Crazy Cosmic Gals and Neon Robotics

 …and there’s nothing new at this time of the day. Everyone on the American internet was dead asleep. Emails already viewed and sent. Not even work papers in the public chatlogs and such were interesting enough to reread.

 He opens up text messages again and scrolls a bit. Everything’s read and scheduled. He and Ricky are getting pizza next week. Sunshine had forgotten the door code to the employees only area the third time that month and had wanted him to pick her up and get her some tea instead of just send the door code. A reminder for a doctor’s appointment. Reminder for vet appointment. Reminder for museum reservation. Reminder for museum reservation. Text from his brother about what they were going to have for dinner three months ago…

 Then there’s the text from coworkers and friends on Caliosteo.

 Much of course came from Scatterly, his boss. The professor tromping off in one direction and getting dead tired by the time Magnitude finds him. Sometimes he sends Mags a fully typed will and testament a few minutes before the younger man finds him to deliver water or snacks. Other times it’s reminders and questions as to what expeditions they’re planning or what files they have in storage or if he’s seen his glasses.

 Then there are the kids in the Patrol Team. Rupert and Pauleen usually text him once a month, the silver-haired teen only stating where he is and Pauleen sending recipe links. Todd is right in the middle, usually asking questions about paleontology and working in a museum. Dino and Dina are on opposite ends of a similar spectrum wherein Dino likes to send pictures of things he likes or what he thinks Magnitude would like and Dina will send about five strings of text messages asking why the way the world works or what was going on at her end.

 Lester, Cole, and Lola were in his contacts as well. He and Lester would send song titles and burger restaurants back and forth. Cole would only respond to messages about meetups and plans only when prodded politely. Lola was the most casual with asking for gift ideas and advice or even planning outings to the mainland.

 Then there was his boyfriend. Magnitude opens up the message logs and smiles faintly.

 It’s all photos of good memories and mushy text messages of how much they love each other. A recent photo of Joe’s hand petting Davey with the text ‘he misses you’ under it. The Heracles had taken a liking to him recently. Possibly because how gentle he was with the super evolver. Vivosaurs and pets alike loved how good at petting he was with them. And how often he loved to pet animals of all shapes and sizes.

 So with little self-control on this very early morning, he responds:

 Magnitude

Well he’s going to have to wait a few more days. I’d love to pet him again soon.

 He sighs and tries to get comfortable once more in bed. Both hands hold onto his phone as the comforter settles over his head. Before he can swipe into another application to waste some time in he gets a response:

 Joseph

He’s not going to like that but he’ll manage.

What time is it over there? Don’t we have a time difference of two hours?

 Magnitude

It’s almost two, I think. Can’t sleep. Back hurts again.

 The scarred man checks the time again.

 Magnitude

A little after two.

I could ask the same of you. It’s after midnight over there.

 Joseph

Wish I could help :(

And yes I am finishing up reports. A Yutie was tromping past InterFol lines earlier today and I was called in for backup since I was in the area. While I was away, Illium was hit with some nasty winds that pulled up the electrical wires and crashed the system there.

 Magnitude

That’s horrible.

The system crash part.

 Joseph

You’re telling me! Most of the logs for employees and reports had to be hand-written and gathered up. All while the winds kept blowing throughout the rest of the day. You just can’t wrangle a tornado. You just can’t!!!!

I’ve tried!!!!!

 Mags snorts into his pillow at Joe’s use of exclamation marks. Maybe one of the kids had been using them more recently and they were rubbing off on his boyfriend.

 Joseph

Please at least tell me you’ll eat breakfast in the morning.

 Magnitude

If I can sleep, yeah.

I have plenty of kolaches to heat up in the morning.

 Joseph

Right

Still wish I was there with you.

 Magnitude

I wish you were here too.

But I have work tomorrow so all the cute plans of having a lazy morning here are for not.

And I want to keep cleaning that ammonite shell tomorrow at work.

 Joseph

You’ll need sleep for that.

 Magnitude

Quiet you.

<3

 He doesn’t respond for a while and Magnitude feels his eyelids get heavy. A breathe is slowly released through his nose. Finally. Finally he feels comfortable enough to close one eye.

 Joseph

Well I’ve just finished looking through the last reports of the day so there is where I officially clock out. I’ll be waking up extra early tomorrow to see how Illium is doing. I’m prepared for rogue vivosaurs to chew up the lost electrical cables if whatever the staff didn’t find turns up.

