Tale of an Underdog by DJ Clawson ------------------------------------------------------------ This is it! The first piece of Underdog fanfiction on the internet, possibly at all! This tale is to explain what the show, in nine years, never got around to doing--where exactly Underdog came from. Since this story is *entirely* pre-show chronologically, there are no mentions of the name "Underdog," so you'll just have to figure out who he is (there's no "ShoeShine Boy" either -- I gave him a real name). AUTHOR'S NOTE : This story does not take place in a universe completely consistent with the show, mainly because I haven't seen more than 20 episodes. Also, all the characters exist in the universe of SWAT Kats : The Radical Squadron (a cartoon show by Hanna Barbera currently airing on the Cartoon Network), but predate that show, so this is not a crossover. *However*, is does change a few things : 1. All humans are now "kats," a form of anthropomorphic felines who walk around and act just like humans. The only real differences in the story that make them notable as such is the fact I will refer to their hands as "paws." 2. All dogs are now "dawgs," a form of anthropomorphic dogs *I* created in other SWAT Kat fan fiction to exist beside the kats. They do not exist in the SK show, where *everyone* is a kat. They *do* exist in my fan fiction. Dawgs are around 3 feet high fully grown, shorter than the 5 foot average of kats. Underdog (the spelling of his superhero nickname does not change to be remotely loyal to the show) is thereby just under 3 feet througout, since dawgs reach full height at a very early age. The dawgs are not the dominant race, and are found mainly in Western Europe and the British Isles, but there are obviously scatterings of them in America. 3. All other animals retain their forms of the Underdog show. Even though this is a planet dominated by kats and maybe 10% dawgs, there are a few various other species scattered around who appear rarely. Also, there is a mention of a Megakat City, which is the city the SWAT Kats protect in a later decade. The neighboring city is Faroe Lake (not according to the SK show--just me), and Underdog -- during the show -- protected mainly them from attacks. The reason for all of this confusion by bringing the Underdog show over to the SWAT Kat universe is to open some doors for later Underdog/SWAT Kat fanfiction. You can see my fan fiction (along with others') at my archive at ------------------------------------------------------------ "Tale of an Underdog" Chapter 1 'Lab Report - January 13th, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts' 'The tests have been otherwise inconclusive under the microscope, and I feel Dr. Leitch has become unsatisfied with the petri dish. He has made it my job to search now for a proper test subject -- a dawg, preferrably, since there have been some bad reactions to certain kat DNA.' When the assigment had come down on his shoulders, Roberts had been a bit clueless as to where to begin. Lab rats didn't suddenly pop out of the woodwork when he advertised, and even if they would, they'd want to know all kinds of specifics -- such as what they were taking, what would happen to them, and how they would benifit mankind. There was also often money involved -- they wanted to be paid, or wanted their loved ones to recieve great sums of money if they perished. Neither options were available, considering the classification of the process. Leitch suggested someone who wouldn't be missed -- a vagrant with no family --or someone dying of a fatal disease anyway. But something had made Roberts quisy when he thought of thrusting the needle into a cancer patient, and he was forced to depend on finding the former. He was still uneasy, roaming the gutters and alleyways of Washington, D.C. A high-tech, electrified club hidden in his jacket would protect his person sufficiently, but that didn't really make him feel any better. But here he was, in the gutters of the gutters, where he doubted one would pass up an offer such as one he offered. There were many dawgs amoung the poorer crowd, but most were old and feeble, or pregnant--to weak for the experiment. He passed over one who spit alochol over his shoes when he took an extra second to gaze. It was several hours later when he was ready to give up for the day, finding his superior's specifications rather narrow. He was about to turn for home when he spotted the small entrance of a building labeled crudely above the door, "St. Peter's Shelter." The place, inside, wasn't much better than the streets he had just left. Possibly hundreds of homeless were cramped in a series of a few rooms, curled up on cots with ragged blankets and pillows if they were lucky -- more likely something else soft rolled up. One kat slept with his head over a radio, apparently his only possession, perhaps in fear of it being stolen. The air was abuzz with the sounds of coughing and sneezing -- after all, cold season was in full bloom. There was probably a pastor there, aiding who he could, but was racing around so their visitor didn't see him. Roberts' attention shifted to the bed beside him, where an angry, wet cough came from beneath the blanket. He saw a small paw come out and grab the end of the blanket, pulling it closer down. Curious, the scientist slowly let his paw out just so it touched the blanket, disturbing the owner. The owner pulled himself out from under to see who the intruder of his personal space was. Roberts gasped as the huge head of a young dawg came out, dusty and sickly pale. This poor thing could not have been above twelve years old. He was of the beagle breed, known for those floppy black ears and huge black nose, and he had a pale-gold tint to his fur. He was wearing worn-down jeans and a patched T-shirt that clearly hadn't been washed in a while. He smelled a bit, as Roberts imagined one would after hanging out too long in such a place. The dawg was a sickly pale, and coughed several times before responding to seeing the well-to-do scientist above him. "What the hell do you want?" The words were said with the force and accustion of an adult, but the pitch was still that of a child's. It sent Roberts back a few steps; he had never seen such hate venting from someone under eighteen. "I-I . . .," he desperately tried to pull himself together. "Is there somewhere you'd like to go? Maybe to get a hot meal or a change of clothes?" The dawg frowned harder, "I'm not interested in your charities. So get the hell away and go bother someone else trying to sleep." "No--I mean as payment. It would all be fair pay." The dawg was in the motion of turning back under the covers when he stopped, curious, "Pay for what?" "I'm with a scientific research group," Roberts rushed to explain. "We need a young dawg for some . . . research. You'd get a place to sleep and fed three meals a day . . ." "What kind of research?" he eyeballed his visiter suspiciously. "Drug therapy. You'd be exposed to some antibiotics," That was a lie, but the dawg wouldn't know the difference. "Unless, of course, you have prior engagements . . .?" It was not meant as a question for answering -- more of a probing. Roberts doubted the dawg had any sort of job or family, and the reply made him sure. "What do they do to me?" "Nothing lethal -- we've already tested it out a few times on other subjects. We just want to see the natural reaction to some medicines." The dawg coughed, heavily, drawing a ragged breath instead of getting the response he wanted to come out of his mouth. "And it looks like you could use some medical attention, while we're at it." The dawg considered. A hot meal and a bath sounded inviting enough, but as soon as Roberts had mentioned 'scientific research' all that managed to go through the dawg's head was the image of himself running in some kind of gerbal wheel, with the treat hanging right in front of him. A growl from his stomach, however, hold him his system had already made the decision for him. "All right . . .," he swung both is legs over the side of the bed and stood shakily, not feeling incredibly steady. He wrapped himself in the blanket, which Roberts realized was probably the only sort of coat he had. "What's you name, kid?" the scientist began to help him to the door, the dawg finding it hard to walk with his illness crippling him. Roberts didn't doubt know the kid could have easily had the flu or some virus for quite a while without anyone noticing. "Jonathan." It was simply to get associated, really -- they would look up the kid's files through his paw prints and have his records within twenty-four hours after reaching the lab, but the aquintance was nice. Jonathan's eyes widened as the transport car -- a very nice, but hidden from the outside limosine, to be exact -- pulled up in front of them, now several blocks from the shelter. Roberts had to smile; the kid had probably not been in such a car in his life. "Fancy operation you got here," the dawg remarked snidely, climbing into the back seat. "We do this for all our guests." "Test subject is hardly the word I'd use for guest," Jonathan was all ready beginning to fiddle with the various objects and compartments within his grasp from the backseat, like a kid in a candy store. 'I'm along for the ride; I might as well enjoy it.' "Hey, you gotta microwave in here!" Roberts removed a pack of instant soup he had purchased earlier, poured it into one of the plastic cups from the compartment on his side with a bottle of water thrown into the mix, and placed it in the microwave, "It's a long ride. The least I can do is feed you." The soup was done within minutes, and the dawg practically inhaled it, feeling relieved to have something in his stomach. He remained silent while he wolfed down the mouthfuls, attacking the cup like a starved pup -- which was precisely what he was. After several minutes, he finally put aside the container, and turned back to Roberts. "So this is what they hire you for -- go get street scum to be their genuia pigs?" "'They' is a term that refers to me as well," he correct. "I'm a scientist. My superior just sent me because I'm more experienced with children." "You're a kiddie doc?" "No . . . I just have kids." "Oh," Jonathan watched curiously as Roberts took out his wallet from his coat pocket, and held out several wallet-size photographs for him to see. The dawg took them in his own paws and held them very, very close to his face, as if trying to get the pictures into focus and failing. Roberts observed this, "Do you have vision problems?" "'s what my doc told me -- a while ago. I think I was seven when I still had a pair. My old family bought 'em, but I outgrew up a year or so ago." "Your old family?" "Foster," he explained, hesitantly. "They wanted me to call 'em 'mom' and 'dad', too." Giving up, he handed the pictures back. His next impuse was too cough, which threw him into another heavy coughing fit that took several minutes to control. "Relax," Roberts helped him straighten out from his doubled over position, setting him up with his back more supported by the seat. "You're in good paws now." The response was another cough, and then, "So why the hell am I so dizzy?" His eyelids were beginning to drop. "Relax," he repeated. "You're very sick, and it's a long ride. Just close your eyes and sleep." Jonathan nodded, "I thin' I'll do tha." His mumbled voice drifted off as he leaned over and closed his eyes, his head supported by the limo's door. Roberts sighed tiredly, securing the blanket over the dawg before turning back to his own folder of work. Sure, he felt a little guilty for the sedative he'd slipped in the soup, but it was necessary to insure Jonathan would still be asleep when they arrived and was looked over by the department heads as a worthy subject. Chapter 2 'Lab Report - January 15th, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts' 'The subject has been chosen and approved by the department heads. Dr. Leitch seemed rather pleased that I had chosen such a young boy, and while his records are still up for review, it does not seem like there will be any conflicts with the experiment in past history.' Jonathan awoke -- groggily -- to a pleasantly warm, white room. He coughed, then pushed away the blanket to give himself some air. His clothes had been replaced by a white cotton set of a shirt and pants, and he'd forgotten what it was like to wear a change to clothes -- much less clean ones -- so he found it rather relieving. The room was simple -- a bed, a desk, and a small adjoining bathroom. One of the walls was lined with a mirror, and it could not have occured to him that it was one-way. On the desk was a tray filled with the most inviting thing of all -- food, which he couldn't quite remember when he'd had last outside of a soup kitchen in heated form. He set upon it, gobbling up the bread and soup before going for the chicken. 