Katana
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Post by Katana on Dec 15, 2008 21:10:07 GMT -3
Alright. Let me explain. There was one night on iScribble where we were doodlin' about, and I decided to share a drawing I had. The conversation is as follows [edited slightly for continuity]: ---- Kat: Speaking of prettyeyes on boys... Kat: So you know there's that one fanfic, wher Dr. F re-grew up as a star child and all that? Robyn: oh by Nightcat? Kat: WILLOWY DR. F Kat: img216.imageshack.us/img216/4823/starfxz5.jpgKat: *head/desk* Robyn: Robyn: (is it bad that this is EXACTLY how I picture Dr. F in that fanfic?) XD Kat: [No, that's called MIND SYNC and I'm impressed] Anchan: XD Kat: Now, if I saw THAT Clayton Forrester walking the halls of my high school Kat: Hot damn Kat: *whacked* Robyn: XD Kat: *animelolololol* Robyn: OH GOD Kat: WUT Robyn: SOMEONE NEEDS TO WRITE A MST3K HIGH SCHOOL AU NOW XDDDD Anchan: WTF XD Kat: LAWL Robyn: Joel's one of the lone stoner kids, naturally Robyn: Mike's the star of the basketball team Robyn: um, Pearl's the evil principal... XD Kat: Hm, Dr. F is... Kat: He's the lonely one nobody understands *AWW* Anchan: omg XD Kat: Frank is that kid that always gets beat up but still is like " " Robyn: BUT THEY ALL BAND TOGETHER IN SPITE OF THEIR DIFFERENCES AND WIN THE TALENT SHOW AWWW XD Kat: YES Kat: So what do we do with Crow and To - lolololol Kat: STONER KID JOEL REVEALS HIS HIDDEN TALENT Kat: OF BUILDING PUPPET-ROBOTS Robyn: XD Robyn: NICE Kat: CLAYTON DISCOVERS HIS AMAZING PUPPETEERING ABILITIES Kat: AND UH Kat: MIKE SHOWS OFF HIS MAD PIANO SKILLZ THAT HE HIDES 'CAUSE JOCKS DON'T PLAY PIANO Anchan: aww XD Robyn: lol Kat: JOEL REVEALS HE CAN ACT. NOT. Kat: AND FRANK Kat: Uh Anchan: heee XD Robyn: HAHAHA Kat: FRANK WOULD HAVE TO BE SERVO, HUH Robyn: lol...yes XD Robyn: OH OH Robyn: AND TORGO IS THE CREEPY BUT WISE JANITOR Kat: LOLWUT Anchan: XD!!!!!! Kat: I'LL SELL TICKETS AND MAKE MILLIONS Kat: IT'S FUGGIN' GOLD Kat: HOW COULD IT FAIL Robyn: wait whaddya mean YOU'LL make millions!? Kat: Um, hello, I fleshed out the concept? Kat: *wham* Robyn: yeah but Robyn: but Kat: But NOTHING Kat: You daggon whippersnapper D< Edit: Okay, just 'cause Robyn won't stop complaining about this, here's the little tidbit afterRobyn: DON'T PULL A MALLON ON ME NOW B( Robyn: (lol) Kat: [Oh ouch] Kat: [That's low] Robyn: BURN Kat: WATER SHIELD REFLECTS BURNS Robyn: You're right, there was a line, and I crossed it ;_; Robyn: LET'S NEVER FIGHT AGAIN BB Kat: KK Robyn: SO ANYWAY --- And then I actually *did* it. Well, sorta. It's being written as we...speak...currently at five pages. It's a bit difficult to flesh out and get to the point where the plot actually gets moving, but that's how it is. The proof of my obsession with this concept comes with a simple glance at my recent doodles, as they've all been pretty much concept art of teenage versions of the boys. >_>;; You folks want the story now in bits and pieces or wait for it to be finished? 'cause that would take a while...
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Post by Robyn on Dec 15, 2008 23:47:49 GMT -3
Aw you cut out the bit where I accuse you of pulling a Jim Mallon. XP EDIT: Tuh! I was not whining, Little Miss Bot-Smoocher, I can't help it if you can't see my brilliance. B( But yeah, I helped in unleashing the dreaded High School AU on MST3K fandom, AND I REGRET NOTHING MWAHAHAHA. Oh if anyone cares, the fanfic we were talking about at the beginning is Of Devils and Angels, and I think we all agreed it's a good fanfic...stupid title though. XD I think you should post what you have so far, but I might be biased 'cause I've already seen it and it's awesome. ;D
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Creepy Girl
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Post by Creepy Girl on Dec 16, 2008 0:13:01 GMT -3
I WANNA SEEEEE. Hee, you should totally write some of the fangirls into the story. xD We can be obnoxious Mary Sues. But in all seriousness, please post what you have done so far! Can't wait to read it. :3
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Dec 16, 2008 0:24:27 GMT -3
Hee, you should totally write some of the fangirls into the story. xD We can be obnoxious Mary Sues. Well actually...XD One of my little plans was to kinda have forum members from here make cameos and have small roles and stuff. Something I cut out from the original conversation up thar was me claiming "I want to be Mike's vague love interest" and telling Anchan and Robyn to fight over Joel. xD HERE'S WHAT I GOTS SO FAR---------------------------- He wasn’t much to look at on a passing glance. But give him one second of your attention, and his mere presence would leave you floored. Clayton Forrester, age eighteen, probably better referred to as Clay or by his nickname, “Dr. F”. Senior year of high school for him was going about as well as every other grade had – socially abysmal, academically staggering. He spent most of his time in the science labs, taking two of the three AP sciences in one swing (he had taken the other previously as a junior) while cramming on the math. The open slots in his schedule were filled with the meaningless dribble required for a senior – family living was one, and then another English credit to wrap up the four needed – and the rest, study hall. Of all the student body, there was maybe possibly kinda sorta one person whom he might call his friend – but that wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because the kid followed him around like a slobbering puppy. An ugly slobbering puppy. So like…a pug? So ugly it’s cute? Maybe, but for Clay? Just an annoyance. The kid’s name was Frank. He was also a senior, most likely seventeen (he wasn’t going to go out of his way to find out), and for some reason, he tagged along with Clay whenever he could. This was bizarre in and of itself, as the science prodigy wasn’t one to attract people (more like repel – and hard), but he had done it before. When he was a sophomore, a freshman named Laurence had been his comrade in doing some mischief around the school. Then, one day, Larry’s family up and moved and he hadn’t heard from him since. Which sucked, because Frank wasn’t much of an intellect. Kinda dumb, naïve, and just…well, not smart. He was always willing to be a lackey, though, which turned out to be rather useful if, per say, Clay got hungry. He could tell Frank to get him a snack from the vending machines and not have to lift a finger – and the poor dope would do it. Even if he didn’t have any true friends, there was one person in the school that he absolutely loathed. That was Joel Robinson, age eighteen – a stoner kid, most likely, if going by his always mellowed-out expression, monotonic voice, and somewhat long hair (not that Clay could say anything – his own reached well past his shoulder-blades and was always tied into a ponytail. Joel’s only went to his chin, if that.) Robinson was a loner much like himself, but was actually liked by people. He was off-kilter and odd, but extremely creative, thinking on a completely different track than anybody else. Therein lay the problem: He was a master inventor, tinkering with everything known to mankind, re-building and sculpting objects into spectacular new things. The two were so similar, yet polar opposites. Clay dealt with the chemicals, Joel the physical objects. But the latter got more attention than the former, if just because of his more approachable personality. It pissed him off royally. “Why,” he seethed, banging his head on the smooth black lab table. A beaker of distilled water sat on a hot plate in front of him, climbing up the boiling point. He was skipping out on lunch – again – to run this little test. “Yeah, the tests were pretty good this time aro – Clayton?” Mr. Curtis, instructor of AP Chemistry, walked into the room, a bit surprised at finding his top student at the lab table. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it your lunch?” “Yeah. I’m not hungry, though” Clay lied, rubbing his stomach at the growl that croaked out. “I just…I really had to –” “Get it, got it,” Curtis waved off, sitting down at his desk, rotating the yellow apple in his hand. “I don’t mind you being here, since I know you’re not going to cause any harm, but…I’m concerned about your health. You look exhausted.” “It’s my natural look,” he responded, staring at the water in the beaker. “I’m always tired.” “Have you tried sleeping?” “Once. I didn’t like it much.” “Clayton…” “I – I’m kidding, geez.” Clay grinned – probably one of the few places he felt comfortable and welcomed enough doing so – brushing a loose strand of hair away from his face. “I don’t know why. Just a thing, I guess.” He peered at his wristwatch, the glass cover giving a very faint reflection of his face. There were clearly bags under his eyes – not terrible, but not really good either. “So what are you doing?” Curtis asked, biting into his apple while he sorted a pile of scantron tests. “I’m running some experiments on distilled water and seeing how it reacts to different things,” he replied, not looking up from the notebook he was jotting in. “Seeing its properties upon boiling and freezing and the addition of basic ingredients…salt, sugar, that kinda stuff…” “What for?” Clay looked up, as if shocked by the question. “Because I…want to know what’ll happen.” “…Right.” That was what science was all about, wasn’t it? Experimenting just to see what would come from an idea, a hypothesis. It was there to scratch the itch in your brain about the what-ifs of the world around you. Did he really need a reason? Well, truthfully, he did – after all, it was school equipment and such, and it was only by the good graces of Curtis that Clay was able to do such things and not get reprimanded. Still, he had a surprising brush with his conscious, and the concern showed by the teacher over him not eating was enough to make him uncomfortable and wanting to get out of that room. “I’ll be back after school to clean up. I’m going to get lunch.” “Alright, I’ll take your word on that.” --- “This blows,” Clay muttered, sinking his head into the calculus textbook. It was study hall, a period he shared with an…interesting mix of people. First off, Frank was there, sitting in the desk to the left of Clay, doing his best to work through whatever grammar assignment had been dealt to him in English. In the back of the row of desks was Joel, his feet propped up on the chair across the aisle from him, leaning back with his notebook and seemingly drawing out some strange schematic or another. In a corner on the opposite side of the room sat a trio of girls, chittering quietly amongst themselves and giggling every so often. In the center were the jocks, talking rather loudly between