Six hours of sleep, aren’t I lucky.

 Magnitude

Above wiring cables is the only way to go with arctic conditions? I’m not too versed with wiring or fancy computers.

God. My father used to work insane hours. Ran his own company and was his only employee to the point he would crawl into bed at four in the morning and sleep for two hours. Inherited migraines from him. Or maybe it was all the coffee he drank.

Glad I try to prioritize sleep.

 Joseph

Me neither. I’ll be making some calls.

We don’t have to talk about him.

But at the very least, I’m glad you do. I like when we get to share a night together.

I get to finish work and know someone’s waiting for me.

 Magnitude

I do too.

Sharing a bed with you is nice. I sleep better when I get to hug you or lay atop of your chest.

Your heartbeat is the only one I can fall asleep to.

Besides the waves of the ocean. It’s kind of like the ocean’s heartbeat.

God. Don’t read too into that. I’m too tired for poetry.

 Joseph

Go back to that part about being in bed with me. It’s making me tired.

 He yawns. Eyelids getting heavier…

 Magnitude

Okay.

I love being in close contact with you. I don’t have to say anything, just nudge you or bonk you or something.

 Joseph

Bonk me?

 Magnitude

You know how cats like to headbutt one another and people and things they like to show affection? Mark their territory with their scent? Kind of like that

I like just leaning against you when we’re waiting or idling and I know I don’t do well with sleep positions because of my back but, when the stars align, I do like to hold one of your arms in my sleep.

You make me feel safe. Always have.

Well maybe like 99% of the time weve known one another. I thought you were a wrom at first.

 Joseph

Hey now.

Worm? Okay. I thought you were a rabbid dog.

 Magnitude

OWCH

Hurts.

 Joseph

We hated each other.

 Magnitude

That’s true. You found me cute and I stopped denying your stupid face was not gross

 Joseph

You thought I was handsome, admit it.

 Magnitude

Heh. Alright yeah.

I did like your stupid mullet too.

Made me a little jealous. I did cut off like fourteen inches of hair before meeting you.

Didn’t want to unpack having a crush.

You’re so cte, by the way

 His eyelids get so heavy that he passes out for a minute. Blearily, Magnitude opens them to find a new text:

 Joseph

Cute?

 Magnitude

Yeah

Im tired

 Joseph

I think it’s time for bed. For both of us.

 Magnitude

Yeah

Wish yuo were here. Need you to visist again

 Joseph

I will. I have time off coming up, remember?

You can show me around the inner loop again and I can make your coworkers jealous.

 Magnitude

That’s embarrassing!!!  I don’t like clout from me dating you.

People would think I’m rich or something.

 Joseph

I know. I’m just teasing.

 Magnitude

I know. I love you twooo.

I wanna take you to Galveston though. I want to see the trains again.

 Joseph

We’re going to the beach just to see the train museum?

 Magnitude

You get to be in a mail car, Joe. It’s cool.

 Joseph

Alright. Alright.

 Magnitude

And I want to see if mr e friends can meet up with us.

Trying to get Aren to come down and Dxton and orii to visit

and get ice cream

 It’s a battle to stay awake at this point. He’ll close his eyes and feel his phone slip from his grasp or his fingers press somewhere on the touchscreen they shouldn’t. There’s still a conversation to finish…

 Joseph

Hey, I will.

Besides, I think it’s time we both retired for the night.

I love you. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you again. <3

 Magnitude

I love you too <3

I love you so much its ridiculous

Please get lots of sleep

 Joseph

You do the same.

I’d try wrangling a tornado again for you. Cyclone isn’t my middle name just because it was given to me at birth. I love you that much.

 Magnitude

Please don’t.

And before you type it: Don’t even try a ‘Stone Pyramid Return’ wih me

 Joseph

 Dr. Diggins stares straight-faced at King Dynal as the alien holds up one of his available white knights. Dynal had his lips peeled back into a snarl but not out of maliciousness.

 “The knight,” Diggins patiently explains. “It’s designed in such a way to mimic the horse a medieval knight would ride upon into battle. It moves in the L-shape to represent that a horse can make a movement or overcome an obstacle that a human cannot.”

