Dr Archeville

Joe Macayle was 15 years old. His hair was up in an amateur Mohawk that had taken him two hours and a vat’s worth of industrial strength pomade to erect. He’d just gotten out of his third all-ages show, headed by a street punk act from the West End. And he was trying to avoid getting his teeth knocked out. It had been, for the most part, a fun show. Then the neo-Nazis had shown up. That element just kind of trailed along with the genre out of a misguided sense of identity, but they didn’t usually come to the shows. Most of them had better sense than that. And most of them had better sense than to push a kid who couldn’t have been more than 13 into the middle of the pit just because he’d accidentally hit someone in the back of the head. Once the show let out, things had quickly come to blows, with a chunk of the audience duking it out with the boneheads in the parking lot. Joe had gotten in the fight because it felt like the right thing to do – if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was bullies. The flow of the fight had brought Joe up against a foe who was maybe 40 IQ points down from him, but who made up for it with five inches of height and 50 pounds. All he could do was try and duck the blows as the white power asshole charged at him. He didn’t know how long he could keep it up. “Hey, ugly!” His opponent turned at the taunt. A girl with green hair and a studded denim vest emerged briefly from the mass, her fist covered in a wide variety of brass and steel rings. The fist connected with the man’s nose, driving him to the pavement. As he tried to push himself up, the girl brought a Doc Marten down on the small of his back. “C’mon,” she said. “We both know you’ll just hurt yourself.” She turned to Joe. “You looked like you could use a hand.” She extended her other hand to him. “Name’s Paige.” “Joe,” he said, taking the hand. “Thanks.” She broke the handshake soon after. “Well,” she said, “these guys don’t look like they’re gonna learn any lessons on their own. Come on.” She dashed back into the crowd, and Joe followed. Joe Macayle was 15 years old, and he was in love. Joe Macayle was 16 years old, and drinking a coffee in the West End. He’d been with the Lark Street Baldies, a group of SHARPs based out of Southside, for about six months now. He’d just shaved his head for the first time about a month back, and black stubble was starting to poke out again. He’d just gotten out of another show, and his eyes were on Paige once again, who was poking at a muffin down the way. “Why don’t you just ask her?” Mark gave him a slap on the shoulder. He was another one of the Baldies, and the one who’d brought Joe in. They’d met eight months ago at an Agnostic Front concert, and chatted for a while afterwards. “How long have you been following her now?” “It’s not like that,” he said. “Just coincidence, is all.” Paige had pretty much been at every show Joe had been at over the past year. No matter how big the act, how small the venue, or how varied the line-up, she was there. “Coincidence,” Mark said. “Yeah, right.” He got up from his seat. “Look, if you don’t ask her, I’m going to. ‘Hey, Paige. This is my friend, Joe, who misplaced his balls somewhere --’” “Come on -- ” “‘—and he really, really wanted me to ask you if you’d humor him into granting him a night of unspeakable passion -- ’” “All right, sheesh.” Joe got up from the table and walked across to where Paige was sitting. He spent the agonizing voyage trying to think about what to say, and before he knew it, he was at her table. “Hey, Paige.” Paige looked up. “Hey, Joe!” she said. “I see the hair’s coming back in. Does it itch?” “Occasionally,” he said. “Mark says you get used to it.” “Yeah, well, that’s Mark. I hear he threw his knee out in the pit once and didn’t realize it until he couldn’t get off the subway. He rode the Green Line all around Freedom.” Joe chuckled. “Gotta ask him about that one day,” he said. “Listen, Paige… I was wondering if…” The sentiment hung awkwardly in the air, like a baby bird trying to take flight. “If…?” “…if you’d like to go out for coffee,” Joe said. “Well, maybe not coffee – you’ve already got coffee – but dinner. Or something. Some night.” Paige looked at him for a while like she was trying to process what he’d just said. Just as Joe was considering slinking into some dark corner away from the world, she cracked a smile. “Sure,” she said. “I’d like that.” Joe Macayle was 17, and he was leading the charge. “Get out of our shows, boneheads!” he shouted, driving his fist into a Crusader’s gut. “And tell your boss that if he was so brave, he’d take that damn pillow case off his head!” Things had been getting worse over the past few months. The white power skinheads had always been an issue, but that was before they’d gotten truly organized. Uniting under the banner of White Knight, the Crusaders had form, a coalition of every bonehead, Odinist, white nationalist, and other piece of racist scum with a set of combat boots and a penchant for violence. They’d been organizing “peaceful protests” (with the members shouting out racial slurs, daring someone to hit them) and crashing the shows more and more often. Joe had been the one to suggest knitting the Baldies into a larger coalition of anarchist activist groups, rivetheads, punks, and other street kids together to keep a watch on the Crusaders and their activities. The Freedom Guard came out of that sentiment, dedicated to creating a safe space at shows and making sure White Knight’s fanboys didn’t screw things up for anyone else. “We won’t stand for this!” the Crusader yelled back at him. “We got a right to organize --” “So do we,” Joe said, stepping on the man’s foot. “And we’ve got the numbers. Should’ve thoughta that before you threw the first punch.” Joe aimed another blow, but felt his legs go out from under him. He fell to the floor, and saw one of the Crusader’s buddies, a thug with no shirt, an ARYAN PRIDE tattoo across his chest, and a dented aluminum baseball bat. ‘Man, I’m gonna enjoy putting down a mouthy idiot like you.” “Same here.” The Crusader went flying as Paige rounded on him with her own bat. His buddy came after her, but she aimed a good blow right between his legs, sending him to his knees. She helped Joe up. “You okay?” “Yeah,” he said. The sirens rose in the background; the police would be there soon. “Y’know, I really think I love you, Paige.” “It’s taken you that long to figure out?” Joe Macayle was 18, and his heart was breaking. “I… I just don’t think the long distance thing is gonna work, Joe,” Paige said. She’d been at Milliner College up in Brooklyn for three months now on a photography scholarship. She was down for winter break, and the second she stepped into the coffee shop, Joe knew things weren’t going to go swimmingly. “I think we should just be friends.” Joe was at a loss for words. “We can make it work,” escaped from his lips after a while. “I can come up! I’ve got some money set aside, it’s enough for a bus ticket -- ” “Joe, Andy told me about your plans to start work last time you two came up,” she said. “You’re going to need that money. And things at school… last semester, I had the professors from Hell. I think I need to focus on my work.” “I… I…” Joe thought about all the things he could say. “I love you,” “Please don’t go,” “You heartless bitch,” and so on. As the list went on, they just got more and more pathetic. Finally, he arrived at the only option that would make sense. “…I understand,” he said. “But assuming I come up to New York – of my own volition, of course – I’ve got a place to crash, right?” Paige smiled. “Of course.” Joe Macayle was 22, and waiting. He’d gotten off of work a few hours ago, and had an hour to spare before he went on patrol. He was dressed somewhere between his usual gear and the stuff he wore as Cannonade. He couldn’t help but look down and think of the weird mix he’d put together when he first became a skinhead. He sat in a shop in the West End, drinking a coffee he probably didn’t need, and waited. She came in at quarter to eight. The hair was longer, and the green had long been traded out for a natural raven black – but not without a few streaks of midnight blue to liven it up. Sleeve tattoos poked out from under her hoodie. And as far as he could tell, she was still wearing the same Docs she’d driven into a bonehead’s back when they first met. She was only in town for a few nights, visiting her folks before taking off on an assignment in Chicago. But it was enough for him. “Hey, Joe,” she said. “Glad you made it.” “Same here.”