themselves about whatever-the-hell they talk about…Then there were the drop-out kids, heads down on the desks, sleeping off the booze from a weekend party…On the outer fringes, the quiet ones….And then off in his own corner, another boy that Clay held a low opinion of. Grant it, there wasn’t much to be angry about with this guy. Mike Nelson was his name, age seventeen – a group floater, it seemed. He played basketball during the winter, but otherwise laid low during the rest of the year. If rumors were true, he was also in the jazz band, but nobody was really certain. Besides, it’s not like Clay knew other people’s schedules. That would be a bit too stalkerish if such were the case. What made Nelson intimidating was his height – over six feet and built to withstand a F5 tornado (which might prove useful, living in the Midwest and all). Yet he was hapless and a bit on the easily-duped side, and smiled in such a way that he could never be taken seriously and get away with kicking somebody’s ass. No doubt he could do it, he just couldn’t do it. It was a shame. Take Nelson’s body and Frank’s brain, and you’d have the perfect henchman. “If only…” Clay murmured, twirling his pencil under his thumb. Unfortunately, science hadn’t quite gotten that far – well, real science at least. He remembered watching some movie, late at night, called ‘The Brain That Wouldn’t Die’, in which a man took the decapitated head of his fiancée and kept it alive in…a pan. It was genuine 1950s pseudo-science. “If only?” Frank wondered, glancing up from his notebook. “If only…?” “If only you had meat for brains instead of lettuce,” Clay spat, though not really impressed with the remark. He glanced off to the side and quickly sighed before staring back straight again. “I’m thinking, Frank. You might want to try it some time.” “Oh okay that sounds – hey!” “That’s wrong, by the way,” Clay observed mildly, glancing at the paper underneath Frank’s hand. “The object of the preposition is ‘razor’, not ‘shave’.” Frank looked at the book, then the answer he had previously wrote, furrowing his eyebrows before erasing it and writing down what had just been told. “T-thanks…” he mumbled. Clay looked at his own homework, roughly two-thirds of the way finished, sticking his tongue out briefly at the work. It was so trivial and useless to be doing the busywork…but he knew that if he didn’t do it, he’d fail the class, which meant taking it again…which meant more time in school…The consequences were worse than the suffering. “I hate this,” he grumbled, setting his pencil down and taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. They were throbbing in a dull headache, but it was one he had had for so long that it had just melted into a regularity. With a defeated sigh, he slipped his glasses back on… …and was a bit annoyed when one of the temples fell off and clattered against the desk. “What the hell,” he muttered, balancing the glasses against his face while picking up the fallen piece. “Why did you fall off…?” Frank peered across the aisle, leaning out of his desk to observe. “Seems like the screw popped out,” he said, noticing the empty slot where the tiny fastener would go. “Just my luck,” Clay seethed. “Now what am I supposed to do…” “You could ask Joel if he can fix it,” Frank suggested innocently. He was blatantly unaware of Clay’s loathing for the boy – which wasn’t exactly his fault, as it was something he just didn’t share with others – and was taken aback by the deathglare given to him. “Not a chance,” Clay snapped, hands shaking slightly in anger. “I’ll walk around blind before I ask him for help.” “Oh come on, you would not.” Frank turned around in his seat and called out, “Hey Joel?” Clay lunged across the aisle in protest…but not fast enough. “Hmmm?” came that familiar dazed voice. “What’s up Frank?” His face brightened with an idiotic smile. Clay looked away, furious and pushing down his internal rage. “Clay’s glasses broke – like, one of the screws popped out…Can ya fix it?” Joel perked up, setting his books down and dropping his legs from the seat he had them perched on. “Probably,” he said, hefting himself out of his seat and rummaging through the various pockets on the baggy jeans he wore. He pulled out a zipped-up carrying case from one pocket, opening it up and withdrawing a small screwdriver, before reaching in another pocket and taking out a divided plastic box that rattled with screws, staples, thumb-tacks, and a tube of super glue. “Can I see them?” “Yeah sure!” Frank snatched the glasses from a distracted Clay (distracted by his annoyance and brooding), who became aware of the situation a bit too late to do anything. “Yeah…Yeah, basic tiny screw…I’ve got it, hang on.” Joel popped open the lid from the box and flicked out a small screw, eyeballing the size. “…Can I see them?” Begrudgingly, Clay handed him the glasses, hoping that his malice would turn into poison and that upon touch, the inventor would keel over. But life didn’t work that way, and within moments a mended pair of spectacles was handed back to him. “Thanks,” he muttered with such spite that even Joel flinched a little. Without fanfare, he slipped them back on before turning back to his textbook and working out the next problem. “He’s kinda crabby,” Frank mouthed. Joel raised an eyebrow, quietly pocketing the screw box while withdrawing the screwdriver case. “I see,” he said rather unconvincingly, unzipping the case and slipping the screwdriver into its sleeve. “Well uh…you’re welcome, I…think.” Frank seemed rather pleased with himself as Joel returned to his seat. He turned to Clay, a beaming smile on his face. “Aren’t you glad?” “Honestly?” Clay pushed the glasses up his nosebridge, turned to Frank, tilted his head up, and widened his eyes. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”Thankfully, the bell rang. ---------------------------- And that's it. XD; The next part is thankfully another break and goes to the end of the day, but beyond one sentence I've got nothin'. The story is called "Four Corners" [I'm weird and fancy and poetic for some reason] and it does deal with the concept of the four boys coming together to do something, though maybe not to win the talent show. XD; I'm going to post up some sketches soon...because...because I can...*goes off to her hole*
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Creepy Girl
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Post by Creepy Girl on Dec 16, 2008 21:09:39 GMT -3
LOVE LOVE LOVE. Please keep it comin'! Hah, and I love the idea of some little fangirl cameos. And of course the boys would be painfully oblivious to any of our admiration/stalking. :]
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Dec 22, 2008 2:54:11 GMT -3
Finally, some new stuff. I'm thinking I'll post up new things in sections of at least two pages, so...yeah. That's not too hard.
Anyways, here's the super-violent segue that gets the plot into action! I swear I didn't mean for it to turn out this way, it just did. XD; And anything sciency? I'm totally making it up/going off of MythBusters. YEAH!
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The end of the day came at 2:30, and it honestly couldn’t come soon enough. A light snow had been falling since noon, a blanket covering the student parking lot. Clay dragged in the crisp air before blowing it out, slightly amused when his glasses’ lens fogged over. It was one of those simple childhood pleasures that hadn’t left him yet, surprisingly enough. A quick wipe with the finger made them clear again.
The end of the day always marked madness in the lot, but since it was early, few students had made it out. Snow crunching underfoot, Clay shoved his hands in his coat pockets, helping keep the messenger bag close to his side. Everything was going well until…
“Hey, Forrester…”
Clay snapped his head up and shot a glance behind him. There he was.
“Robinson.”
The inventor walked up the path, jerking his hand in a greeting motion. His jacket was an odd throwback to the 60s and reminded Clay of the ones worn by the marching band, though instead of the funny hats (shakos, right?), a green knit cap sat atop his head. “Hey, I wanted to ask you about your glasses…”
“I didn’t need your help,” Clay quipped, clenching his fists in his pockets. “I could’ve – could’ve…”
“Used tape?” Joel asked casually, an amused but washed-out smile crawling onto his face. It was how his emotions were – there, but diluted. “Don’t think you’d be the kind to do that…”
“M-my vision’s not that bad anyways. I could’ve survived without them.”
“Y’know, I don’t really believe that, but I’m not going to argue with you.” Joel swung his backpack – an army-like one, loaded up with pockets, bungee cords, clips, zippers, and belts – off his shoulder, quickly unzipping the top-most pocket and pulling out an address book. “I know a guy, sells bunch of medical stuff, op-hat-malo-gist…”
“Ophthalmologist?” Clay corrected impatiently.
“Yeah. He likes eye stuff. And if you ever need your specks fixed again –”
“- I’ll just get new ones.” He turned around and began to walk towards the parking lot before stopping and jerking his head back. “You shouldn’t be so nice, Robinson. It only leads to pain.”
“I’m not nice on purpose,” Joel replied, throwing the address book back in the pocket and zipping it up. “I don’t try. I just do what I do, and it happens to be something people like.”
Doing what he did…He did that well. But he didn’t do it well enough to gain actual friends. It wasn’t like Clay could exactly say much – except that in the absolute very least, he had Frank has a lackey.
Still…
Clay knew he was jealous of Robinson. It was something so obvious that he had no problem admitting it to himself. That didn’t mean he was happy about it, though. How could anybody be happy about being inferior to somebody? Such a thing just didn’t make sense. To be lower than somebody…worse than them…
“Forrester, did you hear me?”
Snapping his eyes towards Joel, Clay released his thoughts and stared heavily at the inventor. “Still here? What do you want?”
“…I was wondering if you had a shovel in your car.”
Raising his eyebrows, it took everything in him not to bust out laughing. “The great Joel Robinson, master tinkerer, doesn’t have a nifty little gadget to get himself out of the wet stuff?” The two started walking towards the parking lot, Joel hanging back about ten feet, slightly embarrassed (but not really showing it).
“No, I’ve got something…it just isn’t ready, the wires are still exposed…and snow’s water…”
Clay snickered, grinning. Now was the time to show off his latest…experiment.
“I’ve got a proposition for you, Robinson,” he said suddenly, turning on his heel and creating a circular track in the snow. “Let’s call it an…invention exchange.”