 Dynal stares at the figure in his hands before back at Diggins. He then places it back onto its designated starting position on the board, “I prefer if your horses made their own decisions.”

 The professor chuckles, “Oh, believe me, horses have quite a mind of their own. It’s one thing to tame one but it’s another to get it to do what you say- Have you ever heard the saying ‘You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink?’”

 He’s given a flat stare in response, “No.”

 “Well… It means much the same. You can allow the animal or person to follow you tamely, but would they do as you wished at the destination in the end?”

 “I would rather not have philosophical talks in a strategy game. Thank you, very much,” and the alien reptile is back to staring at the board in thought, glowering regally.

 Dr. Diggins gives a light sigh and slumps in his seat. Even in his own private office, he cannot escape the tense thoughts of trying to please everyone. He does at least pat himself on the back how he had donated much of his more aggravating board games years ago. If this goes well, he can at least introduce Dynal to playing card games next like Go Fish and War.

 How had the two gotten into this situation?

 As soon as much of the Dinurians had settled onto Earth and all the nation-wide government red tape and documents sorted… Dynal had been caught in a rut.

 He was still a leader to his people and much as a spokesperson as he could be as a king. His people looked up to him and would get plenty of messages for help on how to organize their new lives now they were out of stone sleep and away from the behemoth of a ship they had escaped from their home world generations ago. Nowadays he had a more streamlined process of ambassadors and helpers to help sort out the few stragglers still deciding on how to spend their new life on Earth.

 Dynal had found himself having a lot more free time these days.

 Duna, Hunter, and Rosie liked to show him around Vivosaur Island when he was able to take a break. Raptin was even invited along after he was done with his community service. The four teens preferred to either enter dig sites or drag Dynal over to some shop or vendor. He seemed to only be half-interested in their endeavors to show him what the world had to offer. Dynal still kept his dinomatons on him and never excavated a vivosaur. Nearly every store he went into disinterested the king and he’d only buy sodas and sandwiches at cafes.

 Diggins had caught glances of the rag-tag group of misfits and had even said hello to them a few times. Each time, Diggins had thought to himself how lost Dynal appeared. It started to occur to him if the dinurian had any adult friends or anyone outside the group of teens to talk to.

 He had put his foot down upon seeing Dynal in typical tourist gear after exiting a clothing store. Even the four teens were averting their gaze to pretend as if the tall and lean dinurian king in a bright Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and crocs was a stranger.

 Dynal pushes another pawn forward, “Your move.”

 Dr. Diggins regards the open spaces on the board and moves one of his knights to the right, “Let’s see where this goes…”

 King Dynal narrows his eyes into slits, concentrating. A clawed hand is put to his chin as he rakes through all the rules to see what he can do next.

 A minute ticks by, then two. Dr. Diggins idly reaches a hand up and scratches at the prehistoric feline fur shirt he wore under his lab coat.

 Dynal scowls, an ear flickering in irritation, “Must you continue to wear a dead skin?”

 Diggins’ eyebrows crease and his hand drops to his side, “I think it’s quite stylish.”

 “Coarse fur like that is for winter, and you’re scratching yourself every few clicks.”

 “At least it’s comfortable,” Diggins huffs and slouches. He looks back down at the board, eager to see what Dynal’s next move is going to be.

 Dynal goes back to his deep thoughts, a claw reaching out to one piece before pulling back and then reaching again for another piece and hesitating once more. Minutes tick by again.

 “Do you need help?” Dr. Diggins sits up straighter.

 Sniffing, Dynal gives a light shake of his head, “Why offer help to your opponent?”

 “Because this is a game and games are supposed to be fun,” the darker skinned man gestures to the board. “Looks like the pawn you just moved earlier has made space for your rook. There’s also space for your bishop to move if you want to get a head start.”

 His reptilian eyes narrow. Dynal holds that stare for a moment longer before fixing his gaze back down onto the board. A minute passes before he does as Diggins suggested and advances his bishop.

 Diggins can’t help but let a small smile slip out.

 “After all, the only way to beat an opponent is to learn from them,” Dynal’s thin lips become a snake-like smirk.

 This doesn’t dower the time-traveling paleontologist in the slightest. Dr. Diggins takes a few seconds to decide and moves another pawn.

 They go back and forth until Dr. Diggns places his queen a few spaces diagonal before Dynal’s king, “Check.”

