Chapter 2

March 19, 2001 – Monday

Dear Diary,

Well, the weekend has come and gone. I haven't written, because I spent approximately none of it at home.

Stupid Mr. Joker.

Having no weekend isn't exactly what makes me so angry, although it doesn't help. At least I got overtime pay, which should help when Christmas rolls around and Mum commands that I come see her and Dad this year.

What did annoy me was the way that he just assumed that I had no life to worry about. When I asked him, bluffing heavily, what I was supposed to do about my plans for the weekend, he just gave me this grin that was as good as telling me he wasn't fooled for a second, and said he was sure I would figure it out.

Then, when I asked him what if I'd decided to go on the blind date my friends wanted me for on Saturday night, he adopted this strange expression and told me he'd need me Sunday, too.

The continued testing of Saturday consisted mostly of being hooked up to these machines that Mr. Gentleman whipped up Friday night when he couldn't sleep. The point of the machines, I think, was to measure the strength of the force field created by the "heightened self-preserving luck" that I certainly have never noticed, but I think the doctors and scientists just wanted to get back at me for breaking all their equipment on Friday.

I think they were pleased with the results; either that, or they were cackling with evil glee at my clear discomfort.

Whichever it was, having obtained their results, they moved onto seeing if my intensified dumb luck could exist without my slight tendency to have minor accidents every now and again, but certainly no more so than anyone else might if they had to pick their way through an office like Mr. Joker's.

Now, I was a little curious as to how one would have their clumsiness surgically removed, and I must say, I was sorely disappointed. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't to be seated in the corner on a stool, with a massive world atlas balanced on my head, for several hours.

Honestly, I know it's all in the interest of science, but my back and shoulders are still aching from sitting bolt upright on a little stool for five long hours.

And that's even after Mr. Joker kindly tried to help today when I mentioned it with slightly more emphasis than one might deem strictly necessary. In other words, when I whined periodically for an hour until he got tired of listening to me.

It was a little strange to be partially undressed by my boss, in his office, and I don't understand why it was strictly necessary to take my shirt off to rub my shoulders a little, but I will say that he's very, very good at it.

Both things, actually.

Sigh.

As though I wasn't having enough delightful and lurid dreams about Mr. Joker skillfully doing fun things with his hands.

Ahem! Onto the events of Sunday before the ink starts running where a thin trail of drool falls across it.

Basically, Sunday was mostly reserved for simulating situations similar to those that I might encounter on missions, but in a more controlled environment, with no expensive and ridiculously breakable equipment hanging about. Once again, it involved the team of scientists coming at me with paint-ball guns, but this time it was done in a massive gymnasium, out of which all the equipment had been moved.

I think it's very unfair that they're angry with me because a piece dislodged from the light fixture and almost landed on one of them as they aimed at me. After all, it's not as though I climbed up there to dislodge it.

While we're on the subject of things that were utterly not my fault, how on earth did that large tree branch choose just the precise moment that poor Dr. Stevens was underneath it, preparing to tackle me to the ground and stab me repeatedly with a rubber knife?

I do hope he's feeling better today. Mr. Joker said he wasn't angry, that he was thrilled that the unnatural level of self-preservation was that effective.

These, of course, didn't happen until after they realized, in an incident that caused all of us a lot of pain, that my dumb luck was directly linked to my – oh, very well, I'll admit it – clumsiness.

Basically, the disasters still occurred when I was under threat, but they sort of…occurred to me, too. Which is how we all ended up with rather massive headaches when they strapped me down and dropped another bowling ball on my head. This one connected full-on, about which I might laugh in fifty years' time as Mr. Gentleman said I would when I politely expressed my desire to be allowed to kill the man who actually dropped the ball, as it were, although I doubt it. Then the bowling ball bounced to the ground, rolled across the floor, and struck the coat rack in the corner, which came right down on poor Dr. Clow's head. Dr. Clow backed up, clutching his head, and backed right into a shelf, which held several very large books, one of which fell off and hit Mr. Joker in the head. I apologized profusely and ran to help him, but tripped over my own foot and crashed headlong into him.

Then we both lay on the floor, him very dazed and me very, very happy. If only I could arrange to "accidentally" trip and land on him more often…

Oh, dear, the ink is running again.

At any rate, that was Sunday.

I'm still not sure exactly why it was necessary when most of the day was a repeat of Saturday, but I'm sure Mr. Joker had a good reason.

Today began surprisingly normally, so much so that I began to harbor the foolish hope that Mr. Joker had forgotten his Good Idea.

This hope was quickly dashed this afternoon when I brought him in a cup of tea at around two-thirty, and he asked me to run back for three more, or four, rather, since I would of course be joining them.

Now, you must understand, although he is very nice when it comes to letting me – occasionally – take breaks, and sometimes even have tea with him, this does not happen when he has a meeting.

When something this strange happens, it can only lead to bad.

And it did.

