Here's my second Underdog story to be written. The first, if you didn't read it, is "Tale of an Underdog" and takes place when Jonathan is 10. This one takes place when Jonathan is 27, so there's a lot of gaps that aren't going to be filled except with a few mentions in this story. Don't worry about it. WARNING : This story contains extreme amounts of adult language and some violence. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Shadows of the Future Chapter 1 It is true that most of Canada's population lives within six hours of the Southern border, and the barreness of the area only supported this theory. Twenty miles the two military jeeps had to drive from the nearest town -- if you could call it that -- deep into the wilderness before their dirt road path led them to the destination. The scene was rather idealic -- a quiet, well-kept cabin, isolated by pine trees. Nearby a minor tributary to a larger lake passed by, probably conviently the hermit's supply of fresh water if something was wrong with his pipes -- after all, who knew when a repair man could make his way up there? There was even a waterwheel, maybe to provide electricity if the lines went down. Also beside the hut were a series of stumps and newly-felled trees, indicating someone had recently been doing some chopping rather recently. In the distance a bird chirped; nothing else. The man beside the driver in the first jeep stepped out, his boot crinkling on fresh pine needles. 30-ish with neat black hair and wearing an American military uniform bearing the rank of a leiutenant, he removed his sunglasses and glanced around. "Think he's here?" The driver, only a private, shrugged as he got out. "Should be, sir. Place certainly looks like someone been living in it." The Lt. nodded, and made his way up the front steps. There was no doorbell, but his fists created enough of a sound against the hard wood door to warrant anyone's attention. No response. The Lt. shouted, "Jonathan Weissman?" No response. "This is Lieutenant Patrick Johnson of the United States -- " The door swung open six inches or so, "I thought I told you guys to fuck off!" Johnson staggered back from the surprise of the voice's bluntness, but quickly regained his composture, "Mr. Weissman, please -- " The voice's owner allowed the door to slam back as he -- a dawg of beagle breeding -- stepped further out, now into the sunlight, "I'm safe from you American assholes here -- didn't you realize that?" The private, sensing the dawg's enraged and defensive mannerm reached for his sidearm, but Johnson held his hand up, "No private -- he's right. Canadian law protects him. But we're not here to arrest him." The dawg snorted, "That's a first" Johnson stepped back again, this time only to get a better look at his childhood hero. Jonathan Weissman -- Underdog -- was not the same character who seemed to glow with goodness under the camera flash in his school's more recent history books. The dawg was now twenty-seven. He was slightly taller, his tan-gold fur was messy, and he had allowed the hair in the back of his head to grow out mainly uncombed. His thick glasses were the only item he obviously bothered to keep clean. His clothes consisted of tattered jeans and a thermal shirt, his feet protected by white sneakers almost turned brown that looked as if his toes were about to pop out of the worn material. "So what the hell do you want?" Jonathan demanded, fury apparent on his face. Johnson, still studying him, also began to notice the dark lines and circles across his face, and the not-so-apparent sickly strain in his eyes. Johnson blinked, "Oh -- Mr. Weissman, we're sorry to bother you, but there's a situation right now in Washington that -- " " -- that you want my help on?" Jonathan laughed, but it was a sick-sounding sort of laughter, with an edge of cynicism and sarcasim. "Like *shit*." He spun around and stormed away, leaving the front door open. Johnson took it as the most invitation he was likely to get, and followed him in. "Mr. Weissman, please -- just here me out," Johnson removed his hat, watching the dawg begin shifting around the bookcase for something, uninterested. "There's a fleet of alien fighters hovering above the earth right now, demanding we turn over a crystal they left here a number of years ago." He breathed in, "The problem is the crystal was stolen from a musuem in Megakat City in 1985, and it's been missing ever since." Jonathan responded nonchalantly, "So?" "As you probably haven't heard, Mr. Weissman, our assiduous government scientists have made great leaps