 A sneer escapes Dynal, a soft growl of disappointment leaving his lips, “I see.”

 So he sits and ponders what his next move shall be. They’ve each taken a fair share of one another’s pieces yet still have their kings. Dynal has two knights and Diggins keeps a bishop and his queen.

 “I surrender,” Dynal folds his hands together. “Let’s play again.”

 “Really?” This surprises the professor and he adjusts his glasses. “So soon? Wouldn’t you like to-”

 The Dinurian King is already setting up his pieces back into position, “I’m sure. There’s much to learn when given the temptation of fair play.”

 There’s a thin layer of fondness, Diggins finds, upon Dynal’s face. He doesn’t push it, giving a small, shy smile as he also places his pieces back onto the board.

 Dynal ends up having more pieces cornering Dr. Diggins’ side of the board. He meekly puts a rook in front of his King, “I see there might be no way out of this one.”

 “A shame,” claw-like reptilian hands place the opposing knight within optimal position against the opposing king. “Check.”

 Diggins dryly chuckles, “I’ll give you this win then. I’m cornered.”

 Dyanl preens at that, holding his hands once more. Who knew he was such a fast learner?

 “How about best two out of three rounds?” The paleontologist starts placing his pieces onto the board again.

 “Hmph! Very well,” Dynal copies. “Prepare to taste defeat once more, now that we are at a final confrontation.”

 “As we humans say: Bring it.”

 This match goes on for much longer. Each side taking minutes to decide on their next maneuver before placing their pieces in different positions. The sun steadily dips closer and closer towards the cerulean horizon of the sea outside. Long shadows are cast from the two in direct opposition of the window.

 “Check.”

 Dynal’s Queen is diagonal from Diggins’ king.

 Dr. Diggins adjusts his glasses and carefully looks over the board. The light from the sunset outside his window reflects onto his spectacles.

 “Do you yield?” There’s a lilt of confidence in Dynal’s voice. Hope in a surrender from his foe.

 “…not yet,” Diggins moves his King towards the side and out of harm’s way. “I have more pieces.”

 “Oh?” Dynal tilts his head slowly to one side. He doesn’t elaborate.

 After some thought, Diggins moves his last pawn into the pathway of Dynal’s queen, “Your turn.”

 The pawn is overtaken but the king escapes. Two knights chase one another around the board. A rook edges around the outside as a bishop overtakes the pawn…

 “Check.”

 Dr. Diggins now has his last knight in opposition to Dynal’s king.

 A claw taps against the table slowly in thought, “My, my…”

 “Give in?”

 Dynal doesn’t answer. He gauges the board with its four remaining pieces before slowly moving his king out of range, “Plenty of time in the world.”

 There was a lot more time these days.

 The knight is overtaken finally by Dynal’s queen and Dr. Diggins snatches his opponent’s queen with his knight… The queen is overtaken by a rook and…

 “Checkmate.”

 Dr. Diggins is able to dethrone Dyna’s king piece and win.

 He expects a low snarl and the demand to play once more despite the stars already shining outside and the sun far below the waves.

 King Dynal just chuckles and folds his claws together, “Well, well. I have plenty of more to learn, it seems.”

 The professor smiles at him, “I’m very happy you enjoyed this. I am afraid, however, that we’re going to have to stop for today.”

 “Very well,” Dynal looks out the window and sees how dark it’s become. “Do you mind if we schedule another time?”

 “Not at all! How about same time every Thursday?”

 “Thursday…” He has to remember the Earth calendar after having the chess board and each pieces movement seared into his brain, “Yes, I will make time.”

 “Splendid!” Dr. Diggins starts to pack away the board and pieces, “I haven’t had anyone to play with in quite some time. I’m excited to do this regularly again.”

 His last regular opponent was Rosie when she was no older than six when her grandfather needed a last-minute babysitter. She demanded then that the queens be the most important piece on the board and that the game became something more like roleplay. Little Rosie had even made the bishops into jesters and knights into horses.

 “Then I hope you will be thinking of newer strategies to decimate my armies,” Dynal tuts. He stands up and adjusts his long sweeping robes and hair as elegantly as the clouds on Saturn, “I will be doing the same.”

 “Great! Maybe I’ll put on a pot of tea or make sandwiches as well.”

 “Dr. Diggins,” the professor turns to see Dynal with his hands folded together. He’s surprised and stops to pay attention as the dinurian continues, “Thank you.”