February 16th, 2011 It still surprised Erin to come into her room and see the flowers on her dresser, bursting with life and color. They were so pretty, and they made the whole room smell good. She'd been very surprised when Trevor had given them to her for Valentine's Day. She'd been expecting something more, well, utilitarian, but though she'd never have thought of them herself, the flowers were really lovely. The fact that they were personalized, and that he'd planned ahead and gotten another hero to help him out... it sort of made her card look blah in comparison. She hoped that his birthday present would make up for that. Valentine's Day had been really nice in general, she thought as she unpacked her backpack and stacked up her pile of homework on the desk. Going out and watching the stars had been surprisingly cool, and the kissing and makeout opportunity hadn't been squandered either. They hadn't gone any further than that, and the unspoken message was clear. Even after the interruption in his room last time, it was still her call if and when they went any further. She was grateful for that knowledge, even though she thought having to decide might well drive her insane. Didn't she have more important things to be obsessing about, like where she was going to live or work in another four months? Sex shouldn't even be on the table for her, yet there it was, and it wasn't going to go away unless she picked it up or pushed it off. Erin walked over to the dresser and looked at the flowers, smelled them again. Next to the vase, her parents' faces smiled out at her from a broken frame. She sighed and closed her eyes a moment, rubbing the third finger of her right hand, where her promise ring used to be. Since she hadn't been wearing it the last time she left Seattle, it was gone for good, but that didn't really change anything. Maybe she'd only been in junior high when she'd promised at church she would wait till she was married, but she'd known what she was doing. It had made a lot of sense at the time. She didn't want to end up pregnant or with kids saying she was easy, or with some kind of disease. It had been an easy promise to make back then, one that had made her parents proud of her thoughtfulness and maturity. The little silver ring they'd given her had been a token of their pride, and a reminder of her own value. Looking away from the picture, Erin drew a black lily and a yellow rose from the bouquet, carrying them over to her bed and sitting down. A promise was a promise, wasn't it? She knew for a fact that her counterpart here hadn't lived up to it, but that was different. Her parents were still alive, her family was all there. Erin knew logically that if things had gone differently, she'd probably have done the same thing. Even by the time she'd gotten to high school, she was starting to have her doubts about the whole waiting business. Wasn't that why the ring had been in her jewelry box and not on her hand on that last night? But it was different for her, she admitted, because her parents were dead, and the promises she'd made them seemed more important because of it. God knew she'd failed them in everything else, so really all she had left to give them was faithfulness to their memories. Not that she believed in God anymore, or that anyone up in the sky or down under the earth would care if she were having sex, but a promise once made ought to be kept. That had to matter. As she sat and stewed, Erin toyed with the stems of the flowers, twining them together. Maybe it wasn't even really an issue. Her parents couldn't have foreseen the future, and that had certainly been a mercy. They had no way to know of the strange journey she'd have to take, or how horribly alone she would be throughout. Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to, the way they'd have assumed it would go when they let her make her little junior high pledge. It seemed ludicrous to think she'd ever get married to anyone at this point, with all her neuroses and depression and annoying nervous habits. Was she supposed to remain alone her entire life because of that? The fact that she had Trevor at all, for any length of time, was a kind of miracle. Why shouldn't she be able to enjoy it, for as long as it was good? Maybe the promise didn't even apply anymore, she thought, looking down at the twinned arrangement she'd made. She was eighteen years old, she was an adult now. Surely her parents had just wanted what was best for her, for her not to make mistakes and get herself in trouble and do things she wasn't ready for when she was younger. Now that she was old enough, and was thinking it all through, and would be careful and take precautions, maybe they would be happy to see her happy for once, and getting something that she wanted. That had to be more important than whether she'd waited to secure a particular piece of documentation, right? Erin sighed, setting aside the flowers and laying back on her bed. She wished she had someone to talk to who could give her advice on all this stuff. She wished her mom was there to talk to and actually ask, that would make things so much clearer. All she had to go on were her own intuitions, and make decisions that were entirely her own. And she knew what she wanted, whether or not she could actually have it. She was interested in sex, oh absolutely, but the idea of having someone to hold onto in the dark was at least as seductive. Maybe sleep wouldn't be so elusive, maybe the dreams wouldn't be as bad. Surely she wouldn't feel so lonely at the thought of leaving Claremont and trying to find a place in the world where she was an extra copy. That was probably a selfish way to think, using Trevor to try and fight her own demons, but he already knew that about her, he couldn't say he wasn't warned. And he was lonely too, and they loved each other. She'd never treat him the way his old girlfriend had treated him, and that had to be good for something. And she would be very careful, and thoughtful, and that way whatever happened, she wouldn't have to have any regrets. That had to be the way her folks would've wanted it. Erin got up and went back to the computer and scheduled an appointment in the infirmary.