'They're bein' so nice to me, you'd think they'll torture me next,' he wondered mildly to himself. Not that he hadn't found the appearance of the scientist odd, but lucky netherless. 'Let 'em do what they want.' His stomach grumbled in agreeance, as he stuffed down the rest of the chicken. ''s long as they keep feedin' me.' After dinner, of whatever meal it was supposed to be, he noticed the shower stall in his bathroom was set up with shampoo, and decided to treat himself. The only time he really got a good shower was in the summer, at the beach, but that all had closed down months ago. Jonathan remained in there for quite a while, and finally heaved himself out of the steady stream of hot water, feeling cleaner than he had in a long time. 'Hell, I might get used to this,' he thought playfully, drying his fur off. He had just thrown his new clothes back on when the scientists entered. First was an old, grey kat on the plump side with large whiskers and a stern look on his face. Behind him was the scientist he remembered, though he never quite caught his name. Both were wearing lab coats and carrying clipboards. "Jonathan Weissman?" He nodded, as if the question was to confirm his full name. He leaned back on the bed now, with his back to the wall -- still feeling quite achy. In the rush of new pleasures he'd forgotten he was sick. The first continued, "Mr. Weissman . . . Jonathan, I'd like to welcome you to the Pandora Project," his voice wasn't cold, but without the particular warmth the dawg vaguely remembered the other carrying. "I'm Dr. Leitch . . . and I believe you've all ready met my assistant, Dr. Roberts. You'll meet the rest of the team in a little while." Roberts shot a glance at Jonathan, but nothing more. He was a tan-fured kat with dark brown hair in maybe his early thirties, much taller and simmer than Leitch. "Before we explain what's going to happen, I need to check a few things from our records . . .," Leitch adjusted his glasses to he could read from his clipboard better. "Jonathan, you are . . . ten years old now?" The dawg nodded. "And your parents are deceased? Since you were three?" Another nod. "How long have you been without a foster family?" "Two years, I think." "Any sort of employment?" "I shined some shoes--when I got hungry enough." Leitch made a note of all the responses, "And can you read? Did you have any sort of formal schooling?" "When I was with the foster family, yeah. I just can't see the words on the page." "Dr. Roberts mentioned that. You're farsighted?" He shrugged, "If it means you can't see the little stuff -- sure." "When was the last time you had a pair of glasses?" "Foster family -- but I grew out of 'em about a year ago." "We'll have to get you some. And this illness of yours . . .," Leitch bent down closer to him, not an easy task for someone his age. "How long have had your cough?" "I dunno. Maybe a month." "And the fever?" "Does it look like I got a thermometer in my pocket?" Jonathan rebuked, sounding tired and agitated. Leitch frowned, and turned back to Roberts, whispering close to him, "I want a complete medical inspection. Find out what the kid has and cure it -- we can't start testing until he's perfectly healthy." "So we'll be using him?" Roberts asked, in a softer voice. "He's fine -- just as long as he's not sick. It's not like he's going to be missed anyway," Leitch indicated the file he had on his clipboard. "Dad died before he was born, and the mom of cancer. He's been in and out of foster homes since he was three. No major loss to society, whatever happens." Roberts glanced back at Jonathan, who was silent except for an occastional cough, "I'll see that he gets a full inspection." "Right," with that, the older scientist was satisfied, and bade his good-byes. Roberts sighed and turned back to the curious dawg. "C'mon, kid -- let's get you better." He gestured toward the door, and it took a moment before Jonathan was able to pick himself off the bed and follow. Jonathan was repeatedly impressed by the facilities of the laboratory. It was made up, mainly, by seemingly endless white hallways with endless rows of doors leading to rooms or possibly other hallways. A few were open, and he could see into the rooms with white-coated scientists hunched over microscopes or test tubes, taking notes and muttering to each other in some kind of technical language the dawg was oblivious to. A few glanced at him in his passing with Dr. Roberts. He was, after all, an oddity -- a homeless pup in a sea of white coats and glasses. Nearly everyone was wearing some sort of security pass cliped to their clothes or on a ring around their neck. He himself had one, though he couldn't read the finer print on it without the glasses they'd promised him, and he doubted he would understand it, anyway. "Hell of a place you got here," he remarked to Roberts. "Where am I, exactly?" "Gen-Tech Laboratories." "Oh," he said blankly. "No, *where* is it?" "You're in Maryland--very close to the district of Columbia." "Slept a long time, didn't I?" "Yup," Roberts stopped in front of a doorway to push a series of buttons on the pad key. A moment later, there was a minor beeping sound, and he pushed the door open. He led the dawg through another hallway, and finally into another room with a bed and a table full of doctor's equipment. "Dr. Bartol is going to take a look at you in a few minutes -- so just hop on the bed and wait." He did as commanded, still queezy and happy to be off his feet, "Jeez -- does everybody have a 'doc' in front of their name here?" Roberts shrugged, "Most of us *do* have doctorates -- it's pretty much a requirement to work here." "So what am I supposed to call you guys? I was gonna just call you 'doc' but there's too many of you." He smiled, "Whatever's comfortable. I'll be back." With that, he left the room, obviously to talk to someone or get something. Jonathan swung is legs back and forth over the side patiently. 'Might not be so bad after all,' he mused to himself. After what seemed like an extense examination, to Jonathan at least, Dr. Bartol came to the conclusion that he had a prolonged double-illness of broncitus and a minor strain of the flu, and began medication immediately. Most of Jonathan's days were compiled -- for the next few weeks -- of taking pills, getting his system used to three meals a day, and study sessions. After he recieved a pair of working glasses, Dr. Leitch wanted to know his intelligence level in every subject. He read out loud and wrote paragraphs on what he read, did dozens of addition and subtraction problems, and even a few 'mind games' -- as the doctors put it -- that he couldn't seem to see the use for. One involved trying to work his way through this maze on the computer before this mouse did in a cage beside him. "What the hell do I give a damn about how fast the mouse can get through the damn maze and I can't?" he demanded, frustrated with the game. "It measures your reaction time on the problem-solving sections of your brain," Dr. Roberts explained. Jonathan shot him a look, and he just laughed. Dr. Roberts was probably the doctor he saw the most. Though Dr. Leitch was the head of the project, Roberts was apparently assigned to keep a closer and more personal watch on him. He was present for most of the medical examinations, and the teacher for almost all of the study sessions. Jonathan decided he liked him early on, since he seemed to be the only one experienced with dealing with anyone under eighteen and the most understanding. He tended to ask a lot of questions about his kids -- one four, the other two -- and his wife. Roberts made a note on his clipboard -- "facination with family." But the weeks passed, and no sooner had Jonathan gotten adjusted to the atmosphere did his sicknesses disappate. Roberts seemed a little hesitant whenever Leitch mentioned beginning the 'injections,' but Jonathan couldn't help but notice the scientist was doing his best to hide it in front of the dawg. Chapter 3 'Lab Report - January 29th, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts.' 'Dr. Leitch has recieved the clearance from the commitee to go forward with the project -- much to his expectance, for he feels the subject has been ready for several days now. The subject will now begin to be exposed to the syrum, which Dr. Leitch and I have both had paws in setting up on a pattern of size and concentration in fluid.' It wasn't like Jonathan hadn't been warned. The original agreement in the shelter mentioned the tests, and Roberts had been hinting it for most of the time, but otherwise the dawg had been told little or nothing about the actual procedure. All he knew was he was testing 'medicine.' Heading to Jonathan's room that morning, Roberts wondered if he should have told him more -- like what he was taking, and why. Dr. Leitch's commands required him to lie about the syrum's contents and their knowledge of its effects if the question came up, which he was not fond of doing, but Roberts now seriously doubted the dawg knew what the word 'syrum' meant. "Jonathan?" he tapped on the door, and heard the faint sounds of movement inside. "Come in," came the usual tone, and Roberts stepped inside. Jonathan was sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading one of the newer books that had been given to him. He was wide awake -- which probably had something to do with the fact that he'd been told yesterday. "Do you know what today is?" Roberts casually began to clean up what was left of the breakfast, setting it all back on the tray. His voice was still an attempted mask at nervousness. "Christmas?" Roberts released a tense laugh, "Not quite. C'mon, kid -- you gotta show them your stuff." Jonathan shot him a skeptical look, and set his book aside. Calmly and quietly, he followed him outside. Dr. Leitch was still looking over the jar racks containing various, diluted dosages of a yellow liquid. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, going back over his notes to check and requeck and measurements. He didn't look up when he felt a shadow hover over him in the already-darkened room. "Good morning, Dr. Leitch." He finally looked up at the foreboding presence of a tall, well-built kat. His fur was tan, and his hair a dark brown. His pudge face was already beginning to show signs of wrinkles. He was clocked in a large, blank trenchcoat. "What do you want?" the scientist sounded annoyed. The unnervingly-calm kat pulled a cigarrete out of a pocket of his trenchcoat, and a lighter out of the other, "Only to see that everything goes well." "It'll be fine. I've had the first dosage measured out for a week," he reached for a syringe and a small bottle. "It had better, Dr. Leitch. You know how much we want this project to be a success," ignoring the 'thank you for not smoking near the equipment' sign, the kat lit up his cigarette and inhaled deeply. Jonathan began to feel his own stomach butterflies when Roberts brought him to a section of the labs he had never been in. In front of them was a heavy, metal door. Roberts took both their ID cards and slid them into a slot. Seconds later, the cards popped out, and the door opened with a metallic 'hiss.' The dawg swallowed. He always worse his ID, but had never had a reason to use it before. The door opened to a dark lab, filled on the walls with desks and shelves brimming with test tubes, microscopes, and other tools of science. Dr. Leitch was hunched over the main desk, illuminated by a small desk light. The only other light, this one much brighter, was right over an examination table in the center of the room. Aside from a few various lab technicians, the only other notable figure was a kat in the corner he had never seen before, smoking peacefully to himself. "Who's that guy?" he whispered to Roberts. The scientist purposely didn't seem to hear him, "Get up on the table, Jonathan." Keeping a careful eye on the kat in the shadows, he hesitantly climbed up on the table. It was slanted on a fifty-five degree angle, roughly. As soon as he managed to get up, two of the lab technicians began to strap him down, securing him to the table. "Is isn't gonna *hurt*, is it?" He asked to Roberts, who had chosen to remain beside him. "Hopefully not," The scientist didn't want to lie, but he could see the fear in the young boy's eyes. "It's just one injecction." "Just one -- injecction?!" His eyes widened further, as he saw Dr. Leitch rise from his desk with a syringe in paw. "You didn't tell me there were gonna be *needles* -- !" "Now, Jonathan, relax -- it's just a prick -- " The dawg began to squirm under his bonds, "Don't you come never me WITH THAT NEEDLE--!" "*Jonathan* -- " Roberts grabbed one shoulder, pinning it down, as technician rushed in on the other side. "GET AWAY FROM ME -- " He continued to struggle, regardless that Leitch was beside him. "Jonathan," Roberts used a softer voice now, trying to comfort him as the dawg shut his eyes and continued screaming his head off. Without hesitation, Leitch brought the needle up to the fur and made the puncture in the skin layer of his arm. "NO! I WANT OUT -- " With the needle in, Leitch tightened his grip with is thumb over the end of the syringe. "PLEASE NO -- !" The clear yellow liquid was driven home. "NO . . .!" The end of Jonathan's attempted sentence was cut off by a moan, and a twist of facial features in sharp confusion. His body began to convulse and he was sweating bullets. "Ugh . . ." The scientists all backed off now, waiting to see the result of the syrum's presence in his system. He continued to convulse, thrashing around under his straps. After several minutes, the shaking settled, and he rested his back against the metal. Groaning softly, he twisted his head to look up at Roberts, who doubted he could see him with the glassy, drugged look in his eyes. "Jonathan?" The scientist probed, quietly. "How many claws am I holding up?" He help up two claws, which the dawg stared at curiously. Roberts' voice was low and distilled to Jonathan, under the effects of the syrum now. The light above him made everything hazy, and his body had long-since gone rather limp. He could sort of make out the words, something about his paw, but was unable to answer. Whatever he tried to say came out in a gutteral sound far from comprehension. "Can you hear me?" At last, after a minute of failed attempts, he managed to sputter out, "Hurts." "What hurts?" He was beginning to slip back into control again, the initial high of the syrum done with its climax, "Tingles." "Where?" "Whole body," he twisted, but only a little. "Hurts like hell." "Can you feel any find of change? Aside from the pain?" Leitch asked now, taking notes with his clipboard. Jonathan looked at him skeptically, and Leitch backed off, towards his desk. Roberts began to loosen the straps, with the dawg much too weak to go anywhere. "You're not gonna do that again . . . are you?" Though the speech was still partially slirred, Jonathan was definitely recovering from the high. "That depends on what we can learn from how you react to it," the scientist answered, not wanting to come out and say 'yes, we're going to do it every day.' He was relieved that Jonathan had survived somewhat well from the looks of it, "Do you still feel the tingling?" "Yeah . . . all over," the dawg attempted to pull himself off the table, but nearly collapsed on the floor in the process. Roberts caught him, "Easy." He set the table back at a flat angle, and helped him back up onto it in sitting position. "I don't think your legs are ready to hold you yet." "Can I have my glasses back now?" Roberts nodded to a technician, who fetched the glasses that had been set aside before the injecction. Jonathan took them from him, and as he held them in his paws before setting them back on the bridge of his snout, Roberts noticed his paws were still shaking. "How do you feel now?" "You gonna keep askin' that every five minutes? Still tingles," he retorted, obviously a little crabby over what he'd been made to go through. Dr. Leitch returned from his table, taking a good look at the dawg in his shaken state before turning to Roberts, "I want a medical examination and a blood sample. After *that* get can go to bed," the authorative tone broke down whatever disapproving look was on Roberts' face. "When he wakes up I want a physical update and another blood sample." Jonathan made a face; he'd seen enough needles for one day, but Roberts took his paw firmly, "C'mon, kid -- you did well." With that he led him out of the room, and the kat in the shadows was forgotten. Chapter 4 'Lab Report - Feburary 6th, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts' 'The subject has recieved a daily dosage of the syrum according to schedule for the last week. During this period of time he seems to have begun to become accostemed to the injecction, because the more painful and apparent side effects--such as convultions and haluccenagentic indicative actions -- have calmed down considerably with every dosage.' 'Dr. Leitch has slowly been increasing the amounts steadily, but under the advisory of myself and status superior colleges he has slowed the accelaration so that we may better observe the signs of change that are beginning to appear.' "'Outside, even the-re-ogh' -- " "Through." " -- 'even through the shut window pane, the whirl' -- " "World." " -- 'world looked cold. Down in the street little eddites' -- yeah, that's right, isn't it? Eddies?" He looked up at his tutor, who nodded approvingly, and he continued, "'of wind were worlding' -- " "Whirling." " -- 'were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and the-re-ogh--through--the sun was shining -- " Through the one-way mirror on the wall between Jonathan's room and an observation laboratory, Roberts and Leitch were watching as the dawg attempted to read to his tutor. Both scientists found it facinating as to how fast Jonathan was beginning to pick things up. "You really think the syrum is working? Or are we just the first ones to try and educate him?" Roberts had to ask skeptically. "Absolutely," Leitch jotted something down in his notepad as Jonathan stumbled over the word 'mustachio'd.' "A ten-year-old reading '1984'? And that isn't the only change." He referred to his notes again, but Roberts' eyes remained glued on the inner room. "His t-RNA and m-RNA are working overtime. His blood samples show he's producing proteins at a 40% rate above normal -- even for a child. There's a tremendous build-up of muscle proteins near the skin, indicating the growth of some kind of extra skin layer that may prove to be -- " "You still don't think we're moving too fast? He's just a boy, Dr. Leitch." "That's the reason his system can take this kind of shock -- his young body is *used* to growth. We're just accelerating the process in different ways." "But mentally? It's a lot to throw at him, isn't it?" "What are you worried about, Daniel? That we're going to turn him into a robot?" Roberts sighed, but shook his head, "He's just . . . not a genius, Dr. Leitch." "Maybe he is -- now, anyway," Leitch made a note on his clipboard. "Remind me to give him an IQ test." He sighed again, more heavily this time, and kept his eyes glued to the tutoring session. "Doc?" Jonathan used his pet name for Roberts, snapping the scientist out of his reverie as he watched the dawg finish up dinner. Everyone else was 'doc *something*' -- he was just doc. "What's gonna to happen to me?" "What?" His train of thought broken, it took Roberts a moment to recover. "What do you mean?" He played with the contents of the plate with his fork was he spoke, "I mean . . . you know how I'm . . . *changing*." "How?" "C'mon, Doc--everybody's talking about it. Especially Doc Leitch. I'm *different.*" "What -- do you mean how the speed of how you're picking things up is accelerating?" The dawg nodded, "And other stuff . . . Doc Leitch was babbling the other day about that IQ test thing, and how I beat the mouse at the maze, and all this stuff about proteins and most of the other stuff he says that I can't understand but I'm sure it's about me. Is that syrum making me smarter?" Roberts inhaled, and shifted his weight around, "Yes -- we think so." "Why?" "We don't know." "Why not? I mean, you're the ones taking all the notes -- " He shook his head, "It's not just that, Jonathan . . . your body--not just your brain -- is going through some . . . changes . . . that we don't really understand yet. That's why you have to have so many examinations and blood samples and testing." "Oh," His eyes widened. "When are you *gonna* know?" "We have a basic idea . . ." Jonathan looked as though he was waiting for an answer. "Well . . . you'll probably only get so much smarter, from the way it looks in the progression rate. Your brain isn't really ready for it because you're so young. Your body, on the other paw, will probably continue to advance in ways we haven't been able to predict yet." "So *then* what's gonna happen to me? After the experiment?" He was clearly talking about whether they were going to throw him on the welcome mat of another homeless shelter or not. "We really haven't thought too much about it yet. If the effects prove to be permanate . . . you may stay here. You would be schooled by a series of tutors, and then I suppose would end up as a scientist. Where do you want to go?" "I don't wanna go back to the streets." "That's understandable. Perhaps we'll find you a -- " "And I *don't* wanna go to a foster home," he rejected instantly. Roberts shrugged, "I suppose we could find someone to adopt you more *permanately* . . ." "Can I stay with you?" The scientist was taken back greatly by this question, "Ahh . . . I don't think so." "Why not? The scientist could still look at me and stuff because I'd be real close -- " "No, no, no," sadly, he slumped down on the bed beside him. "As much as I'd love to have you . . . I don't think my wife would love it if I suddenly came home with a third kid." "So tell her *now*." "Jonathan . . . it's just not that *simple.