“Invention exchange?” Joel asked dubiously, withdrawing his car keys from one of his pants pocket. “What do you mean by that?”
“Come now, we’re both men of the prototypes. You mess with the physical, I with the chemical…as you see, we both lack on the opposite spectrum.”
Joel raised an eyebrow as he unlocked the door to his car (a red, beat-up Jeep, covered in salt and ice) and threw his backpack into the passenger seat. “Alright, I see your point…What of it? You want to hock one of my inventions?”
“Tch, no. I just think that, by seeing what each other does, we could…jog our creativity a bit.” Clay unclipped his messenger bag and withdrew a thermos, the picture on the side having long faded off. “Here now – to give you my assurance, I’ll go first.” Clearing his throat, Clay held up the thermos in a manner befitting of a game show prize mistress. “Snow. It’s a part of life when you live in the Midwest, especially in Minnesota.” As if to accentuate his point, the wind picked up, whipping his bangs in the frigid air.
“Yeah, where ten below is considered a good day…” Joel mused, slightly interested in what was going on before him.
Clay sighed, shaking his head. “And as we all know,” he continued, “Just ten minutes in the snow can mean you digging out your car for an hour. What’s the solution?” He paused, quickly thinking up a name. “Forrester’s Snow Away!”
“‘Snow Away’?” the inventor snorted, holding in a laugh but letting a grin creep out.
“Shut up, that’s all I could think of,” Clay hissed. “Anyways, it’s very simple, all you do is –”
“HEY, CLAY!” Frank’s voice rang out against the sharp air. Clay groaned and looked towards the doorway, where the main wave of students was now being released. The mop of (oddly) white hair balanced on that slightly pudgy body, which was wrapped in a black jacket, dashed towards him, hampered slightly by the snow on the ground. Clutched in his hands was a forest green notebook, papers sticking out of it at odd corners and angles.
“What do you want, Frank?” Clay asked acidly, tapping his foot on the ground. Frank was breathing somewhat heavily, judging by the amount of billows coming from his mouth.
“Your notebook. You – you forgot your notebook. I thought you would – you know – need it. …Hey, wha’cha got there?”
Clay accepted the notebook being handed to him, quickly slipping it into his bag. “This, Frank, is an invention…Forrester’s Snow Away, title pending. Anyways…You see these tires? Given the snow and ice and the incline of the lot, you’re not going anywhere –”
“I think I’m okay there, actually –”
“Shut up Robinson, this is MY invention – Like I was saying, you’re not going anywhere dug in like that.” Clay swiftly unscrewed the lid off of the thermos, excited to see that the liquid had remained just as it had in the chem lab. No steam was being given off. “But with just a splash of this –”
It goes without saying that Clayton “Dr. F” Forrester didn’t exactly have an easy life. More often that not, Murphy dealt him deuces rather than aces, and it was such that he learned to roll with it. Every so often, he’d get lucky…but not often enough to really overcome the negatives.
When the distilled water, high beyond it’s boiling point, hit the ground, it caused a chain reaction. First, it did make the snow and ice go away, but with more of a fwoom than just simple melting. Secondly, the dramatic shift from cold to hot cracked not only the hubcab on the tire of Joel’s jeep, but also the asphalt beneath and around it. Thirdly, what remained in-tact of the snow and ice sprayed everywhere. Frank, Joel, and Clay were all attacked, and it was then that Clay really realized something was wrong.
The water was still hot – boiling hot, in fact – and it remained so as it flew with the ice and snow and hit the bystanders. Clay winced and clenched his teeth at the pain that shot through his body upon being hit in the hands and neck. Stumbling backwards, his foot made contact with an ice patch, sending him – and the thermos still full of the water – flying.
Luckily, the thermos and its contents didn’t hit him – nor did it hit Frank (not that he cared) or Joel (oh, how he kinda wished). No, instead, it hit the innocent passer-by that was Mike Nelson.
A collective gasp from the student body was heard as Nelson was splattered, causing him to immediately drop his bags and collapse to his knees. Clay had fallen at just the right place – from his peripheral vision, he noticed the blonde clutching the side of his face, ready to scream in pain but holding it in by instead grinding his teeth. Suddenly, the agony turned to rage as his eyes – normally bright and cheery – were a murderous, flat green…and fixated on him.
“FORRESTER!” Mike shouted, scrambling towards Clay, grabbing his ponytail, and dragging him up as she managed to stumble onto his own two feet. “WHAT THE HELL?!”
“Look, Nelson, I –”
It was there that Mike Nelson broke his image and shattered the perceptions of those who knew him. The gentle giant of a boy threw out a punch, landing it square to the side of Clay’s head, breaking his glasses once more. Another blow – this one to the nose – now added red to the mix of white and grey on the ground.
“Nel – NELSON!” Clay tensed up before lashing back, ripping Mike’s grip from his jacket with his left hand and punching him – on his burn – with the right. He fell back down to his knees, letting out a single screech at the pain that once again rang out. Clay stumbled, attempting to wipe the blood dripping from his nose, but to little success.
“What’s your deal, Forrester,” Joel murmured suddenly, taking a step forward from his car. “You break my car, now you break Nelson?”
“Broke mah nosb,” Clay sputtered out against the blood. “Ib’s only fair.”
“You know…I’ve been meaning to do this for a long time, but just never had the opportunity to do it.” Joel sighed, cracking his neck to the left and to the right, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a match. “Seeing as how all four of us are going to be screwed, I might as well do it anyways.”
Suddenly, Joel lunged forward before sweeping out his right leg and shifting his weight down and to the left. Frank, however, saw what was coming and intercepted the blow – well, intercepted it by means of getting it himself. Another splotch of red, this one a bit more purple than the other, joined the white and grey on the ground.
The inventor was shocked, to say the least, and for once his emotion clearly showed. The look only intensified when the lackey charged forward, slamming him into the car door and whamming his forehead with – of all things – a headbutt.
“Fr – Frank!” Clay called out, reaching his blood-stained hand out. He was clearly surprised by the defense (and offense) of the boy…but was even more surprised when he felt another blow to his head and his already blurred vision completely shot away.
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And next, things get into motion! I hope. XD
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Creepy Girl
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Post by Creepy Girl on Dec 22, 2008 13:21:44 GMT -3
Ooo, like how you finagled the invention exchange in there. :] rage!Mike is scary. ;; I hope his lovable roast-face doesn't suffer any permanent damage due to the boiling water... Again, great job. Can't wait for the next installment!
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Dec 24, 2008 3:08:20 GMT -3
New segment yay! This one roughs out to about three pages, so it's a little shorter than the others. But it is the whole scene, so...yeah, all that good stuff.
The plot is given its kickoff and the question is finally answered as to why and how the boys have to stay together. Also, I'm going to start messing with cameos after this. XD
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When Clay woke up, he was slumped down in a chair, staring at a faded blue carpet. He blinked, his eyelids heavy and stiff, attempting to observe his surroundings before settling into panic. Without his glasses, though, he vision was horribly blurred and distorted, but he was able to make out some vague shapes.
From the colors on his left, he figured it was Frank – the mop of white, the splodge of pink, then the swatch of black…His right took a bit more figuring out, but…judging by the height and the bushel of blonde, it was Mike. Clay blinked again, his sight sharpening slightly, before lifting his head up.
“Hey…you’re alive,” Frank said weakly, lifting up a green shape in his blob of a hand. “Um…here’s your glasses, uh…You can see out of one of the lenses, at least…”
“Thanks,” Clay mumbled, blindly reaching his hand out to take them. Upon balancing them on his face, half the world became much sharper, the other half…cracked and angled. He inspected his hands, noticing his palm wrapped in band-aids, and felt a pull when he tried to adjust his neck. More bandages, it seemed.
But if damage by the water was what Clay was interested in, he need only steal a glance to the right, where Mike sat, sullen and…ashamed. A line of cotton squares and medical tape ran down his face, wrapped around his jaw and continued along his neck. There was a bruise forming as well along with the stray burn marks, swelling up his cheek.
Even though he didn’t like him, Clay couldn’t help but feel…terrible. It was the way he sat, blank and soulless, that made him uneasy. “Nel…”
“…Just…be quiet Forrester…” he murmured, still staring straight ahead.
With a defeated sigh, Clay leaned back into the seat, staring down the row of chairs and looking at Joel, who had the back of his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed. Two bandaids were strapped over the right side of his temple, a patch on his neck, and the ribboned straps of gauze wrapped around his hands.
“…Wonder what were in for,” he muttered suddenly, opening his eyes. “You guys ever hear stories about our madam principal?”
That queasy feeling returned to Clay’s stomach.
“I heard she gives weird punishments,” Frank offered, leaning forward to look at Joel. “Like, this one time…I heard she took this group – the ones that spray-painted on the gym walls? – she put them in the auditorium, set up the projector, and had ‘em watch a B-grade movie.”
Mike snorted. “What kind of punishment is that?”
Franks shrugged. “I heard it was ‘Monster A-Go-Go’, which is this…movie where…See, it was a movie that was made, then dropped due to the budget running out, and then picked up again with a entirely different cast and then they did a mind-screw on the audience by saying there WAS no monster…”
Joel raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to make sure the lackey saw it. “How do you know so much about it? That spray-paint thing was when we were in middle school.”
“I…like movies…” He seemed just a tad bit embarrassed about revealing this fact, twiddling his thumbs together. “Any movie of any sorts, especially the old ones…They’re – they’re cool! It’s a lost art, I swear –”
“Okay okay, that’s fine,” Mike cut in, still having not moved in his seat. “I heard she once made some kid clean the bathrooms…with his tongue.”
“Yeah right, like that actually happened,” Frank scoffed, waving his hand. “No, I hear her punishments tend to be more on the weird side – like the movie thing.”