The Importance of Understanding Your Feelings Time: February 27, 2011 Place: Hughes Home Corbin had spent the last week being rather distant to...well, pretty much everyone. His parents, Quo-Dis, Blake, his other school friends, all of them had noticed he'd been quieter, more focused. Just not on school. He seemed to be living in another world. That wasn't to say he was cold or unkind; simply that he spent more time than usual on his own. Thinking, drawing, painting, or listening to music; one way or another, he was secluding himself. Today, he was in one of the top floor rooms of his family's home, listening to music on his iPod while painting slowly and carefully. 'Am I ready for this step? Do I really feel this way? Is it fluctuating hormones, or something more?' He frowned slightly as he tried to clear his head a bit. He was trying a sort of “stream of consciousness†painting; the goal was to almost let the brush guide itself, rather than have a starting goal. But this painting seemed pretty standard for him; rolling hillsides, some trees, a blue sky. But he still had almost half a canvas to work with still. Time would tell. 'She haunts my dreams. She consumes my thoughts. And maybe half of them are the kind that leave me needing a cold shower. In the other half-' He shakes his head, reaching down to crank up the music. He squinted at his work a bit. A beautiful sunrise had taken shape. And this hill on the left side seemed like it would be important. But why? 'I mean, just saying that word out loud is a huge step. Especially after I made a big deal out of it back in November! I mean, how do I know it's real, and not a moment's fancy?' He makes the final brush stroke, placing his tools to one side and sitting back to admire the painting. Which is of Quo-Dis, in a simple blue sun dress, standing on a hill, hair blowing in the breeze as she stares out of the painting, a smile on her face. The rising sun cast her in a slight golden light, and the rich green of the grass worked to help her stand out even more. She was in a post typical of herself, simultaneously confident and reserved. “That's it. I need to talk to dad.†With that, he took a moment to carefully file all of his supplies away, leaving the painting to dry; then, he walked out of the room, heading downstairs to find his father for a heart-to-heart talk. “What do you need, Corbin?†“Can we talk? Um, alone? Guy talk type stuff.†Corbin glanced at his mother, sitting next to his father at the casual dinner table. She smiled at the two of them, and made a shooing motion. “Go use the library. Both of you like thinking deep thoughts surrounded by books.†The two Hughes men gave sheepish grins, followed by near simultaneous shrugs. Albert stood, setting his paper down next to his empty plate from a light lunch. “Come on, son. We've got plenty of time.†It wasn't long before they were behind closed doors, with Albert taking a seat to one side, while Corbin paced lightly around the room. “When did you know for sure?†“Know what for sure?†Albert had an idea, but it was better to let Corbin talk it out. It would help the boy think things over again. “Know that mom was special. That she was “itâ€. That you wanted to do more than take her out to the movies and a few dinners. That you wanted something deeper with her.†“That I wanted something more physical?†Corbin blushed almost entirely red. “That's not-†“Not what your talking about, I know. It is sort of my business, though I think we've taught you all we can. It shouldn't be cheap, and it should be safe.†“No, I got that. I mean, that was embarrassing as hell, but I got the point.†“Good. As for what you probably meant...It's hard to say. It's not any one moment. We were a bit older, you understand. Though not by much; maybe a year and a half. Point is, I didn't wake up and say 'I love Sarah' one day. It was more that I realized I had for a while. It wasn't just about the physical things. I wanted to be there for her. I didn't just want to do things with her, I wanted to do things for her. I wanted to make her feel special. I wanted to care more about her than about me. I couldn't imagine not having her in my life. Not seeing her in my future. That's when I knew. That's when I was ready for the next step, in every sense of the word. Think about it a bit, son. If you're feeling that way, I wager you'll realize you have been for a bit.†With that, Albert rose, giving his son a quick hug before walking out of the library. Corbin stood there, mulling over his father's words. Slowly, a small smile came to his face. “He's right.†He pulled out his cell phone, quickly dialing Quo-Dis's number. “Hello gorgeous. Listen, will you be free in a week? I have a plan for a nice picnic meal on-campus, and I was rather hoping you'd join me...â€

Time: January 10, 2010 Place: Archetech The room was dark and quiet, mechanical humming and the whoosh of air recirculating the only noises that could be heard. Stesha lay on an uncomfortable bed, half-propped up by the lifting back and a couple of pillows. She looked at the blank screen in front of her, then over to Derrick where he sat on a stool next to the bed, and squeezed his hand. "I feel like we're waiting for a movie to start," she joked softly. He just smiled and brushed his lips across her forehead, even as the door to the hallway opened to let in light and the businesslike clicking of high heels. "Sorry to be a little late," Miss Americana told the couple, a white lab coat thrown on over her uniform. "You know how it goes, but I'm glad we didn't have to reschedule. I've been looking forward to this. Are you both ready?" "Absolutely," Stesha said with a grin. "I want to see who's kicking me all night... besides you, honey," she teased Derrick. He blushed. "You're certain there's no risk, right?" he asked Miss Americana. "Positive," Miss A assured him, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed and lifting up Stesha's maternity smock. "3-D ultrasound is just as safe as regular. We're just going to have a look." Stesha giggled as the gorgeous doctor poured gel lubricant onto her bare tummy. "It's cold!" she announced, shivering more with excited nerves than with the actual temperature. All eyes were riveted to the screen the moment Miss A picked up the wand and began applying it to the taut skin of Stesha's abdomen. "Oh..." Stesha murmured softly as the picture came into focus, her fingers clasping Derrick's. "Look, it's our baby..." At this stage, the newest member of the Lumins family looked a lot like something Dark Star might have encountered out in deep space, with a head half the size of its entire body and eyes that dominated the top entire half of the head. The surprisingly detailed picture showed the baby's tiny hands up in front of its face, its eyes closed. As they watched, one infinitesimal thumb went into the mouth. Stesha cooed, and Derrick wiped his eyes with a tissue. Miss Americana flipped a switch, and the quiet room was suddenly filled with a quick galloping noise. "Heart sounds good," Miss A told them. "You can keep watching while I move the wand around for some measurements. I've got a pretty good guess as to the sex, unless you want it to be a surprise." Stesha looked over at Derrick, her own eyes wet as she smiled at him. "We want to know," she said definitely. "I've been bursting to know for weeks! How can I get started on the serious shopping otherwise?" "Fair enough," Miss A acknowledged. She captured a picture of the screen, moved the wand a little, repeated the process. "The little one's not shy, that's for sure. Unless I'm very much mistaken, and I rarely am, you all are having a little girl." She smiled a little at Stesha's cry of delight and kept taking measurements while the couple took in the news. "A little girl," Stesha sighed dreamily, looking at the screen. "Somehow I was sure she was going to be a girl. Look at her, isn't she beautiful?" "Just like her mother," Derrick agreed, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned in and kissed her again, for once not seeming to care that anyone saw. "She's perfect." "She's mad," Stesha told him with a breathless laugh. "She's kicking the probe. I don't think she likes us messing with her." She rubbed her stomach above the gelled area, lightly and reassuringly. "It's all right, baby," she told their agitated daughter. "We can see how pretty you are now, we'll let you go back to sleep soon. We love you so much! I can't wait till we get to see you face to face." Stesha lay back and looked at Derrick, swamped with euphoria and love. "I guess it's time to start thinking about names now, too!"

