Adventures in Babysitting
Jan. 21st, 2004 06:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsTakes place early in Part 1 of the assault log.
Jamie adjusted the rear-view mirror clipped to his computer monitor and grinned at the little lump in the blankets it revealed. Baby-sitting, he had concluded, generally involved having more energy to burn than the kid did, and he had an excellent imagination and could take the evening in shifts. They’d started off with a rousing movie night (Star Wars and Shrek) then segued to more Warcraft (at which Jamie lost again) and a protracted game of flashlight-tag-with-snowballs out on the lawn, which had lasted until Jamie judged Miles to be slowing down and brought him inside for cocoa, dinner, and a piggy-back ride up to bed. The little boy had fallen asleep almost immediately, which felt like success, so he’d set up the mirror just in case, plugged in his headphones, and set off to save the galaxy.
Darth Malak was only expecting a Jedi. He was getting a babysitter. The jawless freak was toast.
Jamie thought for a moment, then decided never to use that particular description of the video game villain anywhere but the inside of his own head. Not, of course, that there was any chance of confusing "tall, bald, and nukes planets from orbit" with "skinny, British, and nukes people with sarcasm" but it didn’t hurt to avoid misunderstandings.
It was another hour or two, and a few dozen Sandpeople introduced to the differences between a pointy stick and a lightsaber, before a flicker in the mirror caught Jamie's eye. He got the headphones off just in time to hear a muffled *phut* paired to a sting at his neck, and as the world started spinning down into the dark, he could just make out two men in black with guns grabbing Miles and leaving the room, their silence broken by the boy's terrified shrieks.
Down in the basement, surrounded by bits and pieces of one of Dr. McCoy's old unused first-generation image inducers, Jamie took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, opened his eyes, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was probably a good thing that he now knew he could cut a dupe out to independent running in less than fifteen seconds while the dupe was being drugged. Said a lot for his control. Not that he'd ever wanted to find out like this.
He was halfway to the garage shelter when he froze. Kitty. Only, she could phase. He started off again. Then froze again. She couldn't phase if they went to her room after they'd grabbed Miles. He teetered in indecision for a few moments, then groaned softly and headed toward the shelter again. It wasn’t like he was capable of doing anything about guys with guns, and Ms. Frost had been really forbidding on the subject of Shelter Procedure, Proper Uses Of, And Don't Go Back For People Like An Idiot.
Jamie opened the garage door just as this last was unreeling in his head, and suddenly had a number of fast, disturbing thoughts.
One: The guys who had grabbed Miles had shown a complete lack of inclination to drool on themselves while counting their toes, which probably meant they could block telepathy somehow.
Two: If they could block telepathy, they could sure as hell block telephones, cellular or not.
Three: Alison was due back from the concert any minute, and had no way of knowing that a bunch of masked guys in black with guns who could block telepathy and phones and take kids hostage were having a sleepover.
Okay, said a rather Skippyish part of his mind, somebody ought to get out of here and warn her, because she has that whole thing where she's her own laser cannon and she’ll probably be a little miffed those guys grabbed Miles.
Who?
Well, said the Skippy-bit, it should probably be somebody sneaky. And really ideally it should be somebody they think they've already taken care of, because of, you know, the element of surprise.
Oh, thought Jamie. Yeah, because being a hero worked so well last time.
Well, replied the Skippy-bit, the point is, the worst they can do is kill you, and you should really go back to that website sometime and make the T-shirt, just so you can say you have it.
Well, yeah, that's true. I need more T-shirts.
Jamie eyed the assembled vehicles. The truck he usually drove was in no way fast enough to get away from any pursuit, if these guys had a car waiting to chase people. And he didn’t like the idea of getting shot at, so if there was something fast enough that he could just whiz through the gate as sort of an indistinct and hard-to-shoot blur, that would be really, really good.
He rounded the Rolls and blinked at Mr. Summers's motorcycle. Well, yeah, that was definitely fast enough. If he didn't fall off.