*" "Why not?" "Because . . .," he sighed, slightly aggrevated, " . . . it's not. It's something you'll understand when you're older." "Will I understand it if I keep taking the syrum?" "No . . . Jonathan, some things only come with experience . . . and that's just something you don't have yet." Jonathan groaned in unsatisfactory, and Roberts made a gesture towards the sheets, "I think you'd better get some sleep . . . we're up past lights out all ready." The dawg climbed in under the covers, "Are they gonna raise my dosage tomorrow?" Roberts stopped by the door, now on his way out, surprised that he cared about it, "Maybe . . . I haven't spoken to Dr. Leitch about it yet. Why?" "Because if you raise it too fast, I'll finish changing and have to leave. I don't wanna do that yet," He rolled over on his side. "G'night, Doc." "Goodnight, Jonathan," Roberts shut the lights out, and closed the door quietly behind him. Chapter 5 'Lab Report - Feburary 14th, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts' 'In the two weeks that the subject has been exposed to the syrum, he has shown tremendous progress in all areas of study, along with some more hidden physical changes involving the toughing of his skin and formation of muscles ahead of his age.' 'I, along with many of my colleges, am concerned about his mental health in the process. His IQ seems to be accelerating expodentially, and has begun to effect his mood and character. Some of us wonder whether this is dangerous to a ten-year-old child, and today we will submit our request to slow the raise in dosages to Dr. Leitch.' "What the hell are you talking about!?" Dr. Leitch was mad -- no, specifically, frothing mad. One could practically see the steam shooting from his ears. Dr. Bartol backed off, but remained calm, "I was merely making the suggestion -- " " -- that could destroy everything we've worked for!" They were in the soundproof observation lab next to Jonathan's room. The dawg was reading quietly in his, unaware of the calamic arguement occuring a few feet away. Bartol continued, "If you'd let me finish -- " "If it provides some decent explanation for your ludicrous request, go ahead." The medical doctor sighed in frustration, "I think we're advancing too quickly. Jonathan is beginning to show signs of mental maturity beyond his years -- " "So why is that a bad thing?" " -- which simply isn't healthy for a ten-year-old -- or anyone under eighteen, for that matter! All of the sudden he has the eliquent speech of someone with a doctorate, he reads philosophy books and can understand the underlying themes in '1984,' but inside he's still emotionally a child. Now, one of these days those emotions are going to catch up with him and he's not going to know how to handle it!" "Oh, if you wanted to deal with morals you never should've signed to this project, Bartol!" Leitch stormed about the lab angrily. "We're not babying a homeless kid by feeding and clothing him for a month, then giving him two aspirin and having him tell us how he feels in the morning! This is research for scientific advancement!" "You're not advancing if your subject is driven crazy by his own feelings!" He turned to Roberts, "Help me here!" Roberts chose to remain calm, "I'll back it. If you continue at this rate, you risk an interior build-up of suppressed emotions caused by mood swings from the syrum that could result in mental breakdown. If we slow the process, we might be able to avoid it, and maybe undo some of the damage we've done." Dr. Leitch scrowled, but was silent, and was still contemplating the matter when a knock came from the door, "Come in." Jonathan, to their surprise, was there. In the rush of the arguement they hadn't noticed he'd left his own room. "Jonathan! You're supposed to be reading!" Roberts rushed up to him, trying to kind of block him from entering the room -- or he might notice the one-way mirror on the wall. "What are you doing here?" "I heard the shouting and I wanted to see what it was about." Leitch made a note, 'Improved hearing,' "We were just having a . . . discussion." "Oh," Jonathan looked at them as if they were queer. "Well, could you keep it down? I am trying to read." "We didn't know," Roberts defended. "The room was supposed to be soundproof." "It isn't. So could you keep it down?" "You can seriously hear us?" Leitch asked, curious. "Yes, I can. What is the problem?" He mumbled in response and continued to scribble something on his clipboard. "Jonathan," Roberts began, inching him further out the door. "I'm going to wake you up a little later tomorrow." "Why?" "Because, we've decided some of the dosages have been a little too . . . demanding . . . and we're going to slow down -- and skip a dose tomorrow." He didn't glance back at Leitch, who was probably seething. "Really?" He didn't say it with any sort of exciement or letdown, just a kind of matter-of-fact tone. "Yes. So go get some sleep, and don't be alarmed if you wake up on your own and it's later than usual. We'll try and keep quiet," He nearly pushed him out, leading him to his room. "Good night." "Good night," still looking at his quizzically, Jonathan let himself in his room and shut out the door behind him. When Roberts came in his room the following morning, he could instantly tell something was wrong. Jonathan was sitting up in bed, reading his latest book. He didn't look well at all. "Are you feeling all right, Jonathan?" He sat down on the bed beside him. Jonathan was sweating and had a pale tint to his body. The scientist felt his forehead, and fever was evident. "How long have you been awake?" "Since eight," Jonathan put down his book. "I didn't feel this way when I woke up, though. Only in the last hour or so." His eyes quivered and blinked, and Roberts noticed they were slightly bloodshot. "Can I have my injecction now?" "Not if you're sick. Come on," He helped him sit up with his legs over the side. "Get yourself dressed and meet me outside. Dr. Bartol needs to take a look at you before we do anything." Jonathan nodded, and stiffly dressed himself. His movements were awkward and seemed as though they were induced by pain. 'I don't understand how he could get this sick overnight,' Roberts wondered as he led him down the hallway. 'Maybe the syrum was keeping him to some disease in the air so we didn't see the signs of infection until the syrum got a chance to wear off . . .' Jonathan, still wary, managed to make it to Dr. Bartol's examination table somehow, and the doctor preceeded with an immediate inspection. "Symptoms?" he asked, taking the dawg's blood pressure and finding it rather high. "Chills and the fact that I'm shaking all over, mainly," his patient shivered. "My eyes burn, and my body aches like hell." "No stuffy nose?" Bartol got in closer with a light. "It can't be the flu, then." He jotted down something on a notepad, then faced Roberts. "He didn't get his dosage of the syrum today, did he?" "No." "When does he typically get it?" "Eight o'clock." "Every day?" "On the nose." Bartol nodded curiously, stroked his chin for several minutes, then said at last, "I hate to admit it, but this looks something like . . . withdrawl." "*What*?" "You know. Lack of required substance to sustain the body. The shakes, the chills," he patted Jonathan's shoulder. "And these are probably only the early signs of it -- it's only been two and a half hours." "I can't believe we didn't put addiction into consideration earlier," Leitch thought out loud, pacing in front of the table where Jonathan sat. "Yet it seems so logical now . . ." "Can I have my injecction now?" The dawg, shivering and tugging his body tightly now, spoke with a thin and reedy voice. "*Please*." "Just a minute," Despite Roberts' look of impatient toward's Leitch's refusal to grant to request, the head scientist produced an empty syringe. "I want to take a blood sample to see what's happening inside his body." Jonathan willingly held out his arm, desperate now to listen to anything if it meant getting his dosage. Leitch drew the blood, slowly and carefully, and his scrutinizing manner while setting the blood on a slide and observing it under a microscope only made his subject's anger rise. "*Please*," he begged again, now with a slightly colder tone. "Daniel -- how long has it been since his last dosage?" Roberts checked his watch, "Twenty-seven hours." "Interesting," the scientist, still in no hurry, finally retrieved a syringe with the next dosage prepared in it. Relief washed over Jonathan's face when he approached him, but Leitch made no move to inject it. "It almost makes me wonder -- " "*Please*!" he pleaded. "Give it to me!" His breathing had become heavy and uneven. "Hold on just a minute--" Jonathan could wait no longer. His paw struck out, grabbing the paw of the scientist containing the syringe, "GIVE TO TO ME--!" Before anyone could react, Leitch gave out a sharp yell, surprised by the strength of the fist that was crushing in his own paw. He let go of the syringe, which dropped to the floor with an audible *crash* and the soft sound of glass shattering. "No . . .," Jonathan, with a horrified look on his face, released Leitch's paw and jumped on the table, kneeling beside the puddle of yellow liquid. "*No*. . ." Angrily, he turned to Leitch, "You have to make another one--" "Another dosage, yes," he was still grasping his injured paw. "It'll take hours to mix up . . ." "*No,*" the dawg said coldly. "You have to make one NOW!" He lunged towards Leitch, obviously induced by his fever and state of illness, but Roberts finally managed to slip out of shock fast enough to grab him and hold him back, inches from the other scientist. Jonathan trashed out and shouted under his captor's hold. "Get the technicians!" he ordered to Leitch. He was having problems holding the dawg back -- he wondered where the strange amont of strength was coming from, and attributed it to those new muscles they hadn't tested yet. Within minutes the technicians arrived, one with a hypodermic needle he immediately injected into Jonathan. The subject slumped under Roberts' grasp, feeling instantaniously the effects of the sedative, and would have landed on the floor had another tech not caught him. Still partially awake but unable to move much, he was strapped down to the table while someone attended to Leitch's paw. "Bloody beggar," Leitch snorted as his paw was bandaged. "He just wanted the syrum, Dr. Leitch," Roberts said calmly. "How long do you think it'll take to make another dosage?" "Maybe an hour or so," he practically spat out his words. "And it was *you* who wanted to slow it down . . . so now we proved we can't. Are you satisfied?" Roberts sighed, watching the dawg weakly struggle against his restraints and give up. The sedative slowed his movements, but it was easy to see he was still in pain. The scientist patted him on the shoulder, "It's going to be all right . . . we'll get you your syrum . . . just wait." Jonathan moaned softly, and Roberts couldn't help but fee a twinge of guilt for his position. Chapter 6 'Lab Report - Feburary 21st, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts.' 