Feb. 23rd Mark walked in the kitchen door and found his father waiting for him. "Jesus Christ, Dad!" Mark exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" His father wasn't alone, either; his mother was there with him. For a second, though, Mark's eyes were all on his father, Rick Lucas. He hadn't seen Rick since his father's abortive return during his grandmother's illness, and they'd exchanged some strong words then. And now...? Rick was looking taller and more robust than Mark remembered, his dad now every inch his own memories of his father. Surely there was only one reason he could be home... "Oh, God! Have you come to stay? Come so we can be a family again?" The prospect, even after so much anger, was like a weight lifted from Mark's chest. "Yes," said Rick, stepping forward to embrace his son. He smelled like redwood forests and aftershave, everything a father should smell like. "We're going to be a family again," said Rick proudly. "I'm going to make up for the mistakes I made. The mistakes I made when I left... and the mistakes I made when I raised you. You've grown up into a good man, Mark, and I want to help you as much as I can. Pack your bags, and we'll be ready to go." For her part, Martha looked more than ready to go herself, looking smiling and confident with a dufflebag over her shoulder and in a Panama shirt and shorts unsuitable for the climate of Freedom City in February. Mark was almost to the stairs up to his room when he paused, and turned. "Wait... why are we going? Can't you stay here?" His father had talked quite a bit about his inability to remain on Earth-Prime after the emergence of his reality-warping, universe-shaping self, but that wasn't something Mark had been able to really understand: had his father left because he _couldn't_ stay, or because he didn't want to give up all that he'd gained? "Are we going to have to live with the genies?" "No," Rick reassured him, "I've spoken with... with those people, and they agree that my place isn't there. Whatever magical act may have given me birth, those aren't my people, and that man isn't my father. You've already met your grandfather." Mark didn't ask how his father knew about that adventure; he surely was already familiar with that sort of thing if he was watching Earth-Prime at all. "We're going to live on Earth-Electrum. It's a beautiful place, I've been visiting there, and-" "... wait, _what_?" Mark's jaw dropped. "You want us to just pack our bags and go live in some other dimension? But I haven't even finished school!" "We can't stay here," said Rick firmly. "I've shown your mother what's happening to this dimension, and she agrees. This is no place for us to live out our golden years, much less for you to have your young manhood." Mark looked past his father, but Martha looked uneasy, not the support that either man might have wanted at this point. Mark felt a sudden, ugly stab at those words. Did he change her this time? Rick fixed his son dead in the eye. "The Terminus is coming. Our family won't survive if we stay. We have to go elsewhere and-" "No!" Mark exclaimed. "No, we can't do this again! Dammit, Dad!" He grabbed Rick's arm, heedless of the power that had once shattered reality in half. "If the Terminus is coming, stay! If you can't take action, if you're some kind of cosmic entity now, at least warn us so we can organize our defenses! The world needs you!" "No, it doesn't," said Rick flatly. "This world hasn't needed me in a long time. It needs-" "Mom, please!" Mark looked past his father, looking pleadingly at Martha. She'd tried so hard for so long after his father's disappearance, things were going so well for her; what could Rick possibly have said? "For God's sakes, you can't just leave! What about your work? What about our family?" "I've left enough pictures that they can carry on without me," said Martha, raising her head proudly. "That's why I've been back in the studio so much lately. I know this seems hard, Mark, but things are going to be all right. Just come with us, and let this world go for a little while. Our family is depending on it." Mark flushed red, shouting "Our family?!? All my life, both of you have taught me to stand up for what I believe in. To do what's right, no matter how hard it is? And now you're expecting me to give up on my friends, give up on saving the world, because you say I should? That's insane!" To his surprise, Rick smiled, and exchanged a look with Martha that was terribly knowing and terribly sad. Martha wasn't smiling at all, but Rick said, "No, Mark. I guess I really didn't." "We'll see you again soon," said Martha, and before Mark could do more than cry out, his parents vanished in a spectral spiral of black, inky bubbles. He stared at them, his mouth open, and it was seconds before he yelled, "Noooo!" Mark dropped to the kitchen floor, still staring at the spots where they'd been, watching as the sun moved across the floor as hours went by. He tried his communicator only once, but when no one answered, he didn't bother again. The house was empty."For the first time, Mark was alone.

