To think he once had the entire world in his hands, before a mere decade into adulthood had Mayfield split away, adopt a 'screw you, this and it' attitude.

Even when life had been wholly rigged against them, his first countrymen never lost those defining traits, those that took wasteland and ragtag tribes to turn them into thriving societies.

Diligence, while they built themselves up; toughness, for the completed thousand-mile treks to return home; tenacity, for the '60s Freedom Rides, and optimism, over never-ending climbs through the worlds of sport, politics & artistry.

In that moment, he'd have traded his entire degree and more for such tools to succeed…

Facing that fresh hell once more, Mayfield had clipped his birds and plodded forward, not caring for the arched backs of Wall Street wolves as he passed by. Had already paid his price for screaming himself hoarse, so chose to keep his cards close until his next encounter of misery.

He'd been kicking up dirt while trekking some beaten path, before he raised his head to spot an old statehouse of sorts. A potential squatter's paradise to have him rub hands at first, least until he caught the faded front sign for 'Cookieville', and eventually, the perfect visual analogy it represented of his life; abandoned, beat to hell, and left to die.

Just as Mayfield closed himself off, so too did the house through those dust-caked broken windows, the subtle whiffs of noxious air. Seeing the door padlocked shut, and not daring to climb in for fear of getting sliced open, the kid could only slide down the stonework to contemplate his Fates.

Only to spot a small maintenance shed, shaded in a grove of dead trees. Relief for the rare boons of an open door and the various tools, including a sledgehammer of significant heft.

But of all days to be so sapped & starved; whatever swing he could muster at that front door, it didn't budge a single inch.

"No, not now! I've failed enough, shamed myself enough… Hurt them enough."

That fury and hurt soon brought forth a surge of adrenaline, a dare to defy the devils as he saw that woman and those citizens in the door, a garbled curse to embarrass a sailor before he squeezed that handle tight.

"I… will… BEAT THIS!"

Face and feet on fire, the wood grains frayed and splintered apart as each minute virtually dragged into months. One almighty swing after another, before the hole grew big enough to squeeze himself and his sledge through for further use.

Even for knowing the line about beggars & choosers, the squelchy floors, mutated green mould, creepy yet curious head-turning owls, and rancid smells had him ready to race back out, dry heaving all the way.

Cookieville; sweet by name, rotten disgrace by nature. But better to have any roof and bed than to sleep on the cold concrete.

Still fired up from adrenaline and despicable fantasies, he spared no door from his rampage until he found ten rather cast-off beds, lined up in two neat rows along opposite walls. A chance to catch some proper winks for once, as he stripped down and tossed his outfit, letting splatters of sick smear the walls.

Least until his engines cooled, until the aches and pains began to stomp in lockstep over his entire body… The pounding migraines, the fractured face, the desert throat, the empty stomach, and now, the blistered anklebones over the bed's steel end. Toss, turn, toss, turn, toss, turn; over & over…

"Who keeps this cruel joke going at my expense?"

Got his answer for the presence of one intruder, and a sound of some baby babble, that had grown to alarm him outright… Once that furry black creature came into focus, in between a dozen more tosses and rolls, the realisation of not being alone had him spring up and bulge his eyes. Little taller than his ankle, yet a sombre presence in a teal jumpsuit, a judgemental stare, and a clipboard that he might've crushed in his palm.

To a further double-take, those babbles became big sentences, became a chasm-deep pomposity in both tone & voice, Royalty, if he dared to guess…

"Dear Gods, you're a greater tragedy than even I feared."

"Gee, no shit?" Couldn't think, nor say, much else.

All business if nothing else, the creature flicked through his papers and ticked something off. Seemed to go through quite the list, and check with some scrutiny beforehand.

"You must be Thomas Mayfield, I presume?"

Dared not drop his jaw, so settled for palming the side of his head… A decision he regretted quick, as he gritted something to prompt action out of that ankle-biter.

"Okay, hang on… I'm going to transmit your thoughts to speech, so we can communicate."