in our technology in the past few years -- especially regarding time travel. We think we have a machine working, but -- " " -- but?" he was growing insipid. "Get to the part about me." " -- the portal the machine creates has a great strain on the normal body. It would take someone with the strength -- " " -- of ten men -- and all that shit. Someone like Underdog. I can see what you're getting at," Jonathan didn't look up, but it was easy to hear the anger in his voice. "So fuck off, okay? I'm not into that kind of stuff anymore." He turned away, not having gound what he was looking for on the shelves. "Mr. Weissman -- " "I said FUCK OFF!" with shocking malic, Jonathan stomped into the kitchen. "Jonathan." He stopped in his tracks, apparently recognizing the new voice. At the doorway stood a balding, white-haired man in a general's uniform. The dawg recovered from his surprise, his frown deepening, and he continued his way into the kitchen. "Jonathan," the general gestured for Johnson to leave them alone, and with a specious grin on his fac he followed the hermit into his kitchen, "How are you, Jonathan?" The dawg grunted, and without glancing in the general's direction began shifting through his sheves over the counter. "How's Canada?" the general played facetiously with the hat in his hands, looking around and keeping the cheer in his voice, "They treatin' ya well up here?" Nonchalantly he snatched up one of th perscription bottles on the counter. "Aldine? This is heavy stuff, Jonathan. You must be pretty sick." The dawg, showing strain and fustration on his face, put both his paws on the tiled counter and looked up at the general with his bloodshot eyes, "That's none of your business anymore, General Tyler. Now if you excuse me --," he grabbed the pill bottle, opening the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of water. He popped a soporific pill in his mouth, then raised the bottle of water to his lips. "You still hearing voices?" Jonthan lowered the bottle and closed his eyes, hoping to mitigate the turmoil in his head. "And you think some clinic doctor's perscription is going to help you? I already spoke with Dr. Westin, Jonathan. You're sick again, and you need more professional help." "I'm . . . handling it myself," Jonathan said coldly. "*Okay*?" "No, Jonathan -- it's not okay. Sitting alone in some cabin in the middle of G-dforsaken nowhere won't make the voices -- or whatever you're hearing -- go away," he spoke with a dogged tone. Jonathan moaned, leaning with his forehead against the refrigerator. His vision was already becoming distorted, the sickness in him stirred up by the invaders of his solitude. He stood quietly, waiting for things to settle down again. They dind't, and he spoke to the patient general in a low, weak voice, with an extreme paucity of livliness in it. "You can treat me?" "We can, Jonathan. We can try," he replied intrepidly. "I get a full pardon?" He nodded, "No going back to the asylum. Scout's honor. You'll be completely exculpated." "And you'll pay the way?" Again he nodded, "Its been sanctioned already. The government will fully support you for all of your needs." Jonathan turned away, closing his eyes again and balling his fists in frustration. "I'll do it." Chapter 2 The flight to Washington had been a long one. The admiral had bgiven orders to sedate Jonathan, to keep him under control until they got him to their medical facilities, but Tyler refused. He would risk nothing; he could not afford to disturb the unbalanced dawg's feelings now. He was still too important. "What's the flight's ETA?" Admiral Hudson demanded, obviously nervous as he headed down the Pentagon's hallway. "Twenty minutes, sir," the subordinate military man beside him handed him a manila envelope. "What the hell's this?" Hudson opened up the folder to reveal the picture of a beagle-like female dawg, along with the birth certificate and other registrative items. "What does Purebread have to do with this? She's a diplomat, and she wants nothing to do with Weissman." "I don't know, sir -- but Doctor MacPherson insisted on her presence on this matter. He's the one in charge of -- " " -- taking care of Weissman. I know. So where is he? We need to have a discussion about this -- " "I thought you would ask, Admiral," Doctor MacPherson, a heavyset man in his fifties, stepped out into their path. "Yeah, this is interesting," the admiral grumbled. "I understand her signifigance to his past, but what does Purebread have to do with the current mission?" MacPherson smiled, and gestured them into his