Author's noets: It rather funny how I only get one review per chapter. Come on guys, show a bit more enthusiasm!

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MangekyoMasta510: Thanks for the review! And you go with the Trunks theory?

Black seconds

Number Sixteen was, as usual, on his way with his three wheeler. The weather had cleared up and the paintwork gleamed a copper green in the September sun. People who passed him by turned around to look at the moped. It was funny and obtrusive. On his back he carried an old gray rucksack. His face was closed of and taut, and he couldn't relax, this third day of September. He had much to think about. Number Sixteen kept a steady speed, just below forty. The valves of his leather hat had been pulled down and the strings were thightly tied down. The trailer was empty, the black awning was rolled up like a fat sausage and had been tied down with a rope. Sixteen went shopping. He always shopped at the Joker, because it was a small shop and he knew exactly where everything was. Not that he couldn't search or that he couldn't find what he needed. But here it was easy. Behind the register always sat the same girl. She was used to him not talking and never embarassed him. He found it was nice to have everything the same as always. And this way he also avoided the traffic in the centre.

Sixteen lived at the end of the city. Next to the woods, behind a small hill, in a small house consisting of one floor with a kitchen, a living room and a bedroom. Underneath the house was a basement. He didn't have a bathroom, but he did have a nice restroom with a washing table and a mirror. The house was clean and pretty tidy. Not because Sixteen kept up with it, but because his father of seventy three passed by every week. Sixteen seemed quite scary sometimes, but that depended on his mood. The Sixteen that the people saw was a heavy, broad and slow man who couldn't talk. A man who turned his head when people looked at him, who immediatly walked away when being spoken to. And yet he was curious, especially on a safe distance. That he couldn't talk, moreover, was rather controversial. Some thought that Number Sixteen was just plain stupid, a mute. Others thought that he had stopped talking pure out of protest, because something traumatic had happened during his childhood. Some others made the rumours worse. Some talked about a fire, in which his mother and a whole nest of siblings had been killed, while Sixteen and his father had stood with bare feet in the snow and had heard the terrible cries. In reality Sixteen was an only child. Others said that Sixteen could talk just fine. But that he never wanted to. He just wanted to be left alone. Nobody ever wondered which thoughts and dreams flitted through his big head. Probably, most people thought that nothing played through his head. The couldn't be farther from the truth. Sixteen had several thoughts and with each thought there was an image. Sometimes those images stood still, or they passe dby like a film, sometimes slow, sometimes fast and flashy, like lightning. Every time he passed by the Joker, he saw a bunch of playing carts in front of him, spread out like a fan with the joker on top of everything. That joker winked sometimes, or he grinned widely. Then Sixteen jumped and became irritated. When he stepped into the store and smelled the aroma of bread, he saw his fathers hands in front of him while they beat the bread dough. Nobody kneaded bread dough like his father. It got punished, it was beaten half to death, but eventually it was cherished by greasy and sweaty hands. If he thought of his father he smelled his scent and he remembered something he once had said or done. His voice, sharp as a knife, the plastic like scent of new playing carts, the bread dough, all of it took in a lot of space. A lot happened in his brain, sometimes so much happened that he didn' have any room anymore for having contact with people. He took every question as a threat. He liked the images beter. With that, he could deal. His father watched him, he took care of his clothes and kept his house clean. Sixteen accepted that his father visited him, but sometimes he got irritated by him. He talked like an endless stream. He heard the words and could understand them, but he found that most of them weren't needed. They appeared to him as loud waves that made him think of surf of the sea. If he begun with his verbal waterfall, he closed himself of and he looked in front of him with a stubborn face. But that wasn't a reason for the man to stop. His father called him for discipline, judged him, commanded him and expected things from Sixteen, but deep inside he cared for his son immensely and was just worried for his well being. Scared he got in a fight with someone, scared that his sullen face warned people off. Sixteen had long ago fallen of the boat and his father accepted that. But he was also afraid that other, menacing people would hurt him or force him into situations that he couldn't control. Because he knew that behind that closed of face immense powers were hidden. His father had seen them one time. An amazing and almost hysterical sort of anger, that turned Sixteen deaf and blind. It had been a nightmare that he hid away deep in himself, but that turned up again sometimes, in his dreams. Then his father woke up, wet from sweat, appalled at what had happened, with himself and his son. Then he panicked if he thought about what could happen. If Sixteen became scared. Or when he got attacked. That fear ate at him.

'Do you always have to wear that stupid hat?' he said then. 'You can also just buy a cap. It would suit you much better. I know you think your moped is amazing, but do you see all those people staring at you? Most people are just fine with a moped on two wheels. There is nothing wrong with your balance, right?'

He pulled a martyr's face, but his son didn't care. After such an outburst his father bowed his head, shamefully because his son tortured him like this, but he couldn't do anyhting about it.

