Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Ma?" Chase poked her head out of her bedroom and called downstairs.

From below, she heard a bellowing reply. “Chase Meridian Bayless, you know better than to yell through the house!”

Chase sighed and started downstairs. “Sorry, Mama. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

"Well, what is it?" Gwayne Bayless stood in the kitchen, elbow-deep in the sudsy dishwater that filled the sink. "And if it’s about that boy again, you know you have to ask your papa." Chase pouted. "Don’t you give me that look. You know how he feels about kids your age, and I ain’t telling you otherwise behind his back."

"I’m not too young," Chase grumbled, but she knew better than to argue. There were very few things that could force her parents to disagree in front of their children; Jeffrey Castor was not one of them.

"Look, baby, I know you don’t think it’s fair, but we don’t know that boy-not a thing about him. How can we trust a stranger with our fifteen-year-old? Things ‘round here aren’t like they used to be."

"But don’t you trust me?"

“‘Course we do,” Gwayne said briskly. “Now, I don’t want to hear another word about this. If you want to discuss it, talk to your papa.”

Chase crossed her arms and turned away from her mother. She stomped back up the staircase, and her door slammed shut a moment later.

When her daughter was gone, Gwayne pulled her hands out of the sink and dried them on the dishtowel. Then she stepped out onto the back porch; several yards away, her husband, Skeet, and son, Tay, were wading in the bayou. Gwayne approached them, and Tay waved to her with a bright smile on his face. “I caught a fish, mama!” he yelled.

"That’s great, baby; where is it?"

"We threw it back," Skeet interrupted. "It was a tiny little thing."

"I’m proud of you anyway, Tay," Gwayne said, giving her husband a pointed look. "Maybe next time you’ll catch one big enough to eat. Now, why don’t you run inside and take your bath. It’ll be bedtime soon, and we can’t have you going to sleep all covered in mud." Tay groaned, but waded to shore and climbed cautiously up the steep bank. He was absolutely drenched in muddy water, and Gwayne called to him as he passed, "And be sure not to touch anything until you’re in that tub!"

She heard him grumble something under his breath in reply, but by then he was too far away for her to hear. She let it slide. “Now, Mr. Bayless,” she said to her husband as she walked closer to the bank. “We need to have a talk about your daughter.”

"What’d she do now?" Skeet asked, reeling in his rod. From what Gwayne could tell, he hadn’t caught anything all day. Nothing that hadn’t been thrown back, anyway.

"Nothing, yet," she answered. "But she’s gonna do something soon."

"What’re you talking about?"

"She’s fifteen, Skeet, and if you don’t let her see that boy, she’s gonna start trying to see him behind our backs."

"She knows better than that, G."

"She also knows that the other girls her age-the city girls-are allowed to see the boys."

"I don’t give a damn what the city girls are doing. My daughter’s got manners. She’s a good girl. A Bayless."

"You know darn well the Bayless girls have married young since… well, since there were Bayless girls.”

"You got a point?"

"We need to show Chase that we’re gonna let her grow up. That we don’t mind her becoming a woman."

"I mind."

Gwayne rolled her eyes. “Its gonna happen whether we like it or not, and I’d like to see her have some support. Or do you not remember what happened to your sister?”

For a long moment, Skeet stared out across the water. The sun was setting quickly, and the mosquitoes were starting to buzz around their ears as they talked. Gwayne wanted to get back inside, but she had to finish this.

"Chase ain’t that dumb."

"Meridian wasn’t dumb either, Skeet. But she wanted to be all grown up before her parents wanted to let her, and what did she end up with? A baby. At sixteen."

"And why would letting Chase see this boy prevent that? As far as I recall, dear, boys are the missing ingredient girls need to make that baby."

"Well, ain’t you just the cutest thing? For goodness’s sake, hun, you said it yourself; Chase’s a good girl. She deserves a little trust."

"And if the boy’s the one we should be worried about? You know what they’re like at her age."

"I know what they’re like at every age. Why don’t we meet him first? Ask Chase to invite him over for dinner one night. Then we’ll decide if she can see him again."

"And if we decide no?"

Gwayne shrugged. “Then she’ll probably keep seeing him behind our backs.”

"Wonderful."

Chapter Text

"Goddamn it, Renee, how can you possibly think that this isn’t your fault?"

"It’s no one’s fault, you worthless idiot; Jenni’s a grown woman! How the hell am I supposed to control what she does?"

Jenni Jones-Brown sat in her convertible, tight-lipped and teary-eyed. She’d broken the news to her parents two hours ago, and then given them some alone time to come to mull it over. Now she sat in the driveway, unable to muster up the courage to get out of the car and enter the house. Even with all the doors and windows closed, she could still hear her parents shrieking at each other, blaming each other for what they must think was their failure of a daughter.

They’d sprung a divorce on her and expected her to “get used to it”, but apparently her pregnancy was just too much to for them to handle.

For a long moment, Jenni pondered her situation. Should she go inside and pretend she hadn’t heard their spat? Or perhaps she should be honest about how much she’d overheard; they ought to feel ashamed of themselves for what they were saying, after all, if that was the way to do it… Or maybe it would be best if she just turned the cat back on and left. She could always go see Amy.

"You know what, Lenny?" Renee William-Brown screamed from inside the house. "I’ve had enough of your shit! I’m done; I’m leaving!"

Then suddenly the front door opened with such force that it slammed into the porchlight. But almost immediately, Renee’s gaze fell upon her daughter, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

Behind her, Lenny Smith-Jones was still shouting. “Why’d you stop, Renee? Realize you can’t make it in the world without my fucking money?” It took him a moment longer to notice Jenni watching them, and when he did, his face turned stony, and he retreated into the house.

Renee looked nearly as striken. “Jenni, I’m so sorry you had to see that. How long have you been out here?”

Slowly, Jenni climbed out of her car. She wasn’t sure whether she was still on speaking terms with either of her parents after what she’d just heard… but her mother looked devastated that she couldn’t bring herself to ignore her.

"Couple of minutes," she answered in a frosty voice. "And I have to ask. Did you start screaming as soon as I was gone, or did you at least get in a few minutes of stunned silence?"

"I’m so sorry," she repeated.

"Yeah. Well, thanks for realizing I’m an adult, at least. It’d be nice if Dad did."

"We’re just… we’re very shocked, honey."

"So was I. Goodwin will be, too, I’m sure."

"You haven’t even told the…" Renee struggled to get the word out. "…the father yet?"

"No. And after seeing your reaction to the news, I’m not sure I want to see his."

Renee dropped down on the porch steps. “God, Jenni. I haven’t even met this boy. Is… is from around here? Is he nice?”

”Man, Mom. Not a boy. And, yes, he’s nice. Do I normally date jerks?”

Renee stared at her hands. “I’m just so overwhelmed, Jen.”

Jenni sat down beside her mother. “It’s alright. Me, too.” She rested her head against her mother’s shoulder. “Did you mean what you said to Dad? Are thinking of moving out?”

"I’ve been thinking of moving out since day one; your father and I haven’t had the most amicable divorce." She laughed bitterly. "But I still can’t afford to leave unless I want to be living from paycheck to paycheck… and I don’t. Besides, now that you’re… now that you have…" She paused to collect herself. "Now that you’ve let us know what’s going on with you, I think it might be best if I stuck around a little longer."

"Thanks, Mom. But, you know… you don’t have to if you don’t want to. This is… well, this is kind of going to change my whole life. I didn’t expect it, but… I’m not broken up about it. Goodwin’s a good guy; we can make this work."

"So are you thinking of moving out, then?"

"I don’t know yet. I don’t think Goodwin’s gonna freak out or anything, but I can’t assume anything, I guess. I mean, I can’t expected to up and leave me, but I can’t expect him to propose on the spot, either. We’re gonna have to think about a lot of things. I might move in with him and his roommate. He might move in with us, if you’re okay with that. We might get our own place, maybe get engaged, have a wedding. At this point, it’s all up in the air, you know."

"You scared?"

"A little. You?"

"Terrified, baby. I never thought… Well, I thought you’d be married to a nice guy, settled in a nice house somewhere with a nice job, maybe a dog. But then, I thought my marriage was going to be ‘til death do us part, so what do I know?"

Jenni smiled, then glanced back toward the house. “Do you think it’s a good idea to talk to Dad, or should I try to wait for him to calm down?”

"I think your Dad is very embarrassed right now, so I’m not really sure. I know he’d like to apologize, but he’s never been good at that. I’ll tell you right now that he’s probably feeling very guilty; he might even blame himself for… for your situation."

"For my pregnancy, Mom. You can say it."

"Alright. He might even blame himself for your pregnancy; he might think he failed you, or maybe he blames me completely. Hell, I blame me, when I really think about it."

"Why?"

"I haven’t been the best role model, dear; I know that. Even before menopause started in, I was an over-emotional neurotic mess. I’m surprised my relationship with your father lasted long to have you, let alone raise you."

"It’s not your fault, Mom. You said it yourself; it’s nobody’s fault."

"It’s one thing to say it, but another to believe it."

Jenni hugged her mother tightly. “I can do this. Don’t worry about it, and please don’t blame yourself. This isn’t a bad thing. At worst, it’s just a thing. Completely neutral. At best, it’s a great thing, and it’ll change our lives for the better.”

Renee smiled weakly. “Wish I could be so positive.”

Jenni held the embrace a few moments longer, then slowly pulled away. “Mom? I’m gonna inside and make a call, okay?”

There were tears in Renee’s eyes that she was clearly trying to hide from her daughter. “Alright, dear. I’m going to sit out here for a while longer.”

“‘Kay, Mom.” Jenni rose; as she opened the front door, she hesitated. “And, um… I threw out the cigarettes, okay? You don’t want to get addicted again just because of this.” She saw the back of her mother’s head nod, and she stepped into the house.

With her hands shaking, she dialed the house phone and held it up to her ear. It rang slowly; once, twice, three times, four.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Goodwin, it’s me. We need to talk."

Chapter Text

"Hurry up, Parker!" Phoenix Prudence called. "The bus will be here any minute!"

The seven-year-old came bounding down the stairs of 156 Savannah Lane. “You’re not driving me?”

Phoenix shook his head. “Looks like the babysitter’s late. Again. I’ve had to call in for a sub.”

Parker grabbed his lunchbox off the kitchen counter. “So you’re going to be home all day with Pansy?”

Pansy Prudence was the youngest of the family, a lively (and messy) two-year-old girl. Normally, she would stay home with a sitter while Phoenix and Parker went to the elementary school; lately, though, Rachel Ryder, the twenty-year-old from the next town over who took care of the kids when Phoenix couldn’t, had been growing lackadaisical toward her responsibilities. When she finally did show up, he intended to fire her.

"I’m going to be trying to find someone else to sit, so I might have to go out. If you need to call me, make sure you try my cell, okay?"

"Okay, dad."

As Parker opened the door to step outside, Phoenix could see the yellow school bus practically barreling down the street. “Hold on!” he called to his son. Parker hesitated. “Have a good day at school,” he said, pulling the boy into a hug and giving him a peck on the crown. The boy made a face as he drew away from the embrace and only mumbled his response. Phoenix sighed as he closed the door.

Since the death of his wife two years earlier, Parker had grown into a rather unaffectionate child. At the age of five, the little boy had suddenly stopped dolling out the hugs and kisses that had filled those first five years. Phoenix would have liked to believe that it was a natural part of a young boy growing up… but there was little doubt in his mind that losing his mother had been the cause.

Somewhat reluctantly, Phoenix trudged up the stairs to the nursery. Pansy was still fast asleep, but he knew that wouldn’t last long; she hardly seemed to sleep much at all anymore, at least compared to how much energy she seemed to have. He honestly didn’t know how she managed it; the terrible twos had arrived not with the expected rise in temper tantrums but with an unquenchable thirst for exploration. It was all Phoenix could do to keep her from climbing the walls; he had no idea how-or if-Rachel managed it.

But Rachel was history; the Prudence family couldn’t afford to have anyone in their employ who couldn’t be trusted to do her job with one hundred percent dedication. Unfortunately, Phoenix knew that finding a replacement would be no easy task.

Twinbrook, as far as he knew, had no daycare. And while it had at least a few teens who would likely be interested in some babysitting money, none of them would be available during the school day when Phoenix had to work. His girlfriend, Molly, was no help in this regard, either; she worked the busy schedule of a hospital employee, and in spite of her professed fondness for both of the Prudence kids, he knew she’d never consider rearranging her schedule to accommodate them. And he wouldn’t dream of asking such a thing from her; technically, she wasn’t even his official girlfriend yet. They’d only been on a few dates.

And that left him at a loss. He was either going to have to find another babysitter who could come to the house every day to take care of the kids, or he would have to find a daycare center. Both would likely require searching outside of Twinbrook.

That in mind, Phoenix checked his daughter one last time before going downstairs to the living room computer. Let the search begin.

====

Two hours later, the phone rang. Pausing in his attempts to convince Pansy to try the muffins he’d made, Phoenix stalked over to the telephone. “Hello?”

To his surprise, he heard Molly’s voice. “Hi, Phoenix? Have you found that babysitter yet?”

"Uh, hi, Molly. And no, I haven’t. Why?"

"Well, if you don’t have any luck, I think I might have found someone for you. She’s probably only a step up from Rachel, but if you don’t have any other options…"

"Where are you?"

"Oh, I’m at work. See, this young woman came in a few minutes ago. Good Samaritan type, you know? Kid got hurt at a bus stop out in the boonies, apparently, and she drove him to the hospital."

"Why not just call an ambulance?"

"She mentioned she was new in town. Might not have her phone hooked up yet." He could practically hear Molly shrugging. "Anyway, I had assumed she was the kid’s mother. A bit young, sure, but the two of ‘em were practically clinging to each other. But no, we started talking about what happened and it turns out she’s just the neighbor. Saw the accident and went to help. Real fond of kids, apparently."