Date: February, 2002 Place: A middle school in Missouri Gina clutched the strap of her knapsack with both hands as she walked down the corridor near the science classrooms. She didn't have a backpack like all the other middle-schoolers had, like she desperately wanted. Those gave you bad posture and wrinkled your clothes. Instead she had the stupid pink pleather knapsack that didn't hold enough books and just made her look even weirder. It wasn't like she needed any help with that! In elementary school it hadn't been so bad, but lately, her mom had been wanting her to "practice pretty" so she might start winning pageants again before she turned fourteen and the real pressure started. Practicing pretty meant going to school in what would've been casualwear if she were in a pageant, with the designer jeans and blouses, the low heels (high heels were against the school dress code, much to Lissy's chagrin), thoroughly teased hair, and of course, makeup. Lots of makeup. She went to school looking like she was ready to compete, and it made her feel like a freak. Some of the girls were jealous because they weren't allowed to wear any of that stuff, and they were catty and mean because of it, but they weren't people Gina wanted to hang around with anyway. The people she might have wanted to hang out with wouldn't come anywhere near her. She guessed she couldn't blame them, but if they just got to know her, surely they'd realize that she was like them, despite the clothes. It was with that thought in mind that she haunted the science corridor that day after school, listening outside the classroom door where the quiz bowl team was practicing. In a small southern town, football was king and everything else was expendable, but quiz bowl didn't take much money and it got the school occasional good press, so it hung in there year after year. This year's team was pretty decent, and almost all boys. Gina didn't do extracurricular activities, and she really wasn't supposed to linger after school on a day when her pageant coach was coming, but she didn't care. From her spot outside the door, she could just see the window reflection of Jacob Berrigan, the team captain, as he answered questions. More importantly, she could hear him answering. Jacob was in a couple of her classes, and even though he was only okay to look at, he had this great voice, a really nice voice. And he was really smart. She wanted so badly to have friends who were smart, friends she could talk to. In her mind, she could see how fun it would be to talk with Jacob, to sit with him and his friends at lunch. While she waited, she mouthed answers to the questions that were being tossed out, and was pleased when she got more answers right than wrong. Finally, when Gina was worried she was just going to have to leave or risk getting into more trouble than waiting was worth, the teacher called a break. The students got up from their desks and stretched, then started making their way to the door for the bathrooms and vending machines down the hall. Since she was mostly hidden by the door itself, no one really paid her any attention. Jacob was one of the last ones out, and she almost lost her nerve and didn't say anything. But she had to. Forcing a smile onto her face was second nature at this point, so she had a broad grin on her face when she stepped out. "Hi Jacob, uh, hi!" she began inanely, realized she was using her too-perky performance voice to go along with her game face, and tried to relax both. "It sounds like practice is going well." She'd rehearsed that line only four or five times standing in the hall, and was relieved when it came out sounding normal. In her mental rehearsals, Jacob had said hello back at this point, and when he missed his cue, it threw her off. Instead, he just stared at her like she was a space alien, and not necessarily a friendly one. She suddenly realized that maybe he didn't even recognize her, despite all the attention she'd paid him from afar. She closed her fingers more tightly around the strap of her knapsack, struggling with the impulse to turn and leave now. "I'm Gina," she said instead. "We're in homeroom together, and honors English?" "Yes, I know," Jacob said flatly, still not smiling or giving any sign that he was happy to be having a conversation with her. Even the voice that usually sounded so nice was nothing but cool. "What do you want?" Gina faltered. "I was... I was wondering if y'all wanted to, um, do something sometime. Like go to a movie, or come over to my house or something. My brothers have a Super Nintendo with lots of games and stuff." Lame, lame, lame! her mind told her disgustedly. Stupid idea, should've bailed while you had the chance. Her smile felt frozen on her face while he looked her over like a particularly unfriendly judge. Their conversation in the hallway had not gone unnoticed, another factor Gina had failed to account for in her rehearsals. Some of Jacob's teammates were coming over now, giving her wary looks. "Did somebody put you up to this?" Jacob asked, looking around as though he expected to see people watching from hiding, waiting to laugh at him. "Don't let her play you," Ronnie, one of the two girls on the team, murmured to Jacob, giving Gina an unfriendly look. "The football guys just looking for more reasons to make fun of us. Go out with their pet hooker, you'd just be doing what they want." "Yeah, don't worry about that," Jacob murmured back, not knowing or not caring that his words were audible. He turned back to Gina. "Look, I don't know what you want, but I'm not going to play your game. Go back to your beauty pageant or whatever. We've got practice." He turned and went back into the classroom, followed by the others. Gina watched them leave, her knuckles dead white as she held onto her knapsack, her face totally blank. Crying would smear her mascara, and the only worse thing than being a freak was being a sloppy raccoon-eyed freak. She couldn't even wash the stuff off, or she'd get yelled at when she got home. To heck with it. Ignoring the time, ignoring the trouble she was going to get into later, Gina ran down the empty hallway to the one safe place she had, the computer lab.

December 31st, 1999. 11:58pm. A large beach house along the Carolina coast. This New Years' eve party was by far the best one Burton "Burt" Lee had ever attended. That wasn't saying much, though, as he'd not been to very many. His four years in college had been spent making up for the quiet, sheltered life he had lived in his small North Carolina hometown, where most New Year’s Eve parties had consisted of sitting at home and watching the televised broadcast of the giant acorn drop in the city capital. He'd faced some difficulties since he left to live on the campus some 45 miles from home, gotten into some trouble as he tested his newfound freedoms, but in this his experiences were not unusual. And he counted himself lucky for having parents who were able to help him out of the few jams he was not able to get himself out of. Which is not to say they were perfectly understanding – small towns tended to breed small minds, and Lee's parents were not wholly free of that. For instance, they disapproved of his friendship with one Kimber Stanley, a voluptuous brunettes whose parents were fairly well off (the Lees tended not to trust the wealthy, be they old money or new). "Look, just 'cuz her parents are well-off don’t make 'em bad. An' it ain't like they got their money by crooked means – they built and run a restaurant! Wouldja fault ol' Elmo fer makin' it big if his diner proved real popular?" What Burt had not shared with his parents was that Kimber was experimenting with her sexuality, something they would have had equal issue with. Kimber was currently dating Jendayi Rogersdottir, a thin blonde from Freedom City (one of the few places a mixed Egyptian/Icelandic family could form). The three of them got along fabulously, to the point where many at the college thought Burt, Kim and Jen were a polyamorous triad. It did take Burt some time to realize what was going on – at first he thought they were just good friends, not good friends – but when it did dawn on him, it mattered not a bit. They were all friends, and he was comfortable being in the friend zone. At least, that’s what he told himself. If the truth were force from him, he’d admit he had feelings for Kim, and was a bit jealous of Jen. He didn’t see anything he could do about it, though, so he just kept on as he had, hanging out with them, watching movies together, going out for food runs after lengthy study sessions, and acting as a shoulder to cry on when their relationship hit one of its many rocky patches. (Yeah, that part sucked most of all.) But tonight was different. It was New Years' Eve 1999, and tomorrow would be the start of a new millennium. (Well, that's what many kept saying; the new century and millennium wouldn’t really start until 2001, but who’s going to listen to "facts"?) The party was held at Kim's parent’s beach house, stocked with copious amounts of food and drink, and attended by dozens of their friends. Burt had just experienced another first – his first alcoholic drink, some fruity concoction that he could easily see himself drinking many more of – when Kim and Jen, who had already enjoyed several drinks, breezed by and whispered something to him, in tandem: "Heeeyyy Burt," Kim cooed. "Burrrt," Jen purred. "You’ve been suuuch a good friend to us..." "Done sooo much for us..." "And now we wanna do something..." "Something special for you..." They each ran a hand across and down his chest, and slipped their hands into his jeans pockets. "Uhhhh..." "Something you’ll really like..." "Really, really, reeeaaallly like..." They both planted a kiss on his cheeks, as they had many, many, many times before, but then Kim shifted in front of him and gave him a real kiss. His first real kiss. Woo-hoo! My first time, and it's gonna be a three-way! He smiled, enjoying the tingling sensation on his lips, feeling it spread across his face and around to the back of his head. He felt goosebumps rising along his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Man, if I'm feelin' all this from just a kiss, I can't wait to see wha- That was the last thought that went through Burton Lee's living brain.