“Eh…I seem to remember her forcing some kids to get the vending machines to run on potatoes,” Joel said, sticking out his upper lip in thought. “And they weren’t…well, they weren’t like Dr. F here…”
Clay snapped out of his silent trance at the mentioning of his nickname. “Don’t call me that,” he moaned, slumping his head down.
“What, don’t like your genius being acknowledged?” Mike sneered, his eyes shifting down to the prodigy. “I seem to recall that if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be messed up like this.” But as soon as he spoke those words, his expression softened and instantly became regretful. He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it and resumed his staring at the principal’s desk.
“I don’t like it,” Clay muttered, looking up. “You think I like being singled out?”
“Then why do you try?” Joel wondered breezily, scratched around his forehead bandaids.
Clay stared at him. “Are you kidding?” he asked incredulously. “I don’t try because I want to. I try because it’s just…who I am. It’s my default setting.”
“It means you’re ambitious and want to stand out.”
“No…I just do what I do.” He smirked, Joel looking at him oddly before a washed-out smile crawled onto his face.
“Nice…”
The door to the office suddenly bursting open snapped any hopes of continued mindless conversing. In stepped the principal…madam principal, as Joel had called her, wearing a sharp green pantsuit, her blonde hair wrapped tightly in a bun on her head. Bright red lipstick blared out against her ivory skin, her blazing blue eyes filled with deviousness as she took her seat and stared at the four boys.
“Joel Robinson,” she started, staring directly at the inventor. His eyes widened and he straightened up in his chair, suddenly worried at the grim reality he was facing. “Michael Nelson,” she continued, shifting her eyes to the right and at the blonde, who swallowed hard. “…Clayton Forrester,” she said with a slight hiss. He stared at her coldly, his gaze unwavering. “And…Frank.” (When she looked away, he raised an eyebrow and mouthed ‘Just Frank?’)
“As you are undoubtedly aware, I am Pearl Forrester, your principal…And you are here because you decided to be brutes in the parking lot. Care to explain yourselves?”
There was silence until Joel raised his hand slightly. “It was…We were out in the lot and…Forrester was –” He stopped, eyes slowly opening to their full width, staring at the principal and than at Clayton. “Wait, you…Forrester?”
“If I may complete your thought, Robinson? Yes, I am Clayton’s mother, but I can assure you…that will not hinder my judgment on you boys.” The corners of her mouth curled devilishly, sending chills throughout the four. “Please continue.”
“Y-yeah, he…was showing me this concoction he had. I guess it was some sort of super-heated water. He…splashed it on the snow around the rear tire of my jeep, and it…sprayed all over the place. Me, Frank, and Forrester got hit…Then he…he fell backwards, and the thermos with his – stuff – slipped out his hand…The water hit Nelson, and he fell to the ground…then he –”
“- I lost it,” Mike cut in, doing his best to clench his hands into a fist. “I…was…so angry and in such pain that I lost control and…punched For – Clayton……One hit broke his glasses, the other his…nose…Then he…Then he punched me right back, on my burn…”
“Then Robinson went to kick Clayton,” Frank offered up next. “But I…err, intercepted that…and then I slammed him into his car door and…gave him a headbutt…He got knocked out, and I turned around and saw Nelson slam his forearm into Clay’s head.”
“And that’s when you finally got an intervention.” Pearl sighed, leaning back in her chair, hands intertwined. “Such violence…you boys can’t ever talk out issues, can you?”
They didn’t bother responding. Nothing they said was going to be good enough, and anything they said was going to make them look like idiots.
“What’s done is done. Now there’s just the issue of your punishments. Now…for each of you, suspension won’t look good on college transcripts, and seeing as how you’re all seniors…you see where this going. Not to mention that suspension for you, Nelson, would mean getting kicked off the basketball team, which essentially translates to them losing a key player…”
Mike grimaced, closing his eyes and letting out a quiet and bitter sigh. Clay stole a glance at him and couldn’t help but wonder…Nelson knew the consequences of what would happen if he was to do something of this nature, and he was normally so calm and level-headed. How much of his anger was really just pent-up frustrations? How much did he really keep inside of him?
“As you are all first-time offenders – squeaky clean records with not even a simple ‘sent down to have a talk’ offense on you – I’m going to cut you a deal.” Pearl’s eyes suddenly took on a menacing quality that played well with the smirk on her face. “From now until I decree it so, you four will have to carry out everything I tell you to do. Now, this isn’t going to be easy work, like making coffee or running off copies – no, this is going to be work. After I feel you have fulfilled your debt, I will release you from service, and this will just be another unpleasant memory in your lives.”
She didn’t even have to ask what they thought.
----------------------------
I need to stop laying on the angst so thick. P:
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Dec 30, 2008 5:00:20 GMT -3
Okay, here's more. Cameos, start! [It's hard to find names that actually go along with screennames, okay? ROBYN! Okay. ] ------------------------------------------------- It was due to those words that Clay found himself standing outside the janitor’s office Friday afternoon. School had let out just moments before, leaving the hallways a crowded, noisy mess. This particular area was surrounded by the lockers of freshmen – most of whom took one glance at him and shirked away. It also didn’t help that the band room was located just five feet away, meaning a wave of various noises and conversations that didn’t make much sense to the science prodigy. As the students were being released, he caught snippets of random tales. “ – thank God it’s just another semester –” “ – weekend, alright! –” “– we’ve going to go to the mall tonight, wanna come? –” “– oh c’mon, he’s cute –” “– in a dorky kinda way –” “ – you think Mike’s gonna be okay?” Clay perked up and glanced over to the band room doors. The members were petering down, so he decided so steal a glance in. A few people were standing around in the middle of the room, conversing to one another, while one rather tall kid was throwing a folder into his backpack. The bandaged hand gave it all away. So it was true. Mike Nelson, star of the basketball team and thus a certifiable jock, did in fact play piano. The grin on his face when he turned to talk to some girl – kinda short, with even shorter brown hair – showed that he wasn’t one of those kids forced into band. He did it because he wanted to. That grin, however, faltered when he looked at the doors and laid eyes on Clay. He smirked before looking over his shoulder and deciding to enter the sacred grounds that were the band room. “Hey there Nelson,” he greeted, giving a short jerk of a wave. “You ready?” “It’s Dr. F,” the short girl intervened, an oddly amused expression on her face. Looking around, she added, “Have you ever been in the band room, science wonder?” Clay followed her eyes, taking in the odd sights and smells of the room. There were the random stains on the carpet, posters on the walls, trophies on the back cabinets, stacks of chairs in one corner and rows of music stands next to them…a multi-thousand dollar sound system hanging in the corners and, currently, some Christmas lights strewn about the chalkboard. “No, I don’t think I have…recently.” He returned his gaze to the group before him (Nelson, the short girl, and another girl, her hair in a braided ponytail) before shifting his gaze to the crisp black piano behind them. “Is that yours, Nelson?” he asked, noticing the tall boy resting his elbow on the top. Upon being noticed, he jumped, drawing his arm to his side. “Y-yeah…” “Mike’s got mad piano skills,” the ponytailed girl said. “Like, freakin’ amazing.” “Eh – n-no, I’m not….” “Oh c’mon.” The short-haired girl turned to Clay. “He’s being a doof. Mad skills, man, mad skills.” “Right…” Clay craned his neck to look at the clock on the wall behind his shoulder. “Anyways Nelson…we better get out there…less…less mother…” He winced upon speaking the last few words. Mike took notice, a hint of a smirk on his face, before lifting up his backpack. He turned to the two girls as Clay walked out the door. “So yeah – uh, see ya on Monday. Uhh…” “Hope you heal up fast, Mike,” the ponytailed girl said, unconsciously touching her left cheek. “Yeah, we need your roast-face to survive, at least until contest.” The short-haired girl grinned before reaching up and punching his shoulder. (The height different was rather amazing – it was at times like this that Nelson’s stature really became apparent.) “…So what was up with that?” Clay couldn’t help but ask as the two exited the music room and went back to hanging by the janitor’s office. “What? Me and Ann and Katherine were talking about…” His voice suddenly became quiet. “About pep band, and they were asking me how I would manage to do stuff, ‘cause I’m in basketball and all…” “That isn’t what I meant,” the prodigy replied, annoyed. He regained his composure, though, when he noticed Mike inched his head away. If he was going to pry out information – and make this experience any more bearable – he couldn’t be having Nelson more pissed off at him than he already was. (Truth be told, Clay was on edge with the jock himself – for the love of God, he had broken his nose just four days earlier.) “Well…what did you mean?” “Those girls,” Clay said, his lips curling slyly. “Especially that one – you know, the short one. What was that all about?” “Ehhh?” Bingo… “That short girl. And you. Thought you were single.” “I – I am. I’m not dating anyone.” The blonde began to make a motion to scratch at the bandaids on his neck, but suddenly remembered and was able to restrain himself. “Like I said, we were talking about pep band.” Clay snorted, a stray wisp of his hair floating upwards as a result. “Suuuure…I dunno, she seemed kinda cute.” He stroked his chin in thought (making a mental note to shave soon) before continuing. “Both of them were…in different ways though…Y’know?” “Yeah…Agh!” Mike bolted forward from the wall, pointing an accusing finger at Clay. “What are you trying to pull, Forrester?! Don’t you try any crap on me!” The sudden action of the jock, coupled with his height and physique, created a stir in the surrounding student body that echoed in a ripple effect. “What is it, Nelson?” Clay asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I’m not doing anything. I’m a scientist, remember? I make observations and report my data – and I’m just telling you what I saw and thought.” The expression on Mike’s face faltered as he lowered his arm. “So you…really think that, huh? You’re not just messing with me?” He shrugged. “Eh, what can I say. I don’t know them. I hang around in the science wing, remember? It’s the entire reason your face is messed up the way it is.” As soon as he spoke those words, he cringed. “Open mouth insert foot…” “Yeah, try and abide by that,” Mike spat, bitter. “This still hurts like hell, and I don’t think it’s going to stop being a bitch until February. Thanks.” “Look,” Clay snapped with a huff. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. You think I wanted to slip on ice, get bruised up, get you hurt and, as a result, get my nose broken? Not a goddamn chance.” “…Okay. Okay fine.” Mike threw his hands to his side, clearly annoyed, before turning to Clay. “Look. I’m sorry I broke your nose. But I was pissed off!” “I get it, alright? Do you think I don’t get it? I’d be just as – no, I know I would be much worse if somebody did what I did to you. I guess I…got off pretty lightly. And I’m…I…” For such a simple word, it was incredibly difficult to say. It should’ve been easy. The act of apologizing, for being regretful of something that one did or said…it was easy for most…but not for all. Clay struggled to bring the syllables to his throat, pained at getting them on his tongue, and nearly died upon speaking them. “I - I’m sorry.” Mike seemed taken aback, his eyebrows raised, his expression clueless. “You’re…sorry? Am I hearing this right? Clayton Forrester is actually apologizing for something?” He was truly in disbelief, running a hand through his mess of blonde hair, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that. Like…woah…” It took surprisingly little for Clay to not respond angrily. He sighed and closed his eyes before responding. “Yeah, revel in it Nelson, ‘cause I don’t think you’re going to hear it again.” Mike smirked, hitching his backpack further up his shoulder. “I’m going to remember this for a long time…and then use it on you whenever I get the chance.” “If you get the chance,” Clay muttered as Frank and Joel walked up to the two, both of them less than thrilled about their future task. “Afternoon,” Frank greeted glumly before his eyes darted to the doors of the janitors office. “So what are we…doing?” “Cleaning bathrooms with our tongues,” Joel couldn’t help but murmur, to which Mike shot him a look that screamed ‘shut up or I’ll tear your throat out and kick you in the ear'. The four sat in silence as the last of the locker doors slammed shut, their last threads of normalcy slipping off and down the hallways. The simple blue door, the paint chipped in a few spots, the handle worn down from years of abuse, stood plainly in front of them…nothing odd or unusual about it. Then it opened. “HeLLo cHiLdReN,” an odd voice said to them before its body was revealed. It was the janitor – the head janitor, if that meant anything – named Torgo. He walked with an odd twitch in his knees, using the top head of a broom to help him along. The quad was speechless…and maybe just a bit terrified. “I wAs ToLd ThAt I wOuLd Be GeTtInG sOmE hElPeRs,” he said, stumbling forward a few paces to come fully into the light of the hallway. “I dIdN’t KnOw It WoUlD bE yOu FoUr…” “…Us…four…?” Frank managed to speak. The other three were rather impressed, but didn’t have the moment nor ability to congratulate like him on it. “I kEeP tRaCk Of ThE tHiNgS yOu StUdEnTs Do,” Torgo replied, taking a brief look at each of them. “I cLeAnEd Up ThE pArKiNg LoT aFtEr YoUr LitTlE sPaT,” he continued, turning around and heading back into the closet. With little else to do, the boys stole brief glances at one another before following after him. ------------------------------------------------- The next part will continue this, but it seemed like a good breaking point. Whee~
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Creepy Girl
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Post by Creepy Girl on Dec 31, 2008 2:27:14 GMT -3
Oh, I lol'd at Torgo; I wasn't expecting him to show up. xD
And Mike's embarrassment at his interactions with the girls is, of course, adorable. :]
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Jan 5, 2009 5:31:39 GMT -3
Glad you thought it was cute. It was fun to write, and rather fangirl-indulging, but dammit I'm allowed to have my fun! >3< Okay, 'nother section! And...this one's kinda long! XD; ------------------------------- The room was housed in nothing but concrete, stacked to the ceiling with buckets, crates, brooms, mops, bags of salt and sawdust, and a yellow cabinet clearly labeled “FLAMMABLE”. Clay’s eyebrows perked upon laying sight on the sign, several ideas formulating in his head at once. Flammable substances…oh, oh those were fun. The fact that they were so dangerous was what made them fun. “At a certain point we have to stop and just, you know, blow crap up,” he mumbled quietly to himself. “Never truer words, Mister Hyneman…” The clanging of plastic buckets snapped Clay back to the situation at hand. Torgo had fished out four of them with his broom before swinging it towards the quad. There was a brief pause before Frank once again took the brave initiative and slipped them off, turning around to hand one to each of the boys. “FoR tOdAy, YoU’rE tO cLeAn ThE cErAmIcS rOoM,” Torgo said, using the broom handle to tap at a floorplan of the high school taped to the wall. The ceramics room was on the complete opposite end of the building from where they were – which, although the school was small, was still annoying. A collective sigh was released, though seemingly ignored as the janitor continued on. “YoU’lL hAvE tO tAkE sOmE tHiNgS wItH yOu…” He tapped the flammable cabinet and, with what could’ve only been a mastered skill, unhinged the doors with the broom handle. “…CaN yOu GeT tHe TuRpEnOiD?” he asked, to which there was a moment’s pause before Mike stepped forward, hopping over a pipe. “Turpenoid…” He withdrew a metallic, rectangular box and turned to the janitor, displaying it in front of his face to avoid any unnecessary eye contact. “This?” “ThAt’S tHe StUfF. NoW gO dOwN tO tHe ArT wInG aNd RePoRt BaCk WhEn YoU’rE dOnE.” Torgo proceeded to swing out the broom handle and push a mop and bucket on wheels towards him. “I’lL bE iN tHe GyM iF yOu NeEd Me.” And he left. “…Does anybody know what just happened?” Frank asked, peering at the other three with a confused look clearly written on his face. “Creepy janitor told us to go clean the ceramics room,” Clay responded, swinging the bucket from its handle around his wrist. “And standing around isn’t going to solve anything.” There was a somewhat agitated silence as they filed out of the room, rags thrown into the buckets, Mike lugging the turpenoid in his right hand (the one least afflicted). As they wound their way through the hallways, Clay couldn’t help but chuckle at the situation. “Somethin’ funny, Forrester?” Joel asked, now having slipped the bucket onto his head and stuck his hands in the pouch of his hoodie. “Besides your face, Robinson? Yes.” Clay looked forward, not really wanting to see Joel’s reaction to the remark. “I find it odd...out of everyone in this school, I’m stuck in punishment with you guys.” “I can say the same thing, you know,” Mike said, snorting, sending stray wisps of hair flying. “Nothing against you two, but…Forrester, you don’t have the best track record with me.” “I acknowledge and accept that,” Clay replied with a shrug. “Can’t please everyone.” “Yeah, but you don’t exactly please anyone,” the jock retorted. “You’re one…lonely, lonely person.” “Hey guys,” Frank cut in, as if completely oblivious to the rather angry nature of the conversation, “Y’know that song, Owner of a Lonely Heart? I’ve always wondered, what about the owner of a pie? Or a split-level? I mean, how do they stack up?” The three stared at him, their looks clearly saying ‘are you out of your mind you dolt?’ Mike, however, had a response. “I don’t think it’s up to Yes to tell us how they stack up…they’re just telling us about the owner of a lonely heart because…that’s what the song is about…” “Yeah, but why leave us hanging like that?” “’cause they have two to five minutes to tell a story?” Joel mused. “Then the song gets cut and edited for radio, and then there’s two versions…which makes you buy more…Huh. In that case, it would’ve been more profitable for them to answer those questions. Good thinking Frank…” Mike and Clay looked at one another, eyebrows raised, but said nothing. They had reached their destination – the art wing, housing the three different labs (photography, 2D, and 3D). The 3D room was open, beckoning for them to come in. Inside, the desks were covered in splashes of glue and paint, with tape and wires scattered about in random places. Mike dropped the turpenoid to the ground, both as means of getting rid of it and as showing his disbelief of the situation at hand. “I didn’t think it would be this bad,” he mumbled, noting how newspaper was completely caked and pasted to a few of the tables. He scratched at the one nearest to him, groaning at how only a few scraps flaked up. “Might as well get started,” Joel grunted, leaning down and opening up the turpenoid. He poured some into his bucket before setting off for the opposite corner of the room, rag at the ready. The other three followed suit, though Clay had some thoughts formulating in his mind. If he could just get his hands on what he had been working on in the chem labs…Well, it hadn’t been tested yet, so perhaps it was better that he didn’t use his latest experiment. Looking up and laying eyes on the various bandages on them reminded him of that. They worked quietly and sullenly, scrubbing hard at the desks while trying not too hard of what else they could be doing on this Friday afternoon. After several trips to the turpenoid can and a followed washdown with many pumps of soap and water (to get rid of the odd funk), they were finished (and happy, but didn’t show it very well). Mike shook his right hand, which had been shriveled to a prune. His left was stuck firmly in his jeans pocke, it still being bandaged up and had been saved the task of cleaning. “Well…that’s done. Good God.” He sighed before stealing a glance at the clock. “Four-thirty…” Franks was rubbing his fingertips together, curious to the odd sense of touch that had come over them due to the chemical contact. “Kinda funky,” he mumbled before looking up at the other three. “So…back to the janitor’s closet?” Without another word, they did just that. --- At 4:45, the boys found themselves outside in that fateful parking lot, bundled up against the harsh winter winds and stray piles of snow that drifted along the asphalt. As for why they were all here? Well… Joel’s Jeep was in the midst of repairs, Mike wasn’t allowed to drive until his hand was fully healed, and Clay simply had his keys taken away. Frank had somehow lucked out and was the solo driver amongst the group and, with a simple 1-2-3 conning, he had agreed to give them lifts home. In the end, it worked out for all of them…even if it wasn’t the most pleasant prospect. “…Frank.” “Yeah?” “Just… how are we supposed to fit in there?” They were staring at a black, two-door Ford Focus, its sides streaked in dirt and salt. Frank was stooping into the driver’s side seat, popping the lever and sliding it forward