"And so you think she’d be interested in a babysitting job?"

"Nope. She says she’s hoping to open up a daycare here in Twinbrook."

"You said she lives… out in the boonies?"

"Oh, yeah. Wonder if she knew when she came here that she was moving to the wrong side of the dam?"

"She’ll never get a daycare permit out there. It’s full of mosquitoes, for one thing."

"And I told her as much. Not that she looked like she believed me; pure optimism, this chick. But I think that she’d take the job if you asked her." There was a pause. "So… do you want her number?"

Flustered by his apparent luck, Phoenix fiddled around his desk for a pen and sticky note. “Uh, yeah.” Molly read off a string of digits, which Phoenix jotted down and then repeated.

"Yep, that’s it. Let me know how it goes, ‘kay? See you later."

"Alright, Molly. Thanks." Phoenix hung up and glanced back at Pansy, who was smashing the muffin beneath her tiny fists. "That was definitely too easy."

Chapter Text

"You have to do this for me, G!"

Gala Ball sneered at her roommate. "Yeah, I really don't."

"C'mon, you know how much this would mean to me," said Buddy Bailey. "If you introduce me to DeAndre, I'll be in your debt for, like, ever. Isn't that something you typically enjoy?"

"Well, now that's true," she said, a faint smirk on her lips as she gazed at him from across the dining room table. "But what if you're terrible?"

Buddy's expression was incredulous. "I'm not terrible!" he insisted. "You've heard me play before. I'm not terrible, right?"

Her lips twitched into a grin. "You know I can't judge music. I'll dance to anything with a rhythm."

Buddy glared. "Will you just introduce me to him? It could literally make or break your career."

"Literally break your career," Gala repeated. She sipped the last of her orange juice, then stood. "Sure, Buddy. I'll invite him over tonight, and if you want to play for him -- and he wants to listen -- I'm certainly not going to stop you."

His face broke out into a grin, and he threw his hands over his head in a victory V. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."

Gala gave him a mockingly stern glance. "And you'd best not let me down," she warned him. "I'll be pretty pissed if you chase my boyfriend away with your awful music." Buddy picked up the still-folded newspaper and threw it in her direction; she ducked away from it, laughing. "I'll see you later. And if you're going to paint again, please put this-" She picked up the paper and tossed it back at him. "-on the floor this time. I'm not cleaning up that mess again."

Grabbing her purse, she slipped out of the house without another word; as she waited for the taxi that would take her to her first day of work at the Little Corsican Bistro, she heard Buddy call from inside the house, "Good luck!"

She knew he'd spend the rest of the day worrying. By the time she brought home DeAndre -- assuming he didn't have any other plans -- Buddy would probably be an absolute wreck.

DeAndre practically had to bribe Gala into going home in his $105k, gas-guzzling Margaret Vaguester; he knew she hated the car, tree-hugger as she was. It was honestly a bit of a charming quality, though he would never have assumed so before he'd seen Gala wear it so well. The whole hippie trend was over, or so he'd thought; instead, he'd found that Gala and her roommate, a young man a few years older than her (and he didn't approve of that), were into the revived "eco" movement. With their all-organic diets, obsession with water and power conservation, and damn-near hatred of all things vehicular, they were quite a pair for DeAndre to wrap his mind around. Simsouri had never seemed like the proper home for a couple of college kids like them.

But then, the world had changed since he was their age.

Gala sulked as she rode home in the passenger seat of the Vaguester. She knew it would be pointless to try to bring up the subject of looking into replacing the wasteful monstrosity with one of the new electric models; DeAndre had the money for it, easily, but not the will. Whenever she proposed the idea, he'd laugh good-naturedly, as if she were a toddler trying to teach him her theories on Santa Claus and the Social Bunny. As if wasting power was humorous.

Luckily, they arrived at the house before she let her frustration get the better of her, and she practically dove out of the car as soon as it hit the driveway. DeAndre grinned as if he was about to break out that damned laugh again, but he seemed to know better; he climbed out of the car and put his arm around her shoulders.

"So, doll, is your little boyfriend really any good?"

"I'm no music critic. When Buddy plays the guitar, it sounds like he's playing the guitar. That's good, right?"

"It's certainly a first step," DeAndre said, then chuckled as they climbed onto the small patio at the front of the house. "Is this kid gonna be crushed if I have to give him bad news?" Gala shrugged. "That's why I never do this stuff. You know this is a big favor, right?"

She smiled at him. "Yes," she said, and reached up to give him a peck on the cheek. "And thank you." She dug into her purse for her keys, then opened the door. To her surprise, Buddy was not eagerly awaiting their arrival. At least, not that she could see.

If he wasn't having a panic attack downstairs, he probably was doing it on the second floor.

Just as she thought that, Buddy's anxious voice called down the stairs. "Is that you, G?"

DeAndre raised a brow at the nickname, but Gala ignored it. "Who else would it be?" she called back. "You coming down or what?"

"Be there in a second," the voice replied, wavering slightly, and then they heard footsteps on the stairs as Buddy came into view, guitar in hand. He was trembling slightly, and she hoped for his sake that DeAndre didn't notice.

"You want anything to drink?" she asked her guest.

"No," he replied. "I think I'm good." Then he turned to Buddy with a smile and held out a hand for him to shake. Buddy looked like he might faint, but he accepted the handshake. "Nice to meet you, kid."

Buddy nodded. "Great to meet you, too, Mr. Wolf."

"Call me DeAndre," he said. "Mr. Wolf kind of makes it sound like I'm here to blow your house down."

Much to Gala's surprise, the joke earned a smile from Buddy, and she noticed as he led them into the living room that his hands had stopped shaking.

"So, how do you want to do this?" Buddy asked.

"How 'bout we just sit down here-" DeAndre gestured toward the couch in the living room. "And you play something. Whatever you're best at. If you're too nervous to get it right the first time through, just try to relax. Just think of me as a friend with connections; this isn't any kind of high-stakes audition. All you have to do is entertain us like you would any crowd."

Gala wanted to point out that Buddy didn't really do crowds -- mostly fantasized about having the confidence to play in front of them one day -- but she resisted. No point in discouraging him.

Standing between the love seat, couch, and television, Buddy nodded confidently. Then he started to play.

Chapter Text

"So..." Lang Gywdd started from his place on Justin's bed. "I was playing the new Age of Machina game last night, and you know what I thought that would be an awesome idea?"

Beside him at Justin's desktop, Wei Keane rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. SimBot?"

"SimBot," Lang repeated, nodding. "How awesome would that be?"

"It would inspire quite a bit of awe."

At his workbench across the room, Justin Kayes put down his torch. "You do understand that we're not in a video game right now, don't you?"

Lang bolted upright. "Dude! Haven't you played Age of Machina? That's what the whole freakin' game's out. See, there's this guy, Joe Smith, whose wife, Jane, goes missing. So you think it's gonna be a detective story, right? Wrong. Turns out Jane got frickin' deleted from existence because we're all actually living inside a huge simulation game, and the player got rid of her."

"I thought Machina was a SimBot game?"

"Yeah, the first one was. This one's about how we're inside the machine! It's so cool. It's like, the player is this UberSim -- clearly meant to be the Watcher -- and they can use the simulation to control us. Some of us are lucky, and we never get picked; but if you get picked, your PlumbBob gets forced out of your body, and the player takes over."

Wei sighed and turned his chair toward Lang. "What you just described is nothing more than a modern twist on religion, combining ancient beliefs about the Watcher with the modern theory of Pancomputationalism. An interesting idea, but purely fictious."

"Alright, guys, be careful," Justin warned them. "I don't want this turning into a religious argument."

"Why not?" Wei asked. "Neither of us is a believer." He gave Lang a pointed glance. "Right?"

Lang just shrugged, sinking back down onto Justin's pillow. "No. But that 'the Watcher is a gamer' idea could definitely take off, imo."

Wei chuckled. "I'm sure the Jacoban church would love that." Then he paused. "Actually, that's not even a joke. They probably would love that. The Watcher as an angsty teenager with a computer. What a thought."

Both Wei and Justin went back to what they were doing, and for a few minutes, the room was silent. Then- "I still think you guys should build a bot."

Justin groaned. "C'mon, Lang, be serious. You know that's not possible yet. Not with today's technology."

Lang sulked for a moment. "That weird guy across town says he's building one."

Wei burst into laughter. "Old man Darer, you mean? That guy couldn't build a SimBot if... Well, nothing clever's coming to mind, but trust me when I tell you he will definitely never create the kind of humanoid AI that you're talking about. Besides, I thought he was a sculptor!"

"Nah," said Lang. "He's into the same shit as Justin. Fiddling with metals, making widgets and doo-dads."

"Widgets and doo-dads," Justin repeated. "Glad to know you're such a big fan of my work."

"Look, Lang, I really hate to break it to you," Wei said, clearly trying to stifle a grin, "but that old guy's a frickin' nut. Not in the 'I think he's crazy' sense; in the 'he's been committed' sense. If he's trying to put together a Frankensim, it just means he's off his meds. Not that he knows what he's doing."

"But you guys know what you're doing. Aren't you both, like, actual geniuses? Hell, you two could change the whole world if you managed this! Wouldn't that be frickin' awesome?"

"Yeah, we heard, Lang. Awesome. But not possible."

Lang looked helplessly at Justin. "Wei has a point," he said. "I mean, today's technology just... the kind of AI you would need to make an autonomous SimBot is so far out of our grasp that I can't imagine we'll see it in our lifetimes. We're just not there yet."

"You guys are total buzzkills, you know that?" He lifted himself off the bed, looking none too pleased with his friends. "I just want you two to sit back and imagine how much money you would make if you two turned out to be -- with my help, of course, and maybe we could cut the old man in -- the people who invented the SimBot." With that, he stalked back to his own room.

Wei grinned at Justin. "Well, he does have a point. That would be one hell of a pile of cash."

"That's more your department than mine."

"And if Juan Darer really thinks he's building a SimBot... someone ought to be up there taking care of him. Clearly needs a doctor."

"Eh. He's only got a few years left, anyway. If he's not violent..."

"Yeah, but spending the last few years of your life deluded and alone? There should be some kind of old person's version of child protective services for people like Darer."

"Go run for office or something, then. Or start a charity."

"Nope," Wei said, turning back to the computer. "No time for that; I'm a very busy man. Speaking of which, I don't know if I'll be able to finish fixing your computer tonight. If you desperately need anything, you can borrow my laptop."

"I probably won't need it," Justin said, "but thanks."

"No problem. I'm gonna get a snack. Want anything?"

"I'm good."

"Good." As Justin turned his torch back on, Wei got up from the desk and headed out the door. "And you really shouldn't do that inside, you know!"

Outside the door of 27 Herring Ranch Road, Lang hesitated. The old man's house was downright creepy, with its swampy yard and dead trees. Not to mention the remnants of the original house that burned down in the fire that killed Lacy Darer and Macy Clay.

It was a good thing they weren't buried on the property, or else Lang would never have managed to muster up the courage to knock on the door.

After only a few moments of waiting, Mr. Darer appeared on the other side of the glass. Lang gave him a sheepish wave, and then the old man let him inside.

She was going to be looking forward to tomorrow.

Chapter Text

"Blaise, are you kissin' that cat?"

"Of course I am!" Blaise Kindle answered, giving the kitten another peck on the top of her head. "She's just the cutest li'l bitty kitty I ever saw!"

Blaise's roommate, Alma Drill, shook her head. "You have absolutely lost your mind. It's just a cat."

"Nope. Not anymore. Now she's my baby."

"Absolutely lost your mind."

Still holding the kitten, Blaise walked over to the armchair by the fireplace and sat down. After a moment of looking around for something more interesting to do, the kitten settled down into her lap. "What should we name her?"

Alma dropped onto the couch. "I don't know. Let me go get my cat naming book."

"Oh, c'mon, you can think of something!"

"Kitty."

Blaise grinned. "Are you a Kitty, little kitty?" Alma rolled her eyes. "You do look like a Kitty..."

"Why don't we just call her 'Cat', then?"

"Kitty sounds cute. Cat just sounds... you know, like she's just a cat. Kitty's affectionate; Cat is disdainful."

"You're really putting that much thought into it? Just name her something like Smoke. She's gray, it works."

Blaise stared down at the kitten for a long, silent moment; that cat stared back. "No," she finally said, "I actually think I like Kitty. Congratulations, Alma, you got to name her."

"I'm ever so thrilled."

The kitten yawned, apparently just as bored with the conversation as Alma, and curled up into a ball. "Looks like it's time for a cat nap!" Blaise whispered, barely able to contain her glee.

"I don't think we have to whisper, B. Besides, it looks like we need to talk."

Blaise's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Your clothes," Alma said, gesturing toward them. "You got the job at the fire department, I take it?"

A wide grin broke out across the redhead's face. "I did," she said. Her smile shined with pride. "It was easier than I thought. I think they were actually a little impressed, since I'm strong than I look, you know?"

"But let me guess, it's a boy club in there."

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, yeah. I get the feeling they aren't happy about the whole affirmative action thing-you know, how they changed the strength requirements so that more women could make the cut. But I passed the male strength requirement, too, so I don't think they can hold that against me."

"A misogynist will hold anything he can against you, B. To a jackass, it's not gonna matter what requirements you pass. If someone doesn't want you there, they'll find a reason."

Blaise's smile hardened somewhat, and Alma realized she might have brought just a bit too much negativity to the conversation. She was supposed to be congratulating her friend, after all. "Well," Blaise said, "so far I haven't run into anyone like that. And I would hope that such an old-fashioned, stereotypical woman-hater as your describing would be ostracized by the department."

Alma didn't press the issue, though she had the urge. Blaise didn't need anything to bring her down today; it had been hard enough for her to get up the courage to apply for the job, let alone some confidence that she could get it.

