Closest to Hell he had ever been, but truest to Heaven that he'd ever find.
As the last of New New York washed through his eyes, perhaps more literal than he'd have liked, Mayfield spent every second staring towards it even once he broke atmosphere towards Australia. Nearly thirty years spent figuring things out, but just six months of city education to return home a man.
To think that shovel at Cookieville was six feet deep and long, perfect for a grave of his own making.
Eyes fading into blackness, he was just going to sleep when the craft came to hover, then crashed thudding into the ground. Could've tumbled out from shock or tiring, but knew instead he had that lone Customs officer—arms crossed and eyes glaring—to concentrate on.
For no longer having a career chip, or a single document to his name, his reflections could've ended right from the outset. Already got away from revealing his 'true' age once; he knew he had to play this hand.
Money over man still mattered for SOME circumstances; after all, he still carried plenty of reasons for why Planet Express, Zookeeper and Zapp Brannigan escaped their antics for so long.
"G'day mate, how's yourself, the missus and the ankle biters?"
"We're 'bout right on all counts, old bloke. Looking to enter?"
"Old bloke, he says… You've no idea. Anyway, didn't fly from New New York for sweet bugger all."
"You fair dinkum or stark raving? Why would you leave there to come here?"
Mayfield palmed a couple notes into the officer's hand: "I'm here on Gore and Nixon's behalf, they thought you deserved a break."
"These'll be beaut mate; whatever you're hiding, I never even knew."
Surprised to get away, Mayfield strolled around the rinky-dink Spaceport to locate a map, soon stumbling across a satellite sort that pulsed his location. Though creeped out, he knew he stood at the absolute tippy-top of the continent, what he once knew as the state of Queensland.
"Oh, how could I've ever blamed him? Wasn't like I was innocent, that I could explain such disappearance… How he never ripped my head off, I don't know."
Not that Mayfield could find out—all transport services had been discontinued, leaving it to passengers to organise it all. News to leave him biting knuckles, for he couldn't imagine the thousands of miles, or dollars, to travel between here and home now.
"Ah, screw this journey. I need some sleep."
Four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, when he picked a quiet corner, propped up his bag, and slowly began to fade. Had his share of hard knocks, nothing he wasn't used to.
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Before he saw someone shaking him awake, Mayfield had readied himself to thump them in the mouth. His eyes crusting open, the first thing he noticed was how impeccably dressed that elder gentleman looked.
"Mmph, ugh… What, what, what? Can't a guy get a little sleep around here?"
"Sorry sir, are you Thomas Mayfield?"
"Last I checked, I was… How exactly did you know?"
"A pleasure!" he bowed and tipped his hat. "I'm here to escort you on Amy Wong's behalf, if you'll follow me."
"Really? My apologies for the rudeness then… Send her my grateful blessings when you get back."
How Amy organised such services from thousands of miles away, Mayfield didn't know nor care, as his eyes caught the national parks, flowing rivers, and country fields of wheat. The simple beauty he once missed, as it swayed or stood above the breeze.
Down Cube Root 531441, on open road & air, his first leg crossed mountains and cavern campgrounds, time-honoured tourist destinations that once popular, now stood empty. By the time he arrived at Bristled Crook Hovering Lodge, the brilliant starlight shone overhead, and though the expense had him seize up, it was worth it for the queen bed and breakfast.
"Pancakes drizzled in syrup… Creamy vanilla ice-cream… Rashers of crispy bacon…"
However, the fancy gourmet food he did get offered made his stay a rather prickly one. Reminded him too much of the gala, and for having very little to do otherwise, he took off for the second leg as quick as he was able.
Saturday afternoon, and though the yawns and rumbles would remain, he'd still appreciate the buffet to speed past his eyes; tiny Outback settlements, once-prosperous trading posts, towns of ancient and fascinating discoveries. Names floating into his head like Mount Inevitable, Nowenden & Shortsway, as he continued to fight against the 15-hour difference—give or take—between his homes by fate, or by heritage.
Shortsway Pepperbush Lodgings the next stop; MUCH cheaper, comfier, and for both spring days and quaint towns at his back, nicer. Getting the breakfast he searched for, and often, he'd then begin his third leg.
Whitenone once had a rich history of sheep produce, plus a proud claim of being the true 'Black Stump' place of legend. But centuries ago over naming rights, a great civil war had been fought; no prizes for guessing the loser given that welcome sign…
Though he didn't know about Dullassie, Cookers Curve had become the eeriest location he ever kicked dust in. A rumoured ghost town even in his old days, he had since walked about in an absolute dead zone, every ounce of blood and life squeezed out.
A great relief to get away for the much livelier sight of Jourke, and its Riverside Suites to overlook the Darling River. Sure didn't make any friends at first…
"Now who was the rude bastard who named your town?" as the waiter took his order.
"A tourist, huh? We rhyme it with 'Rourke', okay?"
"No, I'm home-grown. And really? I thought it'd be more 'Burke' than… My stuff-up, mate."
