I guess it fair, since I get to spend 3/4 of my day thinking about Fulton. ^_^

I'm making this into more of a prequel to "Might as Well." I know, they're total spectral opposites in tone, and there are a few vague sort of plotholes, but I'll fix it up and make it make sense. Trust me....::looks ominious::

I apologize for making you all wait for this chapter; it's just that I haven't had computer access for a few days, since I was spending it at my uncle's house instead of my aunt's.

****

"Unforgiven IV"

Fulton didn't even bother to hide the boredom-induced yawn from the teacher as he let his head plop onto his folded arms. He heard the woman sigh, and she said nastily, "Fulton Reed, do you want to repeat fourth grade again, or will you pay attention to the lesson?"

"Third time's the charm," Fulton shot back, his voice muffled.

Because Fulton had spent a lot of time relocating during his first try at fourth grade (when he was nine), the school system thought that he couldn't possibly be at the same level as his peers, so he was in fourth grade again at age ten. If it was possible, he was even more sick of the pointless little drama known as public school than before. He knew the lessons they were teaching like the back of his hand, not because he'd been through the level once before, but because he was really quite advanced for his age. Had he ever bothered to show real effort in the work, he would have had top grades every year, but because he had stumbled onto the truth of the matter early in life, he didn't.

The truth was, school was nothing. There was no way that a truly intelligent child /won't/ find a way to get out of school; some simply take different paths than others, but for the most part they end up content with their lives. And those stupid children who don't understand what they are being taught, those who lie and cheat their way through school find out later that they really weren't all that smart. They end up miserable because they have deluded themselves into believing too many lies, some, sadly, of their own making.

Fulton hadn't yet grasped all the suble nuances of the truth, but he knew the basic outline of it. He knew about kids who cheated on tests and passed; he, by contrast, understood the material but gave mostly smart-ass answers and ended up with C minuses. It didn't matter to him.

*-*-*-*

Fulton drinks straight from his carton of chocolate milk to wash down the apple he just ate, having thrown out the disgusting burger which came with the free lunch he gets every day. The other kids avoid him as they see him coming.

'People are afraid of me, but they don't know me. Would they still be scared if they knew about my dad beating me up, or would they make fun of me?' Fulton leans against the rusty fence and stares at a group of kids chatting by the monkey bars. Two are white, one with light brown hair, the other with glasses and a bandanna. The other two are black and look like brothers. They see him looking and shift uncomfortably, turning their backs on him. Fulton sighs.

"Here piggy! Here piggy!"

Fulton gazes off in the direction of the shout. A short, chubby boy is running as fast as he can away from some bigger, stronger sixth graders. Other fourth graders are yelling, "Run, Karp, run!"

'Who cares?' Fulton wonders, spitting on the ground. 'Nobody ever cares about me, why should I care about anyone else?'

*-*-*-*

The house Fulton walks to after school is a trashy duplex with green '79 Plymouth Volare on cinderblocks in the front yard. He goes to the door on the left side and unlocks it with his key. Throwing his black bookbag on the dirty carpet, he yells,

"I'm home!"

"Fulton?" A female voice yells back, from the kitchen.

"Yeah!"

"Get your butt in here, kid, I'm makin' cookies!"

Fulton laughs mockingly. "You mean, you're trying to kill us again, Feebs," he says, poking his head into the kitchen, which looks like a disaster zone. A tall girl--with gold-brown skin, hazel eyes, and frizzy black hair tamed and spiked with Vaseline--clad all in flour-daubed black glares at him, holding a wooden spoon in a threatening manner. The effect is ruined, really, by the lumpy cookie dough dripping off the spoon and splatting on her right boot.

At fifteen, Phoebe de Los Fuegos is the oldest of the four foster children living here, in the home of Kyle and Lorraine Green. The Greens are on welfare, both work two jobs, and they mostly take in foster kids for the money--$4848 per child--that they are paid. Not to say that they are bad parents, exactly. More like absentee parents than anything.

For an hour, Phoebe and Fulton attempt to salvage her attempts at cooking, but Fulton gives up when Phoebe loses her temper and throws a mixing bowl at the pantry door. The garbage disposal is still gurgling down the remaining dough when the doorbells rings repeatedly and someone starts banging on the door.

The two older children exchange a look and groan simultaneously, "The twins..."

Phoebe grabs a rolling pin, and Fulton takes the wooden spoon. Then, the teenager sneaks out into the living room, followed by the boy. She slinks over to the door and slides the deadbolt unlocked, jumping back with her wooden weapon held at ready.

There are screams as twin boys run into the house, backpacks held over their heads to counteract Phoebe's attempts to knock them senseless. Fulton sees his chance and bolts for the bathroom.