"And what about you?" Blaise asked, her fingers reaching down to absent-mindedly stroke the kitten's head. "Have you decided what you're going to do? About teaching, I mean?"

Alma hadn't. And she was running out of time. "Well, no," she admitted. "It's hard, you know? I mean, look how hard you had to work to convince yourself to take a chance on firefighting. Now imagine that you had a steady, reasonably well-paid job and that firefighting was a huge financial gamble. That's what's going on with me, you know? I can leave teaching and focus on my writing, or I can keep teaching and try to squeeze it into my schedule. Or maybe I should just teach and forget the idea of writing altogether. I mean, I have a career. I like my career. Do I really want to give that up, considering that I don't really have any idea if I can actually go somewhere in the publishing world?"

Blaise stared down at Kitty. "I get it, Alm. It's hard. You never want to mess up. Not at something this important; it's your whole life, you know? I mean, you'd give up your tenure, right?" Alma nodded. "And I guess it's possible that, even if you're a fantastic writer, you could always get a bunch of bad luck and never really get anywhere. I mean, you don't have to hit the SimCity Chronicle Bestseller List, but... I don't know. I think you write wonderfully, and I'd love to read your stuff whether I knew you or not, but I'm sure there are tons of spectacular books that are never seen by most of the people who would enjoy them..."

"You are really cheering me up, B."

Blaise smiled slyly. "Just a little payback for those misogynist comments. Really, I think you should do whatever you feel like. Can't you, like, take a sabbatical or something? A year off teaching to test out the writer's lifestyle or something?"

"Yeah, if I worked at a university. Not a public high school. If I leave my desk for a year, you can bet your ass that whoever takes my place isn't going to be giving it back."

"That's a shame." She scratched Kitty's ear, pondering. "Maybe you could switch to a private school?"

"What would that help?"

"Higher pay, better vacation time, maybe get that sabbatical in a few years' time?"

"I don't think so. Besides, there aren't any private schools in Twinbrook."

"What about that hippie school? The Peace and Love flier we got in the mail?"

"Oh, god. That thing's way across the country. We only got the memo because it's one of the big five. It's Smuggsworth Prep School, LeFromage Art School, School of Peace and Love, Dribbledine Sports Academy, and Fort Starch Military. All very prestigious and expensive, and none within a reasonable distance. Not that any of them would hire me, anyway; only the best for those spoiled brats."

Blaise chuckled. In her lap, Kitty yawned and rose, stretching her tiny body before walking on slightly wobbly legs onto the arm of the chair. The two women watched as the kitten hopped onto the end table, then onto the couch, and brushed her little nose against Alma's hand.

"She likes you, Alm."

"Well..." Alma said, gently pulling the kitten into her arms for a quick hug. "I'm sure I'll warm up to her."

Chapter Text

"Where are you taking me tonight, baby?" On the couch of the Peddler-Pincher household, Penny Pincher's voice saccharine voice posed the question.

From his place on the cushion beside her, her boyfriend, Clark Peddler, glanced absentmindedly in her direction.

"What'd you say, Pen?"

"You're not listening to me!" Penny scolded. She gave Clark a light slap on the shoulder. "Pay attention when I talk! I said, where are you taking me tonight?"

Clark continued to stare at the television. "We'll go to the Red."

"We always go to the Red! I want to go somewhere different."

"Then move."

Penny made a loud whining noise, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know how I'm supposed to climb the social ladder of a po-dunk little town like Twinbrook! Why can't we move, Clarky?"

"I told you this before, Pen. I got ties here. I'm all tied up. We'll move when we can."

"But when will that be? I wanna go to Bridgeport." Penny's face brightened. "Ooh, or Starlight Shores! Can we go to Starlight Shores, Clarky? I wanna see where they make the movies!"

Clark gestured at the television. "I'd be satisfied if you just let me watch mine."

Penny bit her lower lip, then leaned toward her boyfriend, nudging her way into his arms. Somewhat reluctantly-a fact that she did not miss-he embraced her; she nuzzled against his neck, a sly smile on her face. "Let's go to the Wilsonoff instead of the Red. Catch a real movie-not this made for t.v. crap."

"And who's paying for that? Not you, I take it."

"'Course not," she said, threading her fingers through his hair. "You're the man of the house, that stuff's your job."

Clark laughed. "How're you gonna make it in Starlight Shores with that attitude? They'll run you right out of town if you go around talking like that."

"Then I won't say it out loud. You'd better just know."

Clark glanced down at his watch. "Almost time for work."

"But what about your movie?"

"My wallet's a little more important to me than the end of this stupid flick."

Penny pulled away from him and stood. "I don't know why I asked. Your wallet's more important than anything." She stalked out of the room, presumably to change into her work clothes, and Clark rolled his eyes as she went. Hadn't she just been pestering him about paying for her? Of course he cared about his money.

"DeAndre, hi!" Penny exclaimed from behind the cash register, flashing the guitarist her brightest smile. "What're you doing here? Don't tell me you're buying books?"

"What?" the man said, grinning as he approached her. "A fella can't read?" Penny shrugged, having no intentions of telling a man like DeAndre Wolff that she disapproved of his hobbies. "Don't you get guys in here every day?"

"Not guys like you."

"And what's that? What kind of guy do you think I am?" For a split second, Penny feared that he had taken the comment the wrong way; but his smile was still warm and genuine, and she let herself relax.

"You know," she said. "Strong. Handsome. Famous. Since when are rock stars bookworms? Books are for nerds-scrawny, indoorsy types, you know."

"I take it you don't read, then?"

"Of course not!"

DeAndre looked a bit surprised. "Then why are you working here?"

"We need the money," Penny said, unabashedly. "Even I can't manage a two-person household on a single part-time salary."

"Clark's still working part-time, then? I would've thought that with all the saving you two do, he'd have opened his little store by now."

Penny shook her head. "Not yet, but we're getting there. Baby's gonna be making big bucks soon, though."

The man laughed, but Penny could see that his eyes were starting to wander elsewhere. Toward the bookshelves, which she couldn't help but take as a bit of an insult. "Are you gonna be at the Red tonight?"

"Yeah," he answered, still gazing at something to her left. Then suddenly, he seemed to snap to attention. "Oh, actually no. I'll be at Gala's."

"That's too bad," Penny said. "I would've loved to hear you play tonight!"

"Well, if it's any consolation, I'm gonna be auditioning some new talent instead. Gala says her roommate's a pretty good musician himself, so maybe I'll have myself a protege soon." Penny's smile faltered. "A student."

She nodded. "I see. Well, I don't think I know him, but good luck anyway! Twinbrook is full of talent, isn't it?"

DeAndre shrugged. "If you say so. Most people around here are a bit artsy for my taste. Lots of visual people, you know; not a lot of appreciation for music around here, if you'll believe it."

"Then why don't you move? I'm sure you'd be more appreciated in someplace like Bridgeport."

"Bridgeport's a little rough for me, now that I'm getting older. And Starlight Shores is nothing but little hippy actresses and boy bands nowadays. Very produced."

"Produced?"

"You know, everyone's a product; nobody's an artist. Every label's searching for another group of little boys or a few little girls to manufacture into being the next big thing. There's no room for real talent." Penny frowned. This point of view meshed with none of what she knew about Starlight Shores and its glamorous populace. "You look like I've upset you. Attached to the scene, I take it? Just a bit envious of how great their lives all look out there?"

It was Penny's turn to shrug. "Trust me, what they're showing you in their music videos is nothing like their real lives. Sure, some of them are living like crazy, but they're the ones showing up the news with arrests and convictions and mandatory rehab. The Shores are a mess, and I imagine that they'll be like that for a while. Bridgeport, on the other hand... well, they've got other problems. I've heard quite a few fascinating rumors, let me tell you that."

With this, DeAndre wandered off toward the shelf he'd been staring at, plucked a book off the display, and returned to the cash register. "I've been looking for this everywhere. Would you believe the library doesn't have it yet?"

She rang up his purchase. "You go to the library, too?"

"Don't look so scandalized. You might want to try reading some of these one day, Miss Pincher. Might find something you like. Here-" He took the receipt from her, withdrew a pen from his pocket, and scribbled something down on the blank back of the paper. Then he handed it to her and took his book. "Why don't you try that one. I think you'll like it." He started to go.

"Have a nice day!" Penny called to him, and he waved as he left the store. Then she looked down at what he'd written. "Celebrity Blues: A Mystery by A. Riddle." She sighed and dropped the note into the desk drawer. "I hate to read."

Chapter Text

"Alright, boys, homework away! Your mother says it's time for dinner!" As Robert Castor sat down at the head of his family's dining table, he tried to ignore his son, Jeffrey, rolling his eyes at his father as he slipped his notebook off the table. Across the table from him, little Thomas, on the other hand, offered Rob a massive grin.

"Hi, Daddy!" he said cheerfully. The child was always overjoyed at seeing his father for the first time every day; it was an enthusiasm and obvious love for his family that often came in handy for everyone when Thomas disobeyed. Unlike his elder brother, whose punishments were far more severe, the youngest Castor boy always apologized for his mistakes and promised to improve. After twelve years of raising Jeffrey, such obedience was wonderfully refreshing.

"Hello, son," Robert said, and glanced back at Jeffrey. "Jeff? Do you have something to say to me?"

"Hi," the boy grumbled.

Rob didn't know what had gone wrong with his firstborn. It had taken years for him to admit it, but now there was no denying the fact that Jeffrey Castor simply didn't fit in with his family. Nor did he like them, as far as Rob could tell. It seemed, in fact, that the boy hated his parents and even his brother, though he had no idea what they could ever have done to turn the child against them.

No, Jeffrey's disappointment stretched back as far as Rob could remember. Perhaps there had been a few good days here and there, but it seemed in retrospect that he and his wife, Beverly, always should have known that something had gone wrong. Perhaps something had happened to Bev when she'd been pregnant. Perhaps some doctor had goofed. Perhaps Jeff had just been a proverbial bad seed from the start. Whatever the case, Jeffrey had never lived up to his parent's expectations; as an infant, his days and nights had been filled with screaming and crying, and nothing his parents had done had ever seemed to placate him. As a toddler, his development had been delayed; once, a doctor had the gall to tell them that Jeff simply wasn't being nurtured enough at home. (They left that hippie quack in a heartbeat.) Rob and Bev had done the best they could with him, but he had never blossomed into the kind of young man they'd always hoped for. He was cowardly and quick to anger, and his newfound love of computers and gadgets hadn't helped in the least.

They had higher hopes for Thomas.

At the end of the dining table opposite her husband, Beverly Castor gave the family a warm smile. "Well, everybody's here!" she said in her unusual sing-song voice. "Jeffrey, it's your turn pray." As these words passed her lips, a sense of foreboding came over Bev. Today would be the day, she suddenly realized.

Slowly, Jeffrey raised his gaze from the homework notebook in his lap to look at his mother. His expression was carefully neutral. "No, mother."

Rob gave his son a stern glance. "It's your turn, Jeffrey. Pray."

Jeffrey didn't glance away from Bev, and she felt her own gaze turning into a glare as she felt that familiar sense of rage bubbling up inside her. She'd known this day was coming, had dreaded it for some time now. Whether Jeffrey believed in the Watcher anymore, she didn't know; she was certain, however, that he was not like them any longer.

"Jeffrey, you will say the prayer this instant," she ordered, struggling to keep her voice at a reasonable volume. It wasn't ladylike to scream.

"No."

And that was it. Bev was on her feet in an instant, a single, meticulously manicured finger pointed up the stairs toward Jeffrey's room. "Upstairs. Now!" she yelled.

"No."

That one surprised her, unlike the last. "Jeffrey Castor, you will get up those stairs right now. Ungrateful children like you don't get dinner."

The faintest hint of a smirk spread over Jeffrey's face. "Actually, mom, you have to feed me. It's kind of a law." He glanced at his father. "Isn't that right, dad?"

From where she stood at the end of the table, Beverly turned to her husband in disbelief. Rob stared down at his plate. "He has a point, dear."

"He is not welcome in this dining room."

Rob stared at his wife for a long moment, then turned to his son. "Jeffrey, take your dinner to the den and eat at the desk. Clean up whatever mess you make, then leave your dishes in the sink and go to your room. Once you've finished eating, I don't want to see you downstairs again." Jeffrey stood up to go, but Rob gestured for him to pause.

"And that goes for every night until you can agree to obey your mother's wishes."

That earned a small laugh from the teen, who grabbed his bowl of macaroni and cheese in one hand and his salad in the other before stalking off to the living room, triumphant.

The sheer smugness of him made Beverly want to scream at him for being such a little brat and at Robert for giving in. But she didn't want to fight with her husband, not while Thomas was in the room and staring up at her with those wide, fearful eyes. Best let her little dear eat in peace before letting Rob have a piece of her mind.

In the living room, Jeffrey sat down at the desk with a distinct sense of pride. He'd finally done it. Finally told his idiot parents exactly where they could shove their ignorant, outdated, and completely ludicrous traditions. He wanted nothing to do with the Jacoban church or anything it stood for, and if getting that message across meant infuriating his parents... Well, that was just a bonus.

Chapter Text

Jade Greenwood stood on the porch of the Racket mansion, rubbing her palms up and down her arms as she bounced on the balls of her feet. "Should've worn a jacket," she mumbled as she waited. Despite it being the end of May, the evening air was still a bit chilly, and Jade wished Silver would hurry up and get to the door. She briefly wondered if perhaps she should ring the bell again; was the building so big that there was a chance Silver hadn't heard her at all?

Just as she was considering this, she saw movement through the window. Someone was coming. A moment later, the door opened to reveal not Silver but her daughter, Lolly. Lolly's face fell as she saw who stood on her porch; Jade was sure her expression was about as pleased.

