Just wanted to say an extra thank you for all the very sweet reviews so far! Especially the last batch; I had expected people to be bored to death by that last chapter, so the positive response to it really knocked me off my feet.
Yowza, though. The first Kai and Lloyd chapter underwent a thousand and one rewrites, and this one underwent another two thousand. You'd think they were paying me by the edit. :P Still not fully happy with it by any means . . .
GUEST05: Four episodes! I didn't even know they went past three. Well though, that's disheartening news. If they're going to mess around with the characterization even more, we might just have to give everyone new names and rename the series too. :P And yeah, a season focusing on a different ninja would be cool . . . I think I saw teaser art somewhere that showed both Kai and Cole spinning at each other, but I dunno if it means anything deeper.
Not least because it was probably the first time in history that the "getting possessed by powerful evil object you're trying to destroy" scene from Lord of the Rings was combined with the "change expressions as you pass your hand over your face" scene from I Love Lucy. XD
Gracious, sir/madam, you flatter me. Glad you liked it! Heh; trying to watch Season 1 directly after Season 4 does odd things to a person.
Ohhhhh, I think I remember that chapter book . . . That quote tho! Dang, how things have changed. He went from that to the guy who ignores a strategy session because he's more concerned about chocolate and whose bed is softer. -_(\
I like that idea, though! Maybe he felt he'd failed them one time too many and stepped down or something. Argh, I miss the old leader Cole tooooooooo . . . y'know the funny thing, though? Most of the time he didn't even act like he was in charge. He was keeping the team together and calling the shots, but he didn't really give orders that much and he was always just one of the guys. Sensei Wu knew what he was doing; I doubt those hooligans would've listened to any other kind of leader.
Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. -William S. Burroughs
About half an hour later, when Cole was once again buried in mathematics, Jay's head popped in through the door.
"It's finally reaching the right temperature," he announced. "Kai's watching it now, you're on next."
Cole again had to catch himself at the last second before snapping at him. Cripes, what a reflex.
"Great, thanks for letting me know," he salvaged, putting down the pencil. Jay looked at him oddly.
"You keep doing that."
"Keep doing what?"
"That thing with . . . " Jay trailed off and waved dismissively, and they both let it drop. Cole went back to his calculations, and Jay wandered off. From down the hall came the rattling of metal and the grind-clickclickclick grind-clickclickclick of a socket wrench. It was a common enough noise when one of Jay's inventions was in-progress. After a few minutes, though, it was replaced by a high-pitched whining, whirring sound, then several thuds and a cry of frustration from Jay.
Seconds later something came shooting through the door and very narrowly missed Cole's head. Whirling around, he blinked at the helicopter-like device that had nearly run him over. It appeared to be made of a lunch tray with a hole drilled in the center, with a motor fastened underneath and a propellor sticking out of the top. The propellor was spinning madly, but the tray itself was spinning in the opposite direction, and the whole contraption ricocheted wildly back and forth, skittering across the floor, lurching erratically into the air, and bouncing off the walls.
Cole stared at it silently. Then he transferred his attention to Jay, who came storming through the door and (with some difficulty) chased the machine down and shut it off.
"Always something!" he groaned, and began fiddling with the propellor.
"Not going so well, huh?" said Cole, unsure if he should be amused or dismayed. They were going to be in some trouble if Jay didn't get this thing working . . . Gravis had been able to call in some favors to get them that batch of pink silica for the dragon mash, and in exchange he had asked Jay to build him a floating table. Apparently the Master of Gravity was most comfortable relaxing in midair, which meant he never had anywhere convenient to put down a drink or a book or anything else. Jay had sworn up and down that he could deliver, but now the situation was looking rather hokey.
"I only need to adjust the airflow on this thing," scoffed Jay, as if sensing Cole's doubt. "Like on model airplanes, you know? Adjust the flaps so they balance. Then the tray won't spin anymore."