Alan and Chad Turning are two hyperactive little eight-year-olds who make life at the Greens' a hell for both Fulton and Phoebe. The only time it is quiet in the house anymore is when Alan and Chad are not there, or when the two of them are sleeping. Right now, Phoebe is shrieking, "Fucking little spastic bastards, get the hell over here!" A crash, and then the howled, "Fuck you!"

Suddenly, the bathroom door bursts open, the doorknob going into the gaping hole in the wall--created in the first five minutes that the twins arrived a few months ago. Fulton roars, "Get the hell out! Have you never heard of privacy before?!"

*-*-*-*

"Hey, guys," Jason greets Fulton and Haley, sitting across from them on the floor of the stoners' shed. The girl scrutinizes Jason's appearance, taking in his large hiking backpack, sleeping bag, and plastic grocery bag full of canned food. Her dull blue eyes are suspicious, but she says nothing.

Fulton asks softly, "Are you leaving?"

Jason nods. "I figured I ought tell you guys."

"Where you gonna go?" Haley whispers, pushing her long black hair out of her face. Jason shrugs and replies,

"Dunno. Canada, I guess. Or maybe just over the St. Croix into Wisconsin first, whatever." He rummages through his ugly heavy brown jacket and withdraws a plastic baggie of weed. Dropping it into Haley's hands, he mutters, "You guys enjoy." Halwy squeals with delight and pulls some zigzag paper out of her shirt pocket.

"Lovely parting gift, Jay." Fulton says dryly. He shifts his weight so that his one hand supports it. "You look all guilty, dude."

With another shrugs, Jason replies, "Well, I know for a fact that I'm going to hell..."

"Bullshit," Fulton snaps. Haley snickers, looking up briefly from her task of rolling a joint. Fulton continues, "Why would you go to hell? You're not bad; I mean, you're not good, but you're not /bad/ either. It's not like you /killed/ someone."

Upon seeing the painfully guilty look on Jason's face, Haley gasps, "You didn't!"

"No!" Jason shouts, scandalized. He rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Look at it this way. I gave acid to a dying girl and a ten-year-old boy...if that isn't a ticket on the handbasket to hell, what is?"

"Oh, fuck, you decided to get all moral on us," Haley groans.

Fulton sneers at him, "Whatcha gonna do in Wisconsin, then, Jay? Screw nineteen-year-old crackwhores instead?" Jason flips him off, scowling. Haley intercedes, holding out the now-lighted joint.

"Going-away gift," she mumbles, "Peace pipe."

"What?" Jason demands, taking a hit. Haley smiles in a hazy, vague sort of way.

"Bad karma for you to leave us unhappy."

"I'll toke to that," Fulton deadpans.

*-*-*-*

A few hours later, Fulton trekked over to his alley, hockey stick under one arm, a couple of pucks cradled in his other. Dropping the equipment on the cracked pavement, he found the old black steamer trunk he usually practices with and set it up near the main road.

He took a deep breath of the cold air as he adjusted his grip on the stick, ignoring the sounds of TVs from within the buildings on either side, ignoring the buzz of traffic in front of him. He swung back, feeling anticipation coiling in his stomach, hot and bright, like a lightbulb filament. As the wooden face of the stick made contact with the rubber side of the puck, he felt the familiar thrill of release, joyous to sense the power of his body and his arms channeled through the hockey stick--an extension of himself--and making the puck soar...

Only to bounce off the lid of the trunk.

That was no matter; Fulton was serene. At least it hadn't gone flying into the street and broken a car window. He'd done that twice, and had no desire to repeat the experiences. The second shot missed as well. The third made it in. The fourth didn't. The fifth, well...

The fifth shot missed completely, hitting a pedestrian unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire. Fulton swore under his breath and turned to run for the fence behind him.

"Fuck! You little punk, watch where...Fulton?"

Fulton breathed again. "Jason. Dude, sorry about that."

Jason bent down and picked up the puck, absently rubbing where it had hit him. He would most likely have a bruise right below his ribcage tomorrow. Tossing the puck in the air and catching it, he waved it back and forth as he held it out to Fulton. "Wouldn't it be smarter to shoot toward the /back/ of the alley?"

Dutifully, Fulton positioned himself to face the back of the alley, lining up the shot with his last puck. He fired it with all his might, and watched with disinterest as it smacked into a metal trashcan, bouncing off and leaving a huge dent. The thing hit a fire escape next, ricocheted, and skidded along the ground until Fulton put out a booted foot to halt its path.

"No," he said simply.

Jason shook his head, marvelling at the craziness of his young friend. As he walked away, probably for good, Fulton distinctly heard him mumbling, "And the sonofabitch don't even know how to skate..."

~~To be continued...~~