Quaking inwardly to the point that I nearly dropped the tray several times, I brought in four more cups.

My nerves didn't steady when Mr. Joker pointed out, unnecessarily, that Agent Paper, Miss Deep, and Mister Anderson had come for a meeting at his request.

I bid each of them a slightly shaky hello, already sickeningly aware of where this was heading.

My Women's Intuition did not disappoint; just as we began to sip carefully at our tea, Mr. Joker told Agent Paper that the three of them would be running a few "trainer missions", and that I would be accompanying them.

Everyone reacted basically as I expected they would, aside from Yomiko, who looked frankly delighted, when I had anticipated only politely feigned enthusiasm.

Miss Makuhari executed the classic "spit-take" directly at poor Mr. Drake, and when she was finished sputtering, eyed me dubiously and asked when I had made the great and utterly illogical leap from useful secretary to useless field agent. Of course, she didn't phrase it this way, although I'd wager that she wanted to, poor girl.

I certainly did.

Mr. Drake simply wiped the tea off the side of his face, expression never changing, and muttered something about this not being his lucky day. At least, he added sardonically, I'd fit in with Agent Paper.

Poor Yomiko! I don't know what she did to him to deserve a dig like that!

Obviously, she didn't either, because she forgot her rather ill-timed delight and protested hotly, before blushing brightly and sending me an apologetic smile when Miss Makuhari kicked her ankle gently.

I don't blame Yomiko, honestly. If I weren't me, I wouldn't want to be sent out on a mission with me.

As I am me, I don't want to be sent out on a mission at all.

At this point, I asked a little timidly exactly what a "trainer mission" entailed.

Mr. Joker chuckled and asked Yomiko if she would like to explain it.

Two little pink spots of pure joy forming on her cheeks, words coming quickly with enthusiasm, Yomiko gave a brief summary: the four of us would be seeking out books that had been loaned to various places, but had not been returned within the agreed-upon allotted time.

Well. At least her giddy joy made a little more sense now.

"So, basically," I said, certain that I had to have missed something, "we're hunting down overdue books?"

Mr. Joker gave a rather frightening grin, and honestly, I swear, with no word of exaggeration or untruth, that his teeth glinted at the corner.

"Well, we are still a library, after all," he said.

Ugh.

I have to help forcibly round up overdues with a bibliomaniac and two other agents whom I have the sneaking suspicion, are impatient with newbies.

AND Mr. Joker just pinged!

What a horrid day.

And now, since we're leaving tomorrow morning, I have to go pack.

Groan.

I hate packing.

Possibly even more than cooking, and considering I have had kitchen utensils attack me on sight (although, that could have just been Agent Fork's idea of a joke), that's a lot.

It's simply an exercise in aggravation.

First, one has the fun of trying to decide what one will need, and of course, no one has bothered to tell me what one traditionally packs for a mission, or how long we'll be gone.

Humph. They'd better not laugh at what I bring if it ends up the wrong thing.

Then, of course, comes the fun of realizing that you still need to use something you've already packed – and packed at the bottom of your duffel.

This leads to poking and diving in a manner that dislodges everything in the bag, which leads to having to re-pack, which is invariably harder.

I will never, ever understand why this is. If it goes in a certain way once, one would think that it would work a second time.

My theory is that objects expand when exposed to out-of-suitcase air. Will make a note to further study this matter.

And so, rather than whining to my diary about having to pack, I might as well get up off my bottom and do it.

Whimper.

Your faithful servant,

Wendy.

March 20, 2001 – Tuesday

Dear Diary,

I can already tell that I shan't have much time over the next few days for uninterrupted scribbling, and thus shall be experimenting with a different style than my usual ranting for pages whether I have something important to say or not, which entails jotting things down periodically as they come to be, indicating the time. Must leave immediately to catch helicopter, as Drake has threatened to drag me on by my hair if I don't get it in gear, so to speak.

9:30 a.m. – Will write later; a little busy realizing that I get violently airsick when in a helicopter, particularly a helicopter flown by an acne-riddled boy who has never done it before.

10:15 a.m. – Am feeling marginally better, although fearing for my life as Miss Makuhari gives me death-glare after death-glare for being airsick directly onto her bag.

10:16 a.m. – Am fearing for my life even more, as have realized that Miss Makuhari's bag was open at the time. Oh, dear.

10:17 a.m. – Have gotten off with a mild warning. It seems as though Miss Makuhari understands airsickness, and thus I shall inhabit this mortal coil a little while longer.

10:18 a.m. – Am now simply having fun annoying Drake, who is wondering in his gruff, disinterested way, what the hell I am scribbling about. It is apparently "not his lucky day".

10:19 a.m. – Suspect that Yomiko is reading over my shoulder, having finished her book five minutes after we stepped onto the helicopter. It's been nearly an hour; she must be going through withdrawal.