At that point, and against the creature's knowing grin, Mayfield's spine only stiffened as he heard his own disembodied voice. Soon the questions began to fire off in bursts.

"What on Earth are you? The hell is happening now? Where the fuck am I? How did you know my name? And…"

"We're quite an ancient and powerful race, we know lots of things. And in due time."

"No, no, screw that nonsense, little guy! To say nothing of being covered in vomit, getting exiled by these 'animals', and trying to walk on bleeding feet while dry and empty, I was beaten to within an inch of my LIFE! So start explainin' now, and make it good."

A stare to nothing particular and a silent babble, before they locked eyes again: "Oh, very well then. I am Lord Nibbler of Eternium, my race's Ambassador to Earth. You were chosen to participate in our latest venture, a series of experiments…"

"I'm sorry, experiments? So everything I've faced was just some stupid game, to test some ridiculous theory of yours?"

"Indeed, one we've called 'Project FTTP' in particular. Where we've scrounged up humans from past periods of time to understand—given a completely new setting—whether they'll survive and even thrive, or just die."

"Great, just great, so it WAS you arseholes who sent me here! All without a dollar to my name, no other clothes to my back, no way to keep me going and my face caved in?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, we do take responsibility. But most of what brought you here, that's on you."

"Okay, so aside from your deserved dose of 'screw you', where were you when I first arrived, huh? I mean, would've been nice if I was given a heads-up."

"We were there from the start! Were afraid you might've been dead before we had the chance to talk, so took it upon ourselves to bring you here. The express flight, the drag-arounds, the freeze… Where we left you, we marked a metal box not five feet from your face. Would've saved yourself hours of hassle if you just opened it."

"Pardon me, Your Furriness, but are you a friggin' moron? Impossible nonsense aside, you tellin' me that between some little metal box and this entire Gods-damned city, that I would even notice it?"

"If I'm a moron, I shudder for your intellect. Guess I never had to wait until the 31st century to come down and see you, since you clearly know everything. You won't need me here in New New York, I can just tell… Do you believe in impossibilities, now?"

Mayfield's palms slid gently down his face, a sudden cold wind of sorts seizing his chest. Even before the cyclops, flying cars and people tubes, it was obvious that he shouldn't have been here. If such creatures were prepared to go through all that trouble to 're-educate' him, he hated to imagine the other twisted games they could play.

"What the hell do I do now, dress in drag and dance the Macarena?"

"It is your life, to do as you please. However, I'm afraid we cannot help you beyond the very basics, nor can we send you back. Though frankly, you'd surprise even me if you chose to return."

"Are you for fuckin' real?! Sure I lost my job, was behind in everything, and might've well faced the streets … But do you think you did me a world of favours in forcing me to fend for myself, in this horrible new world? I'll kill you, you mongrel bastard!"

"You were more or less dead when we found you! Maybe a little gratitude would be nice…"

The creature's drawn-out exasperation, to the other's tightening lips and raising eyebrow.

"Yeah, shove your gratitude up your arse, freak… Least the suffering would've been over if you left me there."

"Despite your attitude, we cannot start you empty-handed. As an Ambassador, and Supreme Fuzzler in charge, it was my duty to advise of and deliver your basic care package. Check under the bed, if you'll please."

"So that was the horrible scraping noise I blocked earlier… Anyway, given all your meddling, you really think your care package's gonna be enough? What made you think I graduated summa-cum-laude in stupid?"

"Don't make me answer that."

Mayfield's face began to slow-cook for the insult, as he clicked those locks and sat surprised by the creature's merit. Fresh citrus-and-linen outfits, cell phone, a book of contacts, and some currency featuring monsters, a brain-headed man, and thankfully, the classic Benjamins. At least until he noticed the latter's severe diet in value.

Still, the 20s, 30s and 10s in his hand had, upon quick mental math, given him a grand to get on his feet.

"Huh, guess you are helpful after all… Okay, how do I sort out my more immediate priorities?"

"Most concerns of yours should be in your book, and there might be an opportunity in due time. Good luck young Mayfield, you'll do fine here… Indeed, you cannot possibly do worse."