Come on, said Skippy, it'll be just like that time Ronny Dillon let you try his dirt bike back home.
Yeah, Jamie thought, except five times as fast and with no ditch full of nice soft cow manure to land in.
So don't fall off.
Jamie sprinted back to the spare-key cabinet, grabbed the key ring Mr. Summers had told him to leave alone, and sprinted back to the bike. He took a deep breath, jammed the helmet on his head, opened the garage door--nice expensive luxury and above all quiet garage door opener--kick-started the bike, and was already up to forty miles an hour when the open gate loomed in front of him in the dark and he hit the rectangular silver button that Mr. Summers had told him never, ever to even look at funny.
The bike growled and surged forward, nearly yanking the handlebars out of his hands, and he nearly banged his chin on the speedometer pulling himself back into position. He kept his eyes locked on the road after a quick glance at the speedometer told him he really didn’t need to know how fast he was going. There was a darkish rectangular blur off to his left for a second that might have been a van, but he was past it before he was sure, and nobody pulled out into the road after him, and once the mansion was out of sight behind him he flicked on the headlight and started praying the roads weren’t slick.
The roads, in fact, were not slick, which was an excellent thing considering that Jamie was already half a mile past the gas station before his brain caught up to the fact that Alison’s car was parked at one of the pumps. He managed not to pitch himself over the handlebars slamming on the brakes and turning the bike around, and also managed not to rear-end Alison’s car as he screeched to a halt and pulled off the helmet. She looked at him with a face growing a fast crop of fear from a puzzled seed.
". . . Jamie? What--"
"Guys. In black. At the school. Took Miles--" And Jamie was suddenly flat on his back on the ground, watching Alison and the bike receding into the middle distance and wondering if he’d have a bruise from where she'd straight-armed him. Didn't matter either way, he finally decided, and also, Wow, so that's what the turbo button thing looks like from this angle. He picked himself up and wandered into the gas station, where the grizzled attendant eyed him curiously.
"Family emergency," Jamie said, with a halfhearted wave in the direction of the road. "I'm supposed to take the car back."
"That'll be twenty for the gas, then. Everything all right?"
"Hope so." Jamie fished a twenty out of his wallet.
The clerk narrowed his eyes as he took it. "Know you from somewhere, don't I?"
"Uh. I dunno, do you?"
"Yeah, you were on that TV thing, up at the fancy mutant school."
"Oh. Yeah, that was me."
"Huh." The clerk popped open the cash register. "Don't suppose you could get Alison Blaire's autograph for me?"
"Er . . ." Oh, right, she'd been wearing the image inducer; he never noticed anymore. "Maybe." The gas station spun and faded, and Jamie shook his head roughly, propping himself up on the counter as it swam back into focus. The clerk was looking concerned.
"You all right, there?"
"Yeah, just . . . tired. Because it’s late." And I have a dupe back home who's drugged unconscious and wants to be let back into the brain rather vehemently, because he's been on his own for much longer than they've ever been before. "Mind if I rest in the car for a while?"
"Yeah, go ahead, just pull into one of the parking spaces so the pump's clear. Let me know if you need anything."
"Just a nap. Thanks a lot."
"Hey, no problem. Take care of yourself."
"Yeah."
The keys were fortunately still in the ignition, and Jamie managed to get the car into a parking space--not the neatest parking job in the history of driving, but the lot was empty, so who cared--and himself into the back seat before his dupe came roaring, or at least snoring, back into his head and he followed it down into oblivion.
Jamie adjusted the rear-view mirror clipped to his computer monitor and grinned at the little lump in the blankets it revealed. Baby-sitting, he had concluded, generally involved having more energy to burn than the kid did, and he had an excellent imagination and could take the evening in shifts. They’d started off with a rousing movie night (Star Wars and Shrek) then segued to more Warcraft (at which Jamie lost again) and a protracted game of flashlight-tag-with-snowballs out on the lawn, which had lasted until Jamie judged Miles to be slowing down and brought him inside for cocoa, dinner, and a piggy-back ride up to bed. The little boy had fallen asleep almost immediately, which felt like success, so he’d set up the mirror just in case, plugged in his headphones, and set off to save the galaxy.