10:20 a.m. – Am going to stop writing for a time, as Drake has threatened to throw my diary out the window if I don't stop my damn scribbling. Do not wish for innocent passers-by to be killed by extremely high-velocity diary, and thus shall comply.

10:50 a.m. – Helicopter has hit slight air turbulence. Not feeling well…

10:51 a.m. – Must not look too well, either; Miss Makuhari has just slid her bag away from me, giving me a wary look. Yomiko is now looking surreptitiously through it for something to read. Must advise her that whistling innocently does not actually remove you from suspicion. Personal experience to back this up. It is exceedingly difficult to "put one over" on Mr. Joker, as it were.

10:52 a.m. – Am feeling much better after writing. Believe I may be onto something here…

10:53 a.m. – Mr. Drake must have been bitten by a diary as a young child, judging from the lengths he is going to in order to get this one out of his sight. Has just suggested pleasant small-talk. If he suggests a sing-along, will authorize electro-shock on his behalf.

Yomiko currently reading the back of Miss Makuhari's shampoo bottle.

11:22 a.m. – Am glad to report that no electro-shock became necessary.

Am also glad to report that Yomiko's last substitute teaching assignment went very well, that Drake's daughter is more adorable than ever and is at the top of her class, and that Yomiko and Miss Makuhari have become roommates. Not sure if this is exactly the case, but since they both said hesitantly, blushing a little, that they supposed it was when I asked after Miss Makuhari made some reference to doing their laundry, have inferred that it is something like that. Am very glad for them; clearly, they are very close friends.

11:23 – Have forgotten to include the most notable thing: the matter of Miss Makuhari's survival of being shot into space in a rocket! Completely forgot to wonder about this in light of my own problems.

Am wondering if this makes me an undeniably selfish person.

Have concluded that it does not.

The story runs more or less like this: after Yomiko and the book-parachute (honestly, I don't know if I would have wanted to trust that thing, and have wondered if that wasn't something to do with Miss Makuhari's opting to remain behind to certain death that turned out to not be so certain), Miss Makuhari turned around and hit her head on something. Apparently, her superpower activates itself when she is unconscious, which led her to fall through the bottom of the rocket. She came back to consciousness half of the way down (quite a nasty way to wake up, I expect), and was able to land safely, once again using her superpower and a very conveniently-placed haystack.

I must wonder, when such a stupefying display of dumb luck exists in the world, why on earth is anyone interested in the meager little coincidences that pass for it in my case.

11:25 a.m. – Have given up trying to answer the unanswerable, although I may present the matter to Mr. Joker as a reason that I ought to be allowed to leave the field team and come home.

Yomiko has moved onto reading Miss Makuhari's conditioner bottle.

11:26 a.m. – Have decided not to write anything further for now, as Mr. Drake is giving me a distinctly threatening look that suggests a diary plummeting helplessly from a helicopter toward the head of some unsuspecting person on the ground. Would still just as soon my harmless girlish secrets and innermost thoughts not end up being the death of someone.

10:58 p.m. – A lot has happened since 11:26 this morning that I'm just dying to write down; unfortunately, two things prevent me from doing so.

First of all, I'm almost too bloody tired to form a thought, let alone transfer it into writing.

Secondly, I've had the extremely ill luck to room with Drake while we're in Yellowknife (Yellowknife! Bloody northern Canada, for the love of Pete!), and we all know how he feels about diaries.

Must make a note to try to pick out of him exactly what traumatic incident in his childhood involved a harmless book of loose-leaf.

Must do this later, as—

12:47 a.m. – Have stolen confiscated diary back from Mr. Drake, and have also stolen his socks in retaliation. Humph! That ought to show him!

Am currently scribbling away in the washroom, since turning on the lamp would wake up Mr. Drake and incur his wrath.

Although I'm certain I could give him a good fight if I had to, I'd rather it not come to that.

Have just decided that I am too tired to write anything, and am thus going to bed. Will relate events of the past several hours, tomorrow.

And so, dear diary, I bid you good-night.

Your faithful servant,

Wendy.

End Notes: Okay; the plan was to have each chapter composed of a working week's worth of journal entries. Unfortunately, Wendy has become a little too wordy for me to do that.

Beat

Okay, fine. Rhianwen has become a little too wordy. :o)

Either way, whoever we shall blame, this week's worth of entries has just reached 7000 words, and I still had a wee bit more to write. And a wee bit for me means about a thousand words. I have never written more than 6000 words for a single chapter, and I do not mean to start now, as people tell me as it is that I'm too damn wordy, and that shorter chapters would make my work far more interesting.

Of course, they say the same thing about my author's notes.

Beat

Hey, wait a minute!

Um…

Rhianwen scurries away nervously, then remembers something else, and scurries back less nervously

Anyway, since I'm almost finished the rest of the week, the next chapter should be up fairly soon. Thanks!

And please review, even if it's just to say that it sucked. I likes my feedback! :o)