Lolly and Jade had never particularly gotten along. Not that they'd ever bene enemies; they simply weren't friends, which normally wouldn't be a problem... except that Jade was very close friends with Lolly's mother, making their time spent together very awkward indeed. Silver had even hinted in the past that Lolly was jealous of her relationship with Jade, and she had made it no secret that she considered Jade a second daughter.

Lolly stepped onto the porch. "What're you doing here?" she asked. It was a reasonable question; Jade had never come to the house before. Knowing very well that her parents wouldn't particularly approve of such a close friendship with a grown woman of Silver's age (not to mention reputation), Jade had only met with her friend at public places so far. The Red, the Wilsonoff, the pool and parks. Sometimes Silver even gave her a ride home from school. It was like having a second mother-except this one wasn't obsessed with energy efficiency and so-called healthy eating.

"Hi, Lolly," Jade said. "Is Silver home?"

"Mom's out. What're you doing here?" Lolly repeated, sneering.

"She invited me. Do you know when she's going to be back?"

"No, I don't," the other girl answered. "And I'm the only one home right now, and I'm definitely not allowed to invite anyone else inside until somebody gets back. So I guess you'll have to go home."

To say that Jade was getting the hint was an understatement; rubbing her arms had changed from an effort to keep her warm to a method of maintaining her calm. She wasn't a fan of confrontation, and she definitely didn't want to get into anything with Lolly.

"How about I just wait on the steps instead?" she suggested. "If Silver doesn't show up before ten, I'll head home."

"Before ten?" Lolly repeated. "Curfew's at eleven. Were you planning on spending the night?"

She shook her head. "I told my parents I'd be out late tonight, and Silver said she'd drive me home."

A voice called out behind her. "Someone mention me?"

Jade spun and smiled, giving Silver Racket a little wave. "Hi!"

The older woman matched her grin. "Great to see you could make it, Jade. Lolly giving you a hard time?"

Quickly, Jade shook her head no. She didn't want to get Lolly in any kind of trouble, not with their relationship so tense already. "'Course not!" she said brightly. Behind her, Lolly gave a small scoff and returned to the house.

"Really," Silver said. "I don't know what gets into that girl sometimes. You'd think a people-person like her would know how to greet company!"

Jade shrugged, then let Silver pull her into a one-armed hug. "So why did you invite me over tonight?" she asked.

"First," Silver said seriously as they crossed the threshold. "What did you tell your parents about where you are tonight?"

Jade was too enchanted with the luxurious home she'd stepped into to feel any kind of disease about this question.

"Extra practice for the soccer team," she said absently.

"And if they call the other girls' parents and realize there's no practice?"

"It's not an official practice. Just some of the girls from a few different teams getting together."
Silver's grin was proud. "Sounds good to me."

"So..." Jade started again. "Why am I here? And your home is beautiful, by the way."

"Thank you very much dear. That's one of the reasons you're here today. I figure we've been friends long enough that you should get to see my house. And, if you're up for it, meet the rest of the clan?"

This surprised her a bit. Jade looked up uncertainly. "Meet your family?"

Silver looked a bit sheepish. "Well, dear, if you don't mind my saying, neither of my kids is having the easiest time of making friends here in town. I've actually been considering sending them away to private schools. The Racket name doesn't have the best reputation in town, you know. Rumors can be vicious."

Jade had a sinking feeling. "You want me to make friends with Lolly?"

"I won't tie you two together or anything, of course, but... can you blame me for trying to get them to socialize a bit more? Lolly and Shark, I mean? I hate to think that they might not have many friends, and I'm sure both would warm up to you if you spent enough time together. Can you ever forgive me for setting this up without telling you?"

Jade wasn't entirely sure what exactly had been set up, but if it got her into the Racket mansion, it was probably worth it. "Of course," she said.

"Wonderful. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to try to figure out where in the world that son of mine has gotten to."

"Lolly said she was home alone, so..."

Silver held up a single finger to silence her and pulled out a cell phone. "Trust me, dear, he'll come when I call." She hit a single number, and Lolly heard the fake ringing on the other end of the call as she raised the gadget to her ear.

"Shark, why aren't you home yet?" A look of surprise came over Silver's face. "Oh, I didn't realize. Well, then, why is your phone on? Turn it off, and tell your father to get you home before one. It's a school night!" She hung up, then gave Jade an apologetic smile. "Looks like Shark's out with his father one some errands and won't be home until late. I guess it'll just be you, me, and Lolly tonight."

"Don't you live with... I thought Lolly said she lives with her grandparents."

"She does. Her grandparents and her uncle, as a matter of fact. Freeloaders, the lot of them, let me tell you. But they're not here tonight, so it's just us girls. How about we all take in a movie-maybe a pizza and some popcorn-and then I get you home?"

Jade gave her a wide grin. "Sounds great to me. Especially if that pizza comes with some sausage and pepperoni."

"You got it, girlfriend."

Jade was thrilled. This was definitely better than another night at the Greenwood house.

Chapter Text

Kat Hunter sat down in one of the spa's posh armchairs. When she had seen the ad in the local paper for the Sharma's new matchmaking service, she knew she'd have to check it out. How could she possibly patch up an opportunity to screen all the town's available men in one fell swoop?

"Miss Hunter?" the receptionist called to her after several minutes of waiting, during which Kat fingered through an old WhooNoo magazine.

"Yes?" Kat said, rising from her seat.

The woman gestured toward the double-doors at her right. "You can go in," the woman answered. Kat nodded her thanks and did so.

Past the doors, Kat found herself in a small office furnished with expensive furniture and exotic plants. A strange perfume wafted through the air; Kat didn't recognize the smell, nor could she quite decide if she liked it or not.

From her seat behind the desk, a woman smiled at her and gestured for her to sit in the desk chair opposite her own. After Kat took her seat, the woman reached out to shake her hand. "My name is Dr. Aja Adler. It's very nice to meet you, Miss Hunter, and I hope we'll be able to help you today."

"Thank you," Kat said, observing the woman. She was a fairly young woman, perhaps in her thirties, with smooth, mocha-colored skin and shoulder-length brown hair. She wore a tailored business suit, her smile was far too white and straight to be natural. Kat wondered what kind of doctor she was, exactly.

"So, let's get started, shall we?"

"Gladly. What do I have to do?"

Dr. Adler smiled conspiratorially. "Very little, I can assure you. Just let me ask one little question: You are the Miss Kathryn Elizabeth Hunter of 50 Sweetwater Loop, yes?"

A slight sense of unease ran through Kat. "I am. I don't recall putting that on the application."

"That's right. You didn't. These days, one doesn't need to; I can find all the information I need about you online."

"What do you mean?"

Dr. Adler turned to her computer, typed something, and then pointed toward the television hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the office. "Take a look for yourself." A slight blush came over Kat's face at what she saw on the screen. Her SimBook profile stared back down at her. "As you see, everything I need to know about you is right here for all the world to learn, if they so choose. I can find where you work and where you've worked in the past; I can scroll through your relationship history and see what types of men-or women-interest you and how long those relationships lasted; I can see where you like to hang out and what activities interest you; everything I need to build a good dating profile for you is already at my fingertips before you enter the room."

"But my address and my middle name definitely are not on SimBook."

"That's true, but they are in other places. If I take a peek at the archive of your old posts, for instance, I can see an old meme you filled out. It's one of the 'What's your rock star name?' ones where you check your initials against their little chart to get your result. Your result was 'Electronic Metal Queen' -- it's a rather silly little game, isn't it? -- so I know your middle initial is E.

"So I can take 'Kat E. Hunter' over to an address book site. My favorite's PlaceMe, so I'll go there." Kat watched with growing dismay as she typed the url into the address bar, then searched for Kat's name. "And there we have it," she said. "Our first result is Kathryn E. Hunter at 50 Sweetwater Loop, Twinbrook."

"Is that how you built your entire database?" Kat was a tad bit scandalized.

"Yes," Dr. Adler answered. "Though we make use of other sites, as well. There are the other major social networking sites, like Sim+ and SimThis, and then there are forums and hobby sites and stuff like that. So, if you like to your BookLove account on your SimBook page, I can find out what you like to read, maybe where you buy your books, who your bookish friends are, what authors you read, what author's you've met or interacted with, what book clubs you enjoy. It's a wealth of information, all freely available in most cases."

Kat stared at the television for a moment. "I'm not sure how comfortable I am with this."

Dr. Adler shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Most of these sites don't even have private options anymore, and even on the ones that do, hardly anyone uses them. It's a public world, Miss Hunter, and I can assure you that we here at Sharma would never do anything to violate our customer's privacy."

"But aren't you?"

"Obviously not. Information you make free to the public is no longer private by definition." With another flurry of typing, the television in the corner powered down. "So, are you ready to meet your match?"

For the first time, Kat honestly wasn't sure. Perhaps she was simply being dramatic, or perhaps it was simply a sign of her age, but this woman so gleefully proud of knowing every detail about everyone made her quite uncomfortable. Still...

"Sure."

Dr. Adler grinned. "Perfect. Now, in our preexisting database, you're assigned several matches whether or not you ever apply for our services. So now that you're here, we don't have to wait around for the computer to do its thing; we're all done already. Let's take a peek." Her eyes scanned the page for several moments, then glanced up at Kat, almost sheepishly. "Well, at the moment, it seems you're a good match for only one individual in our system. Of course, I'll point out that our system is a work in progress and hopefully always will be. So the results you get today will certainly be different from the result you'd get a year from now or two years or three. But as for today, here's your best bet in Twinbrook." She swiveled her monitor toward Kat. "I think you'll be very pleased. Quality over quantity."

Kat was taken aback by what she saw. "That's DeAndre Wolf."

"Yes it is," Dr. Adler said, a hint of pride in her voice.

"I can't date DeAndre Wolf."

Now she looked confused. "You can't? Interesting. Your profile didn't hint toward any strict age or appearance preferences."

"That's not my point," Kat said. "DeAndre's dating Gala Ball."

Dr. Adler's jaw dropped for a split second, then she hurriedly swiveled her monitor back. "Gala Ball?" she repeated at a mumble, then fell silent.

Kat stood. "I think I just figured out the flaw in your design, Dr. Adler, and if you'll forgive me, I don't think your services are for me. Beyond any privacy concerns I may have, the bottom line is that your database takes everything at face value. If DeAndre's profile still says single, you'll believe it; did you even consider that he might not care enough about social networking sites to update his relationship status there? And what about sarcasm? Hacking? Are circuses going to be listed as one of my interests if I make few jokes about clowns?"

Dr. Adler's gaze was hard. "I can assure you that this is an unusual circumstance and will be corrected immediately. However, DeAndre is your only match in the system, and if is already attached..."

"Thanks for your time, Dr. Adler," Kat said, "but I think I'll be on my way." Doing her best to ignore the doctor's glare on her back, she stalked out of the office. The secretary smiled at her on the way out, but Kat didn't return it; she was far too busy hatching a new idea.

Chapter Text

It was a rare day when Pattina Knack left the High Performance Business Building with a frown on her face, but today was one of those days. Though her daughter and intern, Julienne, was at her side, her mind was occupied elsewhere as the two women climbed into the limo that took them home everyday. And, perfectly aware that her mother was consumed by some internal issue, Julienne didn't say a word during the ride.

Most people know Pattina Knack as a fierce businesswoman and the CEO of Shiny Things Inc. Over the last fifty-five years of her life-nearly forty of which were spent rising the ranks of corporate SimNation-she rose from a typical nobody living in Twinbrook to one of the driving forces of the town's rebirth. Everyone who's picked up a business or women's issues magazine in the past ten years is quite familiar with Pattina's name, face, and story.

But there's a lot the interviews don't cover, in no small part because the interviewers and their bosses simply don't care. So Patty Knack as an individual, as a wife, and as a mother is a person few people know on a personal level. Many would be surprised to learn her secrets.

For one thing, Patty never planned to remain in business. She had been pushed by her father, a businessman himself, and groomed into overtaking his company when he retired; that particular company had closed down about twenty years ago, and Pattina had never held the reins. But she'd also never left the career track toward running her own corporation, no matter how much she secretly wanted to. And she did certainly want to-especially now, in her older years.

Patty had always wanted to be a architect. She had always wanted to cook. To paint. To have some job that could supply genuine interaction with other Sims; not the kind of interaction one has in board meetings or with employees, but the kind one gets by working with people. Helping them. Entertaining them.

And so Patty had convinced her husband Nick to buy Pheasant Hollow.

Pheasant Hollow was a large manor house in Twinbrook's wealthy neighborhood. When she'd first seen the place, she knew she wanted it; walking past the boundaries of the backyard of the property would take you straight to the riverbank with all its beautiful scenery, and the house came with a beautiful barn, a spacious garden area, and a very impressive basement kitchen.

When Patty had discovered Pheasant Hollow, she had discovered her own personal paradise. Not that she'd had a chance to make use of it yet.

With her mother lost in thought, Julienne Knack left her alone and wandered off. She wasn't sure what to do; she rarely was these days. A young woman of thirty-three, she had spent her twenties living it up in Crestwood, the city north of Twinbrook. Living off her mother's cash had been a bit embarrassing on one hand and a massive weight off her shoulders on the other, and that later fact outweighed the former by far. And she had loved living there. She'd loved the crowds and the fast pace of city life; she'd love the pigeons and the skyscrapers; after a while she'd even gotten used to the the sirens and car alarms.

But after reaching thirty, she'd decided it was time to join the real world. She'd been working during that decade in Crestwood, but only casually; she'd done as she pleased, cooking and writing and flirting and spending, taking whatever freelance or part-time jobs struck her fancy. But thirty was a transitional year, and with it came a newfound sense of direction; always an ambitious woman, Julienne knew it was time to join the family business. Now, three years later, she had returned to Twinbrook and done just that.

After taking on a job with Shiny Things, her father had been a bit disappointed. While she had always made it clear that she didn't want to join the medical field, Nick Knack had always seemed to hold out hope that his daughter would suddenly develop interest in medicine. She never did.