office, "Allow me to explain. I have been assigned to this mission with the responsibility of keeping Jonathan stable and on schedule throughout it. And this is no minor task -- you should know that better than anyone, Admiral." "And?" "Well . . . sending him back in time alone is a tremendous risk. We could pump him full of drugs, but we have no garantee that they would last the full time he will spend there, or that he'll take more. If he doesn't, his mind is likely to wander and I doubt he'll keep to the assignment. Our only garantee is to send someone with him." "But what about the time machine? I thought it could only take someone with the resistance -- " "There is a possibility that he would absorb the shock -- making conditions survivable for a second person," the punctilious MacPherson continued. "The problem is he's still unstable, and anything could set him off -- easily putting the other person's life in danger. You know how he is." The admiral nodded, "So how does Purebread play into this?" "There's something you have to understand about Jonathan and Polly Purebread's relationship. On a conscious level, they may act in a threatening manners, but unconsciously, their minds are very different," he explained. "Jonathan devoted six year of his life -- six *very* impressionable years -- as her protector and guardian. From the results of his last phsyche exam, he obviously still has that mentality -- even if it hasn't been brought to a conscious level recently. He *isn't capable* -- mentally or physically -- of hurting her." "And what did she say about this little theory of yours?" "When I spoke with her? I don't think she's competely persuaded -- yet -- but she bought it enough to come down here and participate." The admiral was still frowning when the door opened, revealing the dilatory Tyler and a sick-looking Jonathan Weissman. "Mr. Weisman," Hudson did not offer his hand, making no attempt to be any more than civil than he had to be cause of their predicament. "Glad you've agreed to help us with this mission." He stepped aside for MacPherson to come through, "This is Dr. MacPherson . . . he'll be taking care of you." MacPherson shook paws, he in a warm manner and Jonathan still skeptically cautious. "Mr. Weissman," the admiral continued, "we'd like to get this underway, so if you'll just sit through a quick examination -- " "Why is Polly involved in this?!" Hudson blinked, "How --," He suddenly realized the folder was still open in his arms, and Jonathan had seen the picture. "Oh -- we need her." "*You* need her," MacPherson put in. "Like shit!" the dawg's voice rose. "I didn't know I was going to have to deal with *her* when I signed on this fucking -- " "Jonthan, please -- it's necessary," MacPherson said in a soft tone. "Do you still want to be helped?" The dawg hesitated, closing his eyes, "Yes." "Then let us do it. But we can only help you if you help us." Jonthan sighed, "This better be worth it." The labarotory was alive with technicians doing last minute checks and military soldiers giving orders. The machine, a half-circle lamp-like item with tubes and wires lining it, hung above a highly restricted area with a radius of two or three feet. Polly was prepped and under the machine when Jonathan was brought in. He hadn't changed much since she had last seen him, even though *she* had. Her hair was red now, and less curly. She had the composture of a thirty or fourty-year-old, and a slightly less "flighty" air about her. Jonathan, still lacking in ebullience, took his position next to her, "Why does it seem like we're always running into each other?" He spoke with no pejoratives for a change. "Life's like that. How was Canada?" He shrugged, "Canadian. How's the diplomat deal?" "Been better." "Jesus Christ, I need a smoke," he reached into the pockets of his jeans. "You got a light?" "I don't think we can really smoke under this thing," Polly glanced up at the delicate wiring. "Well, I still need the smoke," he turned to one of the technicians working close to them. "When are we firing this thing up?" "In a minute, Mr. Weissman," the technician handed them both small, black boxes that resembled the radio controls to a small toy airplane. "Here - you'll need these to get bck. Their use should be clear." He cleared the way as Hudson and Tyler stepped through, followed closely by MacPherson. "Give him these according to the schedule," the doctor handed Polly pill bottles and a folder. "Don't let him skip any." "Right." MacPherson stepped back. "Good luck," Tyler smiled and saluted with the grim-faced