'Since the erratic behavior of the subject when he was denied his regular injecction, we have made sure to have the right amount of syrum on time. To date, he has had no futher complications.' Dr. Leitch was leaning over his notes, apparently trying to compute something, when Roberts walked in. The older kat looked up and noticed him. "Daniel! How's the subject?" He shrugged, "Fine." "Good, good," he referred to his notes again. "I've noticed his intellectual pogression rate has begun to slow down lately. Have you?" "Maybe it's too much on him. A ten-year-old can only get so smart." Leitch clicked his tongue, "There you go, Daniel -- always worrying. Well, we're down on dosages since that unfortunate spill," he rubbed his paw, still sprained and bandaged, "so I'll have to order up some more from the storage facilities. It should get here before we run out." "That, actually, was what I came to ask about . . .," Roberts shifted his weight from foot to foot, and stared at the ground before lifting his head. "He is an addict . . . so what happens when we *do* run out? The storages only have to much, and we can't make more . . ." "They have more than you imagine, Daniel. But even so . . . I suppose we'll begin a program sooner or later of dosage decreases until he can live without it. But . . . we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, won't we?" Dr. Leitch was signing in a package a few days later when he noticed something missing on the 'in' list. Curiously, he checked and double-checked, but it wasn't there. "Excuse me," He tapped on the shoulder of the delivery boy, who was carrying in another box from his truck. "Isn't there something missing from this list?" "Huh?" He glanced at it. "No, sir." "But there was a shipment from a storage facility in New Mexico that was supposed to come today -- yesterday, actually. It's already late." The delivery boy shrugged, "Can't help you, sir. The mail's been on time lately. You may want to call the facility and ask if they sent it." "I'll do that -- thanks." Leitch checked his answering machine as soon as he entered his office, and frowned. No return calls so far for his message left on the answering machine in New Mexico. The package still hadn't come, too, and they were down to their last dosage. He was about to turn around and go back to the laboratory when he noticed smoke -- cigarrete smoke, specfically -- something from behind his chair, which was wheeled so it faced the window and had its tall back to the desk. "Dr. Leitch . . .," the occupant of his desk chair spun around, and he recognized him immediately. "How is the project? I've been reading up on Dr. Roberts' reports and finding them very interesting." He was, however, in no mood for small talk, "Where is the next batch of syrum?" The kat stood, puffing on his cigarrete. "That's why I came down -- in case I had to be the one to deliver the bad news." "Bad news?" he questioned impatiently. "Where is the syrum?" "Didn't you hear?" he said nonchalantly. "There is no more." "What *the hell* are you talking about?" his voice rose, but only slightly. "I saw the whole storage two months ago. There's no other subjects. We're not selling it to anyone, are we?" "Not exactly," he remained calm, despite the nervousness growing in Leitch as the scientist realized the situation. "You see, our 'donaters' decided to play a little game with us, apparently. The chemical was one that would spontaniously deteriorate after a period of months of being exposed to our air -- that is, if not in the syrum form." "So all the chemicals in storage -- " " -- have all dissolved in the last fourty-eight hours. There is no more, Dr. Leitch, aside from what you have in this laboratory." The scientist stood for a minute, grappling with his words, "B-But what about the subject -- today was the last dosage -- " "Then it seems Mr. Weissman is in a predicament, isn't he?" He took another puff. "Normally, since he cannot be released in fear that he might go to local authorities about what happened hear, and we cannot put him up for the rest of his life, he would be . . . taken care of. However, since your findings conclude that without the syrum he would die within a period of fourty-eight hours after his last dose . . ." "You're not going to kill him . . . you're going to let him kill himself," Leitch couldn't believe his own words as he spoke. "Precisely." "But . . . he would be in pain -- " The kat put out his light in and set it on the marble desktop, "Then I suppose you could hurry the process . . . but that's your decision." He made a movement towards the door, but the scientist lurched out in front of him, "Wait -- I have an assistant who won't take well to this." "Then I suggest you give him the day off tomorrow." The kat left silently, leaving Leitch to his own horrified musings. Jonathan began to sense something was wrong around eight-thirty. He had been told previously that someone else would come to get him in the morning because Roberts had been given the day off, but they were supposed to be on time. He paced his tiny room, anxiously. Around nine he began to feel the first tinglings of withdrawl, and started to wonder if he should go find out for himself. The rule was he was not allowed around the facilities without an adult, but he had the security pass regardless, anyway. Putting on his glasses, he read the words in block print over his photograph : "ALL SECURITY ACCESS." That mean he could go wherever he wanted, right? At nine-thirty he had prepped himself enough to try it. Leaving his room, he found little resistence with the door. Outside, the hallways were a mess with technicians running to and fro, and he had his second sense of add happenings. Things looked more busied than usual -- but luckily for him to the point where no one seemed to notice he was walking around alone. The only place he had to use his pass, in fact, was of course the entrance to the laboratory where he recieved his injecctions. He slipped the card and punched in the set of numbers he had seen Roberts use so many times. It opened, thankfully, and he let himself in. "Dr. Leitch?" Only his voice managed to knock the apparently overworked Leitch out of his reverie over a file cabinet. "Jonathan!" He sounded surprised. "What are you doing here?" "Wasn't I supposed to be here around an hour and a half ago?" "Ah, yes . . .," Leitch frantically hurried around the room, going through one shelf after another and opening cabinet after cabinet. 'How could he forget?' "Can I have it now?" "Ah . . . no." "*What*?" The scientist momentarily stopped his rushing around, inhaled deeply, and faced the dawg sadly, "I'm afraid I have some bad news . . . There isn't any more." "*WHAT*?" he said again, with greater disbelief. He studied Leitch for moment, "You're serious." "Perfectly. It seems our storage center has been contaminated . . . and . . ." "What's going to happen to *me*?" "Well . . . you'll probably go into withdrawl . . ." " . . . *and* . . .?" The scientist grappled with the words, "And . . . you might survive. We've never tested it . . . but . . ." "I'll probably die," the dawg muttered, still partially denying. "Now, now . . .," Leitch bent down to meet him eye level. "We're searching for more of the syrum. I think there's probably another dose somewhere in the facilities. I have every team member on it -- we'll find you another dose." He patted him on the back, "You go . . . busy yourself and we'll call you when we find something or order up some painkillers. Get your mind off it, okay?" Jonathan smiled, almost mockingly, and exited silently. Chapter 7 'Lab Report - Feburary 23rd, 1981 - Dr. Archibold Leitch' 'In Dr. Roberts' absence, it has come to my authority to make an emergency report.' 'No more of the syrum has been located within the faculty or any more of the chemicals in the storage facilities. The subject has begun, in the last few hours, to go into continously worse stages. He has complained severely of pain beyond our medicine's ability to sooth, and frequently goes into goes into convulsions that make him almost violent. I will hesitate no longer to continue with the suggested solution by my superior.' "Dr. Leitch?" The kat looked up from his lab desk at the sound of him name, seeing two technicians enter. Each had their paw around one of Jonathan's arms. He seemed to struggle weakly against them, in a state of hallucenegenic agony. He noticed Leitch with his bloodshot eyes, and relief washed over his sickly pale face. "Did you find the syrum?" He wiggled excitedly, but they held him strong. "Please . . . give it to me . . ." Stoicly the scientist responded, "Strap him down." "You *have it*?" The dawg practially shook with nervous agitation as he allowed himself to be tied down. "Oh please, *please* . . ." Had his glasses not been removed by a tech, he might've noticed the large bottle Dr. Leitch lifted down from the shelf was not the syrum. The skull beside the red-lettered warning label on the bottle should have been enough of an indicator of its contents. Leitch nodded to the techs when Jonathan was secured, "You can go." Slowly and carefully, he found a clean syringe and began to load the bottle's contents into the tube as they left. "What is it, doctor?" Jonathan questioned. "I can take a needle now--why do I have to be tied--" He stopped short when he could see Leitch turn to face him, syringe in hand. The contents were not of the yellow color of the syrum. "*That's* not the syrum . . . doctor, what's going on?" Leitch said nothing, and advanced towards him ever so slowly. "Doctor?" The dawg struggled to prompt himself up by his elbows, but he was secured with his back to the table. "What is that? You're not going to put something in me that you wouldn't tell me about, *right*?" "Jonathan," the scientist began calmly, but the wavering in his voice could be sensed as he checked the needle over, now directly beside the table, "you realize what's going to happen . . . in the next twenty-four hours . . . if left alone." "I want to know what's in that needle, doc -- " He swallowed, "Your body will probably begin to break down . . . your vital organs will stop functioning . . . but you'd probably be in a coma by then, because you can't take that kind of pain. At least . . . that's what the charts indicate . . . Your end if near, my boy . . ." "*DOC* -- " "And I want to make it make it easier . . .," he lowered the syringe in his shaking paw so the needle lined up with the targetted arm. "I don't want you to be in pain for nothing . . . I know Roberts wouldn't . . ." He exhaled, intent on steadying himself for his black work. "I hope you'll forgive me . . . some day . . . " Jonathan's eyes widened when he realized what he was talking about, "DOC . . . DON'T COME NEAR ME . . .!" Closing his eyes, Leitch drove the needle in, but did not injecct the fluid. "DOC . . . I DON'T WANT TO DIE -- !" His claw closed over and tightened on the needle's trigger. "NO -- ," Jonathan lurched around under his restraints, feeling the fluid inside him. "*NO*!" The second shout was a less pleading, more angered one. Without warning and with an unforseen strength, he tore the straps out from the sides of the table--freeing his limbs. His first instinct was to knock Leitch away, sending the scientist straight into