C4 – Hot Chocolate

this is ground control to major tom

you've really made the grade

and the papers want to know whose shirts you wear

now it's time to leave the capsule

if you dare

Jonah sipped at his hot chocolate, one of the luxuries he'd brought with him. He may as well die happy.

Day 42. It was going quicker than expected. He wasn't able to talk to Dylan any more, though he could still transmit written messages to him. Observational details, that sort of thing.

After all, that was essentially his mission. To tell the truth, it sounded pointless to him, but he hadn't questioned his superiors. They said that the fate of the world could very well depend on it, and he hadn't asked them what they were on about.

Why hadn't he asked?

That was why he was perfect for the job. NASA had discovered him when he was just fourteen, and already in college. Kansas farm boys like him didn't go off to college at that age. It just wasn't done. In his little town, everybody went with the norm, both boys and girls working on their parents' farms as soon as they were old enough.

And then he'd come along. Jonah Matthews, a nobody. Parents long dead, adopted at the age of six by a lovely couple, Penny and Zach. Once they found out how special he was, they nicknamed him 'Superman'. He was 'Clark' through most of junior high.

Photographic memory. Hyperobservant. Absorbed information like a sponge in the Pacific. NASA had been ecstatic.

"So what do they do with a mind like this?" he asked his drink. "Send me off to die in the middle of a dark void."

He laughed bitterly. It wasn't the loneliness that was making him crazy – he'd always talked to himself. Scarlett had tried to make him go to hypnotherapy, seemed certain it would work . . .

Scarlett.

He rolled his eyes, annoyed with himself. He'd broken his pact of not thinking about her in the daytime.

He was just wondering whether his hot chocolate was a bit too sweet when a sudden flash of blueness made him throw his hand over his eyes, spilling his drink all over the sky blue carpet.

Unsure of what emotion to feel (and so he decided not to feel anything) he watched as the deep blue swirls seemed to produce three people.

The strange blue circles disappeared once the people arrived, and Jonah stared at them as they bent over, panting and in obvious pain.

"Remind me . . . never to do that again!" a redheaded girl gasped, clutching onto the man beside her. Her accent was Scottish, like Abigail Hathaway from his fourth grade class.

"Oh come on, it wasn't that bad!" a second man snapped, though his face was distorted with pain. He seemed to notice Jonah, and smiled up at him. "Oh hello! I'm the Doctor, who are you?"

"Matthews. Jonah Matthews."

"Hello, Matthews-Jonah-Matthews. This is Amy and this is Rory. Sorry to intrude in your . . . spaceship?"

Jonah paused, saying nothing to the strange British man. He didn't want to seem like a babbling idiot, asking all the questions that were in his head, so he put them aside for the time being and asked, "Would you like some hot chocolate? I spilled mine when you three arrived."

The man who called himself the Doctor looked taken aback, as if he were expecting some sort of interrogation as to how he got onto Jonah's rocket, but quickly regained himself. "Sorry about that. Bit of trouble with the Western Legion. Apparently they only do scrambled eggs . . . Ooh, do you have any eggs?"

"Sorry." Jonah shook his head. "Got some packets if you like. It's hydrated food or hot chocolate. Managed to sneak some on at the last minute."

The Doctor's face fell. "No fish fingers?"

"Sorry."

"No custard?"

"Sorry." Jonah realised how stupid he sounded, repeating the same word over and over. He turned to the other two – Amy and Rory – and asked them whether they would like a drink. They accepted his offer, at least.