Hudson. Jonathan recalcitrantly saluted back, but it looked more like he was fixing his hair. Polly scowled at him, and he did similar back. The machine above them began to whir, and they noticed most of the technicians around were wearing eyegear now. A tremendous light poured forth, engulfing them. Even the general turned away as it became too deleterious to look into. When the light receeded, Jonathan and Polly were gone. Chapter 3 The first sensation Jonathan felt was that of being lifted, and then dropped again. The second sensation, unfortunately, involved his back, and the fact that he was lying on it when he came to enough of his senses to react. "Hey buddy -- you okay?" He opened his eyes to a messily-haired kat dressed in soiled, patched clothing. Jonathan moaned and stood up uneasily. "Yeah, umm -- " "Is your girlfriend okay?" He glanced around, taking in his surroundings of the backstreet alley. Polly had landed somewhat more comfortably on a pile of garbage bags, but was still unconscious. "She'll be fine," he pushed the bum aside, kneeling beside Polly as she awoke. Her vision cleared as she looked up into his eyes, noticing the hint of passionate concern within them; she put it aside, "Where are we?" "1985, hopefully," he reluctantly helped her up. "C'mon, let's find a newspaper or something." Polly followed him out of the alley but as she looked across the street, she stopped him with her paw, "We don't need a newspaper. I think that machine worked." Jonathan turned, noticing now the large crowd massed on the marble steps of the building -- the Megakat Museum of History, to be precise -- across the street. The flash of camera flashbulbs lit up the bandstand at the museum's front entrance. Among the most important people in the demonstration were Professor Sinian -- the curator -- Mayor Manx, and two familiar-looking dawgs. "Jesus," Jonathan shifted through his pockets until he found a cigarette. Polly lit it for him before lighting her own, and he took a deep puff. "I was so young -- why didn't *you* ever notice I looked like a fucking twelve-year-old?" "I wasn't looking for it," she replied. "I was so *thin* then. Looked a lot younger, too." "You *were* a lot younger," he pointed out, then stepped out onto the street. "C'mon." "Where're you going?" "Closer, of course. Gotta hear the speech, don't we?" Professor Sinian, a British kat, had already begun to speak when they reached earshot, "and with great pleasure I accept this generous donation from Maximillian Manx of this precious crystal that has been in the Manx family for generations. It will be on exhibit from -- " Jonthan intentionally tuned the rest of the speech out, whispering in Polly's ear, "So we gotta hoist this thing tonight?" "We have to get it before anyone else does," Polly answered. "We better hide out until then, or someone might recognize us." The two of them snuck out of the press conference, which was wrapping up anyway. Following General Hudson's instructions, they checked into a speciously ostentatious hotel, embellished with large murals of opulent-looking Victorian-type paintings. Polly checked in while Jonathan sat semi-patiently in one of the lobby's chair, hoping the emollient cushions would mollify the growing disturbances in the back of head. Being reintroduced to society, Polly, and now his past was enough of a strain on his mentally weakened state, and he now felt as if some of the medication Dr. MacPherson had put him on was wearing off, or that the dosage wasn't strong enough. "You can go up," Polly appeared in front of him, dropping a key in his paw. "I have to drop some things in the safe deposit box." So he rode the elevator up, and spent much of the time in the room staring at the parsimonious picture of two Victorian ladies on the wall until Polly entered. "There's something I need to do," she explained as she began sorting his various pills in small medicine cups. "I thought we weren't supposed to contact anyone," he lit up another cigarette, still not looking at her. "I know -- but there's someone I have to see. A relative. She'll die soon anyway." He didn't bother to nod. She continued, "Take your four o'clocl pills if I'm not back by then." He closed his eyes, praying for her to leave. He was having problems being around her. Their experience of seeing their younger selves at the museum had surfaced memories he didn't want to be reminded of -- good and bad. Jonathan stood, thinking, The TV, however, revealed only unpalatable programs and news reports casted by the younger Polly Purebread. Switching it