 “Of course, it’s only tea and sandwiches-”

 “I meant in thanks for the company.”

 “Ah…” Dr. Diggins adjusts his glasses.

 His pale blue hands stiffly tighten around one another, “I have not adjusted to Earth and life after Guhnash as well as my people. It has been hard to make newer connections these days. So I thank you for extending a hand towards me again. I hope we can become good friends, in due time.”

 A pause. Face blank.

 There’s a soft smile from Diggins, “It’s alright. Pleasure was all mine. I hope we too will become good friends. In due time, of course.”

 Dynal’s thin smile is warm, comforting even. His eyes twinkle like distant stars, “It is late. I shan’t keep you from dinner any longer than I have. Good night.”

 “Good night,” well-wishes exchanged, Diggins watches Dynal leave his office.

 Right on cue, his stomach rumbles. His mind goes back to sandwiches. Something with melted cheese and pork between some crispy bread…

 Now that he thinks about it, Duna had mentioned at one point or another that Dynal’s favorite food was ‘space sandwiches’ of all things. What would that be? And how could he replicate something like that one Earth?

 ‘They failed and yet I still live.’

 She’s still unhappy about that sentence.

 The dinurian lets out a guttural noise from within her throat. Duna’s been trying piece together her memories of her life for the past few months and after finally finding the time to start in-between ambassador business she cannot yet get past the second paragraph. Infuriating.

 Grumbling, Duna clicks her claws and backspaces but does not start typing right away. She sits and stares at the laptop with its annoying blue light and slight warmth. Wasn’t writing things that had happened already supposed to come naturally? Writing reports in the past had always been so easy as she would clack out a few paragraphs from her scouting missions and turn them in on the same day.

 She had been lost in thought for a few moments longer than she’d thought as Rosie comes up at Duna’s side to sit down, “Morning.”

 Duna hums but doesn’t look away, “Good morning.”

 Rosie holds a pink and white coffee mug steaming with hot chocolate with both of her hands. Her flawless pink hair is tied back in a sleepy ponytail and her eyes are that gorgeous sky blue that Duna loved to see every morning when the two woke up for work every day. She sits with her legs crossed and eyes the laptop, “You didn’t come back to bed last night.”

 “I couldn’t sleep,” a nagging case of insomnia took her during some nights. Duna found that staring at her word documents and recounting scouting missions helped. “Sorry.”

 “That’s alright,” Rosie sighs and leans against Duna. The alien blinks away from her computer screen to softly gaze at her girlfriend. Her strawberry hair soft and flowing lovingly against her scaly skin.

 She raises a raspberry claw to curl a stray strand of hair around her finger, “Did you sleep well?”

 “Mhm,” another sigh from Rosie as she adjusts herself and her drink. “Still tired from that meeting.”

 “You don’t have to go into work today.”

 Now Rosie gives an airy laugh that’s only reserved for Duna. Then a snort, “Fat chance. I have another one tonight for a new tournament.”

 “The championship title one?”

 “Past champions verses new ones, yep.”

 A quiet pause between the two. Seagulls caw outside and ready themselves to head for the tourist-heavy districts of Vivosaur Island to snatch overpriced foods. Waves from the ocean below the cliffside their house rested upon rocked back and splashed into the rocks.

 Rosie shifts her gaze towards the laptop screen and skims through a few lines, “Still on page one?”

 Duna gives a quiet hum in confirmation before nodding, “I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

 “That’s what they all say,” Rosie sits up straight and her partner uncurls her claw from her hair. “You have to just start. Jump over the first hurdle and everything will be easy afterwards. Page one or even sticking the landing.”

 Missing her girlfriend’s warmth, Duna pauses for a moment, “It sounds sad. Everything I type to start is sad.”

 Rosie unhooks a hand from her coffee mug to gently wrap it around Duna’s, “I can’t understand what it’s like to lose your home and the rest of your kind in one day, less not even remembering it. You don’t have to make it all sunshine and rainbows for it to be a bitter pill to swallow.”

 “It happened,” Duna feels her hands relax. “It happened and I can’t remember it or my own parents. Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be writing this book.”

 Her hand is squeezed, “You don’t have to if it’s too painful.”