the wall. Infuriated, he tore the needle from his skin and hurled it across the room, letting it smash against the wall and the remaining fluid to fall onto Leitch's head. Jonathan threw himself off the table, landing unsteadily on two feet. He ran for the bottle on the desk, and read its label with a voice wavering in pitch in shock. "Sodium . . .chlorite? . . . this is poison . . ." His anger rose in his voice again, and he slammed the bottle into Leitch, who was curled up against the wall now. "YOU TRIED TO POISON ME -- !" "Now Jonathan, *please* . . . it was for the good -- " "FOR THE GOOD!" His features red with hate, he grabbed the scientist and threw him back across the room, his body crashing into the table. He had time to do little else, when the technicians stormed in through the door. Acting purely on instincts, he ducked out while the metal door was opened, slipping between the two of them. Before they had a chance to realize as to what was going on, he was gone. "Don't just stand there!" Leitch, partially recovering, stood and leaned against the table. "*Find him*!" It had not occured to Jonathan to find an escape route previously, being he'd never given the matter much thought and had rarely been beyond the hallways designated for his passage in getting from one lab room to another. The place was brimming with technicians at all hours, and he had no idea as to the size of the complex or where it was located on a map. He practically flew by the technicians, most of them unaware of his plight's reason and the techs already in pursuit. He turned down another hallway, then another . . . same white walls, same side rooms. There was almost no way to tell his direction. Jonathan was beginning to feel as though he was slipping ahead when he hit a dead end corridor. Spinning around, he heard the sound of boots on the waxed floor, and to his horror several soldiers, dressed in black and carrying uzis, appeared in block of his exit. "There he is!" one shouted, and their direction turned to the trapped dawg. 'What's next? Ninja guards?' At the movie reference his mind brightened with an idea. Grabbling the nearby wheeled cart full of bottles and various scientific instruments, he mustered as his strength and hurled it in the direction of the soldiers. It didn't necessarily knock them all over like a Jackie Chan movie, but it was enough of a momentary stun. Seizing the moment, he hopped up on the cart as it crashed through. When the cart came to a stop as it met the awaiting reception, he lept off and landed on the other side of the wall of soldiers. 'I can't believe that actually worked!' He allowed only a moment to enjoy his success, then took off in another run. 'Come on, I need a way out . . . what room has windows?' The only one he could recall was the lab next to his, that he had been in the doorway only once to try and quiet the noisy scientists. 'I know there *that* is, at least . . .' Thankfully, the door was open -- probably because of the rushed state some technician left it in after hearing the alarm siren first sound. The window, as his second stroke of luck, wasn't barred. Not hesitating, he picked up a lab stool and hurled it through the glass. The soldiers, now with Leitch, were at the door when he managed to climb up onto the windowsill. He glanced out, and grew dizzy when he noticed the three-story jump. "SHOOT HIM!" That was enough of an incentive. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and pushed forward. All he felt on his way down was a sting in the back of his leg. His land wasn't so easy, but bearable in a bush that wasn't thorny. There was no time to lie there and contemplate why he was magically still alive; he picked himself up and turned away from the complex, heading for the woods apparently surrounding the place. His leg stung horribly, which he guessed was from a bullet wound, but he ignored it as best as he could as Jonathan disappeared into the wooded area. Moments later, the soldiers bothered to stop firing. "He's gone, sir," one of them announced to Leitch. The scientist only shrugged, "Keep looking. I want a full-scale search of the surrounding forest. He'll be dead in the next twenty-four hours -- if he's lucky to last that long -- but his body must be destroyed." "Yes, sir." Chapter 8 'Lab Report - Feburary 23rd, 1981 - Dr. Archibold Leitch' 'The subject has left the facility. His termination, by our paws or his own, is enevidable.' Jonathan didn't stop running until the pain grew too much, both in his leg and his entire body from the withdrawl, and felt as though his limbs were going to fall off if he didn't rest. Halting by a small waterfall, he collapsed on the tiny bank. He had heard nothing of soldiers for well over an hour, and assumed himself to be momentarily safe. Minutes passed before he could pull himself back up into sitting position to take a look at his leg. He had indeed been shot, but there was no exit wound on the front -- indicating the bullet could very well still be inside. He tore off the lower half of his pant leg, which was soiled anyway, and soaked it in the water before attempting to wrap it around his leg as a makeshift bandage. He was not able to decide which hurt worse -- the sting in his leg, or the withdrawl symptoms. His body still shook and he was sweating despite the chill of late Feburary. He prayed for some magical angel to come deliver the syrum, or Dr. Roberts, or anyone else . . . just to stop the pain. Leaning over the stream formed by the waterfall, he was washing his face off when he felt the tears begin to creep up under his eyelids. For an instant he swallowed and tried to hold it back, afraid that if he let himself go he would get more worked up and make everything worse -- that or he wouldn't be able to stop. Finding it hard to catch his breath from the oncoming sobs, however, he finally stopped fighting the urge. The release felt good, for both his body and soul. He was alone and afraid, and after all, he himself had forgotten his age in the mess of IQ tests and eliquent speech. The emotions released were not only from the events of the past few hours, but the last weeks as well. He was tired -- emotionally and physically -- of needles, mental analysis, tutoring, and testing. The rush of new experiences and overly-mature information was simply too much for someone is age, and he allowed his true feelings to be exposed. He had no idea how long it was before he recovered. He had no way of knowing anything, in fact, especially how long it had been since his last injecction--which he wasn't sure he *wanted* to know. He slowly cleaned himself up, and began to try and stand again. The pain was great in his leg, but he had to try. 'But where would I go?' he reminded himself, and suddenly a forgotten memory flashed in his mind -- the wallet with the Roberts' family photos he had stared at so often contained an address, which he had long-since memorized. 'Now if only I could find this town he lives near, I could ask directions . . .' With a newfound sense of determination, he slowly began the long journey in the direction he guessed would lead him home. It was around two in the afternoon when Roberts got the call. Susan was upstairs, putting Michael in for a nap, and Emily was still at nursery school, so he was first to the phone. "*What*?" His disbelief echoed through his kitchen. Susan appeared at the bottom of the stairs instantly, reading the shocked expression on his face. "Honey -- what is it?" He immediately slammed down the phone on its cradle as soon as he was done with the conversation, and went for the coat closet, "I have to get to the lab. Jona -- the subject escaped." "The subject?" Roberts threw his coat on, "A dawg we were exposing to a medicative syrum. He jumped out a window and made a break for it." "Why would he -- " "I don't know, Suzy," he kissed her on the cheek, buttoning the coat. "I just don't know. Listen, if he comes here -- " "Why would he do that?" "Because he has nowhere else to go and he might look up my address. What can I say? He liked me. If he comes, I want you to call *me* immediately, okay?" She seemed a little surprised, but recovered quickly enough, "What does he look like?" "A dawg -- beagle bread. Tan fur, big, floopy ears. Kind of hard to miss in Maryland," he waved, then hurried out the door. Susan had found it hard to take him seriously, and had even forgotten mainly about the matter. She was about to go wake Michael up from his nap, actually, when she heard a tapping on the back screen door. 'Must be one of those squirrels,' she thought to herself, and pulled back the screen. Her jaw dropped when she noticed the form lying on her porch. It was a dawg indeed. His clothes, probably originally white and embroidered with the Gen-Tech logo on the breast, were soiled beyond being salvaged. A torn piece of cloth used as a bandage was soaked with blood dripping right through it and down the leg. He moaned softly, trying to pull himself into the house, but unable to stand. "Oh my -- you must be that -- ," she stopped at the word 'test subject,' thinking it too harsh. Her overall surprise was his age; he could not have been much more than thirteen, even though she had had little experience with dawgs -- it was obvious enough. His eyes lit up a bit in seeing her bend down and scoop him up, somewhat successfully carrying him inside and laying him down in a chair. She was reaching for the phone when he paw struck out, grabbing her sweater, "Please . . . no hosp'tal." "But you're injured -- " "No hosp'tal," he repeated, his speech slurred by whatever seemed to be causing his body to shake and prespire. "*Please* . . . don' wan' them t' fin me. . ." "Why not?" Curious, she knelt down to his eye level as he slumped helplessly in the chair. "Leitch . . . th' doc . . . try to kill me -- he's gonn' do it again . . . please." "You need help." "Call Doc . . . Rob'rts . . . he'll 'elp me," he gestured towards the phone again. She bit her lip, then called her husband's office number. After several rings he picked up. Susan quickly assessed the situation. "He should be acting a little sick," Roberts explained. "He's in withdrawl from the dosage he missed his morning -- " "No, I mean he's injured. Shot. In the leg. He won't let me call for an ambulance because he says he doesn't want to found. Something about Dr. Leitch trying to kill him." "*What*?" he turned around, noticing the suspected scientist now entering the office. "Look, honey . . . I'm coming home right now. Just fix up what you can and stop the blood." "Danny -- " "Bye," he slammed down the phone, facing Leitch. "Doctor . . . I need to get home. Emily is very sick." Leitch looked angered, but sighed and nodded, "We still need you to help us find him." "I know," he threw his coat back on. "Call me if you get any updates." Susan did her best to untie the cloth bandage after hanging up the phone and moving him to the couch. Jonathan grunted, but didn't otherwise complain. She cleaned it as best she could, slowly and carefully, and he didn't say a word the whole time. 