'What Is This Thing You Call...Love?' Place: Dragonfly's Warehouse Lair At Mara’s mental command the oversized garage doorway to her warehouse slid to the side, opening just in time for her and her motorcycle to slip in before sliding closed again behind her, returning her home to its disguise as just another semi-abandoned building in an area full of active and abandoned storage. With her helmet on she looked all business, serious as ever as she shut her beloved bike down....until the door actually latched shut behind her, at which point she pulled off her helmet and practically floated off the bike. An unusually cheerful smile on her face and a hum in her throat, the young woman gave a happy greeting to Puppy, the spherical, robotic pet twisting its camera uncertainly, rolling backward a bit to make sure that this elated, emoting person really was its owner. She only laughed (something that did not put its simple robotic mind at ease), reaching down to pick it up and spin it around for a moment. “Fantastic date, Puppy,” she explained, setting him back down. “Very nice.” It whirred and clicked at her, trailing after her as she made her way to the kitchen. “Know you can’t actually understand me,” she admitted, glancing apologetically down at the plastic-shelled creation. “Haven’t developed your AI that far. Sorry. Busy. Partly with dates!” She smiled again, grabbing a bottle of soda from the bottom of her fridge and shutting the door. “Yes, with Ellie. Yes, I know you didn’t ask that. Helps me focus sometimes to talk to myself. Probably a byproduct of multi-threaded thought processes. Sound crazy, might be crazy, live alone with a robot named after a young dog.” Puppy made another whirring sound, looking up at her. “Yes, that’s you. But don’t care. No one to listen to me be...weird. Except you, and if you start judging me...would have to rewrite your brain.” It obviously didn’t understand that, and she shook her head, smiling. “Joke. Happy, Puppy! Relatively unusual. Trying to savor it. Don’t even have a headache. Yes, unusual, isn’t it?” Mara reached down again, carefully picking her pet up and setting it down on the counter, where she could lean over and look at it at eye level. “Almost frightening. To me, too. She just...unknown effect. Fairly glad I don’t have the dedicated biology grounding to know the mechanics. It’s...her, and her personality, and intelligence, and the way she looks, and moves, and....” She bit her lip, soda forgotten next to her as she folded her arms on the counter to support her chin. “...it...think I love her, Puppy,” she admitted, quietly. “Not...mmh. Feelings are complicated. Would say that you’re lucky not to have them, but...don’t know if that’s true. Can’t...measure it, Puppy. No empirical test for love. But can differentiate it from lust -“ She paused mid-sentence, tilting her head. “...there is that too. Pants...but not completely. Even just think of her, bring her face up in my head, and get...happy. And scared. And...elated, and sick, and....” Mara looked into her pet’s single large camera eye, furrowing her brow. “Think I’d just happy being around her. Dating her, kissing, cuddling, talking is...so much better. Don’t even have words for the effect. Does that make me crazy, Puppy? Not the...bad crazy, but....” She trailed off, frowning at the blank stare that was meeting her gaze. “....don’t understand a word I say other than ‘Puppy’, do you. Mmh. Thank you anyway. Want an upgrade?” It whirred and clicked, a bit blankly, though its camera focused a bit when it heard its name. “Yes, then. Come on, Puppy. I got you some new RAM yesterday, we can install that while I tell you about my date.”

An Apartment Building near Freedom College February 18th, 2011 Carson Keefe hung up the phone, slowly setting it on the cradle. His expression was a combination of thoughtfulness and traces of sadness. His mother had called and reported that Sarah O'Connor was marrying Brian McPhilips in three weeks. They were happy, and totally smitten with each other. Bevin Keefe, knowing how easily Carson could travel, had asked if he'd wanted to attend. He'd said he couldn't, that between teaching and his hero responsibilities, he just didn't have the time. He hoped God would forgive him in time for that lie. After all, he'd made time for Stesha and Derrick's wedding. Granted, Sarah O'Connor hadn't saved his life after a pack of super-ghouls nearly gutted him, but wasn't it the principle of the thing? He'd certainly known Sarah longer and better. “Bloody hell. Too scared to make it to my ex-girlfriend's wedding? Some mighty hero I am...” He walked over to his radio, turning it on to one of his presets before going to fix himself something to drink. He needed to sit back and think things over a bit. He gave a morbid chuckle when he heard the DJ start the next song. [groove]23394600[/groove] He sat down, the steaming cup of Irish Coffee in his hands going almost forgotten as he delved into memory lane. Only his occasional sip showed he remembered it was even there. January, 2009 “Think about it, Sarah! I know there's openings here, but I've done the research! Freedom College needs more people willing to help! Plus, I've found out they have mentoring opportunities. And you, you've got a business degree. There are so many companies in that city it's almost absurd! There's so much both of us could do!” “No, Carson. I'm sorry, but no. I'm not telling you to stay; I can tell this is something you believe in. I can't stand in the way of that. But I won't go to America. I love it too much here in Ireland, and I just don't think I could stand living over there. It's too different. And what if I can't find work, then what? Who will I live with? Have you convinced anyone else to go over there? Or were you only going to ask me, since I'm your girlfriend?” “I was going to start by asking you, but yes, I was going to ask the others. I'm sure that-” “No. I talked with some of the others. No one else wants to go. I'm sorry, Carson. This is just the road life takes us down. I'm sure you'll be back occasionally to visit your parents, and maybe us. But...I think it's best that we end things now. You've still got time before you move. This will let us both recover.” She turned to leave, and Carson stretched out his right hand, as if to grasp her and hold her in place. “Sarah! Please! I wanted to ask-” “Don't you finish that sentence, Carson Finbar Keefe. It won't change anything, but saying it out loud will just hurt us more. Better you just forget about us.” Before he could speak, she ran off into the lengthening shadows of the evening, her feet leaving tracks in the light snow on the ground. Carson was left standing there, arm outstretched, even as his left hand had a death grip on the small velvet box. “I...I would have told you, Sarah. My greatest secret, I would have shared with you...” Tears running down his face, his arm dropping to his side. Slowly, he turned and walked home. Present Day Somehow, his cup was empty, and the radio was on some happy song about living like a cowboy or something. Carson walked over, turned the radio off, put his cup in the sink, and walked over to the small patio ledge of his apartment. It was a clear evening, with temperatures being at least tolerable. He stood there, watching the sunset, silent tears running down his face. 'I'm a hero, a teacher, and a mentor...I do good things and help people...But what's my reward? A silly personal auction? Pats on the back? Who cares about money...Lord, I just want someone to share this with. You said it is not good for Man to be alone...yet here I am, alone!' The silence of the night was his only answer as he closed his eyes, walking inside and shutting the door. He needed to patrol in an hour or so; best to get the crying done now. Wouldn't do to let the hardened criminals see him cry.