Another fine meal, another chance to enjoy the town's exquisite views, and another chance to steal sleep when the time seemed to vanish. Halfway through to home, several more legs to cross yet…
The fourth leg had him pause in wonderment about who might've lived there, if not for himself. From further conversation with the gentleman, he also learnt of personal experiences working for the Wongs, at least before Amy purchased his services outright.
Save for Wontbelego, everywhere he passed seemed to relate in some way. First coming to this future, he'd have been the model citizen of Whoanellia, as far as the fanciful buildings, flying cars and freaky creatures would go. If it weren't for New New York, Leela might've found him at Carriathool; the competent lass passing by the clueless ass.
Both he and Zapp would've been clear outcasts in Gunterwooer, even if he at least had good intentions. And before he ever stepped into this world, he could've sworn he had always lived in Mount Hopeless.
Finally, as the moon dazzled his eyes, Mayfield crossed the state border into the town of Mehchuca, reportedly known for its full-bore, half-assed, care-nothing attitude cultivated over centuries.
Far from sleeping at 'The Mehcury & Enus'—such a run-down sign—he laid in eyes wide open, mind racing on being virtually a couple hundred miles from where he first lost his 'life.'
Almost a thousand summers later, he'd return in a few short hours.
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Everything he ever worked for, left behind and lost in the process… Everything, just to return to this dump.
For the coal-roofed, mud-bricked dwelling he once called 'home', his eyes crinkled in venom as he swung out and stood from the hoversine. As it stood untouched, he shivered through his skin for the raw reminders of that existence. And that was before he grabbed the doorknob and opened up.
The stench of a dozen sewage plants had him muffle cries of "Oh, GOD!" as he buried his mouth and nose, though not quick enough to avoid running, hunching over and giving the plants some free fertiliser. For all the good it did, he raced about each window to jolt them open, almost ripping his shirt to cover his nose.
But it was there where he discovered the fresh vomit, the trail to lead out the door, the empty bottle and burnt-out television. Only a kneel beside it in disbelief, for what might've disgusted him worse than the house.
"Che cazzo… How did I let myself sink that low?"
In this unsalvageable quarantine now, as mould and growth had spread about the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, he remembered whatever he could before catching a small piece of folded paper on the kitchen table.
Thought it first to be a long forgotten bill, at least until he unravelled it.
Wrong home to return to. Wouldn't you agree?
– N
At first he had to narrow an eye; took him a few moments to figure out what other home he had. A realisation to have his eyes grew, begin to dart about.
"No way, I could never go back there… All I've known from those years alone has been tragedy!"
Even for such hesitation though, the need for fresh air had him grab his bag and barge out, bound inside the hoversine to give his oldest address. For the jittery nerves and anxious thoughts, a showing of the secret drinks cabinet; all kinds of personal favourites refused only out of fear. Needed that clear head, in case he answered somebody who wouldn't believe him.
Six months and countless lightyears clocked up, yet he still wasn't sure that he found his way home.
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Two, maybe three years—time warps aside—since he left it all behind. And yet it had remained almost as he remembered it.
Where that beautiful elm once stood, now a giant fruit tree of somehow any type to snack on. Windows like those of ancient steam carriages, figurines inspired by modern art, and a terracotta roof instead of shale. Of what he could see on that raised platform, a tanned brickwork that reflected off the sunlight. A small red lever to sit atop the white metal bannister, quite stuck out.
"What the hell, I came this far… Let's see what pulling it does."
He could've screamed for almost falling off when that ground shook, the platform rising from under his feet, but instead settled for a grumble as he grew ready to knock, or ring the doorbell.
A sharp zap of his fist, and a security system to request his handprints.
"Oh crap and curses… Uh, I've only got the one."
"Not good enough. First name, last name?"
"Thomas Mayfield."
"I do not recognise that name! Be warned, you'll make a fine ash if you keep testing my patience. One last chance, who are the former residents?"
The worst time to draw a blank, for he just shook his head and lowered himself, admitting defeat. The system wasn't satisfied, and soon began charging its laser at his head.
"You've got five seconds to leave the property, or there'll be a hole where your head is! Five…"
Even for running faster than hellfire, he was forced to take cover behind the brick fence. Bits of mortar and concrete into his face, blinding and leaving him to wait for the inevitable. Until he heard the scream…
"DISARM, YOU BLOODY PSYCHO! DISARM!"
Washing his eyes from the nearby tap, he was left shaking in awe of his luck. A chance to raise up, and just be allowed in, finding all manner of fine details to flood back into memory. The paintings, the wedding photos, the hand-carved shelves, the experiences of youth that had long passed him.
Logic should've dictated that they'd all fade away to the passage of time, least until he remembered Leela's lessons on the impossible. For needing just his body amongst the mountains of other evidence, who would he be to question things nowadays?
A slow shuffle into his old bedroom, regrets flooding for having spent more hours in there than anywhere else. And yet, nothing he could recognise; initial impressions of a guest room before he spotted the angel painting above the bed.