off, his mind wandered until it found its interest -- the safe deposit box. What did Polly have that she would need to drop off in such a transitory lodging? The second thought was it was probably not something she or Hudson wanted him to see. And so his curiousity was sparked. He only had to present his room key in the safe area to get acess. Inside the box were several hundred dollars and a manila envelope. Pocketing the money, he closed the box and carried the manila envelope back up to the room, reading its contents on the way. It was the instructions for his medication. With growing interest he sat in front of the pills spread out so neatly in front of him. "4:00 -- aldine. Sedative. Lasts six hours." Flipping through, he discovered that all of the times on the schedule he wasn't need for -- basically, most of the hours between then and their time leap home, aside from the robbery -- were when he was listed to take one of various sedatives; sleeping drugs, specifically, meant to have a soporific effect. It meant that if he adhered to MacPherson's schedule, he would be in the listless stupor or unconscious during most of the mission. He found it immediately prepugnant that Hudson would try something like this again. Jonathan knew he needed medication for his schizophrenia, but it was no excuse for them to keep him in a fetal and controllable state like the schedule dictated. Growing more and more malevolent, he, in an impromptu manner, suddenly tore apart the manila folder and its contents. Induced by his sickness -- he was overdue for his next pill -- his manner sunk to an incorrigibly feral one as he began systematically flushing the pills set out down the hotel toilet. Chapter 4 Polly returned from the visit with her dying mother to find the mess Jonathan had left, and otherwise little else. Paper was strewn in torn segments across the floor, empty pill bottles were everywhere, and he was gone. "*Fuck*," Polly allowed the profanity to slip from her lips, picking up a shred of paper lying at her feet and recognizing MacPherson's instructions. So that sly dawg had gotten into the safe-deposit box! This was going to screw things up. Angrily she stormed down the hallway, realizing halfway to the elevator that she had no idea where his fully-crazed mind would lead him. Maybe to someone or someplace he couldn't see anymore, as she had seen her mother? Polly entered the elevator pondering. She honestly didn't know where Jonathan Weissman used to hang out, or who he knew. But she knew someone who did -- Shoe Shine Boy, Jonathan's younger counterpart. Polly raced furiously into the lobby and out the front door, hailing a cab. Hudson had warned them against making contact with anyone in the past -- *especially* themselves -- but she had a situation on her paws that he might not have forseen. Jonathan was likely to go to Shoe Shine, for whatever reason. This was going to have to be a risk she had to take. it came to her that she didn't know. But she searched her memory, and recalled him often hanging around the TV studio during and after her broadcasts, partially because the executives liked shiny shoes, and probably more because he greatly admired her. Nearing the TV studio, she ordered the driver to stop, paid him, and got out. Her suspicions had been on mark -- Shoe Shine was there. The juvenile canine was seated on his tiny stool, leaning up against the electronic shop's glass window. The TVs on the window were broadcasting the day's events, and Shoe Shine had fallen asleep with one of his floppy ears pressed up against the glass. Taking only a moment to contemplate how adorable he looked -- still humble and innocent -- she began to shake him awake. "Wha -- ?" he immediately opened his eyes, looking up at her. "DO I know -- " He adjusted his glasses, askew on his face from his slumber, and recognized her. "*Sweet Polly*? But how could you -- " he pointed to the TV in the window. "Quiet," she put a finger over his lips, pulling him aside fro the bustling sidewalk. "Yes, it's me - but I'm not the same Polly you know. I'm from the future." "The future?" "Yes. I -- we, actually -- cam eback to get that crystal donated to the museum today. It's the key to saving the planet." "We?" he looked perplexed. Polly was frustrated, "Yes. You -- Underdog -- and me," she suddenly realized he didn't know that she knew his identity. "I know everything, Jonathan. I've known for years now." "You . . . you --," he faltered in his stance, not feeling wonderfully comfortable, then pointed to the TV screens with the younger Polly on