Cambridge University May, 1989 It was his second year at Cambridge, and the young, brilliant but rather eccentric Quentin Quill was at a party. And Quentin Quill, esq, was a little drunk. Eccentric he was, but he wasn’t shy or unattractive. He may not have been the catch of the year, but he was still an attractive young man, full of genius and promise, and not without charm. Girls weren’t throwing themselves at him, but they weren’t running either. And he had struck up a conversation with Cressida Chimes, the not-unattractive philosophy student he had almost stumbled into. Fortunately, she had had one or two glasses of punch too, and it transpired that aside from her bookish beauty, she was also a rather good laugh. After a cursory and not too impressive shuffle on the dance floor, to the strains of the Smiths and a few other Indie English bands all trying to copy the Smiths (with varying degrees of success, but usually limited), Quentin and Cressida stepped outside to the crisp Spring air. Quentin had had a few flings at Cambridge. A few kisses, a few fumbles under the sheets, even a few girls on whom he had gone a few dates (and had a few fumbles) but nothing had really come to anything. He was neither romping from bed to bed, nor was he a geeky celibate – despite his academic success. Quentin took things as they came. He was pretty sure he had an exceptional mind, but in other areas he was just your everyman, and that included avoiding the stereotype of being a socially inept nerd who spent more time in the Library than even thinking about girls (or boys, for that matter). And so, Quentin and Cressida started to talk. She was easy to talk to. Maybe he was a little drunk, maybe the air was just the right temperature, maybe the silence hit him after the music. Maybe the Smiths were romantic (he smiled at the thought). Maybe Cressida was just... right. She could talk about Plato without getting pompous, she could talk about the psychology of perception and get him fired up. She could laugh about Freud without detracting from his wisdom. And all the time, he was gazing into her eyes and smile. As for him, he talked about physics and the nature of quantum mechanics that was unfolding the fabric of the university before them. He didn’t really know how long it took before they stopped talking and just laughed. “You are the best, Cress” he said simply, and sincerely, and kissed her. She giggled as she did so, but not in an unkindly way, it just made her ooze more attractiveness, and didn’t impede her responding to his kiss in kind. The spring and summer of 1989 were Quentin’s first love, with Cressida Chimes. She broadened his mind a little outside his world of physics. He read psychology, philosophy, and even poetry. He loved her, and she loved him back. Together they made love, cooked, ate, and discussed the fabric of reality that would eventually set him down the road to his destiny as Supercape. He never knew what became of her, as she never returned to Cambridge for her third and final year. She only sent him a letter saying that she loved him, and hoped to see him again one day, but that she felt the universe was bigger than she had thought, and was going travelling to India for a year, dropping out of University. Quentin was heartbroken, of course, but never felt any hatred or ill to her. She was to special for that. And every now and again, he looks at the letters they shared and marvels still at the words in them.

Freedom League Oral History Project Murdock, former Omegadrone Let me tell you a story of the days of life on Nihilor, the hearthworld of the Terminus. In the days before I was taken by the armies of Shadivan Steelgrave and forever broken by the Omegadrone forges, I lived in the alleys and streets of the Black Ghetto with the other proles, fighting for every scrap of food and every moment of warmth. We cowered in fear when Omegadrones flew overhead on their endless patrols, we raided the homes of Annihilists to take what we could from their larders, we hunted the rats and vermin of the Terminus itself for our meals. It was a harsh life, a life in which there was no living. I remember the children taught to never scream lest they be heard and torn to pieces before the eyes of their mothers, lest one infant's wail betray a whole cowering community to the grim deaths of the pits, the forges, and the games. I remember their hollow eyes and thin bones. I was a child of the streets myself, born to once-favored slaves cast off by Shadivan Steelgrave himself in a last gesture of contempt to the children of the world he had delivered over to the Lord of the Terminus. So many like me died in infancy of a thousand diseases cured on the civilized worlds, or fed to beasts the like of which have never been seen in the worlds of life. I was one of the lucky ones, as were those I knew. All of us who survived with soul and body intact were one way or another. This is the story of one who I knew. I must have been sixteen when I met January, the red-haired girl with the deep blue eyes and the so-sad tale. She'd been born in a free world, a world with heroes like so many, but it had fallen before the power of the Terminus just a few months earlier. Her lover had betrayed her to the Omegaforges, buying a few moments with some elderly relative whose name she spoke of as a curse, but she had escaped those forges and fled to the pits of Nihilor even as her world crumbled to ash and fire around her. She was a remarkable young woman. She saw something in me I did not see in myself; she was simply another new arrival I was doing all I could to protect from the horrors of the Black Ghetto so that she might learn to live, as my parents had done for so many before. I must have looked a savage rat to her. But she lay with me anyway on those cold nights, the two of us in each other's arms in the cargo container I had once made my home, the two of us promising...what? We were children, children made to grow too old by the horrors that we had survived, forced beyond adulthood by the realities of survival beneath black skies and with the screams of millions in our ears. There was no future, but we had a present, and we lived it together in a domesticity that was our half-remembered dream of the world we'd left, the world of our parents that had died in the ashes and fire of the Terminus. I slew rats for her, she cooked them; I helped steal whole canisters of food, she made sure that the children of the neighborhood had some scraps to eat. She grew distant from me after a few months. We would squabble over foolishness and she would sleep in her own corners, by now looking as much a prole as I did in her tattered clothes and with her knife in her sleeve just as I had. I saw her speaking to some of the elders who lived here, hardened old men and women who'd lived in the alleys for some twenty, thirty years, and wondered if she planned to leave me. She was quite lovely, even after all the horrors she'd seen and had to commit to survive, and she might have made a handmaiden to one of the less powerful Annihilists. (The more powerful ones could of course choose among the captured women of fallen worlds directly, not simply take them from the streets.) I doubted her. I should not have doubted her, but I did, because all others had left me. She had already taken the poison when I returned from the pits that night. I dropped the meal I had gathered for us and took her hand, gazing into her eyes as she smiled at me and told me what she'd done, and why. She was pregnant. She'd chosen for herself that her child would never live in this Hell, that she would go with him out of this nightmare world to a bright and shining world of heroes, where neither she nor the life inside her would ever suffer the want and pain she'd known in her life. She offered me the vial as well. Should I have taken it? I spent my time trying to persuade her to purge herself, or take something from our carefully-hoarded stock of medicine, but by the time I had forced open a bottle, she had simply slipped away with a smile on her face and a hand on her belly. I burned their bodies afterwards, stoking the fires myself so that no predators could be attracted to the scent, and scattered the bones and ash as far away as I could. At the time, full of youthful valor, I thought she had made the wrong choice; how could she have run away? If she had lived, if the child had lived, both of these only possible by the greatest of chances, they would have been cold and hungry all their lives. They might easily have died in the raid that took me, or worse been taken and broken themselves in the fires. Would I have made a father? Would she have made a mother? I can never know. But I know that I am all that is left of those days, of those cold alleys and dark nights. The proles who walk those alleys are many, many generations removed from the survivors I knew, and they tell tales of lost worlds and dead heroes, not of their predecessors in the Ghetto. I am the last who remembers January. I am the last who remembers what would have been our child. I would have named our baby Hope.