'He's taking it awfully well for someone his age,' she mused, gently applying a new bandage that would hopefully stop the wound from bleeding again before Roberts got home. "I don't want to give you any medicine, because Daniel might have his own prescription when he gets here. He'll be home soon," She sat down in the chair beside him. "'s okay," He closed his eyes. "Than'yu." She remained by his side for quite a while until Roberts returned. During that period, Jonathan did not stir or speak except for a few muttered garbles of sentence fragments, and after a time she feared he was losing consciousness. Relieve washed over her when her husband rushed in the door. "Jonathan?" Not removing his coat, he bent down beside the dawg and shook him. "Can you hear me?" The only response was a minor motion of twisting in a feverish sleep, and a few mumbled words. Roberts opened each eye and inspected the pupils with a pen light. Sighing, he looked up at Susan, "How long has he been like this?" "He was awake when I found him, but you could barely understand what he was saying. The last time he said something clear was after I cleaned the leg --about fifteen minutes ago." After finally slipping his coat off, Roberts pondered, "This is a later stage of withdrawl. I'd guess he'll slip into a coma in the next hour or so. He won't survive without the syrum." "Of which there is no more, right? What about that little sample in the canister you brought home a few weeks ago?" His eyes lit up, "Oh my G-d . . . yes! It should be enough to at least bring him back to consciousness." He ran into his study, reappearing a few minutes later with a syringe, filled with a yellow liquid. "This *has* to work." He struck the needle into the dawg's arm, and there was an instant reaction of shaking and squirming. It was a few minutes -- barely -- before Jonathan reopened his bloodshot eyes. "Doc--?" He smiled, as best he could, when he saw Roberts holding up an emtpy syringe. "The syrum . . .!" "Yes--but this is my only dosage. I brought it home once for some outside testing and never brought it back. It should put some more time on your clock. Now . . . let's see about some painkillers for that leg." He disappeared again into the study, returning with another filled syringe. This one he plunged into the swollen muscle, numbing it within a minute. Roberts cautiously removed the bandage, using the penlight to get a better look at the bullet wound. "You might be able to get off without stitches, but first I have to get the bullet out," he reached for a box of medical tools, and spend a good deal of time choosing the right one -- it was obvious he was not with the exact, proper equipment for the makeshift surgery. "Are you sure we shouldn't take him to a hospital?" Susan pleaded, but Jonathan moaned negatively, and the scientist shrugged. "I don't think he'll let us. He'll have to explain later. Now -- ," he turned back to his work. The dawg gritted his teeth, feeling still a small amount of pain even after the novacane injection, but Roberts was quick with his work. "There we go," he held up the bullet, formally of residence in Jonathan's leg. Gently he began to rebandage the leg. "There should be a little more bleeding, but it'll clot soon enough." "Sorry about your couch," Jonathan winced, noticing their orange sofa was now a crimson shade of red. His clear and unchildlike speech was beginning to return. "It's all right. Since that's over with . . . what's this about Dr. Leitch?" The dawg nodded, frowning at the memory, "He couldn't find any more syrum . . . and I guess he didn't know you had a dose at home. I guess he wanted to make the end easier for me . . . so he was going to inject me with sodium chlorite. Luckily, I realized it wasn't the syrum in that needle in time." Roberts' mouth dropped at the retelling of the tale, and he shook his head sadly, "I can't understand why he would want to do that . . ." He patted the dawg's shoulder. "Listen . . . you just relax. We'll figure out what to do with you when you get stronger." He was about to stand and leave when Jonathan grabbed his sleeve, "Wait . . . do you hear something?" Roberts picked up his ears, "No." "Sounds like somebody . . . in front of the house." The sound of the doorbell confirmed it. Susan ran to the window, and her features paled when she looked out, "Daniel . . . it's soldiers from the lab -- and Leitch." The scientist uttered a curse, "Can't he ever trust me?" He knelt back down when he saw Jonathan throw his legs over the side of the couch. "Jonathan, no -- you can't put weight on your leg yet." "I can't stay here, can I?" There was a heavy bang on the door, "Daniel! Open up the door!" Roberts glanced at the clueless Susan, than back at the dawg, "C'mon . . . we can get you out the back. Suzy, you answer the door and try to stall them." Carefully, he helped Jonathan ease painfully onto his feet. The dawg leaned heavily on him until they made it to the back door, then removed his supportive weight, refusing any more help. "I'll be okay," he was having trouble settling the weight on his injured limb, but he made it well enough. "Thanks for the help, but I don't want you to get shot, too." He turned away and proceeded out onto the porch, and then the backyard. Roberts saw the dawg pick up speed when he heard the sounds of gunshots in the distance, and the scientist spun around to see Leitch's soldiers advancing on him in his hallway, guns drawn. "You shouldn't have done that, Daniel," Leitch said coldly. "You're only stalling his end." "You tried to kill him!" he made an advancing move, put his paws shot up as the gun barrels cocked closer in his direction. "I'm just being humane!" "There's no time to be humane!" his superior shouted. "He'll be dead in a few hours and his body has to be destroyed before word of this gets out! You know the rules!" "Not a few hours," he corrected. "I . . . found another dose. One I brought home once and never brought back. He has another day--there's no reason to kill him yet." "And if he makes it to a town? And leaks this to the press?" Leitch shook his head angrily. "A syrum that does what it does to him? And how the 'evil goverment' is searching to find and kill him? How would that look for Gen-Tech? Or our government, much less!" Roberts just lowered his eyes sadly, settling into a chair, "He's just a boy, Dr. Leitch." He shot a look at Susan, who looked rather confused. "Honey, I'll explain this later." "That 'boy' successfully threw me across the room, then broke out of a government restricted laboratory and is still on the loose with ocer fifty soldiers on his tale. We don't even know the true extent of his powers -- he's only started to show them in the last few hours," Leitch explained. "If other people knew what he could do--if *we* knew what he could do -- than a lot of people would want their paws on this 'boy.'" "Just . . .," he pleaded, " . . . don't hurt him. Please -- tell them to make it quick." "They will, they will," Leitch assured, peering out the back window into the outside edges of the wilderness. "I doubt he has much of a fight left in him." Jonathan was helped with yet another stroke of luck; the large pile of leaves beneath a tree truck he managed to squeeze himself under was a sufficient hiding place. He heard the sounds of soldiers above and all around him, but they had yet to notice his safe haven. There he remained, trying to ignore the pain returning in his leg and rest his tired limbs, until darkfall. Cautiously he began to pull himself out. The soldiers, for all apearances, were gone. All that was left was a starry sky twinkling down at him and the endless woods in all directions. It was long before he heard the sounds of footsteps in leaf piles again, but they were distant. He instinctively made a motion in the direction of the tree trunk again, but something stopped him. A force, unlike one he had ever felt before, overwhelmed him. It prevented his escape, with his feet locked into the ground. In terror he still heard the crinkling of boots grow stronger, but he was helpless to do anything. He wavered in stance but still could not run, and a wave of naseua hit him like a rock. His body was filled with a tingling sensation, much like when he had first been given the syrum, and had he been able to look up he might have noticed the skies seem to open up above him. "THERE HE IS!" He was immune now to reaction from the soldier's shout. Swallowing, he closed his eyes and waited for whatever end was before him. Jonathan's last feeling was that of weightlessness, a relief from the pain in his leg, and then he felt nothing at all. Susan had begun to worry long ago, when they took her husband to the lab--she was afraid for both his and Jonathan's life. But he returned in a later hour, with a pale look on his face, and she knew what had become of the poor dawg. "Oh, honey . . .," she embraced him instantly, feeling him nearly lean on her for support. "They didn't get the body," he said, his voice wavering to hold back the tears--but there was a sense of success in it. "Thank G-d they didn't get *that* . . . someone might find it and at least give him a proper burial." It was a long time before he pulled her away, "Where are the kids?" "Emily's in the den--she wanted to stay up and see you. Michael went to bed a little while ago." He nodded, and without slipping off his coat, sauntered into the den. Emily was sitting indian-style on the floor, watching TV. Without warning, he came from behind and scooped her up, holding her against his body tightly. "Daddy!" she screamed in joy. "Mommy was worried--" "I know, I know," he assured, letting her stroke his chin fur. "I'm okay. Listen, Emily . . . how would it sound . . . if we were to get a new house?" "Where?" she asked with the curiousity of a child at her age of four. "Far, far away . . . maybe somewhere warmer. It depends on who wants to hire me." "What about the lab?" He smiled, facing his wife as he still held Emily, "There's been some . . . trouble . . . between me and Dr. Leitch. So now I don't have to work with him anymore." "Oh," she couldn't understand -- she wasn't supposed to. "G'night, Daddy." Kissing him, she allowed him to release her and she ran upstairs. It was a moment before Roberts was able to look up to Susan's stare -- but fortunately, it was soft instead of his feared furious. "Daniel . . . you lost your job? You were assistant director of the project -- " "I know, I know . . .," he sighed, collapsing on the den chair. "Leitch just had some differing opinions on to how Jonathan was supposed to be handled. It's okay . . . I can get another job. You remember the offer a few weeks ago? From the company in Nebraska?" She bent over, and kissed him on the cheek, "I have faith in you, honey. I'm going to go to bed." Susan turned for the stairs, "You did the right thing, no matter what might have happened to him in the end." 'I wish I convince myself of that,' Roberts thought coldly, and followed her up. Chapter 9 'Final Lab Report - Feburary 24th, 1981 - Dr. Daniel Roberts' 'The subject has been terminated.' ~It is odd,~ one contemplated to the other, ~what these people do to their children.~ The second made a gesture in agreement, shifting color in coordinance with its mood. They were watching the boy on the table, still unconscious by all appearances. His entire body was incased in a kind of tube, with no wires but many flashing lights around the sides, indicating the use of powered equipment. ~We should have never given it to them,~ the second made a movement towards the table, looking over the lights' patterns of flashing as if they were some kind of readout. ~But we cannot bandage that past.