 At one point in time Duna had thought such actions as these were pity or even misunderstanding as to what she had gone through. She didn’t lash out at those suggestions anymore and had only done so once at Rosie way back when she was still adjusting to Earth. If she was still her immature teenage self, she would have swatted away Rosie’s hand and yelled at her with her claws outstretched and fangs in full view…

 …and she had done that once only to get yelled at back into silence at Rosie’s own experience of going through both of her parents dying in a way parallel to her own parents' death. It had cowed her into silence. She had learned a valuable lesson, but Duna had also grown closer to Rosie from then on after an apology and a proper talk.

 Her claws press into the center of her hands, “Rosie, I want to do this. I don’t owe anyone anything, but I at least want to share what I remember.”

 Rosie stays silent, still holding onto her girlfriend’s hand.

 “If I don’t write it down now then how am I supposed to remember and share it?”

 She loved Earth but she didn’t want to forget her home planet as well. Duna couldn’t stand the last of her memories slipping through her claws.

 “Does Dynal feel the same way?” Rosie’s fingers flex lightly in Duna’s hand, “Raptin?”

 Duna’s eyes narrow into slits, “Raptin remembers more than me.”

 He was the one to press the button, after all.

 A gentle hand is placed upon her shoulder, “Then why are you writing this?”

 Duna looks to Rosie, frustration ebbing away, “It’s important. I want Earth to know of us and I want all the new Dinurians to understand what we’ve been through.”

 “This is important to you. I know,” she leans in closer. “Don’t pressure yourself too much. I love and support you but you shouldn’t tear yourself apart.”

 The dinurian parts her lips, “I love you too.”

 Duna and Rosie lean ever slowly closer, the late morning sun through the white cotton curtains warm and comforting over them…

 “Woah.”

 …and abruptly stop to turn towards the source of the noise.

 It’s Hunter holding a half-eaten bowl of fruity loops. His hair is down and messy. The blunette was still in his sleep clothes and having obviously just rolled out of bed.

 Unperturbed, Hunter lifts the spoon up to take another bite out of his cereal, “Sorry. Thought you guys were out.”

 “HUNTER!” Rosie screeches, face aflame like her trusted Siamo, “When did you get back from Europe?!”

 “Uh, last night,” he replies, munching at his cereal. “You guys were asleep so I didn’t want to wake you.”

 Duna considers the scene carefully, very used to her girlfriend’s and best friend’s antics. She doesn’t really have anything to say since Hunter was their roommate and was always considerate of their romantic moments. It was an honest mistake of timing.

 But she doesn’t speak up when Rosie raises a pillow from the couch and takes aim at Hunter.

 “Geeze! I’m sorry!” Hunter shields his cereal away from Rosie and takes his leave as fast as he can, “Not when I’m eating!”

 She doesn’t head his apologies and gives chase, pillow getting thrown in the process as Rosie leaps over the couch. Even though it lands with a soft ‘oomph!’ against Hunter’s back she does not halt her chase in the slightest.

 So Duna turns away and lets them get to whatever friendly roughhousing will go down at the expense of Hunter’s breakfast. She gets back to writing, rereading everything she had typed. Her thoughts on Rosie and Hunter and their adventures linger as her claws tap against the keyboard.

 ‘They died giving us more time. I believe. I still live because of them.

 ‘I did spend most of my early life under the tutelage of King Dynal and rarely with other dinurians my age. Some might find it sad I have so few memories of my home before it was destroyed. I learned my ancestor’s tongue and how to aim a gun but I will also never forget the taste of space spun sugar or the warmth of my mother holding me when I cried.

 ‘I do mourn them and my home. But time is fickle and presses on. That is why Earth is my new home now and why I choose to live my best life with my new friends here.

 With dignity, he adjusts his decorative cowboy hat and sighs in front of the last tourist stand that was closing up shop for the night. The universe was surely laughing at him for setting his plans in motion so late. Why was trying to enjoy time with your pard so hard when it felt like too many things had fallen into his lap last minute? He had too much pride to ride into the mainland tomorrow morning for those half-price gifts and sweets and admit defeat to his boyfriend.

 So he trudges away from the Ribular Town Fossil Center and starts to walk in any direction that wasn’t the landing pad area. Think, Joe, think! Mags would understand since he’d been busy as of late but there’s that guilt of knowing the redhead had already planned to give him a gift and to bring up the idea of having a nice date later in the week when everything was sure to be calmer. He must give into capitalism for tonight and just get him something that says ‘I have been thinking about you in-between all this chaos and I love you so much’ but he must also have to make it feel one-hundred percent earnest. Joe just couldn’t get a run-off-the mill teddy bear, Mags was very particular about his plush animals after all.