Darth Malak was only expecting a Jedi. He was getting a babysitter. The jawless freak was toast.
Jamie thought for a moment, then decided never to use that particular description of the video game villain anywhere but the inside of his own head. Not, of course, that there was any chance of confusing "tall, bald, and nukes planets from orbit" with "skinny, British, and nukes people with sarcasm" but it didn’t hurt to avoid misunderstandings.
It was another hour or two, and a few dozen Sandpeople introduced to the differences between a pointy stick and a lightsaber, before a flicker in the mirror caught Jamie's eye. He got the headphones off just in time to hear a muffled *phut* paired to a sting at his neck, and as the world started spinning down into the dark, he could just make out two men in black with guns grabbing Miles and leaving the room, their silence broken by the boy's terrified shrieks.
Down in the basement, surrounded by bits and pieces of one of Dr. McCoy's old unused first-generation image inducers, Jamie took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, opened his eyes, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was probably a good thing that he now knew he could cut a dupe out to independent running in less than fifteen seconds while the dupe was being drugged. Said a lot for his control. Not that he'd ever wanted to find out like this.
He was halfway to the garage shelter when he froze. Kitty. Only, she could phase. He started off again. Then froze again. She couldn't phase if they went to her room after they'd grabbed Miles. He teetered in indecision for a few moments, then groaned softly and headed toward the shelter again. It wasn’t like he was capable of doing anything about guys with guns, and Ms. Frost had been really forbidding on the subject of Shelter Procedure, Proper Uses Of, And Don't Go Back For People Like An Idiot.
Jamie opened the garage door just as this last was unreeling in his head, and suddenly had a number of fast, disturbing thoughts.
One: The guys who had grabbed Miles had shown a complete lack of inclination to drool on themselves while counting their toes, which probably meant they could block telepathy somehow.
Two: If they could block telepathy, they could sure as hell block telephones, cellular or not.
Three: Alison was due back from the concert any minute, and had no way of knowing that a bunch of masked guys in black with guns who could block telepathy and phones and take kids hostage were having a sleepover.
Okay, said a rather Skippyish part of his mind, somebody ought to get out of here and warn her, because she has that whole thing where she's her own laser cannon and she’ll probably be a little miffed those guys grabbed Miles.
Who?
Well, said the Skippy-bit, it should probably be somebody sneaky. And really ideally it should be somebody they think they've already taken care of, because of, you know, the element of surprise.
Oh, thought Jamie. Yeah, because being a hero worked so well last time.
Well, replied the Skippy-bit, the point is, the worst they can do is kill you, and you should really go back to that website sometime and make the T-shirt, just so you can say you have it.
Well, yeah, that's true. I need more T-shirts.
Jamie eyed the assembled vehicles. The truck he usually drove was in no way fast enough to get away from any pursuit, if these guys had a car waiting to chase people. And he didn’t like the idea of getting shot at, so if there was something fast enough that he could just whiz through the gate as sort of an indistinct and hard-to-shoot blur, that would be really, really good.
He rounded the Rolls and blinked at Mr. Summers's motorcycle. Well, yeah, that was definitely fast enough. If he didn't fall off.
Come on, said Skippy, it'll be just like that time Ronny Dillon let you try his dirt bike back home.
Yeah, Jamie thought, except five times as fast and with no ditch full of nice soft cow manure to land in.
So don't fall off.