In fact, her interest for the first three years at home hadn't seemed to be in Shiny Things at all; before ever joining up with her mother, Julienne had gotten her mind set on refurnishing the professional kitchen downstairs-which her mother had helped with-and getting both the barn and the garden ready for whatever it was she had planned for them. She let neither of her parents in on this plan, but each of them knew their daughter well enough to trust her judgement. Julienne had the same ambition as her mother, and her plans always seemed to work out.

Now, it was almost time to let them in on that plan.

Patty, however, was conjuring up her own plan that day. Or else, she was fantasizing about one. So long she had dreamed of becoming an architect; each year that passed seemed to take her further from that goal, not closer. At this point, she told herself that it was something to do post-retirement. When she could no longer keep up with the stress of being a CEO, she promised herself, she would pass on the job to the most worthy candidate-whom she secretly hoped would be Julie, though she doubted it-and then try to reinvent herself in the architectural field. But she doubted that an retired, reasonably old woman would be too particularly welcome as a beginner.

With a sigh, Patty set these thoughts aside and went to fetch Julie. She found her by the barn.

"Your father will be home soon," she called when she was close enough for her daughter to hear. "We're eating out tonight; are you coming?"

Julie nodded, closing the barn door behind her. "You know, it's a pity that we have that amazing kitchen, yet we hardly ever use it."

Patty shrugged. "It's part of my retirement plan. And I'm sure that as soon as we can find a replacement for Sanderson, someone will be using it again." Sanderson was their butler, a man who had been in Patty's service for ten years before retiring. He had already been elderly when the family had hired him; Patty always gave preference to the retired when hiring servants. Julie assumed that had to do with her mother's apparent insecurities about nearing retirement age herself.

"That's true," Julie answered. "But..." Patty waited, wondering if she was finally going to hear her daughter's grand scheme. "Well, I think I've got a few ideas of my own, as soon as I get some things sorted out. Sound good?"

Patty smiled and pulled her daughter into a quick hug. "Sounds spectacular. I can't wait."

Julie grinned back. "Neither can I."

Chapter Text

Every night, Rosy Wheloff arrived home promptly at 9:15. That night, she didn't appear until nearly ten.

This meant her husband, Rich, whose workday as a genetic resequencer at the Twinbrook Science Lab ended at 1:30 in the afternoon, was home alone with their elementary-aged daughter, Zo, that evening. Though he noticed his wife's absence immediately, it was until time to put Zo to bed that he began to worry.

On most weekdays, with the exception of Wednesday and Tuesday, Zo depended on the fifteen minutes between Rosy's return to the house and her bedtime; as Rosy's work hours required her to be headed in before Zo's school day ended, those fifteen minutes were the only time the mother and daughter pair got to spend together.

So that night, when Rosy did not appear on time, Zo was clearly heartbroken. "Where's mama?" the kindergartener asked as her father tucked her in.

"She's still at work, honey," Rich said, giving his daughter a kiss on the forehead. "And she's very sorry that she's not here to tuck you in herself. She'll make it up to you this Sunday, okay, baby?"

"Okay, daddy."

"That's a good girl." Rich turned off the light in the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He was going to have to call Rosy, and he didn't want Zo to overhear.

But just as he was dialing Rosy's cell phone, he heard her key in the door and started down the staircase to greet her. After a few seconds of what sounded like fumbling, she entered the front door of 36 Puddlewick Drive; Rich knew now more than ever that something was wrong. His wife looked rather stunned and unsteady.

"Did you have a car accident?" was the first thing out of his mouth. Then, flushing slightly at his lack of tact, he continued with, "Are you alright?"

Rosy made a motion with her hand as if to brush away his concerns. "No, nothing like that. I'm fine. I just..." She smiled weakly at him. "I got promoted."

That was certainly not what he had expected. "Really?" he asked, a wide grin breaking out across his face. "That's fantastic."

Rosy's smile was almost apologetic. "No, it's not. Sit down with me."

Baffled by his wife's gravity, Rich followed her into the kitchen. In the corner of the room sat a large, cozy fireplace with two armchairs; they each took a seat, Rosy with a solemn expression on her face and Rich with a knot of dread in his chest.

"What's going on, Rose?" He almost never called her that; like his own birth name, Richard, it was a name reserved for the most serious situations. Life-changing conversations.

"It's nothing to worry about, Rich, so please calm down a bit," she began, but he couldn't relax just yet. "I said I was promoted, but... I'm not taking the job."

"You're upset because you've been promoted... to a job you didn't want?"

Rosy nodded slightly. "Sort of," she said. "The League has promoted me from the toddler team to the young adult team. Apparently, they think I'm highly skilled, very motivational, and a healthy mentor for college-age kids. Except that I don't want to work with college kids, Rich."

"Well, that's not a big deal, is it? You just turned the promotion down, right?"

Rosy frowned. "Not quite. It seems that they've already given my job away to some big-shot coach. The father of one of the new teammates; they didn't tell me about their intentions until they secured my promotion. Apparently they were sure I would take it and get out of their hair without causing a scene."

"You caused a scene?" That was hard to imagine.

"No," she answered. "I didn't. I told them I'd think about the job, and I've been doing that. On the drive home, I mean; it's a wonder I didn't get into an accident, now that I think about it. I suppose you shouldn't drive with that much on your mind."

"And what're you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'm going to turn the job down."

"Alright," Rich said, taking his wife's hand. "So you'll be unemployed until they can find you another team? We can manage that, Rose, easily. It's not like money's a big deal right now."

Rosy gave his hand a squeeze. "Actually, Rich, dear... I've been thinking about this for a while... You've noticed I haven't been as satisfied with coaching lately, haven't you?" Rich had; he was a very perceptive man in most aspects and particularly attentive when it came to his wife, his daughter, and his experiments. He nodded. "Well, then I should probably have let you know what I've been thinking about, specifically. In a nutshell, coaching has been as fulfilling for me lately as it was when I started out. I still love working with children, but the sports... it's kind of wearing me out, I suppose."

"I can imagine," Rich said. "I've always wondered how you manage it."

"Thank you. But I'm thinking now that this is the perfect opportunity to take my career in a new direction. I still want to work with kids-like I said, I love that part of the job-but I need some kind of change. I'm thinking of teaching."

Rich's eyebrows rose. "Teaching?" he repeated. "Teaching what?"

"I'd like to get into elementary education."

"Don't you need a degree for that."

With a sheepish smile, Rosy nodded. "Yeah, I will."

"Then are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"Yes," she answered firmly. "Definitely. And we have room for it in the budget, easily. We won't even have to dip into Zo's college fund."

Rich tried to suppress his smile. "You already rearranged the budget?"

Rosy laughed. "I've been doing it during watercooler breaks so you wouldn't catch on. If we couldn't afford it, I didn't want you to know anything about it."

Rich rose from his armchair and perched on the arm of hers, wrapping her arms around her for a quick hug. "You should've told me, dear. I would've loved to help."

"Sorry. I just wanted to be sure."

"This is great, Rose. Have you thought about how you're going to go about getting that degree yet?" She shook her head. "Can I be included in that part, then, please?"

She rose from the armchair, hand still in his. "Of course."

With a conspiratorial smile, she ushered him upstairs.

Chapter Text

Every night before she went to sleep, Bunny Curious checked the space beneath her bed. She never knew what she expected to find there, and she never found anything; she also made certain that no one in her family ever witnessed this ritual, as she knew it would cause her nothing but trouble.

Though only seven years old, Bunny had never experienced what others might view as the "typical childhood" for a citizen of SimNation. For one thing, her parents never seemed to have much time for her; her father, Marshall, was a scientist with an incredibly busy work schedule. He would disappear at all hours of the day and night for uncertain and often quite long stretches of time, and he was prone to missing special occasions, up to and including birthdays. He always strived to make it up to his family, but he couldn't always managed it.

Bunny's mother, Cherish, was a similar case. Shortly after her Bunny's birth, she had taken a job as a teacher at the local elementary school to help support the family through the financial insecurities they were facing at the time; despite having no prior interest in teaching, Cherish had kept the job after even Marshall's career (and salary) had picked back up. Now, she seemed to adore teaching almost more than anything else in her life. But she could love nothing more than little Notzo.

Notzo was Bunny's younger brother, a seemingly fearless little boy of only two years old. Bunny loved him more than anything in the world, but sometimes she couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of him. Her mother certainly did seem to devote herself to him; Bunny assumed that of course Cherish had treated her exactly that way during her infancy and toddlerhood... but she couldn't actually recall ever getting so much attention.

That wasn't to say that she didn't think her parents loved her, or that she didn't love them. They did, and she did. It was just that sometimes she had the overwhelming sense of not fitting in-not only with the family, but anywhere.

Bunny didn't have any close friends outside her family. She had many acquaintances that she played with during recess -- Zo Wheloff and Emerald Greenwood, two kindergarten girls; Tay Bayless, a first-grade boy; Thomas Castor, a third-grader -- but no true friends. No one that she felt comfortable enough with to confide it or invite over to her house, and no one fond enough of her to seek her out. All of the children that her parents seemed to consider her friends were simply conveniences; people she played with because neither she nor they had anyone better to spend time with.

The only exception was a boy in her class. His name was Parker Prudence, and there was one word for him: cute.

Not that Parker knew she existed; though they spent nearly every school day together, Bunny didn't recall ever having held a genuine conversation with him. Every now and then, they had to interact on projects or in discussions, but it was in these situations that Bunny became uncharacteristically shy. She couldn't seem to make her voice work in these golden opportunities to get to know him. All she could seem to do was blush.

Bunny had yet to tell her parents about this first crush. Somehow she doubted that her father would want to hear about it; having normal conversation was difficult, considering how grumpy he could be so much of the time-it often seemed like he'd rather be alone than with his family, so Bunny tried not to bother him too much-and she doubted he'd have time enough to hear her confess her love. And that's not even considering the array of typical "overprotective father" reaction he could have. Reactions that Bunny didn't want to hear from him for quite a few years yet.

Talking to her mother, on the other hand, was a possibility. But Mom always seemed to have something else on her mind, too; when she wasn't dealing with Notzo, she was dealing with parent-teacher conferences or grading papers or looking into her students' difficulties. And no matter how much time she might have been willing to set aside for her daughter, Bunny never seemed to be able to get up the courage to demand the attention.

So Bunny kept it to herself. Parker didn't know. Marshall didn't know. Cherish didn't know. The only person she told was the one person she knew wouldn't rat on her or give her a hard time about it.

Notzo was the only person who knew about Bunny's secret. And he wasn't telling a soul.

After Bunny checked beneath her bed, she would get into her pajamas, and then-if she could manage it without getting caught-she would sneak down the hallway to Notzo's room before Cherish put him to bed there. With the room dark and empty, Bunny would tip-toe across the hardwood floor and crouch down between Notzo's crib and big-kid bed. He didn't yet sleep in the bed, so Bunny figured it wasn't technically his yet; before he had been born, it had been Bunny's first bed, and she'd gotten a new one (and a redecorated room!) shortly before her parents brought him home from the hospital. Down there on the floor of her baby brother's room, she would swivel her head back and forth carefully, checking and rechecking beneath both the bed and the crib.

There were never any monsters there, but the check always made her feel better. It let her sleep.

Bunny hadn't always done the check. Until Notzo had come home, Bunny had never entertained the notion of monsters of any kind. Afterwards, however... that's when the nightmares started.

In each one, Bunny would seem to wake up in the middle of the night. She would roll over in bed, still tired and eager to fall back asleep, and her eyes would set briefly upon her window.

Beyond the glass, there would be a face. A green, narrow face with large and slanted black eyes. Eyes that terrified her. Eyes that seemed to stare straight through her.

The first time she had seen the face, she had screamed at the top of her lungs, certain that this strange creature on the upstairs patio, just beyond the safety of her bedroom walls, was mere moments away from killing her.

When her parents had burst through the door, demanding to know what was wrong, Bunny had shrieked an explanation; but as she pointed to the window, she could see that the creature had disappeared practically within the span of a blink. There was nothing there as far as she could see, and when her father went outside with his rifle to check, he found nothing, either. No footprints in the dirt. No ladder. No other way to get onto the upstairs patio without going through the house and climbing out a window. No evidence whatsoever.

A long conversation had gone on after this incident, during which her parents had explained to her something that they called "sleep paralysis", which they claimed had caused to her dream a monster. Monsters weren't real, they said. It was just her mind playing tricks on her.

But Bunny wasn't so sure.

Chapter Text

Sofia Carlton didn't remember her mother.

When she had been a little girl-only eight years old-Sofia's mother had disappeared. The year that followed was the worst time of Sofia's life.

For a period of nearly twelve months, Sofia bounced from foster home to foster home. During those dark days, Sofia's only friend had been her caseworker, who had gotten her out of more than one frightening situation. But Sofia never understood then why they couldn't find a family to adopt her; surely a pretty little girl like herself, even an eight year old, could find someone willing to bring her into their family as well as their home?

Only during the eleventh month did Sofia finally learn what was going on; all that time, Miss Caraway-the social worker-had been searching for Sofia's father. Almost a year after the search began, a blood test had finally proved a match.

Sofia's father was Alexander Carlton, the grandson of Gerold Carlton, a ludicrously wealthy hotel mogul. Practically overnight, Sofia became an heiress.

At that point, her life change completely; she would never again be that little girl who spent her ninth birthday in the company of a brand-new family of strangers. Now she was somebody. Somebody with a real family.

Somebody with power.

Ten years after that, Sofia was out on her own, living it up in the world of the fabulously wealthy. Now, twenty-two years after finding her birth family, Sofia Carlton had her own mansion in the wealthy section of Twinbrook, an estate she had named Posy Palace. Life was good.

Still, she often had to wonder, Who exactly had her mother been? Why hadn't her father ever talked about her? Why did it take a year to discover and prove her paternity?