He flicked the switch, and the tray whirled off across the room, plowed through a stack of Cole's boxes, and cleared the table in one fell swoop. Then it crashed into a wall and died.
"Jay!" Cole snatched his papers off the table before the spilling coffeepot could flood them.
"Uh . . . sorry." Jay shook himself from gazing morosely after his rebellious creation. "I'll get the boxes."
Cole sighed and fetched a rag to mop up the coffee. When he got back, Jay had already put most of the scattered comics and knick-knacks away and was now rummaging through the boxes, quite oblivious to Cole watching him. The earth ninja quirked an eyebrow. So, the nature vs. nurture debate raged on: was there an actual "compulsion to look at old junk" gene, or did it just come from being raised in a junkyard?
"You mind?" he said at last. Jay jumped.
"Oh, uh—sorry." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, still eyeing the nearest unopened box. "You've got some pretty cool stuff here. What do you plan to do with it?"
"I dunno, have a yard sale?" Cole shrugged, setting up his paperwork again. "Or sell it online. You think any of those comic books might be collector's items yet?"
"Eh, they're only about a decade old, right? Probably not," shrugged Jay.
"Hm."
Then the topic ran out. Jay studied the corners of the room as if a teleprompter might be hidden somewhere about, then shrugged, turned back to the boxes, and started looking through a new one. Cole tilted his head, wondering if Jay usually rummaged through other people's stuff with this kind of nonchalance.
It was weird, though. The entire conversation felt awkward. Hard to believe; years of being best friends, grating on each others' nerves, saving each others' butts, sharing battle plans and sparring sessions and commiseration over the morning training grind—and now they were as shy and lost for conversation topics as two strangers. Boy, they had their work cut out for them.
Meanwhile Jay suddenly made a surprised noise and pulled something brown and fuzzy out of one of the boxes. Oh, no. Why'd he have to dig up the teddy bear? Cole bent over his notebook hastily, feeling his face grow hot.
"What the—" Jay surveyed the worn stuffed animal for a moment, then looked to Cole with disbelief. "Is this yours?"
"Yeah, it was," said Cole, forcing a bland tone. The trick was to play it cool, act like it was no big deal. Letting his embarrassment show would only encourage the teasing he was about to endure.
"For real?" Jay looked at the bear again. "I had one just like this!"
Now Cole's head snapped up.
"What?"
"Exactly like this," said Jay amazedly. "Even had the exact same tear right here. Did you drag it around by the leg all the time?"
"Y . . . yeah," said Cole, still hesitant. Jay either didn't notice or didn't care; he was tracing over the torn fabric with a nostalgic look on his face.
"I remember, in the end Ma just gave up on sewing him back together, because I wouldn't stop dragging him around. He was a pretty great bear."
Couldn't argue with that, thought Cole. This battered stuffed animal had trailed down hallways behind its young owner for years, and had spent several more in a cherished place right by the bed. A certain seven-year-old had spent a night sobbing into its furry stomach after a spectacularly failed Triple Tiger Sashay. He felt oddly defensive, all of a sudden, about having someone else fiddling with this piece of his childhood. As if the bear would suddenly open its unraveling stitched-on mouth and spill all his secrets.
Meanwhile Jay was scrutinizing the bear's ears and eyes, brow crinkled.
"You're sure this is your bear?"
"It's mine."
"Huh." Abruptly Jay pulled the plushie close, rubbing his cheek experimentally against the side of its head. Cole stared, caught off-guard.
"Nope," announced Jay, putting the bear down with an air of scientific finality. "You're right. Mine had all the fur worn away there."
Cole suddenly found himself laughing. Jay looked up, startled, then reddened in realization and scoffed.
"What, and you have a better idea for checking ownership?"
"Taking my word for it wouldn't be enough?" asked Cole amusedly. Some part of him felt a little guilty for giving Jay a hard time when he'd been dreading the same thing himself, but he couldn't resist. Something about it felt familiar.
"For all I know you crawled in through the window and stole mine," deadpanned Jay.
"What?" Cole started to laugh again.