"Ohhhhhh… Did they really think I was dead?"
Bad enough to become a stranger in this place, and once he began hearing noises from the very depths of his ears, he hadn't any clue about what else to think.
Whoomps & thumps, stilted chatter in between. Nearing the back door, little scratchings of a pen, or an accidental shift of seats. Either his senses were stronger than remembered, or he'd just been imagining things…
A game of boules—maybe pétanque—in the works. One figure slinging those metal balls to have a good time, yet from what Mayfield could spot, he sensed that they weren't.
Absolute silence from the man, tall and bald from the back, even against the chattering beside him. Wearing just a simple t-shirt & shorts, a weird reminder of how warm he grew in leaving the hoversine of late.
For all the staring, Mayfield hadn't been able to see the gent's companions, but as he knocked to show good intention and ventured outside, he knew he couldn't turn back. Especially when the adults either stammered backwards, or a young athletic sort took him right down to the floor.
"Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing here?!"
"I-I-I…"
"Wrong answer, strike one!"
"W-W-What the hell? I tried to run from that security system, but…"
"Hold just a second, our security system?" piped the older man. Over his stumbles, he soon postured normal.
"Yeah, yeah, was that what it was? I sure don't remember anything about handprints, name recognition, or anyone here sadly…"
"Let him go, Curtis. Let me get a good look at him."
"Curt?" The name rang a bell, and come to think of it, that voice sounded so similar to his…
Mayfield began to pick up details; the man to approach now had a face of bushy, scraggly sort, a belly to dip just a touch for each step he took. The man to pin him down had a neat beard and short hair, and standing unsure behind him, a woman of short and generous figure, wearing a braid. Only Curtis had avoided scars of any sort; weathered of age, or burnt by fury.
As his eyes wearied, the older man stared and tilted his head, unsure of any connection yet seeing one in his search. He asked for the kid's left hand; the fingertips had matched. He'd brush his hand against those cheeks, look him over from crown to chin. Over time, the hand began to clap over his mouth.
The one he helped name Thomas Anthony Mayfield IV; son of a delivery man, grandson of a writer, great-grandson of a war veteran, had returned home. A moment to dawn upon little Thomas too, as the child surfaced from within.
"Papa?"
They then seized each other, heads in shoulders, the true reunion releasing a silent squall of joy. It wasn't long before the woman and other man joined in, hugging just as tight, and fearing to let go.
"All these years to go by, and now our second good man returns home."
"Ohhhh… Please tell me this isn't a dream, that my little baby's home?"
"Christ, what the hell was I thinking? I should've known, brother."
As Mayfield's tears of relief and joy continued to fall, especially for confessing his never being the ideal son or brother, he saw the world that fast left him behind piece together again.
"Gods, all the months I spent searching for answers… Could any of you forgive me?"
"Forget about it, sweetie. I can see in your eyes how much you've fought, to say nothing of what's left of you. I don't know what it is you've done, but from the way you stand now, it must've been for better."
His dad also clapped a hand on the lone shoulder.
"Our family was borne from generations of fighters & survivors; in all matters physical, mental, emotional or whatnot. And oftentimes, they never had ideas or even impressions as to how. Whatever test you got, it's clear that you passed."
"Hold on, a test? What the hell happened?"
"One way or another, we all had to 'embrace' the future; lessons, tutorials, self-reliance, or some home-schooled shit. For all the near-disasters on just OUR end, one you just realised now, we kept refusing and demanding return. Little bastards ignored us at first; asked ten times a day before they threatened our silence."
"Those motherfuckers! And when did Curt get here, figure into all this anyway?"
"You think I've got a clue? At first, thinking you killed our parents, I wanted you dead. Then I get knocked out, then I wake in the middle of nowhere, then some fuzzy little prick tells me I've travelled almost 1000 years into the future…"
"How did they test you?"
"Never told me a thing, except to 'rebuild' after losing everything. Had to find out piece by piece, my heart crushed each time. And they simply didn't care. Been that way since a couple years ago."
"I'm so sorry, man. Swear I WILL demand answers, but until then, maybe we'd better have a game."
Mayfield approached the packaged set of large metal balls; two of them remaining, appropriately enough.
"Huh, this feels much lighter than I remember. So whaddya say, a little backyard boules and story time? Doubt we'll get second chances like this again. How long has everyone got?"
"As long as you need, son." his dad nodded. "Hell, as long as we ALL need."
"Then, one more question for all… First to eleven, or twenty-one?"
With that the jacks were slung, the metal got heaved and the challenges were set, as the reunited clan readied themselves for the months of tales they weren't sure they could share.
And as Mayfield nailed a perfect backspin to kick things off, he knew he could count on at least one takeaway from the tombstones making way for them. No matter one's past, all you needed was true grit, the right people, and hopeful pinches of luck to grow trees where you once laid in.
Scoring the first point for hopefully his first boules win to come, Mayfield stood staring towards the skies, before he collected the balls and continued play…
"Captain, thank you. Here's your ladder back… Help them climb like you helped me."