As Sofia had grown up, she had entertained various notions of these answers. Around the ages of thirteen and fourteen, she'd become convinced that her mother had been a prostitute; while she wasn't as convinced these days, she still wondered about it. At least if she had been a prostitute, she must have been a high-class callgirl to conceive a child with a member of the Carlton clan.

There was no use in asking her father about her mother's identity; she had asked before, about a decade ago, and when she had been rather furiously turned down, she went elsewhere to look for her answers. Newspapers hadn't helped; all anyone seemed to know-or be willing to print-about her mother was the woman's name. Stories about her adoption barely mentioned her mother, and she couldn't seem to find anything regarding her disappearance.

And that's why Sofia had built her manor in Twinbrook. This was the town from which Pixie Carlton had vanished.

If there were any answers to be found, Sofia would find them here.

So it was with great confidence that Sofia knocked on the door of 338 Rue de Sterling that May morning.

When an old woman answered the door, they both looked a bit surprised to see one another.

"May I help you?" the homeowner asked politely.

"Yeah," Sofia said, and she stepped forward with enough purpose that the woman moved aside to let her into the house, her expression growing increasingly bewildered. "Are you Anna-Liza Riddle?"

"Yes, dear, I am," the woman answered. "And who may I ask are you?"

"Sofia Carlton," she said in an incredulous voice, as if she couldn't imagine anyone not recognizing her.

"Haven't I seen you on the television?"

Sofia smiled brightly. "Yes! My show, So Best Friends, comes on Yay!"

"Yay?"

Her grin faltered. "Yay!," she repeated. "You know, the TV channel? It's got reality shows? I'm on one of them? I thought you said you watched TV."

"Not that kind, dear."

Sofia gave the woman a rather befuddle glance, then dropped down onto her sofa. "Okay. Well, I know who you are, at least. You're Anna-Liza Riddle, and you write all those crime books. You know, murder stuff? Where detectives track down killers and missing child and shit?"

Anna-Liza blinked at this, but made no effort to chastise the younger woman. "Yes, I've written mystery novels for many years."

"Great!" Sofia said, clapping her hands together. "'Cause I've got a case for you."

With a tight frown, Anna-Liza sat down on the couch beside Sofia. "Miss Carlton, I'm afraid we have some kind of misunderstanding. I am a fiction author, not a detective. My stories are all quite imaginary."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Anna-Liza seemed at a loss for what to say. "Well, um, imaginary means-"

"No!" Sofia exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "Not 'imaginary'! I know 'imaginary' means; I'm not a moron!"

"Then what does what mean, exactly?"

"Are you saying," Sofia said through a tightly-clenched jaw, "that you won't help me?"

"With all due respect, Miss Carlton, you haven't even told me what you need my help with. You have, however, mentioned a 'case' of some kind, and I do need to make it very clear to you that I am not the appropriate person to talk to if you have some kind of investigation in mind."

Apparently furious with the way this meeting had gone, Sofia sneered down at the author. "Then who should I talk to?" Anna-Liza considered this for a moment. "And don't say the police, because I know how useless they are!"

"Useless?" the older woman repeated. "I... I see. I suppose that if the police have, ah, failed you in some way, it would be wise to seek out a private investigator. Perhaps I can give you a reference?"

A dazzling smile broke out across Sofia's face. "Oh, Miss Riddle, would you, please? That'd be so helpful!"

Anna-Liza seemed incredibly taken-aback by this sudden change in demeanor, and it was quite apparent that she recognized it as a façade. But she nodded. "Of course, dear. I'd be glad to help." She rose from the couch and strode to the desk behind it. After withdrawing a slip of paper and pencil from within, she quickly jotted down a name and string of digits. "This is the business phoneline of a... friend of mine, Bobby Sargeant. His wife is a police officer, but he's a bit of an investigator himself. He may be able to help you."

Sofia snatched up the slip of paper the instant Anna-Liza offered it to her. "Thank you so much!" she exclaimed. Without another word, Sofia marched out of the house. From the window, Anna-Liza could see her withdrawing her phone as she walked toward her car.

As Anna-Liza sat down again at her writing desk, she smiled faintly to herself. Hopefully, Sofia would drive all the back home before she realized the Sargeants lived right next door. And boy, would that nasty couple be in for a surprise when she showed up at their doorstep.

Chapter Text

Bobby had known for a long time that this day would come. He just didn't know when.

As he in his own bed for the first time in almost two years, it occurred to him that he no longer recognized his own house. At some point during his absence, his wife, Scout, must have redecorated; he wondered what else had changed in her life since he'd left.

For the past twenty-four months, Robert 'Bobby' Sargeant had been serving on a special forces team in Simgrabah.

Except, no, that's not quite accurate, is it? As of a month or so ago, Bobby had been in Simgrabah. He'd spent the weeks since then in a top-secret military hospital outside of SimCity.

The last thing he could remember of his mission was the excruciating pain of his femur snapping beneath the rubble of a crumbling abandoned warehouse. He recalled hearing a crunching sound from up above him, then the groan of metal pushed to its limits followed by a shouted warning from one of his teammates. But he didn't have time to move out of the way before a slab of concrete collapse on top of his lower body. He was lucky he wasn't hurt worse than he had been-lucky he wasn't crushed to death, as a matter of fact-but it still pained him to think that he might never be able to get back to the physical near-perfection required for the difficult job he so greatly loved.

And he knew Scout had other plans for him altogether.

In the days after the accident, Bobby had been mostly confined to his bed, resting and healing his leg. Once he could get up and walk again, he had been kept in the hospital to watch for signs of infection; now, he was home and the cast was off. In an effort to get back to his normal life as quickly as possible, he had started a physical therapy program at the local gym, but he was still having some difficultly walking normally and hadn't yet even attempted to run.

He was terrified that his career might be over.

As these thoughts were running through his mind, Scout walked into the room with a bright smile on her face. "How are you, dear?" she asked. Scout, though obviously quite concerned about his injury, actually seemed to some degree happy about it. He understood the sentiment; they both had extremely busy (and dangerous) careers, and so they rarely got to spend much time together. Their marriage was suffering for that, and both of them knew; so with Bobby's leg keeping him home, they could work on their issues without Scout having to completely rearrange her life.

He almost wished that it was her sitting there instead of him, but that was ridiculous on two fronts: he couldn't wish his wife such ill will, even out of baseless envy, without feeling terribly guilty, and he also knew her injury would likely have an even worse affect on their relationship, given that he would likely be forced to return home to help her get through the ordeal.

No, it was best this way. It gave him time to reevaluate his life, at least.

"I'm fine," he answered.

She crawled into bed beside him. "That's good. Have you thought any more about what we talked about yesterday?"

"Yes."

"And...?" she pressed.

"I'm going to keep thinking."

Scout's expression hardened for a moment, then she leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek. "Alright, then. I'm going to get ready for bed. Do you need anything before I get in the bathroom?" He shook his head no, and with that, she bounced off the bed, grabbed her nightclothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.

After she was safely out of earshot, Bobby sighed and lifted himself off the bed. As he turned off the light and shifted beneath the covers of their bed, he kept his promise, letting his mind wander.

The day before, he and Scout had sat down to a seemingly ordinary dinner. Except, Scout was silent throughout the first half of the meal and would barely respond to Bobby's attempts at conversation; just when he had nearly grown frustrated enough to snap at her, she burst into speech.

"I've been thinking," she'd blurted out suddenly, startling him. "Do you really want to go back?"

He had stared at her incredulously. "Of course I want to go back!"

"Why?" she asked. "You always told me how interesting you found my work. Why don't you take advantage of this opportunity? Switch careers while you have a convenient excuse?"

"Switch careers," he repeated numbly. "You want me to... be a police officer?"

"Well, no," she said, sounding surprised. "I was thinking more along the lines of a private investigator. You know, like we talked about at Christmas?"

The Christmas in question had been three years before, the last they'd shared together before he'd left. He honestly didn't remember the conversation.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, he shook his head. Scout's eyes dropped to her plate. "I wish you'd consider it," she said softly. "It'd be nice if we both worked in the same country, at least."

And of course, there was that guilt again. He wasn't going to pretend that he didn't realize their marriage probably couldn't survive much more separation. His taking a local job might be the best thing for them... but somehow he didn't think it would be the best thing for him.

It was a rare occasion when Bobby Sargeant, a lifelong soldier used to taking and giving orders without a moment's hesitation, was a lot a loss for what to do.

He supposed he should have found it funny that he could make life-or-death decisions with far greater ease than he could pick out a career path.

Sims are funny that way, he supposed.

Chapter Text

On May 26, 4176, Bob-Andy Baker drowned in the Simislaus creek. His wife, Mary, was left to raise their two children alone. Lincoln, his eldest son, was nine years old at the time and utterly crushed by the loss of his father; his youngest son, Newton, was less than a year old and would never know him.

The residents of Twinbrook recognized it as a tragedy and paid the Baker family all the attention and respect they could want.

At least, they did at first. Over the ensuing years -- eighteen of them, to be exact -- Bob-Andy was all but forgotten, and his family slowly shifted from the victims of terrible circumstance to just another family in the neighborhood. Lincoln and Newton grew up, and Mary grew old. Life went on.

On May 26, 4194, the remnants of the Baker clan drove out to Ivy Hill Graveyard to see the Baker family plot. Enclosed in a iron-wrought fence were the graves of Bob-Andy Baker, his mother, and his father. Per his parents' request, Bob-Andy had been buried between them; they didn't much care for each other, but both adored their only son, and so he served as a sort of buffer between them.

Mary didn't mind. She still wasn't sure where she would be buried, when it all came down to it. Perhaps she would be buried in her own family's plot in her home town with her parents instead of her husband's. Perhaps some horrible twist of fate would take her sons to their graves before her death, and she would be buried with them in whatever town they called home in their adult lives.

But then... they were already adults, weren't they?

Lincoln hated to see his mother cry, but there was one day of the year he couldn't avoid it. On the anniversary of his father's death, Mary's tears were not to be avoided; instead, every year since he was nine (and he was twenty-seven now), he had stood silently at her side as she sobbed in front of his father's grave. The first few years had been terrible; seeing his father's grave used to bring a flood of tears from Lincoln, as well, and Newton, as young as he was, had become confused and fussy after seeing his mother and brother take him to an unfamiliar place for no reason other than to cry at a craved stone.

Then came the period in which Lincoln no longer wanted to shed those tears and Newton was only just learning how. And now... now it was just a burden.

Newton didn't cry anymore, either. At eighteen years old, he simply didn't see the point in going to visit the desiccated body of a man he'd never actually met. Sure, Bob-Andy had met him, but Newton had been an infant, completely unable to understand what was going on during the best of days, let alone what was about to happen to his family. And sure, Bob-Andy was his biological father, but what was that worth, in the end? What could he say to this rock and the corpse underneath it that could sufficiently express his feelings toward the man who should have raised him?

"I miss you," was only a half-truth, because really, he didn't even know what he was missing.

"I wish you were alive," wasn't much better, as he liked his life the way it was. A life in which Bob-Andy had lived was a completely unknown prospect.

In the end, all he could really say was, "I wish I could remember you."

After drying her tears, Mary Baker gave her two sons a weak smile. "Ready to go, guys?" she asked.

Newton glanced down at his watch. "I'm gonna be late for school."

"No, you're not," said Lincoln. Newton shot him a glare.

Turning her back on the gravestones, Mary threw an arm around each of her sons and led them through one of the black metal gates; it was a tight fit for the three of them to make, and so Lincoln fell behind for a moment.

Mary led them to the road. "It's going to be different around here when you two move away," she said quietly as they approached the car.

This, Newton felt, was the worst part of having a widowed mother. The guilt of knowing that she would be alone if both he and his brother went out into the world. And he hated the thought of Mary being alone.

But then again, Lincoln was nearing thirty and still hadn't made any effort to go. Perhaps it was something Newton didn't need to worry about after all.

The shared campus of the Starry Community High, Middle, and Elementary Schools -- SCH, SCM, and SCE, respectively -- were on the way home, so they didn't need to go out of their way to drop Newton off. It was his senior year, and he only had a few days left before graduation.

They pulled up to the schoolyard right as they heard the first warning bell ring out across campus, and Newton practically fled from the car. Mary yelled her good-bye to him through the window before pulling away.

"So..." Mary started when she was alone with her eldest son. "What's this big news you wanted to tell me?"

Lincoln fidgeted nervously. "I, uh... I quit."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "You quit your job at the lab?"

"Yeah."

"Then what're you gonna do?"

There was a long pause. "I kind of wanted to tell you in a better way that this," he said. "But, um, I guess that's out the window. So, uh, I'm gonna take over Dad's garden. If that's okay with you?"

From the look on Mary's face, she was stunned. "You want to take over the garden? Really? Huh."

"Is it okay?"

She shrugged. "Well, I don't know why you didn't ask me sooner; seems like it would've made more sense to ask before you quit your job, but... yeah, sure, why not? You've always been a great help in the garden, so that's fine, I guess."

"Well, I'm gonna try to improve it, you know. Plant more, take better care of it, you know. And sell the produce."

"If that's what you want to do, Linc."

They drove home in silence.

Chapter Text

Harwood Clay can still remember the good years. Not that his life isn't good now, but... well, things used to be different.

Though most of the residents of Twinbrook aren't old to remember, Harwood is not the new arrival that most think he is. No, Hardwood Clay grew up here. It's only now that he's finally come home.

Juan Darer is one of the only people who know or care about Harwood's past in Twinbrook, and that's only because he's so entangled in the story.

Though both are elderly now -- Harwood is 61 while Juan is 71 -- the story begins in their childhood; though a decade apart in age, there was a time in Twinbrooks past in which even an difference like that didn't matter. A kid was a kid, and each made friends where he or she could. So six-year-old Harwood and sixteen-year-old Juan ended up in the same social circle whether they wanted to be or not. And by they reached adulthood, they were very close friends.