"Yeah yeah, now piss off you snot-nosed little squirt, I'm sick to death of hearing you."

"I imagine you're going to, whether you like it or not."

A promised threat from them both, before Mayfield stood to confirm his second chance at life. Taking good care to wipe his hands down, he took careful time to slide on his new clothes, before dialling the cab company.

Almost lost his footing upon the shakes & rumbles—lying down in panic for it—until the repeated loud honks reassured him. Grabbed his cash, stumbled down the steps, shivered for the hole left behind, and scurried in, ending the cabbie's prying from just a glance in the mirror.

"Whoa okay, don't ask, I've got the picture bub… Doctor's clinic it is."

¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)¸.·ˆ¯)

Relieved to hear the words of "That'll be $15, pal", Mayfield gave a Blob and stumbled out, much worse for the bumpy journey. His next of many surprises upon grabbing a number and taking a seat; got only sweet, golden silence when yesterday, he might as well have waved an Al-Qaeda flag.

Had to be dreaming, as he waited around… Fresh clothes couldn't change a man that quick, could they?

Couldn't ponder for long as his name was sounded over the PA, hesitant to move until he got hurried along. Was sure they made a mistake; doctors in his time took twice as long for a tenth of the people waiting. Approaching the doctor who ticked his name, he heard a strange hum for several seconds before they groaned, shook their head, and rummaged through the cupboard.

No countdown nor warning as they prepped those two large syringes, and Mayfield gave a lip-pressed scream as they punctured his forearms.

"Oh quit complaining! Give those fifteen minutes or less, and you'll be fine. Next patient!"

Mayfield was about to protest, but he was ushered out, door slammed in his face, before he could get a word in.

"Uh, thanks arsehole."

Ludicrous to think that he'd be any useful… At least before he heard the whirs, buzzes and whees start up inside his head.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"

If seizing his head didn't do it, the way he vanished into the bathroom had those multiple eyes square on him. Not that he cared against being stuck in panics and growls, all before it ended just minutes after.

A glance towards the mirror had him inspect even closer, a haunted blink to give… His face had returned, and what was more, he could twiddle his jaw, breathe in those sweet orchards, and slap his cheek without cursing to prove it. Once he paced the floors, not a grimace to be had, he drowned his face in cold water, shaking his head.

" Yeah, nah, just imagining things. No scars, no mental issues, no spee… Sweet thundering blazes, I just spoke? What the FUCK is happening?!"

"Hey buddy, we don't need your one-man show!"

Didn't think he had drawn a crowd, but a red tinge flushed his cheeks as he shuffled out to meet the man's eye: "Sorry mate, sure didn't intend it."

Still muttering and pinching his nose, he approached the counter to pay his fee, where what happened after had him threaten to knock the entire queue down like dominoes. Once his two Brainos were scanned, they either vanished into light or 'appeared' as his change, a $5 Lincoln note which spoke the famous foreword of his Gettysburg Address.

Mayfield had to grip the desk to prevent his fall, much to the receptionist's tapped fingers.

"It's just your change, sir… No need to get so worked up."

"Oh sure, totally natural for my money to do magic tricks, to TALK… No cash registers and card machines now?"

"Look kid, whichever century or world you're from, I'm not paid to give history lessons, okay? Now quit holding up the line, please."

Curious as to whether he'd been warped again, at least for such civility over last night, he chose to scratch his chin and heed the receptionist's words. Had other plans, once he found Alien Overlord & Taylor.

The moment he stepped inside that department store, he was reminded of home, and of a finger-snap set of ideas to fuel up, stock up, and get cleaned up.

First, a chance to observe what the working man enjoyed upon an elevator to the top-floor food court, a gaze over the McPluto's menu. Directing traffic in letting the others order ahead, he took his time to come to a decision.

Two large Fat Dwarf combos, two bucket-sized 'containers' of fries, two barrel-like 'cups' of water, and a cold Sundae mountain to top the lot off. One fellow patron had pressed her lips for the glutton's goldmine in his hands, literal or otherwise, and stopped handing out obesity pamphlets to barge into his space.