to allow access to the back bench. “Like this. See? You can fit back here.” “Uh…can I call shotgun?” Mike asked, raising his hand slightly. Clay and Joel glanced at him before stopping and full-on staring. “Nelson…why do you have goggles on your head?” For indeed, a pair of black goggles with square blue lenses was covering the tall boy’s eyes, going rather well with the blue jacket and green scarf he donned alongside them. He looked at them before shrugging. “ ‘cause I own them? What’s the big deal, they’re good for being out in the snow.” Joel tugged at his green knit cap, pulling it further down and over his ears. “I guess….” He then glanced at Clay before mouthing, “Oookaaaay…” “Um, shotgun, well…” Frank let out a nervous chuckle. “Eh, well…it’s…” Mike peered into the passenger side window before balking. “Frank, what is all this stuff?! There’s…boxes and soda cans and…is that a sandwich? What’s with all the cans of soup? And I think you’ve got about three months of overdue DVDs in here…” “No, those are mine and – oh. Well…I have…lots of stuff in my car…” “Obviously.” “Yeah…Uh…I guess…” And that’s how Mike, Clay, and Joel ended up crammed in the back seat. They sat in the order of whose house was closer on the route – so Joel was nearest the driver’s door, Clay in the middle, and Mike on the right. It wasn’t exactly the best of circumstances, particularly for the prodigy…afterall, he was in-between the two people he had the most issues with – one he hated, and one he was afraid would snap and break his face again. “You guys want soda?” Frank offered at the stop sign from the parking lot. “I’ve got Coke if you want any.” He leaned over the passenger’s seat and, after shoving some papers and boxes to the ground, produced a red can. “…Sure, why not,” Mike said, reaching his hand around the headrest and taking the can. He propped it in his left hand, holding it arms length, and cracked the tab open. Either Frank had shaken the can earlier or it was just packaged that way, but the carbonated beverage was soon sputtering over the three in the back. Mike managed to get away with just wet hands and pants, Clay a little less since he got nailed in the face, but Joel seemed to have gotten it worse due to the trajectory. Every part from his hat on down was hit, and he stared curiously at his hand – which was dripping in cola – before looking at Mike and raising his eyebrows. “Oh…it’s on,” he said, unlatching his seatbelt, lunging forward, and grabbing a can from the case. Mike was bewildered, having now taken to sipping from the can, but soon realized something was up when the inventor began to vigorously shake his can. “Hey, what are you doing back there?” Frank asked, glancing into the rear-view mirror. “You mess anything up and –” “Don’t worry, we’re good,” Joel responded before aiming the can and opening the tab. Clay pressed himself into the back of the seat, but that seemed to do little as he was soon covered in soda. Mike had been hit worse, but some last-second thinking had prompted him to haphazardly shove his goggles down over his eyes. “See?! They ARE handy!” he defended before pulling them back onto his hair. “Now can I drink in peace?” “…Is there anything left?” Clay sputtered against some cola that was dripping down his nose. There came no answer as the boys flanking his sides quietly chugged down their cans, staring out their windows as they drove past snow-filled corn fields. The ride was silent, save for the occasional coughs and sniffs made by the passengers and the clicking of the car’s turn signals. After about ten minutes, they turned into a neighborhood – one that Clay was surprised to find was his own. If Joel was the first person off…that meant he lived near-by him. Great.“Hey, Joel, can you give me some turn-by-turns here?” “Oh, yeah, uh…take a left here…” The three in the back lurched towards the left, ramming into each others shoulders while they did so. “…And right there, the house with the basketball hoop…” The house was…normal-looking. It was a standard, two-story, aluminum sided structure, light grey in color. Two younger children – looking to be in grade school or so – were playing in the front yard, dressed head to toe in snow gear and attempting to construct a snowman. The only really slight deviation from normalcy was the three-car garage, but even that was so common that it didn’t matter much. From the front door stepped out a comely-looking woman, somewhere in her middle ages, wearing speckled brown hair in a chin-length bob. When Joel crawled out from the backseat, she rushed towards the car, perhaps a bit too happy to see her son that had just come from cleaning the art room as punishment. “Joel, you’re home, thank goodness. Why didn’t you call?! Young man, you have a cell phone for a reason…” “I…I did Mom…” he murmured, embarrassed as he pulled his backpack from the trunk. “I mean, I called, but nobody answered.” “Oh, that was – ohhhh!” She smiled suddenly, glancing back at the two children. “Jim and Liz needed help on their snowman…guess you called then…” “Yeah…Anyways, uh, thanks for the ride Fra –” “Wait, Joel honey! Are these your friends?” Clay, despite being in the backseat, could hear every word, and nearly felt his jaw drop when he heard her say that. Friends? With Robinson? What in the world was this woman thinking? …Well, if she were anything like her son, and if the rumors were true…than that could mean a variety of things… “Errrrr, well, no…not…” “Oh come on! I know I’m your mother and you’re a grouchy old teenager now, but you never have anybody over…What was your name? Frank?” “Uh – yes ma’am…” “And you two…” She peered into the car, somewhat surprised and amused to see the two crammed into the back seat. “You’re…?” “Mike Nelson…” he replied, lowering the soda can out of sight. “Clayton Forrester – er, Clay,” he responded, somewhat nervous at the prospect of being stared down by his enemy’s mother. She looked nice, but if one thing had proven correct in his life, it was that looks were so more deceptive than they should’ve been. Hell, it was a rule he applied to himself. “Why don’t you boys come in? We’re having a nice pork roast for dinner, and we always have so much leftover…Joel, be nice to your friends!” The inventor just stared at them, and they simply gawked right back. -------------------------- Next part is another continuation from right here. It's "meet Joel's family!" time...
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Feb 3, 2009 2:54:06 GMT -3
So hay, it's THIS! I think my brain needed the month off, but now it's back and chugging along. This isn't exactly a "full" part, but the next part would take me longer to write and I have no idea how long it'll be. And yeah. Totally.
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The inside of the Robinson household was just as normal as the outside. As Joel followed his mother into the kitchen, the remaining three hung out in the entrance, attempting to stay crammed on the rug. Whether they were trying to make sure their shoes were extra dry or were just too terrified to move, Mrs. Robinson appeared perplexed when she returned, her son in tow.
“You boys alright?” she asked, to which they snapped out of their fear and leapt off the mat. “Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes…Joel, why don’t you boys go down to your room – play the Wii or something.”
“Uh...sure Mom…Come on guys.” The inventor made an awkward gesture for the trio to follow him, which they did, down the hallway and ending up in the kitchen. A table, made for six people, stood in front of them, cluttered with letters, magazines, and binders, two backpacks sitting in chairs. Mrs. Robinson waved them off. “We never eat in the kitchen,” she said as the four boys wound around her and towards the door that hung near the stove at the other side of the room.
“Uh…huh,” Mike said in an attempt to be polite as Joel opened the door. A piece of paper was taped to it, reading ‘Joel’s Dungeon’ in crude letters drawn in red crayon. An alternating checkerboard pattern composed the background, a yellow stripe at the top.
“Liz made that,” Joel murmured, embarrassed as Clay and Frank stared at the sign, hiding amused smiles. “Like, years ago…”
“C-cute,” Clay stuttered out, choking back a laugh.
“So you live in the basement?” Mike said in an attempt to shift conversation. “Get booted down here or something?”
“Kinda…” Joel flicked the light switch that sat atop the stairs before leading the way down. “I was down here so much that Dad suggested I just live down here…and I said that was a good idea…so…”
The stairs opened up to the basement halfway down, revealing an odd mish-mash of a room. Only ten feet from the bottom of the stairs sat an old couch, two beat-up recliners, and a large television, various cords and wires hooked up to it. A cabinet was stacked full of video game and movie cases, one shelf containing various controllers for the gaming systems. A coffee table sat in front of the couch, covered in papers and various drawing tools.
Way back in the opposite corner was a series of screens, random articles of clothing slung over the top. Numerous sheets of paper had been taped to the outside, spelling out ‘Joel’s Corner of Doom’, this time in much more legible handwriting.
“…Liz made that when I moved down here,” Joel explained with a sigh. “My bed and dresser are behind the screens. Otherwise I just consider the whole basement my room…”
“So like…where do you make stuff?” Frank asked as the four spread out from the stairs. Clay suddenly took intense interest in the video game consoles while Mike opened the door in the wall next to the stairs.
“In there,” Joel replied, pointing at Mike and the door. “That’s the rough part. It’s not very big, but it’s better than carpeting. Mom would kill me if I did anything on the carpet…”
“Really…” Clay couldn’t help but mutter, looking at the décor. It screamed ‘70s, with shaggy brown carpeting and wood panels on the wall. “I think Mother would love for me to blow up our basement if it was like this…”
“S-So would mine,” Frank said, running his socks through the carpet. “Though…Y’know, I don’t mind it. It’s kinda nice. The kind of carpet you could collapse and fall asleep on. Good stuff.”
“Hittin’ the booze again?” Mike asked with a grin, closing the door he held open and making his way over to the couch. “…Oh sweet!” he exclaimed suddenly, diving across the coffee table and sweeping up a white game case from the floor. “You’ve got Brawl!”
Clay stared down at him before giving Mike a slight kick in the shoulder. “Mind getting up and not making a fool of yourself, Nelson?”
Mike wiggled off the coffee table, bringing papers and pens along with him, stopping just short of the television. “C’mon, this game is great. I call Pit!”
“Pit?” Clay spat, flopping into one of the recliners, slightly surprised when it sprung open and ended up him staring up Frank’s nose. Without missing a beat, he continued, “Whatta cop-out character.”
“Whaaat? How so?” the blonde wondered, hefting himself up and hunting for the game console. Joel alleviated the search by opening the opposite cabinet Mike had been looking in and pulling out the Wii console.