Sixteen parked his three wheeler in front of the Joker and went inside. He wandered a while between the aisles, on his broad, outward turned feet. He wore thick boots, whether it was summer or winter. The boot top had become so wide that he could pull them on without loosening the shoelaces. He carried a red grocery bag, he never bought so much that he needed a cart. Today he bought coffee, milk and coffee milk, a white bread and a pack of fresh youghurt. At the register he grabbed three papers. It striked the cashier as odd, that he bought papers. He was subscribed for the local news paper and never bought the national ones. This was true for a lot of people, she thought. Marron Chestnut's disappearance kept everyone busy who visited the local supermarket. Everybdoy had its own thoughts on the matter and this was a good place as any to ventilate them. She scanned the products when Sixteen remembered he had forgotten something important. He wandered back to the aisles and returned with a bag of peanuts. The cashier scrunched her nose when saw the bag of peanuts, because they weren't pealed and she couldn't comprehend that somebody ate unpealed and unsalted peanuts. And he was very moody today, she realized. He never said a word, but he always took his time for shopping, as if it was an important ritual for him that he enjoyed. Now he payed hastily, searched with trembling fingers in his wallet for change. He put the groceries in the old rucksack. Afterwards he walked out of the shop, without greeting with his finger to his hat. The door slammed close. She looked out of the window how he walked to his moped. He was very absent today, she mused, and she was at the same time intrigued by this man because untill this day he never said a word aloud. Sixteen started his vehicle. Again he maintained a constant speed while he rode to his house. When he neared Mama Betty's Shop he saw a surveillance car and a couple of officers. Sixteen clamped his body as if he was a steal spring. He held the steering wheel of his moped forcefully and stared straight ahead of him, demonstratively. One of the officers looked up and saw the vehicle. Sixteen had never been in contact with the police, but he carried a great deal of respect for everyone who was in uniform. Moreover, his moped was in such a state that it needed a check up, but he lived of an allowance and couldn't afford it. He often thought that somebody would come to take the number plates of his moped. Luckily these agents seemed to be busy with something else. The searched for Marron. He knew that and he tried his hardest not to interupt them. He passed, still staring stiffly in front of him, but he felt he was being watched. Then he turned right. A couple of minutes later he turned left, to the small lane where number twelve was. He parked his vehicle and covered the moped with black tarp. His garage was full of junk and there was nospace left for the moped. He went inside. In the kitchen he stayed to listen. Alert as a cat, with all his senses in full concentration. He put his rucksack on the table and unpacked the groceries. He opened the bag of peanuts and shook a few in his hand. Slowly he walked to the room. The door of the bedroom stood open a crack. He looked at it for a while and stayed where he was, his breathing was laboured. The peanuts became moist in his closed fist. At last he walked over to the window. There Sixteen had a bird cage and on the stick sat a grey parrot, almost as big as a dove. He whistled a beautiful dark tune in order to deserve the peanuts. Sixteen put his fingers through the bars and laid the peanuts in the cratch. The bird swooped down on them and grabbed one with a claw and jammed it with his beak. A dry, snappy sound was heard when the top of it broke of. Then the telephone rang.

It was his father;

'Listen,' he said, 'Tomorrow and the day after I'm busy, so we need to do the weekly washing today.'

Sixteen started chewing. But he had nothing in his mouth.

'I can't saty long,' he went on, 'because tonight there is a bridge meeting at Tulla's and last week I also didn't go, so tonight I want to go to there. I'll put on the washing machine, so you'll have to hang out the laundry by yourself. You can do that, right? Je only have to see that there are no wrinkles in the clothes. You can't iron that well. I first have to mope my floors and then I'll be over.'

'No,' Sixteen said, he was scared.

He saw his father in front of him as a washing machine, and now he wanted to go through every room. He envisioned splashing water, foamy soap and his fahters face that slowly turned red. He smelled the storng scent of Ajax, felt the uncomfort of having his furniture moved, fresh air that that drifted through the open windows because his father opened them, the strange scent of fresh laundry, he saw...

'You know it needs to be done,' his father whined. 'We have already discussed this!'

His voice started to tremble. Sixteen breathed rapidly in the horn, didn't want to hear what he would say now.

'Have you eaten already?' his father continued.

He was caring, he had always been. 'You have to eat more healthily. Have you ever heard of vegetables and fruit? I think you only eat bread, but your body needs more. You should buy some vitamins and take those in the autumn and winter. Van Molly. I know for sure they sell it at the Joker, and otherwise they could bring it in for you. You have to try harder, take a bit of responsibility. I don't become younger through theyears,' he kept on ranting.

Sixteen threw a fast glance at the door of his bedroom. Afterwards he looked at the clock.

'Have you washed yourself already today?' he went on. 'Dende knows how many times you wash your hair. But it won't be much. And you aren't torough either, if you hang over that washing table.' He kept on prattlinh, without waiting for a reaction. 'And do you dress well if you go outside? It's becoming autumn, you have to prevent sickness. If you get ill, then there is no one to take care of you, I can't come by every day. I have it busy enough as it is already. Seventeen's mother is still sitting in front of the window next door, with her broken hipbone. Dende may know what would happen to her if I wasn't there. I wonder if anybody would ever come to take care of me, if I can't do it myself anymore. If you had a wife, then I could have enjoyed my old days, but it's like they say, you get what you deserve. If that's case I must have sinned greatly in my youth, without me remembering it.'

He started to end the monologue.

'You can already start removing the furniture. The rugs have to be hung over the washing line to air out. If you do that I can start early. I hope the car will start.' He said, worriedly. 'it didn't work well yesterday, I wonder if maybe the battery is starting to get too old. Do you have any cleaning supplies in the house?'

'No!' said Sixteen. He saw his father in front of him again, as a tornado, a whirlwind, he talked away all his images that he didn't dare to think about, he brushed them away with his words.

'I'll bring a bottle of Ajax,' he said. 'We'll have to check your closets today. You never think of something. How many times have I been there when you didn't have any toilet paper. I can't keep up with it anymore. You are a grown up after all. But now I have to quit. You already start, I'll be there in a second.'

'No!' Sixteen said. He said it louder and louder. His father heard the tone, it was unusual. He always said no and he said it with every intonation, but now something different sounded through. A sort of despair. He frowned his head and closed his mouth. He didn't care for more problems, not one.

'Yes!' his father said.

Author's notes: Finally a side of Sixteen. I hope he's in character because I don't know him very well.

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