them, "Does she know?" "No -- and she won't find out for a while, so don't worry about it," she grabbed his paw. "So now I need your help." "Why? Why would you need two Underdogs to steal a crystal?" She frowned, "It's not the crystal I'm after -- yet -- it's Jonathan, your older self." "How much older?" "He's twenty-seven." "Oh," he squirmed. "What's wrong?" "He's not . . . stable. He got upset over something and ran off and didn't take his pill -- " "The Underdog pill?" "No, no -- for his schizo --," she stopped. "For his illness. We have to find him -- he's not himself and he might do something. Jonathan, please -- we have to find him." Shoe Shine hesitated, letting it sink in, "You think he would go where I would go?" "I'm out of any other ideas. Would he go to your apartment --," she stopped, remembering. "You don't have one, do you?" Shoe Shine shook his head. "At least that rules that out. Where else?" "I can't think of anywhere he would really want to remember. There's somewhere I like to think, though," he pointed. "The Cathedral down the road. It gets really quiet at night." Polly looked up at the gothic archetexture, "Nice building." "Yeah," Shoe Shine smiled. "The view's great from the top." "Top? You mean the roof?" Polly arched her neck up, spying the belltower's merloned roof. "Think he's up there?" "I can't tell," he made a motion towards the nearest phone booth. "I'd better change." She waited patiently for Shoe Shine Boy to disappear around a corner, and for Underdog to appear in his place. Seeing the young superhero brought memories to the surface of her consciousness she found hard to deal with -- especially with the current state she knew Jonathan Weissman to be in. How had he come so far? She swallowed her feelings as best she could as he lifted her into his arms and proceeded to fly up the side of the building. They landed over the ledge, and a voice interrupted the peaceful night silence. "Look who's here," the missing dawg chuckled cynically. Jonathan was prompt up against the building's ledge, smoking a cigarette. As she was put down, Polly wondered who his question was referring to. Underdog was mesmerized. He cautiously approached his senior counterpart, unbelieving. Jonathan, wearing a wry grin, looked pale and strained, certainly not in the sanist of moods. Underdog was shocked, almost fightened, by the disheveled form he saw before him. "What's wrong?" Jonathan took another puff, breathing out white smoke. "Never seen a schiziphrenic before?" Polly, seeing Underdog's unease and Jonathan's lack of concern for it, broke in, "Jonathan, we need to get the crystal and go home." "Why do you need me? You got Wonderdog over here," he pointed to the bewildered dawg. "You go with him and get the crystal yourself. I'll be waiting." Underdog stared, "Don't you have any kind of concern . . .f or the world? In the future, at least?" "Do you really want the answer to that question?" Jonathan didn't laugh. "I'm just doing this because -- " he stopped. "Why *am* I doing this?" "To be helped," Polly offered. "Jonathan, you need those pills -- " "Anti-hallicogens I need," he spat. "Sedatives I don't. I didn't come back here to be drugged. If that's what the government is going to give me, then I'm beter off finding my own medication." He hopped onto the ledge. "I'll get your fucking crystal, and then you leave me alone, okay?" Polly gasped at the sudden harshness in his tone, and before she or Underdog could react he took off, bound for the museum. "Christ, Underdog -- we've got to follow him," she tugged on his uniform's sleeve, but he was transfixed by the image of his future self angrily flying off into the night. Underdog and Polly arrived at the museum, not suprised to find one fo the glass windows of the skylight already carefully removed. He dropped her off on the museum floor. "Wait here," he instructed. "You might trip an alarm. I know where the crystal is." He immediatey set about his task, trying to keep from letting his emotions cloud his ability to assess and handle the situation. He was, afterall, Underdog. As he neared the exhibhit, he heard the sound of Jonathan's voice -- one signifigantly lower than his. The words were not directed to him, so he knelt behind a display column and watched the mad dawg's actions, unsure as to how to approach him. Jonathan had removed the crystal from its case, and was now pacing with it in his paws. He seemed to be talking to himself, or to perhaps a phantom image, a product of his sickness. The words were mainly incoherent, or made no sense. Underdog