In fact, they were close enough friends that they ended up sharing a wedding day. And they married a set of twins.

Macy and Lacy Montogmery had been little girls from the more well-off side of town. Not quite rich folks, their family still had considerably more money than most of the other families in the area; before the dam, of course, Twinbrook was mainly bayou and most citizens lived off the land.

Macy and Lacy's family was different. They owned one of fear stores in town, and they made a mint, at least compared to everyone else. The pair of them always seemed to have nice new clothes, pretty little dresses with bows and shiny shoes to match. It infuriated the other girls and fascinated the boys (after a certain age, at least).

To make them infinitely more intriguing, the twins were identical in both appearance and personality. It was only as they neared adulthood that they started developing distinct differences, Lacy becoming something of a perfectionist while Macy grey very perceptive.

And so it was Macy who first noticed the attention of Harwood and Juan.

At sixteen years old, Macy and Lacy were easily the belles of town. Though a bit eccentric -- and who in those days wasn't? -- they were kind girls, artistic and with an obvious love of family. Two years older than them, eighteen-year-old Juan was known in town as handy to have around, if a bit off-putting, while twenty-eight-year-old Harwood was considered quite the catch -- a charismatic, artistic, environmentally conscious sculptor with a knack for reading people.

It was no surprise to Juan that Macy and Lacy hit it off with Harwood right away. The part that did surprise him -- nay, the part that astounded him -- was that Lacy could possibly have any interest in him.

As it turned out, though, they had a lot in common. Most importantly, they shared a dream.

Unfortunately, it was a dream neither of them got to witness before their time ran out. In 4154, only a year after the two couples married, a fire burned Juan and Lacy's house to the ground. Only later was it discovered that Lacy and Macy had both been trapped inside the building.

For a long time after the deaths of the girls, Juan and Harwood were the main suspects. And, since the victims were so widely beloved, it didn't take long for the town to turn against both of them.

Harwood had coped with the stress by moving out of town as soon as the investigation cleared him.

Juan hadn't coped at all.

Nowadays, Harwood knew his friend had suffered terribly for the loss of his wife; it was only upon seeing Juan again that he realized how lucky he had been to overcome the tragedy. He could have ended up like Juan had, driven insane and hermitic by the ordeal.

He still found it difficult to be around Juan, for many reasons. Perhaps most shamefully, there had been a time when he himself had suspect Juan of murdering -- or least accidentally killing -- the girls. But after the police concluded that it was Lacy's own carelessness that had taken their lives, he had let his suspicions go. But it wasn't enough to keep him in Twinbrook, and so the emotional abandonment of his best friend became physical, as well.

Or perhaps it was worse that Harwood was immensely unsettled by his friend's mind these days. Juan had become very macabre, almost sinister, in the years since they knew each other. Once or twice, Harwood had even caught him talking to Lacy.

He hardly knew what to do with his friend. Juan was clearly out of touch with reality, but what right did Harwood have to swoop in and attempt to remodel his life during what would likely be his last few years on Earth?

With a sigh, Harwood rang the bell of Juan's house, which was actually the barn. Juan had moved in after Lacy's death and only slightly renovated the place. At least it was livable.

The doorbell appeared to be something Juan created himself, and so Harwood lingered uncertainly on the doorstep. He hadn't heard it chime from where he stood, and it crossed his mind that it might not work at all. How many years ago had Juan built it? And when was the last time anyone used it? Did it even matter that the bell didn't work anymore, if no one ever came to call?

Juan opened the door with a massive smile just as Harwood was reaching out to ring again. It took everything he could to not wince at his friend's appearance. He had never been an exceptionally handsome man, but now Juan didn't seem to care about himself at all. With a unkempt beard and thick unibrow, his face was half hair; the other half was a ruddy red color that Harwood didn't recall being his natural complexion. But most upsetting were the gaps in Juan's grin, teeth lost who knows how many years ago to who knows what issues.

With a slight sigh, Harwood embraced his friend and stepped inside.

What had he been thinking, leaving Juan alone to face the wrath of Twinbrook?

Chapter Text

Molly Coddle got into bed just a few minutes before midnight. It felt like every muscle in her body was thoroughly exhausted; she didn't get much done these days, thanks to her new job. She had never realized exactly how demanded the medical field could be.

She had stumbled into her house less than five minutes ago, dumping her purse unceremoniously onto the floor of her bedroom before staggering over to the four-poster and collapsing onto the mattress, clothes and shoes still in place. She gave her laptop a forlorn look -- she'd hardly had time to so much as turn it on lately -- and thought about all the books downstairs she should be reading. All the laundry she needed to wash. All the food rotting in the refrigerator now that she was eating take-out for almost every meal.

Just thinking about all things she didn't have the energy to do seemed to drain away the last remnants of her strength, and before she knew it, Molly had curled up on her side and drifted off to sleep.

When she opened her eyes, she founds her vision trained toward the sliding glass door of her bedroom; beyond it lay the patio with its marvelous view of the Simislaus Creek. Normally, of course, the nearest bank of the creek marked the boundary of her property. Tonight it did not.

Molly rolled out of bed gracefully, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. From where she stood, she could see down the staircase and into the living room below, which was now submerged under at least four feet of water.

Molly observed it for a long moment before deciding what to do. She knew how to swim, so she wasn't stranded yet, and it was with a sense of complete calm that she walked to the top of the stairs.

She was halfway down before she saw the fin.

As soon as she saw the shark circling in the water beneath her, she dashed back up the stairs. The water continued to rise swiftly as a sense of outrage battled her fear; a shark in her house? Who approved that?

It was with an angry scowl on her face that she marched over to the patio door and slid it open. It was still dry, for the most part, but the water continued to rise; it would reach her soon. And it would bring the sharks.

She crossed the wooden deck quickly and peered straight down over the railing to the lower patio; it was already completely submerged, now under perhaps six feet of water. But this was a good thing; now she wouldn't have to jump so far to reach the boat.

In bare feet and a swimsuit, Molly climbed up onto the wood boards of the railing and prepared to jump. Only when she was absolutely certain that she would land in the boat did she spring forward.

She hit the metal floor of the boat hard, and the boat shook wildly beneath her; she seized one of its sides in each of her hands and held on tightly, the sharks approaching curiously from beneath her.

When the boat stilled, Molly sat up with renewed confidence. The shark from her living room was beside her now, watching her with one of its pure-black, ever-staring eyes; another had come up on her other side to do the same.

This was it. The life or death moment.

With the boat drifting along with her inside it, the sharks bumped against it, using their torpedo bodies to slowly redirect its course. They were turning her toward the bayou, toward the swampy, predator-infested land before the open ocean in which she could drift forever. If they pushed her that far, she would never make it back.

Everything was silent around her as she approached the trees of the bayou -- or what was left of them. Only the tips of their branches could be seen above the ever-rising tide, and Molly longed to reach out and snap off one of these wooden limbs with which she could beat back the monstrous fish.

But every time she lifted her arm, she set it back down. There was nothing she could do. If she reached her arm over the side of the boat, the sharks would take their opportunity to attack. Getting out of the bayou wasn't worth being maimed, was it? It certainly wasn't worth risk of bleeding to death.

With a heavy heart, Molly watched sullenly as the treetops passed her by. She wasn't the only one the sharks had taken this way. There was the little Bayless boy, Jay or Kay or something to that affect, trying to balance atop a large branch. His sister was a few treetops away, waving out at the ocean and screaming something indecipherable.

As she passed the Bayless children, Molly set her sights on the ocean that would soon become her new home. Perhaps she could be a mermaid; she knew how to swim, after all, and surely they were the welcoming sort?

Molly blinked, startled, and she watched as one of them rose from the depths to greet her. But no, it wasn't a mermaid at all; it was that odd blonde woman -- Hollie something -- from the hospital. The daycare girl from the bayou.

She was swimming desperately out of the ocean, arms pulling her forward with each powerful stroke, and there was a look of sheer determination on her face.

Molly watched her swim past; Hollie hardly seemed to notice the sharks around the boat, nor did they seem to spot her. Molly's brow furrowed as she felt a sharp stab of jealous. Why couldn't the sharks go after Hollie instead? Why wouldn't they leave her alone?

In a single movement fueled by fury, Molly rose to her feet in the little metal boat and opened her mouth to shout at Hollie. But she got out no words before she felt one of the sharks hit the boat with all the force he or she could muster, and Molly felt herself start to fall.

Adrenaline flooding her body, Molly lay immobile in bed for a few moments after the shock of "falling" woke her.

Just a dream, she told herself. A nonsensical, not in the slightest bit metaphorical dream.

Chapter Text

If anyone ever asks about his family, the first Dudley Racket will say is that he wishes his niece and nephew nothing but the best. He wants them to live long, happy lives.

It's just that he'd prefer it those lives had as little to do with his parents and brothers as possible.

See, it's fairly common knowledge in Twinbrook that the Racket family is what people like to call "up to no good." They're cruel, vicious people, and Dudley will never be able to bring himself to pretend otherwise.

And considering his own upbringing at the hands of Max and Marigold Racket, he can only imagine how Shark and Lolly are faring with two of most negligent parents a person could ask for -- not to mention such a malicious set of grandparents.

But at the end of the day, the lives of Dudley's relatives might as well have been the lives of strangers; he hadn't seen his niece or nephew since they were both young children, and he hadn't seen either of his brothers in an even longer stretch of time. The Racket clan was perfectly content to pretend he didn't exist, and he was quite happy to reciprocate.

Most days, at least.

Tonight, he was back to the worrying stage. A few minutes before midnight, he had awoken from a nightmare about Lolly. She had grown from a toddler to a young woman before his eyes, and though he didn't a clear picture of her face -- he hadn't seen her in years, after all -- he knew it was her. In the dream, she had been trapped in the mansion, held tightly in her mother's embrace.

But Silver had been a blank-faced monstrosity clinging to her daughter like a ball and chain; and then a young man -- one whose identity Dudley could not discern -- had appeared from within the mansion and torn Lolly away from Silver. The mother had crumbled into dust on the floor, and the daughter had been led silently away into the depths of the mansion.

Dudley had run after her, but the hall had seemed to grow around him, keeping him in place even as Lolly disappeared further and further inside.

He woke shaken.

For an extremely brief moment, he had considered calling his niece's cell phone. But that was out of the question; though he did have the number (he'd gotten it from a private investigator friend-and don't tell anyone that!), he knew his call would be unwelcome. Barring some kind of prophetic dream scenario-and he didn't believe in any of that bunk-there was little chance that Lolly could be in any kind of immediate danger, and he was sure that her mind had long since been poisoned against him. If he called her now, he doubted much would come of it other than her parents changing her number.

All he could do was go back to sleep.

That was easier said than done. For a long while, he lay staring up at the ceiling. How had it come to this, he wondered. How did he end up with a life that meant he couldn't even call his family when he feared for them? If only he had fit in with them as a child... if only he hadn't developed-seemingly inexplicably-such a vastly different moral code... if only he hadn't been Lil'Dudley Do Goodie...

But then, he didn't want that. He would trade his real life for that hypothetical one. He wouldn't trade his morals for a set that would allow him to participate in the senseless, hateful crimes-or even the nasty, scheming ones-that his brothers and parents seemed to almost delight in. And he certainly wouldn't trade his life as a policeman for one as a gangster of all things.

He rolled over with a sigh. He was right to be afraid for both Lolly and Shark, he knew. By now, of course, both children were probably a lost cause; he was all but sure that both had been thoroughly indoctrinated years ago, groomed and prepared by their extended family into becoming whatever the clan needed. In Shark's case, he would likely be trained as an eventual candidate for leadership; Lolly would probably follow in her mother's footsteps to become some high-profile criminal's blindly loyal wife. The thought made his stomach churn.

If only he had broken them up when he'd had the chance all those years ago. If he had taken out the Racket clan when the opportunity-however small-had presented itself, perhaps his niece and nephew could have grown up with a chance at a normal life. Hell, he could have taken them in himself. Raised them with a sense of justice. Taught them about the importance of education and healthy relationships. Encouraged them to go to college and participate in the community. Shark could have played football. Lolly could have been a dancer.

Sure, he would likely have had to sacrifice his career, maybe even move out of Twinbrook... but it would have been worth it, wouldn't it? Wasn't saving the lives of his most vulnerable-most redeemable-family members worth a little self-sacrifice?

He would never really know.

Again, he rolled over in bed. It was too late for all that, he thought sadly as he set his head down on the pillow. It was far too late to save Shark and Lolly from their inevitable futures, and there was little sense in fantasizing about what it would have been like to raise them. He had missed his opportunity to help them, and now they were on the cusp of adulthood while he was quickly becoming an old man.

That was the last thought on his mind as he drifted off to sleep for the second time that night: there's no point for an old man like him to dream about raising children.

Chapter Text

When Sinbad Rotter collapsed onto the couch for a few hours of television before going to bed, he at first failed to notice his roommate, Goodwin, on the loveseat a few feet away. Only after the first commercial break did his gaze happen to glance that way, and he raised a brow at what he saw.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Goodwin Goode barely raised his eyes. He seemed to be staring off into space, acting damn near comatose. "If you're sick or something," Sinbad continued, "you damn well better get your ass off the couch and call an ambulance. I'm certainly not going to do it for you."

Sluggishly, Goodwin turned his head toward his roommate. "Sin, shut up," he said in a dull voice before lifting himself off the couch and stalking off toward the bedroom.

Sinbad watched him go with narrowed eyes. Something was seriously off about this. Since when did Mr. Goody Two-Shoes in there let anything get in his head?

Then his lips curved into a faint smile. There was only one thing he knew that could bring Goody down like that; Jenni dearest must have broken up with him. Now that was something to talk about.