“Because when you knock Pit off the stage, he can fly right back…Pitfalls don’t work on him, he can fly right back…The whole ‘flying’ thing is what makes him a cheap character.” Clay kicked the recliner’s footrest, lurching him forward and almost knocking him to the floor. “Dunno why they put him in the game, honestly….who remembers Kid Icarus besides the old-time gamers who are definitely in the minority when it comes to playing Brawl?”
“Well, you know about it,” Joel pointed out as he began plugging GameCube controllers into the console. “So…what does that make you?”
“They’re called ‘ROMs’, my friend,” Clay replied, a bit smugly.
“…Nerrrrrrrrd,” the inventor muttered quietly, a diluted grin on his face. He suddenly turned on his heel and tossed a controller to each of the boys. “Nobody plays with the nunchuck, right?”
“Who would?” Frank asked, taking a seat on the couch and maneuvering the joystick with his thumb. “Tried it once…failed…miserably…It’s so weird! Like, the D-pad is…jumping? And the buttons don’t really do what you want them to do and –”
“Liz is pretty boss with the nunchuck…” Joel murmured, settling down in the remaining recliner. “Dunno how…guess it’s ‘cause she never really played Super Smash Brothers before we got Brawl.”
“Oh come on, that’s not having a childhood,” Frank balked as the title screen appeared.
“She’s only eight, you know…”
“…So like, how many siblings do you have?” Mike asked as the four chose their character. “There’s you and your brother and your sister…And you have an older sister, right? Erin?”
Joel looked at him oddly. “Y…yeah…How do you know about her?”
Mike rolled his eyes, punching the A button. “She was a senior in band when I was a freshman. Played the French horn, drum major during the marching season. A genius too, if I recall.”
“Pretty much…She set the bar too high for the rest of us. Me and Jim and Liz have too much expected from us, even if Mom and Dad don’t admit it.”
“Like parents would admit that,” Clay grumbled as the four-way match began. Despite furiously tapping buttons, they boys were able to continue their conversation (truly an apex of the digital age). “Father…a friggin’ genius, off curing diseases…Mother, dictator of my own school…They always say for me to ‘choose my own path’, and variance of that crap, but I know they –”
“- Forrester, ouch, the angst,” Mike cut in as he rapidly tapped the Y button to flap Pit’s wings. “Chill out. I’m guessing you’re going to say they want you to be a scientist, eh? Follow ‘Father’ and continue his work? That kind of stuff?”
“Well…yeah. You’re right, Nelson. That’s pretty much what they want me to do. Just be another Forrester, carry on the legacy of being a man of science, and go on to make little Forresters to do the same damn thing.”
Frank momentarily cracked up at the term ‘little Forresters’ whilst Joel let out a snort. “S-so I’m guessing you don’t have any siblings.”
“Not a one.”
“Sounds kinda nice,” the inventor said wistfully. “Though…I dunno…I can’t imagine not having them around. They’re too much fun.”
“Really…” Mike mumbled, sequencing his thumbs into a special-move attack. “I have a little sister and an older brother. I don’t mind Eddie that much, since he’s…well, he’s at vo-tech…don’t see him around the house much. Now Iris…Ugh.”
“Iris…?” Joel asked curiously, leaning back slightly in his seat as he made Link do the same action. “…Wait wait…Iris…Iris Nelson…? That’s…your sister?”
“Um, well, how many Irises do you know?”
“…One. That Jim talks about. A lot.”
The game was suddenly paused (on an action shot of Gannondorf – Clay – pummeling Pit upside the head). “…THAT’S who she means she talks about Jim? Your BROTHER?!”
“I – I guess.”
It happened very quickly – Mike tossed his controller in the air before springing forward, winding back, and punching Joel straight across the face, slamming the inventor into the cushions of the recliner. The seat jerked up, sending the blonde tumbling down over the armrest and to the ground.
A moment’s silence followed before Mike burst up, clearly horrified. “Oh – Oh God, oh my God, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry! I – I didn’t mean – Oh God, Robinson, are you okay?!”
Another moment’s silence came before Joel swung his head up, rubbing his check. “Golly Nelson,” he mumbled, setting his controller down. “Mind explaining that one?”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” Mike continued, frantic. “It’s just – Iris, she…Well…I mean, Eddie was never a good older brother to me, so I…didn’t want to be a crappy one to her.”
“Isn’t that sweet,” Clay chimed, which received a violent death glare in return. It was exactly the look he had gotten seconds before getting wailed on in the parking lot just days previous, and not exactly a gaze he wanted to see again. “C’mon. It is. Must be nice to have someone you want to protect.”
“…I guess,” Mike replied, flopping back onto the couch. “Again, I’m sorry Robinson. I didn’t…mean for that to happen. It’s just, there was this one time…” He sighed, fiddling with the controller. “We were out at the mall – me and my mom and Eddie and Iris – and she wandered off at some point…I found her being picked on by some boys and she was crying and it just…It really bothered me.”
“…Question,” Frank interjected suddenly. “When was this and how tall were you?”
Mike started at him, eyebrow raised. “Uh…when I was twelve? And uh...five…something? How am I supposed to remember?”
“Just wonderin’…”
“Right…Anyway, that’s…that’s why. Now it’s kind of a reaction, which is – which is a very bad thing, I know, and she kinda hates me for it…which, well, she should…”
“It’s called ‘anger management’,” Clay said, tapping his foot impatiently as means to say ‘unpause the game and let’s brawl again’. “So anytime you want to punch somebody out for mentioning your sister, you should – wait, wait.” He looked at Mike questionably. “…Shouldn’t you be going after Jim, not Robinson?”
“…I…maybe?”
“Way to go.”
From upstairs came a thump, followed by the sound of claws scratching the floor and a series of barks. Some muffled words were exchanged before footsteps drew close to the basement door. It creaked open, soon followed by Mrs. Robinson’s voice. “Boys! Dinner!”
In a dramatic flourish, controllers were tossed in the air, bodies making their way for the stairs. Joel swept his arm from the TV power button to that of the Wii before slipping in front of the other three and looking at them sternly.
“Okay. Okay, listen. Just follow me…do what I do…and…And for the love of God, don’t say anything that could in the slightest sense be taken offensively.” There was a pleading look in his eyes that Clay had never seen before – in fact, he wasn’t really used to Joel showing any strength of emotion. But for once…it was there in full.
“That’s fine,” Clay replied, brushing off the look. “Let’s just eat.”
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The meal, soon to follow! Gotta work on my little side-project too, though...
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Post by Robyn on Feb 3, 2009 3:09:37 GMT -3
MIKE YOU DORK DON'T PUNCH JOEL. XD
This is awesome. And now I want to draw these guys as their Brawl characters. *SHOT*
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Feb 3, 2009 3:11:51 GMT -3
MIKE YOU DORK DON'T PUNCH JOEL. XD WTF THAT WAS YOUR IDEA. D8 ... Wait wait, it wasn't, it was Beth's. BETH...! DOOOO EEET! [Hey, I'm tired of having people tell me to do things, I have the right to say this by now. XP]
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Post by missblacktop on Feb 3, 2009 12:56:52 GMT -3
AGH I'M SORRY
No, that totally went well. I like how we all collab on this. SO MUCH FUN.
also, yay, Iris!
Also, someone remind me--I was doodling Mike and Iris in class today. If I remember I'll put it on here.
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Creepy Girl
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Post by Creepy Girl on Feb 3, 2009 20:20:34 GMT -3
NO, NOT JOEL'S LOVELY FACE. D:
Once again, an excellent installation into our little alternate universe! We are eternally indebted to you, Kat. :3
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Feb 21, 2009 17:40:21 GMT -3
Yay more stuff yaaay...
IN THIS ISSUE: Cute children! Joel has daddy issues! Potatoes! Middle school!
As always, feedback is appreciated and lurved. *hit*
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“That’s fine,” Clay replied, brushing off the look. “Let’s just eat.” He walked past Joel and took the lead, climbing up the stairs. The vibrations that carried meant the other three were following – at a distance.
Opening the door, the first thing that ran past the door was a dog – a beagle – before a little girl trampled past. Clay raised an eyebrow and looked at the path they had taken, which was towards a hallway. The girl and the dog were jumping around a man in his late forties or so who was hanging up his winter jacket in a closet parallel to what Clay assumed to be the garage door. His hair was receding though not balding, a scraggily brown flecked with gray. Thin glasses sat in front of his eyes, though his dress was far less chic and modern, being a simple Oxford shirt and khakis.
“Daaaaddy!” the little girl chorused before being picked up from under her arms and spun around.
“Why hello there Elizabeth,” Mr. Robinson said before placing her back on the ground. “And hello to you too, Gypsy,” he said of the beagle that stood at his feet, waging her tail. He looked up and was taken aback upon laying eyes on Clay – then relaxed slightly when Joel stuck his head out.
“Hey Dad,” he greeted, shimmying past Clay and into the kitchen. “I’ve got some…uh…Mom let my….” An uncomfortably long pause ensued. “Mom invited my friends for dinner.”
“Ah, right, she mentioned that, it’s just - ahh, nevermind.” He looked at each of the boys, an odd, judgmental edge in his gaze. The air in the room became rather stiff until Liz pulled at her father’s sleeve.
“Daaaaddy, come onnnn, it’s dinner time!”
His expression brightened at the words, causing him to look down at his daughter and smile. “Why of course it is. I see Mommy went the pork route tonight…Joel, how about you show your friends to the dining room…? And then come back, I’d like to speak with you alone for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
“N-no, I…”
“I’ll show them!” Liz’s voice suddenly chirped. She hopped in her spot before springing forward and grabbing Clay’s hand. “I like your glasses!” she said before dragging him out of the kitchen. In the process, he brushed his hand against the frames before stooping over (in order for her to lead him and not have him pick her up). Mike and Frank followed, snatching glances at Joel as they left the room.