Jamie sprinted back to the spare-key cabinet, grabbed the key ring Mr. Summers had told him to leave alone, and sprinted back to the bike. He took a deep breath, jammed the helmet on his head, opened the garage door--nice expensive luxury and above all quiet garage door opener--kick-started the bike, and was already up to forty miles an hour when the open gate loomed in front of him in the dark and he hit the rectangular silver button that Mr. Summers had told him never, ever to even look at funny.
The bike growled and surged forward, nearly yanking the handlebars out of his hands, and he nearly banged his chin on the speedometer pulling himself back into position. He kept his eyes locked on the road after a quick glance at the speedometer told him he really didn’t need to know how fast he was going. There was a darkish rectangular blur off to his left for a second that might have been a van, but he was past it before he was sure, and nobody pulled out into the road after him, and once the mansion was out of sight behind him he flicked on the headlight and started praying the roads weren’t slick.
The roads, in fact, were not slick, which was an excellent thing considering that Jamie was already half a mile past the gas station before his brain caught up to the fact that Alison’s car was parked at one of the pumps. He managed not to pitch himself over the handlebars slamming on the brakes and turning the bike around, and also managed not to rear-end Alison’s car as he screeched to a halt and pulled off the helmet. She looked at him with a face growing a fast crop of fear from a puzzled seed.
". . . Jamie? What--"
"Guys. In black. At the school. Took Miles--" And Jamie was suddenly flat on his back on the ground, watching Alison and the bike receding into the middle distance and wondering if he’d have a bruise from where she'd straight-armed him. Didn't matter either way, he finally decided, and also, Wow, so that's what the turbo button thing looks like from this angle. He picked himself up and wandered into the gas station, where the grizzled attendant eyed him curiously.
"Family emergency," Jamie said, with a halfhearted wave in the direction of the road. "I'm supposed to take the car back."
"That'll be twenty for the gas, then. Everything all right?"
"Hope so." Jamie fished a twenty out of his wallet.
The clerk narrowed his eyes as he took it. "Know you from somewhere, don't I?"
"Uh. I dunno, do you?"
"Yeah, you were on that TV thing, up at the fancy mutant school."
"Oh. Yeah, that was me."
"Huh." The clerk popped open the cash register. "Don't suppose you could get Alison Blaire's autograph for me?"
"Er . . ." Oh, right, she'd been wearing the image inducer; he never noticed anymore. "Maybe." The gas station spun and faded, and Jamie shook his head roughly, propping himself up on the counter as it swam back into focus. The clerk was looking concerned.
"You all right, there?"
"Yeah, just . . . tired. Because it’s late." And I have a dupe back home who's drugged unconscious and wants to be let back into the brain rather vehemently, because he's been on his own for much longer than they've ever been before. "Mind if I rest in the car for a while?"
"Yeah, go ahead, just pull into one of the parking spaces so the pump's clear. Let me know if you need anything."
"Just a nap. Thanks a lot."
"Hey, no problem. Take care of yourself."
"Yeah."
The keys were fortunately still in the ignition, and Jamie managed to get the car into a parking space--not the neatest parking job in the history of driving, but the lot was empty, so who cared--and himself into the back seat before his dupe came roaring, or at least snoring, back into his head and he followed it down into oblivion.
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no subject
Date: 2004-01-22 03:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-01-22 04:14 am (UTC)waitaminute.
Date: 2004-01-22 04:30 am (UTC)Re: waitaminute.
Date: 2004-01-22 04:53 am (UTC)Re: waitaminute.
Date: 2004-01-22 04:57 am (UTC)Re: waitaminute.
Date: 2004-01-22 05:21 am (UTC)So when's my turn?
Date: 2004-01-22 05:06 am (UTC)Once I learn how to drive that is.
Hmm, maybe there's a spell somewhere I could try...
no subject
Date: 2004-01-22 06:17 am (UTC)Which the clever bastards did. (Log posted...)
Shelter Procedure, Proper Uses Of, And Don't Go Back For People Like An Idiot.
A very, very good lesson. Can take care of myself, and the little blonde one, and the little green one. 'M good like that.