~ ~Then at least we can still save this one's future,~ it floated and settled down on the other side, watching the dawg's light breathing. The first sensation he was aware of, after his blacking out in the woods, was warmth. Unlike he had ever experienced. He could not even compare the first time he awoke in the lab with this. He could almost *feel* the light around him, though he was unable to open his eyes. It was soothing and comforting, though there were no cotton sheets beneath him from what he could tell. The ache was gone, thankfully in his leg. His first instinct, when he found he could not open his eyes, was to attempt to move. He shifted in his position, then discovered he could do little. He was pinned down at the feet and secured with his head to the table. 'Why can't I open my eyes?' He struggled for a moment, than gave up on movement. He moaned softly, then was suddenly aware of a presence at his side. No . . . two presences. Their aura was stronger than anything he had ever felt before--it was like he could see them without opening his eyes. They must have heard his moan and realized he was waking up. Jonathan strained, but at last was able to open his eyes. There was no blinding white light--as he had come to expect from the afterlife, so he assumed he wasn't dead. The background of the room was a distant mesh of colors; it seemed like if he watched one area of the wall long enough, the color would shift hues. It made his eyes burn, so he decided to concentrate on other things. He at last got to see what held him so. His head and feet were both inserted in this tube-like machine, only whatever glass that would be around the rest of his body was missing. He was reasonably immobalized, pinned down to the surprisingly-soft table beneath him. Everything was a hazy white, so he could never make anything out as a clear shape. Suddenly he noticed to blobs of color seem to jump out from the wall--and he realized what he had merely assumed to be part of the room were two beings he sensed. They took on no definite shape as they drew closer, but remained hazy shapes of an aqua-white color. One of them must have seem him tense in fear, and it put out what was probably its equivalent of a paw and brushed it across his body in a wind-like swoop. A gentle sense of comfort washed over him instantly, loosening his tightened muscles. For the mmoment, he was able to relax in their presence. ~Do not be afraid.~ That was the second thing to frighten him. There was no sound in the room when it spoke, aside from the distant whirring of machines and his own heavy breathing, but he heard it echo in his head perfectly well. What was the word for it? Telepathy? Still very dizzy and weak, he tried to collect himself, "W-Wha do yu . . .?" ~Want?~ Alarmed again, he wondered if it had read his mind, or just guessed the end of the sentence. ~Do not try to speak. You are too weak. Just think it to us.~ "I c-can't -- " ~But you can!~ Swallowing hard, he decided to play along with whatever they had in mind. 'What do you want?' He decided to repeat the question. ~We want to help you.~ 'Why?' ~Your kin have wronged you.~ 'You can't help me, unless you have enough syrum for the rest of my life,' sadly, he was reminded of his predicament. 'I'll need it in a few hours--' ~It can be supplied.~ He was shocked at the sensation of having his own thought interuppted, and the answer. 'Where am I?' The one "speaking" made a fluid motion, almost indicating a smile, ~You would not understand if it was explained. Rest now, and all will be taken care of.~ The "hand" passed over him again, and he felt another comforting sensation -- this one of the inviting darkness. Chapter 10 Harold was just about to pull off the highway and head some when he spotted a figure beside the road. Curious, he pulled his truck over on a shoulder, coming up beside the short figure -- either a child or a dawg. It turned out to be, from all appearances, both. The youth stood silently beside him, obviously phased from some recent events. He was cloaked in a white outfit, but barefoot and wearing nothing to protect him from the breeze. He seemed to shake and shiver as he waited. "Need a lift, kid?" Harold wasn't one to pick up hitchhikers, especially on his way home from a long shipment trip, but he felt guilty about letting someone so young wander like that. Nodding stiffy, the dawg climbed up through the open door and into the seat beside him. He looked insecure. "Something wrong, kid? You don't look so good." He shook his head. "Where you goin'?" "I-I don't know," he answered at last. "What's your name?" "Jonathan Weissman." "And what were you doing out there, Jonathan?" He shrugged uncomfortable, "I-I don't know." Harold gave him a queer look, but kept his eyes on the road, "Well, unless you have someone in particular to go, I'll take you to my place and help you get things sorted out, okay? Name's Harry Lynch." Jonathan smiled, again stiffly, and they continued in silence. "Look at him eat!" Mary Lynch exclaimed. The couple were sitting at the opposite end of the now-closed diner's counter, watching Jonathan swallow mouthful after mouthful of scrambled eggs and anything else he could get his paws on. "It seems like he hasn't been fed in days!" "Maybe he hasn't," Harold pondered. "Kid doesn't seem to have any home or family. I don't know how long he was wondering before I found him. All he has on him is those clothes, a pair of glasses, a watch, and a wierd-lookin' ring." "Harry . . .," she said in all seriousness, "he acts like he's . . . *seen* something . . . or been through something. Maybe that was what he was trying to get away from -- " He shrugged, "What can we do? We'll have to report him to the foster agency and see if they can find any relatives." Mary frowned, unsatisfied, and walked over to Jonathan, who had now finished his third plateful, "Poor boy . . . you still hungry?" "No, ma'am -- thank you." Glancing down, she noticed something, "Jonathan -- your watch is off by two hours." "Huh?" "Here," she pulled up his sleeve, taking a better look at it. "It's six-thiry. Yours says four-thirty. And look . . . the date's off, too." She brought her eyes in closer. "Feburary 24th? What's this?" "Why? What's the date?" "March 10th, honey. You're two weeks behind!" His mind spun. 'Two weeks?' The last time he remembered checking his watch it was eight o'clock, on the 23rd. Somehow, two weeks had passed, but he had only lost eight hours. "Here you go," she reset the watch, then set it back on his wrist. "Now . . . do you have any relatives? Anywhere to go?" Sadly, he shook his head. "Well, then -- we'll just hafta get you to a foster agency. But if you ever want a meal, you come back to the diner, okay?" He smiled, gratefully. Chapter 11 When the Lynches dropped him off at the foster center, he discovered that not only had he lost eight hours somewhere, but he had somehow crossed half the country. He was now in Megakat City, California -- entirely on an opposite side of the country than Maryland. It didn't make any difference to him, really. After skipping out of the center before they noticed him enough to sign him up for a foster home, he returned to his only true home -- the streets. And as he soon discovered, the streets were just as cold and unforgiving as those in Washington. The only difference was in himself. He had changed, undoubtably. That was why he refused to be sent to a foster home -- he didn't want anyone catching one. It had a lot to do with the ring, he guessed. That 'magical' ring "they" had supplied him with, to fight his syrum addiction. Every twelve hours it produced a pill for him out of seemingly nowhere, and every twenty-four he took one. He guessed the pill's contents were different from the syrum, because the effects were . . . different. Some of the effects he had begun to experience in the laboratory were now . . . amplified. It was hard to tell if he was any smarter without the tutors and the constant exposure to new knowledge, but there were *other* things. His strength increased, though his muscles didn't appear to from the outside -- he still looked ten, though he quickly hit a growth spurt and in a few months had attained a height closer to that of a grown dawg. And the flying. It had been by chance, when he was being chased by a few cops for peddling in the nice area, and he made a jump -- and simply didn't come down until he felt the need to. It was an amazing experience, but he shared it with no one. 'If the scientists knew I could do this . . .' he smiled, but it quickly turned into a shiver fo fear. So he kept it all to himself, making a living by peddling and occasionally going over to the Lynch's diner when he got hungry enough. The shelters were just as bad as those in Washington, but they were there. He had no complaint; it was better than being totured by goverment scientists. Then, one day, he'd made the mistake of walking in on a shoot-out between two local gangs. He was too deep in the line of fire when he realized what was going on, and immediately hit the ground, fearing for his life. He experienced several stinging feelings whiz across his back, but nothing mroe than that. Jonathan waited several minutes for the gunfire to stop, then got back up. He had gotten up to early. One of the remaining gang members turned and without thinking, fired on him. He stumbled back, feeling the same stinging feeling, but never the bullets pierce his skin. When he dared to open his eyes, he noticed the bullets lying on the ground in front of him. Almost as if they had *bounced* off him . . . The gangster, unbelieving and staring at him like he was some kind of demon, screamed and ran. There was only one conclusion; he was bullet-proof. The pills had given his skin a thickness that prevented harm. For days he pondered what he should do with his newfound powers. He felt that he had some kind of gift, but why *shouldn't* he keep it all to himself? He didn't owe anything to society; all they'd ever given him was pain and lonliness. But his attitude changed when he overheard a conversation between two kids about his age, looking over a comics stand. "Hey, gimme that!" they were apparently fighting over the new issue of 'Superkat.' "I wanna read it first!" "I payed for half of it!" "Then you can read the back first!" "Boys, boys!" the newstand kat appeared in the front. "What is the arguement about?" "I wanna read it first!" "*I* found it." "I would've if you hadn't tripped me on the way over!" "Boys!" he shouted again. "What is the big deal about this comic?" Their eyes wided, "Oh, Superkat's just so cool -- " "He's the coolest superhero there is!" "He can fly and -- " " -- bullets just bounce of him -- " Jonathan perked up, facinated and a bit humbled by their admirility of this character so like himself. " -- and he fights crime!" "Isn't he so *cool*?" "I wish I could fight crime like him!" "I wish I had super powers like him!" 'Fight crime? What an amusing notion?' He picked up his own copy, glancing at the cheezy drawing of the kat in spandex. 'Spandex? Who would wear something *that* tight?' Amused, he bought it with the only money he had, and spent most of the afternoon reading it. The comic was wild and entertaining, but it sparked a curiousity in the back of his head . . . about how far he could go with his powers. Glancing down, he stared carefully at the ring that meant everything to him. There was a symbol on it, porbably of signifigance in the written language of it's donators, but it was much like the "u" in the English language. A smile spread across his face, and an idea began to form . . . The End