“I wonder what…” Mike started before Liz cut him off.
“Daddy’s mad at Joel,” she said in a hushed tone. “He got in a fight and has those band-aids on his head.” Liz craned her neck to look up at the blonde. “Hey, you’ve got bandages too! And – you too! And you!” She seemed excited to be pointing out all the injuries. “Wow, was there a really big fight? Did everyone get hurt?”
The trio gave each other odd glances before Frank decided to speak for them. “Actually, uh, that was…that fight? That was…between us four.”
“Woooooow!” Liz stared at them, fascinated. “Really?! And now you’re all here! Do boys fight when they’re friends? But…but Joel never said…” Her face suddenly became confused. “Are you really his friends…?”
“…I’m wondering that myself, to be honest,” Clay said, a weary smile on his face as the small girl looked at him. He stole a glance where they had come from, eyebrows drawn in perplexity. “I can’t help but wonder what they’re talking about…”
“Oh oh!” Liz tugged at Clay’s sleeve before pointing to the doorway. “If you can hide, then you can look into the toaster and see what’s going on.”
The scientist raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
“Yup! We all do it whenever somebody is being yelled at.”
“Hmm…” Clay took a step forward, feeling the pressure that was once grasping his hands released. A few more paces and he looked back at the group, of who were staring at him, subtle eagerness on their faces. Squatting down the corner parallel to the door, Clay compressed himself the best he could and looked up. Right next to the doorway in the kitchen on the counter was a toaster, poised at such an angle that it gave the perfect view of Mr. Robinson’s face and the back of Joel’s head.
“- and you were on such a good track too!” His voice was suddenly darker, a harsh bite on the syllables. “Good grades, perfect record, a future – then you blew it. And now you have them here? Honestly Joel, I don’t – I don’t know what to think!”
“Mom invited –”
“Don’t blame this on your mother!” he spat, stomping his foot on the tiled floor. “All that she does for you, and how well she’s treated you despite your recklessness?”
“I wasn’t blaming her, Dad,” Joel explained, his tone even more patient than usual. “Frank was giving us rides home, Mom was outside, she saw them, she invited them – and – I don’t know! I don’t know why they’re here, okay? I...”
“We never had this kind of trouble with Er –”
“Don’t bring up Erin!” Joel snapped, taking Clay by surprise. “I know she’s perfect in every way, and I know you know it – you know, if you’re so pleased with her, why did you and Mom do it three more times? Me and Jim and Liz – at least, me and Jim know it – we know that we can’t compare with her. So...so…so stop…”
There were times when Joel spoke with rapid-paced brilliance, settling into a zone where he was able to convey his thoughts and feelings in sequence rather than broken apart by awkward pauses and ‘uh’s. He had just had one of those moments…and it had just petered out.
A long silence settled over them. Clay noticed Mr. Robinson clamping his eyes shut, exhaling deeply. He finally opened his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. “...These boys. What were their names again?”
It took a moment for Joel to respond. “The tall one is Mike – Michael Nelson. The one with the ponytail is Clay, Clayton Forrester. The guy with the white hair is Frank…Frank.”
“Right…well…” Another silence. “Let’s not keep your mother waiting.”
Clay shot up and swung around the corner, surprised to see that Mike, Frank, and Liz had left. He explored the area a bit before finding the doorway to the dining room. Mrs. Robinson and Jim were already sitting down, with Mike, Frank, and Liz sliding into seats. Without thinking, Clay took a spot next to the small girl, who seemed rather excited by his presence. On her other side was Mike, while Frank and Jim sat opposite them. Mrs. Robinson was at the head of the table, hands folded, smiling pleasantly.
“Hello dear,” she said when Mr. Robinson and Joel entered. The inventor quietly took his seat next to Jim while their father sat at the opposite head of the table, right next to Clay. In the next beat, the family had their hands clasped, heads bowed in reverence. The other three followed suit, if just a bit awkwardly.
“Bless us oh Lord, for these are gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, amen.” Pause. “Eat up!”
Clay was used to strict family meals that involved waiting one’s turn to be served, and only eating once Father had decided to do so. In the Robinson household, it was completely different, as everyone attacked the dish that was nearest to them. Soon, they were passed around the table, and after about a minute or two, each patron had a plate of food – varying depended on what one wanted to eat or not.
Totally different from the Forrester house.
“Jim, I wish you’d eat more vegetables,” Mrs. Robinson sighed as she began to cut up the slice of roast on her plate. The younger son stuck his tongue out.
“Mom, I don’t like green beans,” he said. “I like broccoli and corn and potatoes, I’ll eat those.”
“Potatoes aren’t really a vegetable,” Joel murmured (though it seemed standard by this point). “They’re just starch…not all that beneficial to you.”
“Not true.” Clay’s mouth moved faster than his brain could control and suddenly he had Joel and Jim staring at him. “The…in the potato is this thing called a resistant starch that is similar to fiber, providing bulk, fights off colon cancer, improves glucose tolerance and insulin sensitivity, lowers plasma and cholesterol and triglyceride concen –”
Joel had decided to end the babble by flicking a bean across the table and straight onto Clay’s forehead. Jim and Liz held back laughter while the parentals swooped in.
“Joel!” Mr. Robinson grumbled. “That is unacceptable!”
“Oh come on Dad, we…do it all the time at school.”
Vaguely true. Clay was quite used to getting things thrown at him, particularly in the cafeteria. He had yet to experience a time when it wasn’t meant to be an attack on him, though.
“That doesn’t mean you can do it here, now apologize,” Mrs. Robinson scolded. Joel looked up, a demented smile crossing his face, before he closed his eyes, breathed, and regained a neutral expression.
“S-sorry Forrester,” he said before spearing a bean with his fork.
“You…sure know a lot about potatoes,” Jim piped, which received an unintentionally harsh glance from Clay. “I – I mean…”
“It’s…a thing,” he mumbled in response, poking at the meat that stared back at him on his plate. “Just…the random information in my brain. See ah…in eighth grade, we had to do these projects, so I did mine about electronics and how to run them off of potatoes and, well, yeah.”
“Oh oh! Did you – you had Zippe, right?”
Clay choked on the milk he had been drinking, quickly regaining his composure. “Y-yeah, why? Is he still there? The man shoulda retired a long time ago…you know, before me…”
“He is, and I’ve got ‘im…so…So you’re Clayton Forrester, huh?” Jim seemed rather excited by this, hopping up and down slightly in his chair. “He talks about you whenever we do a project.”
“’cause he kept them all, if I’m not mistaken,” Mike suddenly threw in as he helped himself to more of the roast. “I had him a different hour, I guess, but if was after you, Forrester, so the praises of your projects ran high…”
“You know what’s hard about having him?” Jim mused, “Having him after Joel did. Man! My brother has to be in genius inventor…”
“Not my fault taking things apart and putting them back together in different shapes is fun.”
“Yeah it is – you could not do it…”
“Now Jim…” Mrs. Robinson chided. “You shouldn’t be so grumpy. Afterall, where do you go where something of yours breaks?”
“…Joel,” he droned in a mumbled response, picking at the roll in his hand. “But – I’m just sayin’, he made Zippe expect too much from me.”
“Kinda like Erin, huh?” Joel couldn’t help but mumble. Clay noticed Mr. Robinson’s hands tighten around his utensils, but the man said nothing as they continued on in their meal. Conversation dropped to the random tidbits of the day and askings of various dishes of food. It was relaxed and informal, with the siblings bringing up past jabs at one another or the parents remembering stories of their children in younger days. For the most part, Frank, Mike, and Clay remained silent, eating and smiling (well, Mike and Frank at least) along.
At the end of the meal, when Joel and Jim were playing butlers and taking the dishes to the kitchen, Clay felt a vibration in his jeans pocket. A second later, the ringtone began to play – a simple imitation of what a traditional phone would chime out. He pulled the cell out of his pocket, glancing, without fanfare, at the caller ID that the screen displayed. “Home,” it read.
He paused for a moment before pressing the power button.
“Who was that?” Mrs. Robinson asked as Clay pocketed the mobile.
“Oh” He looked up at her, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nobody important.”
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And we'll be moving on to a new segment next time, here at Four Corners! ['cause that is, y'know, it's proper title.]
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Creepy Girl
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Post by Creepy Girl on Feb 25, 2009 0:07:16 GMT -3
So, Kat. I read this as soon as you posted it, but I'm a really bad person and am only commenting on it now. :D
Moving on.
Yay for sibling-rivalry-angst! I'm really interested in seeing where that will go. :] And seeing Joel unjustly berated by his dad makes me want to hug him and shower him with unnecessary amounts of affection.
Also, I like the fact that Mike is eating a roast. Like his face. Lulz. :3
Out of curiosity, are you going to be uploading this on fanfiction.net or Livejournal once it's finished?
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Feb 25, 2009 0:51:59 GMT -3
Also, I like the fact that Mike is eating a roast. Like his face. Lulz. :3 Th-that's the joke...ha...ha....*shot* I'M SORRY I'M SORRY. XD On the subject of sibling-rivarly-angst, I'd like to put it out there that Joel doesn't hate his sister, and nor is she like a snot or anything...she just is who she is and stuff. I'm getting way too involved in subplots. xD; God, I dunno where I'd put this. I mean, I could slap it up on FF.net, but they don't really have a dedicated MST3K section because most people post up MSTings rather than actual stories. I'm fishy with LJ, because it's...it's LJ, y'know? XD; [Nothing against it, I have one of my own and all.] Uhhhh we'll see. For now, since it is rather...I dunno what the hell you would call this. Fangirl indulgence? No, but, maybe, kinda. I dunno. O_o Any...ideas? Questions, comments, concerns, death threats?
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Katana
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Post by Katana on Feb 25, 2009 23:56:47 GMT -3
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