Flicking off the television, Sinbad rose from the couch with a devious smirk and followed Goodwin to the latter's bedroom. He had slammed the door shut and presumably locked it, so Sinbad knocked and called out with false cheerfulness, "Wanna talk about it, buddy?"

"Go away!" came the muffled yell from within. Sinbad chuckled quietly at the sudden mental image of Goodwin laying there, forlorn with his face smashed into the pillows.

"Welcome to the real world," he muttered under his breath. "It's about time you have something to be upset about." Then, in a louder voice, he said, "C'mon, Good, I was only joking before. If you're sick or something, you need to open up the door. We'll get you the best doctor you can afford, yeah? Somebody who knows how to talk you off that ledge?" Something hit the other side of the door, and it was all Sinbad could do to suppress his snicker. "If you don't open up, I'll have to break the door down. Can't have you killing yourself in there, you know."

There was a loud groan, followed by heavy footsteps. Then the door flung open with a gush of cold air. "What do you want?" Goodwin asked, his voice angrier than Sinbad had ever heard it.

"Just trying to be a good roommate," Sinbad replied, shoving his way into the room. He collapsed on Goodwin's bed. "So, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Goodwin said in a stiff voice.

"Wow. Must be really bad if you're talking like that. So, c'mon, what is it? Jenni break up with you? You catch her in bed with someone else, maybe? I knew you would eventually. Always thought she looked the type to-"

"She's pregnant."

For a few brief seconds, Sinbad was honestly shocked. Then- "Who's is it?"

He watched as Goodwin clenched both fists and let out a deep breath before answering. "Mine."

"You're sure? Like I said-"

"I'm sure!" came the half-shouted response.

Sinbad put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright. If you say so. You broke up with her, then?"

Goodwin gave him a look like he was crazy. "Of course not. Why the hell would I break up with her? I want kids, remember?"

Sinbad snorted. "Yeah, you really look like it. You look absolutely fucking thrilled, bro. I've never seen anyone more excited and distinctly not shell-shocked than you are right this moment. Congratulations."

"Shut up, Sin."

"I take it you're naming the kid after me, right? Sinbad if it's a boy, and... Sinthia if it's a girl? Yeah, I kinda like that. Make sure you spell it fun, though. S-I-N, not C-Y-N." But Goodwin was just staring at him, expression once again more absent than angry. Sinbad grabbed one of the pillows and flung it at him; Goodwin caught it in his fingertips as it bounced of his chest, and he blinked at Sinbad like a frightened deer. "Dude, are you even in there? Didn't you hear that bit about you wanting kids? I mean, damn. You're worse off than I expected." He chuckled. "I mean, it's not that big a deal. If you don't want it, get an abortion."

Goodwin dropped down onto the other side of the bed, throwing an arm over his face to block out the light. Sinbad stood, having zero interest in laying there next to him.

"No," Goodwin said.

"No?"

"No."

"Right, well, that clears that up. Should I be looking for a new roommate, then?" Beneath his arm, Goodwin nodded silently. Sinbad sneered. "Great. When were you planning on telling me? And when can I expect you to get the hell out of my life?"

Goodwin shrugged his shoulders and rolled over on the mattress. "Turn off the light," he grumbled, "and go away. I'm going to sleep."

Sinbad rolled his eyes, but complied. He made sure to slam the door behind him, though, and when he returned to the television, he turned the volume up several notches higher than it had been.

By the Watcher, Goodwin was being a baby. How many times had he mentioned to Sinbad that he wanted kids? That he suspected Jenni was "the one" and hoped he would spend the rest of his life with her? So what was he so upset about? He'd gotten exactly what he wanted; his chances of Jenni saying yes to his proposal just went up from "most likely" to "sure thing", and he had the baby brat he'd always wanted on the way.

"Guy gets everything he wants," Sinbad muttered. "And somehow it's still all about him. His life is tough. Yeah. Whatever, bro. I don't need this shit."

With a creeping sense of fury, Sinbad pounded the buttons of the remote to turn off the television, and then he stomped back to his own bedroom, slamming one last door before he settled in for the night.

Chapter Text

"So..." Lang Gydd's voice droned through the night air. "When am I finally going to be invited back to your place?"

Dilly Pidgin let out a girlish giggle. "Presumptuous, aren't you?" He grinned back at her, but her smile slowly fell away. "You can't," she said finally.

"Why not?"

"Milly doesn't like having men over at the house. I think I told you that already, Lang."

There was a moment of silence before Lang replied, "I kind of thought you were joking, Dil. Like, flirting? In a weird way? I mean... who gives a shit if your mom doesn't like it?"

Dilly looked stricken. "It's her house," she said in a defensive voice. "I can't just go around breaking all her rules!"

Lang stared incredulously. "We just celebrated your fiftieth birthday."

Scowling, Dilly crossed her arms over her chest. "What's your point?"

"Aren't you a little old for... well, that kind of shit?"

"I'm not old."

Lang barked out a laugh. "Dil, I'm too old for that, and I'm not even half your age. You're being absolutely ridiculous. Are you honestly telling me that I can't come over to your house because your friggin' mommy doesn't want you seeing boys? Are you twelve?"

"I don't have to listen to this."

"I mean, damn. I thought you were just hanging around with the old bat because you wanted to inherit the house when she finally kicked it."

Dilly's heart pounded in her chest. "You don't get to talk about my mother like that, Lang."

Lang rolled his eyes. "Right, Dil. I'll see you later. Call me back when you hit thirteen, 'kay?" With a final scoff, he stalked off toward the sidewalk where he'd parked his car.

"Hey!" Dilly yelled after him as he started to pull away. "We had a date!" Ignoring the heads that were starting to turn in her direction, she stomped her foot. One of the spectators across the street burst into laughter. "And who the hell is going to drive me home?"

Fifteen minutes and one phone call later, Dilly Pidgin sat beside her mother, Milly, as the elder woman drove home. The Pidgin women -- Dilly, age fifty, and Milly, age sixty-nine -- lived in Puddlewick, the single nicest neighborhood in Twinbrook. As a matter of fact, the Pidgin mother-and-daughter duo lived at Pidgin Roost, the single nicest home in Twinbrook.

When Milly Pidgin had been youngest, she had been Millicent Monroe, the bright young heiress to the Monroe fortune. Of course, her life took a different turn shortly after her eighteenth birthday.

Milly never speaks of this, and Dilly learned long ago not to ask. But anyone who knew Millicent Monroe in her youth -- and those people were mostly dead by now -- remembered exactly how she came to be the forgetful, sluggish, slobbish, and most of all eccentric Milly Pidgin, mother to Dilly Pidgin, within the span of a year.

But that was a long time ago. Fifty years, in fact. Now the Monroes were gone, and Milly had what was left of their fortune. More importantly, Robert Pidgin had long since left town; he, too, was probably dead. That suited both women fine. Neither wished to see him again.

As Milly and Dilly drove home in silence, Dilly stared out the window, sullenly watching the town whizz past. She wanted to say something, to share her misery with her mother, but she knew the other woman wouldn't understand. She never did when it came to men.

When they were almost home, Milly broke the silence. "What were you doing in town this time of night?" she asked in a cold voice.

"Nothing," Dilly mumbled.

"Were you with a man?"

Dilly narrowed her eyes, but refused to look at her mother. "No. I was reading, and I lost track of time. I'm sorry."

"You can read at home," Milly scolded. "And you can't expect me to drive you around forever. I can't wait to see how you're going to manage after I'm gone."

"You're not going to see that. Obviously."

"Don't be too sure."

Dilly snorted. "I guess you have a point. If anyone was going to hang around after death, it'd be you."

Milly laughed warmly. "Darn right, it'd be me. You can't keep a Pidgin girl down."

The car pulled into the driveway, and Dilly practically dove out of it. She was halfway to the house before Milly even turned off the engine. "Totally not suspicious," she mumbled to herself as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. "She's not gonna suspect a thing."

After Milly came in, she followed Dilly up to her room. Dilly had shut and locked the door, but Milly knocked until she finally opened it.

"Mom, I am trying to get dressed for bed," she said in the most exhausted voice she could manage. "What on earth do you want?"

"What's going on with you tonight, Dil? Something's up, I can tell."

"Nothing's up."

"Oh, no," Milly insisted. "Something is up. You did meet a boy, didn't you?"

"Of course I didn't meet a boy," the younger woman grumbled. "I don't have any intentions of going to jail."

Milly rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't. I don't have the slightest idea what you mean. I haven't met any boys or any men or frickin' cats or dogs. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"You watch your tone, young lady, and tell me what's going on. Are you in some kind of trouble? Are you pregnant?"

"By the Watcher!" Dilly yelled. "Of course I'm not fucking pregnant! I got a job, if that's alright with you."

From the look on Milly's face, it clearly wasn't. "You got a what now?"

"I got a job at a newspaper."

"Why on earth would you do a thing like that?"

"Because I wanted to?"

"Why?"

"Ma, get out."

Milly narrowed her eyes. After a long, silent moment of glaring at her daughter, she turned to go. "Alright," she said. "I'll let you go to sleep. But in the morning, we talk about this. You got that?" Dilly refused to look up, and after a moment, Milly stalked out of the room, mumbling to herself.

Quietly, Dilly closed the door behind her and climbed into bed. She pulled the covers up over her head, and she started to cry.

Chapter Text

The day after his audition with DeAndre, Gala could hardly stand to be around Buddy. The guy was practically bouncing off the walls; he wouldn't stop talking about how amazing DeAndre was and how grateful he was to him and Gala and how much this opportunity was going to change his life and on and on and on. It was driving her mad.

Still, she had to be nice about it. She'd been a bit surprised by how impressed DeAndre had seemed with Buddy's music -- Gala personal hadn't thought Buddy was quite that talented, but apparently she must have been wrong -- and she was sure it had shown on her face, because it was the first thing Buddy had brought up after DeAndre left.

"Have I convinced you yet?" he had asked, a smug look on his face.

Gala had shrugged. "Sure. Now convince me you won't get a big head about it. You're not a rock star, Bud, so don't expect me to start treating you like one."

"Did I say I wanted you to treat me like a rock star?"

"You've got that look on your face."

She'd gone to bed feeling drained, sure she'd glimpsed a side of Buddy she'd never realized was there.

Upon waking, however, she realized she was being silly. Buddy was just proud of his accomplishments, and he had been hurt by such an obvious sign that she didn't believe in him as much as he'd hoped she did. And now he seemed about as far from hurt as a person could be, so she didn't think twice about his plans for the day when she left for work.

That turned out to be a bit of an oversight on her part. When she came home from the diner at around 9:30, she found him in the living room; much to her surprise, it was not a guitar that he was practicing with. He had erected an easel against the wall nearest to the door, and it looked as if he'd been busy painting there for hours by that point.

Baffled, she stood in the doorway for a few minutes before it even occured to her to come inside.

"What's up, G?" Buddy called casually to her when he spotted her standing there. "Check it out!"

"Buddy, what the hell is this?" she asked, dropping her purse on the kitchen counter before returning to stare at his painting.

"It's gonna be a landscape," he said. "Kind of green blob at the moment, though."

"That's not what I mean. Don't you have, you know, an instrument you should be practicing? Does 'you have a legit audition tomorrow' ring any bells?"

Buddy laughed heartily. "Oh, c'mon, G, don't freak out on me. I know what I'm doing; I've got that job in the bag."

"Just because DeAndre liked you doesn't mean the guys at the Wilsonoff will. Isn't that the whole thing about musicians? You have to keep praticing constantly? Now you're, what, finding a new hobby?"

He shrugged. "Not a new hobby. Resurrecting an old one."

"When did you ever paint?"

"Before I moved here. Somehow I got the feeling that you weren't a paint kind of girl, so I focused on the guitar until now. But I figured that since I'm making great headway on that one, I can start refocusing my attentions."

Gala stared. Several times, she opened her mouth to protest, then snapped it shut as she realized how futile it would be. Finally, she shrugged. "Look, dude, if you're gonna do that, either take it to the deck or put down some newspaper or something. If you ruin my floors, you're paying to replace them."

He flashed her a grin. "Your floors are safe with me, G."

She stalked off, rolling her eyes. Leave it to Buddy to lose his motivation at the first signs of success.

Pushing all her Buddy-related thoughts to the back of her mind, Gala bounded up the stairs; she only had a few minutes to change her clothes for her date with DeAndre, and she certainly couldn't go out looking like a kitchen worker. Not to the Red.

But as she reached the top fo the steps, her cell phone began to vibrate in her pocket, and she pulled it out with a growing sense of dread. DeAndre never called before picking her up; he always just showed up at her door, whether she was ready or not.

She'd lectured him about that in the past, but somehow she doubted he'd suddenly started listening to her tonight.

"Hello?" she asked, bringing the little metal cell to her ear.

"Hey, Gal," DeAndre's voiced floated, deep and comforting out of the phone. He didn't upset, at least. "How was your day?"

"Great, De," she replied, trying to keep all traces of her anxiety out of her voice. "You on your way over?"

"Yeah, about that. Something's kind of come up, babe. Is it alright if we reschedule?"

Her heart sank. "Sure," she said, voice full of false cheer.

"You're a lifesaver."

She forced out a small chuckle, then pressed, "What do you have to do tonight?"

He didn't seem to hesitate, at least. "Work stuff, you know. I never knew that dealing with lawyers was quite this much of a pain in the ass until I started putting out this farewell album. It's a nightmare like you wouldn't believe."

"Well, good luck. See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "And since I know how upset you are -- no matter how polite you want to be about it -- I'll make it up to you then, I promise. Bye, love."

"Bye." He hung up first, but his words had left a smile on her face. "I'll make it up to you," might not mean much coming from some people, but from DeAndre Wolfe... Well, Gala knew that he had both the funds and the creativity to truly overcompensate for any perceived slight. A single missed date with him wasn't something to mourn.