finally dared to come out, and Jonathan spotted him instantly, ducking back into a defensive stance and hugging the crystal tightly. "Don't do it, Jonathan," the superhero pleased, for he had already caught on to the meaning behind the madness. "If you crush that crystal you'll destroy the future." "WHAT FUTURE?" his voice echoed in the museum's massive halls, and he sounded desperate and at the end of his rope. "We have no future! We have only voices and hallucinations and pain, Jonathan. Why should it be any better for anybody else?" Underdog swallowed, "It doesn't have to be this way." "For us?" he laughed. "Like you could talk! Like you know anything about the way it has to be -- the way it's *going* to be." He held his arms wide, "This is your future, Jonathan." Underdog's face harded, "I don't see why it has to be everyone else's." He stepped closer to his counterpart, grabbing the wrist of the arm holding the crystal. "Let it go." Jonathan took a tenser stance, his manner growing colder, "Get off me." He seemed disturbed by the younger superhero's boldness. He attempted to shake him off, but Underdog help too strong. Jonathan suddenly smiled, "You are so naive." With that he gave Underdog a gentle push, but it was the super-strong "gentle push" that sent the smaller canine smashing straight into the stone wall. Even the superhero's strong form felt the stone and crumbled in the impact, slumping to the ground. Underdog took a moment to recover, regaining orientation, "I don't want to do this." As he spoke he stood. He wasn't lying; attacking his older self was not high on his list of preferred actions. He lunged at him. Jonathan caught the younger dawg as he grabbed him, but the force of impact was enough to launch both of them into the marble wall. Jonathan was more able to keep his balance, however, and was able to tear Underdog from where he had grabbed his shift and hurl him back against the wall. The superhero got it headfirst, and crumpled to the ground after pulling his head out of the sizable dent in the marble. "Then don't," Jonathan, still standing, said in response to the last comment. "You won't win." "Neither will you -- if I have anything to say about it." Jonathan did not sense movement for another attack as he assumed there would be, and looking down, noticed Underdog was now clutching the crystal -- it must have been dropped after the inital lunge. "Little fucker --," he reached for it, but Underdog was too quick. "Catch!" he suddenly hurled the crystal at Polly, who Jonathan had not noticed the new appearance of. She caught it, and Jonathan screamed. His anger quickly centered on Underdog, who was still lying beside him. In rage he lept on him, pinning Underdog down with his knees over his chest and stomach. Underdog wiggled and fought back, but he was unable to shake him off. Though they both had super strength supplied by their Underdog pills, Jonathan was a fully-built adult dawg, and Underdog was still just a boy, his body firmly held by his elder's superior strength and weight. He was unable to even fight off Jonathan's paws that were wrapped around his neck, slowly choaking him. "Jonathan, stop!" Polly cried, watching Underdog's face turn blue as he somewhat unsuccessfully gasped for air. A thought raced through her mind -- would he dare to kill his younger self, signing his own death certificate? He was certainly crazy enough to be suicidal, even homicidal, in his state. He ignored her heeds. Desperate as Underdog was having more and more problems breathing, Polly put the crystal in her pocket and grasped Jonathan's shoulder, trying to pull him off in time. "Get off me!" in his murderous, crazed state Jonathan was not a foe to be bothered or recogned with, and he released his grip on Underdog to knock her away. In his years of gentle treatment of her, however, Polly had forgotten that his strength was not something for an ordinary dawg to go up against, and his "mild" swing sent her up against the wall. She also had not the resistance in her own body that Underdog did, and when her head hit the marble she blacked out. "Polly!" Jonathan suddenly cried out, shock in his voice when he saw her limp form and realized what he had done. He immediately released Underdog, running to her side. Underdog gasped as fresh air rushed to his lungs, and took a moment to steady his reathing before attempting to rise. Rubbing his neck, he hobbled over to where Jonathan was pacing frantically, muttering her name just under his breath and tearing at his hair. Underdog knelt beside her, checking her