"Well you seem like the type." There was a hesitant smile dancing in Jay's eyes too.
"Oh, I see how it is," said Cole, rolling his eyes. "That's great. When in doubt, Cole stole it."
He was joking, but the smile in Jay's eyes abruptly died. Shrugging, the lightning ninja stuffed the bear back into the box it had come from and got up.
"Hey," began Cole, watching bewildered as Jay went to gather up the scattered bits of his invention. "What did I—"
"Nothin', nothin'," said Jay dismissively. He chased down the last loose bolt and paused in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. "I—" He shook his head. "I'd better get back to work."
Cole blinked after him. What went wrong there? For a second they had been joking around just like the old days, and Jay'd abruptly sobered up after he said—
—Ohhhhh. Oh. Whoops.
Honestly, this had to stop.
Cole went back to his arithmetic, stewing. The whine of planing metal—Jay cutting a new propellor, no doubt—kept breaking his concentration, and at last he gave up and went to train instead. But all the while, somehow he couldn't lure his thoughts away from helicopters. They were spinny on top and stable underneath, not like that table. Huh. Hadn't he read something about . . .
Abruptly Cole went back to the mess hall and approached the boxes in the corner. For a moment he rummaged; then, finding what he was looking for, he headed down the hall.
"Hey, Zaptrap," he said, poking his head into the workroom. "Think fast."
Jay looked up, then jumped and threw up a hand just in time to catch the book Cole frisbeed at his head. Casting the earth ninja a disgruntled look, he turned it over to read the cover.
"The Way Things Work?"
"I think it had a section on helicopters," said Cole, leaning against the doorframe. Jay looked insulted.
"Ah, come on! I know how things work; I learned by taking them apart. I don't need some kiddie book telling me the basics."
"It's not a kiddie book," said Cole. "It was from my Uncle Fred, and believe me, he had no clue what a kid would care about reading."
Jay rolled his eyes and resumed searching for a drill bit.
"Just read it, okay?" said Cole wearily.
"I will, I will. When I have a moment," said Jay, his tone hovering on the border of "whatever-gets-you-off-my-case." He was still stubbornly engrossed in his search for that drill bit; even pointedly so. Cole continued to lean against the doorframe, chewing the inside of one cheek morosely. Words were too darn hard to summon up . . . Funny how the time and place could change things. That one night with the sleeping Ultra Dragon, when he couldn't afford to make his presence known, he'd have given almost anything to tell Jay he was sorry. Now he had all the opportunities to apologize he could ask for, but the Underworld would split open before he'd ever spit the words out. Life played dirty tricks.
"Just read the thing," he said at last, and went back to the training room.
The whine of planing metal continued. Also the thud of crashing inventions, and the progressive weakening of Jay's verbal skills. Even Kai was surprised by some of the terminology the usually clean-spoken inventor knew.
It was seven hours before Jay finally got frustrated enough to peek inside the book. Cole knew it was seven hours because that was roughly how long it took before Jay came stomping into the bunkroom, thwacked the book down on Cole's bed, cast its owner a look that was one part gratitude and four parts sheer fury, and turned to storm out.
"Did it help?" asked Cole innocently. Jay stopped in the doorway, turned around, and seemingly cycled through several things he'd be interested in saying. Then he said none of them.
"You keep doing that," grinned Cole at last, breaking the silence.
"Keep doing what?"
"That thing with . . . " Cole twirled one hand. A flash of confusion crossed Jay's face, then just as quickly a hesitant understanding. He rocked back on his heels and studied the floor, arms folded; Cole took interest in a wall. For a second they both weighed accusations made, insults traded, amends attempted, all the apologies that would never ever be spoken. Abruptly Jay shrugged, spread his hands with a weak smile at the futility of it all, and turned with a wave over his shoulder. The door clicked shut behind him.
Cole shrugged, resigned. Back to normal, well . . . no. Maybe someday. But whatever this was, for whatever little time they had left, it would do.