"The hell's wrong with you? That's enough food for a starving nation, you pig! Have you no shame?"

"Then fuck off and feed them lady,"—he lashed out—"for I've paid, it's mine, end of story!"

Though not without her glare of malice, he heard only bites, chomps, munches and slurps in the glorious minutes to come. Amidst the gulps, silent burps and tearful cries of "Oh, man!", he gave a satisfied sigh while patting that above-the-belt bulge. If even desperation tasted that good, maybe he wouldn't care to cook…

Those storms settled, he scoured his local stores for hygiene products and backpacks. A good hour of searching and asking around later, it surprised him to spend only a few Brainos… Might've bet on double or triple back home.

A quick bathroom break later, he scratched the hairs on his neck and started for the barbershop. Inside sweeping hairs, a soul-man of sorts who didn't look wearied despite his age.

"Sit down partner, come on in! How can I freshen you up today?"

"Well that was quite friendly… Never mind, just a clean shaved head, clean my neck up, and I'll take a one-and-half for my face, please."

"I do enjoy a fresh-and-simple to kick off my morning. Take a seat."

"Thanks, and hey, do I smell off in any way?"

"Honest truth? You sure do, son. But compared to my worst customers, I'd bottle your scent."

"Huh, sure wasn't expecting that either…" Could only curl a lip and eyebrow.

"Just don't break foul on me, dig? Let me tell you a story…"

Fascinating, to hear how he held court in the 2970s rediscovery of disco, as inventions such as anti-grav 'pumps', hovercars and more cracked open a world of new fancy moves, quality spins on old classics, and a reinvigorated strain of night fever…

Shut his eyes, went to relax, and daydreamed about it, the warm water massaging his scalp…

"And you're all done, my man!"

"Good grief, already? Damn, was enjoying that."

A little sad for ending his first real conversation, he perked up upon his new reflection, a man he hadn't known for centuries. The one time to flash a genuine smile, raise his chin, and pat his chest…

"Thanks, thanks so much… What do I owe ya?"

"It's $15 for a cut, but this one's on me."

"No, please, for the welcome and story…" A rummage through his pocket. "Have a Blob on me."

Waved off with a thank-you, his bright grin had soon been shadowed by the racking shiver of finding the gym again. Memories still fresh in mind as he flinched for every split-second stare going his way, of the trainer hawking now that he didn't recognise him.

"Look pal, I'm just saying, you'd get much more from our…"

Fists clenched in trying to keep cool, but soon a lean forward as he spat back: "Don't you DARE upsell me! You think I'd want anything from you, after you bastards spat me out into the street?"

"Back off sir. For starters, it's not like you couldn't have gone home to have a shower."

"You saw, smelt and noticed my presence, as did everyone else last night… You think if I actually had that option, that I wouldn't use it? Forgive me my rudeness, but use your brain for once!"

A harsh whisper, as stares followed: "Don't make a scene, damn it… Look, I'll give you fifteen minutes free, how 'bout that?"

"How 'bout I help both of us instead? One free session for me, say an hour's worth, and then I'll go away for good."

"Fine, but show your face again, and you won't have one left… Clear?"

"Clear, and thank you. Don't think I don't appreciate that, alright?"

Even for the constant snickers of the strongmen either side of him, he took his time to scrub, soap down and scour the old life away. Dressed again, it was soon off to the sink to sort those nasty teeth; a good half-hour or more to scrub and floss those acidic flecks away. Felt an energy stirred by his freshened breath, one to bloom outward again as he returned to the Orphanarium.

One that had him grab a shovel from the shed to dig a deep hole, that had him think of some burial rites once he laid his old ruined clothes and to rest.

"To the former life I leave behind, may I return here a better man. As I sacrifice this past of mine, may I reap a great future from it. Where my new journey takes me, may old miseries never return."

Finishing up and walking inside, he never could've known that his most unwelcome misery to date was due to arrive any moment. One to question not just their future, but his as well…