Lots of entries this time! Cannonade Cobalt Templar Colt (joint w/ Grimalkin) Dead Head Dragonfly Edge Fleur Fulcrum Gabriel Grimalkin (joint w/ Colt) Harrier Jack of all Blades Midnight (II) Miss Americana/Gina Nick Cimitiere Push Supercape Wander I'll get these posted tonight!

Dead Head A Moving Day Christmas (1) There Wolf, There Castle (6) Whole Kit and Kaddishle (2) 1+6+2 = 9 posts = 1pp Doktor Archeville [maxed] Ballistics Is A Science, Right? (2) Fractures (7) The Heros are NEAR (2) I KAN HAZ HUMANITY? (2) Magnets! How Do They Work? Science, You Clown! (3) Now You're Moving With Wormholes (2) Science of Stabpunching 201 (3) Somewhere That's Green (5) A Very Interceptors Christmas (2) 2+7+2+2+3+2+3+5+2 = 28 posts = 3pp added to Protectron Protectron Checking Out the Territory (4) The Conquering Mind (14) Just Another Sunday (3) There's A Little Grue In All Of Us (2) 4+14+3+2 = 23 posts + 28 from Dok = 51 posts = 4pp GM and NPC Whole Kit and Kaddishle (1) 1 / 2 = 0 posts

In order to make sure the Refs accurately count all your IC posts and award you the due amount of power points, please post with a list of all the threads in which your character posted IC this month (including the News forum). Please also mark things from the Non-Canonical forum as being non-canonical, as those count 1/2 (2 posts made for your char in a non-canon thread count as 1 post for the char). And if you are GMing something, list those threads, too. GM-only posts -- as well as NPC Villain posts -- also count 1/2, and can be assigned to whichever of your characters needs a 'push' to get up in post numbers. When you make your list, please post a link to the IC threads -- preferably to the top of the page where your first post for that month appears -- so we (and the auto-count program) can jump right to it. When you post the link to your thread, the URL should look like this http://www.freedomplaybypost.com/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=4478&p=100643#p100643 or this http://www.freedomplaybypost.com/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=4478&start=10 or this http://www.freedomplaybypost.com/viewtopic.php?f=31&t=4478 NOT this http://www.freedomplaybypost.com/viewtopic.php?p=100643#p100643 The four digit number in the URL (bolded & underlined in the correct example) is the thread id number which we need to use the autocountamotron. When you start a thread, make sure [iC] is in the title/subject line of the IC thread, and [OOC] is in the title of the OOC thread. If you make a post in an IC thread as a GM or an NPC, add [GM] in the subject line of the thread. If you make a post and [iC] is not in the subject line, the AutoCounter will not count it. And if you do not put [GM] in the places you post as an NPC or Ref, it won't count those properly. Please list your threads in alphabetical order. Please clearly note any threads in which you are both player and GM/running an NPC. Also, when you start a new thread, please mark it on the Timeline (if you have a handle here, you have an account for the Wiki, and anyone with an account can edit it). You do not have to be specific on the date, but I would like to keep track of when things are happening relative to each other. The Timeline also serves as an index for everything we've done in the nearly three years this site's been active, and it's useful to know if X happens before or after Y. If you've done any extracurriculars -- artwork, HellQ, 20 Questions, NPC, Vignette, Wiki work, etc. -- please be sure to list them along with your active threads. Failure to comply with these guidelines may result in your post counts being postponed or skipped completely.

Archived due to inactivity

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Archived due to inactivity

Archived due to inactivity

If Protectron felt any hesitation or anxiety about going back up in the elevator, its metal frame and expressionless face did not convey it. When the doors opened, it slowly stepped through, then remained motionless as it panned its optics over the entire room. "Thank you for disabling the security system, Friend-de Havilland," it said flatly. It followed the two into the actual workspace, again pausing once it passed through the doorway and silently scanning the room. "May I assist in any way?," the strange robot asked after making its scan of the room.

Any chance Protectron can get in on this?

It's Blueshift's turn, yes?

The officer stepped forward. "Uh, I guess Rift's right," he said uncertainly. "I mean, yeah, I felt that ghost stab me, hurt more than anything I'd ever felt -- worse even than the time I got shot, back in '03 -- but then I woke up. Didn't see no bright light or anything, so..." he gave a small shrug, "guess that means I was never really dead, just knocked out." A few other officers and a paramedic stepped forward to slap the officer on the back and congratulate him on not getting murdered.

"Yes, yes, of course! Here, let me steady you..." Seconds later, they were at a small receiving room on the top floor, set up to assess medical emergencies flown in via helicopter. Jessica was on a gurney, with numerous monitors hooked to her, and Archeville was at her side, tending to her with he utmost in professional care. "BP and pulse dropping, but still high... pupillary response improved, but still atypical... epistaxis ceasing... brain scans had shown greatly increased activity in Broca's area and the auditory and visual cortexes, butt hat is decreasing, too. Looks like you are well on your way back to... well, back to the same condition you were in when you walked in."

Protectron's optics dilated a few millimeters wider when Miss Americana informed the team that Freedom was already infected. But Dragonfly's report got it thinking. "Lab-Friends, I have another hypothesis. It is possible the starfish-like creature Friend-Dragonfly has encountered is a result of the Legion Mind Virus interacting with/assimilating Grue genetic material. We may not be dealing with a microscopic virus, but rather a macroscopic entity. Shall I continue search wreckage of Skyhook-3 for records of the experiments, in hopes of finding some way to combat these organisms?"

I was wrong here. Pluto (and the asteroid) are (at the time of this adventure) 31.771 AU from Earth. 1 AU = distance of Earth to Sun. Something going at 1c (= the speed of light) can cover 63,241.08 AU in one year. Or 173.62 AU per day. Or 7.23 AU/hour. Or 1 AU in about 8.3 minutes. I.e., when you look at the Sun, you're seeing where it was 8.3 minutes ago! The Pegasus-class Space-Plane, which can go at 25c, can reach Pluto in 10.5 minutes. (It can reach the closest star that we know of, Alpha Centauri, located about 4.37 light years [277,600 AU] away, in about two months.)