over. She was not bleeding, so her head had not cracked open -- thank G-d! Her breath was short and uneven, but everything else was in check. He cautiously laid her across the floor, careful of her head -- though there was no external damage, a skull fracture or concussion was a definite possibility. "Christ -- what have I done?" Underdog looked up at Jonathan's face, filled with horror and disbelief. "How could I . . . Jesus, I was always so careful . . . I didn't want . . ." he babbled off, at the point of tears. "I have to get her back -- to the future." He began to fiddle with his pockets, and removed a black device. "I have to get her back." Kneeling beside her, he searched her own pockets until he found the matching component, and placed it on the floor, three feet across from the other. Flipping a switch, he stepped back as an electrical lazer shot out from both devices. When they touched, the small, flat circle door created by the beams grew to just larger than dawg size, a swirling mass of blues and greens. Jonathan turned to retrieve Polly and the crystal, but Underdog stepped in, frightened, "Does it really have to be this way?" "What way?" He shivered, "Do I have to be like you?" Jonathan swallowed, "If you believe in time as an unchangeable order of events, yes." "And what if I don't?" He smiled, scooping Polly up, "Well . . . you'll know in a few years, won't you?" He pondered, "Or would it be better if you didn't? Yes, it would." Underdog watched curiously as Jonathan stood more closely, their eyes locking. Underdog quickly found himself unable, in fact, to break away his gaze. "You will not remember this," Jonathan ordered firmly. "I will not remember this," he repeated, now fully under the hypnotic glare. "A burglar broke in and stole the cystal. He was gone when you arrived." "A burglar broke in and stole the crystal. He was gone when I arrived." Jonathan grinned, and stepped through the portal. Polly had indeed tripped an alarm; the cops arrived to find Underdog already in the museum, standing blankly by a broken case. "Underdog!" Sweet Polly Purebread, ace reporter, was of course on the scene. She rushed up to him, shaking the canine out of his trance. "Wha -- ?" he looked around, scratching his head in utter befuddlement. "Are you all right? What happened to that new crystal that was donated today? It's gone!" He rubbed his head, "I can't seem to remember most of today, so I assume that burglar must have gotten away." "That's odd," she blinked. Polly Purebread, not-so-ace diplomat, awoke in more pain then she remembered recieving in the initial impact. Her head was throbbing, and the hospital pillow wasn't doing much to comfort her. She opened her eyes to General Taylor, and realized she was back in the future. "Thank G-d you're all right," he held his hat in his hand and toyed with the brim. "Don't sit up yet -- you have a severe concussion." "Did you get the crystal?" "Yes. Jonathan brought it, and everything's being taken care of. In fact, he's been really desperate to see you, but we're not allowing him near you under Hudson's orders -- until he's fully treated." "What?" she looked perplexed. "He didn't run off?" "No, actually. He was in a horrible condition when he arrived, and completely hysterical about hurting you . . . so MacPherson put him back on the medication." Polly nodded, surprised that Jonathan willingly submitted himself to their medication, sedatives or not. Her injury must have shook him up badly. "Send him in." Taylor shifted, "Now, Mrs. Purebread -- " "If he wants to see me, let him in, for G-d's sakes -- it's probably the best thing for him." Taylor began to protest, but gave in unexpectedly and excused himself. He reappeared, minutes later, with Jonathan. The dawg was pale and sluggish, his lack of energy possibly caused by new medication that contained sedatives. He seated himself beside her bed, his gestures jumpy, uneasy, and strained. He straighted his glasses, staring guiltily at the floor. "What happened to Underdog?" "I uh . . . erased his memory," he explained. "He asked me if it could be different for him -- all the pain, all the sickness . . . I said no -- Christ, I wish I knew how to change it -- " "You couldn't, Jonathan." "I know . . . but I had more of a chance -- " "No, you didn't," she corrected, sitting straighter. "You did the right thing. What happened is past, and you can't change it. You can only move on. You're going to get better, Jonathan." "I want to." "Then you will. But you have to want it first." Jonathan nodded, "I hope you're right." The End