 “Hiya Joe!”

 He perks up an looks down the path that lead into the Jungle Labyrinth. Ahead of him was none other than Todd and Dina approaching him with dirt and scrapes on their knees and rucksacks full of fresh fossils. His mood is uplifted a tad at seeing the teens.

 “Howdy y’all,” he tips his hat to them, observing how tired they should be but aren’t. “Not up for tha festivities today?”

 “Nah,” Todd blows a raspberry as they now stand in front of their hero and guardian. “Valentine’s Day is more Pauleen’s thing.”

 “We wanted to get some deeper digging since everyone’s on dates,” Dina excited shows out a small fossil with an imprint of extinct ferns. “See? Can’t get this when everyone’s hogging the shorelines.”

 Joe Wildwest nods, a small smile slowing forming on his lips, “I thought I recognized that clay dust on yer knees.”

 Caught, Todd rubs at his nose and tries to hold back an embarrassed grin, “Yeah- We did get a little dirty…”

 “It was worth it though! Even if that rogue Coelo came out of nowhere,” the orangette inspects her scabbed-over knees. “That thing had claws…”

 Groaning, Joe is imaging the kids getting jumped by said rowdy vivosaur, “Is tha varmit still there? Need me to give it a good ol’ whallop?”

 “Nah! We thrashed it!” Dina fishes out a Coelo medal from one of her back pockets and hands it to Joe. “Easy as lemon pie.”

 “Ah! Good on you two,” he gingerly takes the vivosaur medal and pockets it to file it for the Rogue Vivosaur Control to take care of. Seeing how well the two are capable of handling these kinds of situations on their own makes him proud.

 “Why are you out so late, Joe?” Todd tilts his head to the side, “It’s almost dark out. We were going to eat dinner after washing up.”

 That was true. The sun had almost set beyond the horizon and it was advised that only expert diggers and fossil fighters be out and about at night lest they were to be unfortunate in one way or another…

 He squints behind the two and notices how dark the jungle in the distance is becoming. Joe admits to himself it would not be wise to go meandering into the dig site this late. Okay, he’ll admit defeat on that.

 Looking back down at the two, he gives them a troubled expression, “Just thinkin’ is all. Needed a valley between myself and work to find a gift for Mags.”

 “Oh!” “Ah!”

 “I’m above this one’s bend at the moment,” Joe sighs. “You kids know it’s our first so I’m not returning all beer and skittles.”

 He takes a moment to look back over at Ribular Town’s building and Dina quickly looks up on her phone what Joe had said to make sure she and Todd were understanding what was at stake. She pockets her phone before humming when Joe turns back around, “Well… You didn’t hear this from me but there is someone selling, uh, ‘unusual chocolates’ at Illium tonight.”

 “Pauleen’s been keeping up with all the trending stuff this month,” Todd supplies. “She wasn’t very interested in what she saw though so I don’t know what kind of chocolates they could be.”

 “If Pauleen doesn’t like it then it’s probably not very romantic, I guess,” Dina sighs.

 ‘Unusual chocolates…’ Now that does get the gears turning in his lumpy skull.

 He holds his chin with one hand in thought and looks towards the sky. Joe would have to race to Illium Village since it’s sundown already over there. All he has is blind faith that the seller could still be open. His gaze snaps back down to the two, “Where might I find them?”

 “Fossil Center, most likely. Rupert sent pics of the crowd of sellers pitching up their shops and it’s CROWDED!” Dina throws her hands up in the air to exaggerate, “Like an anime convention!”

 Todd nods, rubbing his nose again, “Probably to keep warm from the cold.”

 That means there could still be sellers cleaning up. He’d have to get there fast.

 So he gives the two a nod and a swift salute with two fingers before making his way towards the landing pad area, “Thanks y’all! Get cleaned up and fed, ya hear?!”

 “Will do!” Dina waves to him.

 “Aye!” Todd does the same before sneezing, “I think some clay got in my nose…”

 Joe manages to run out back into the large open space that made up the central of Ribular Isle and flings his Ptera onto the landing strip restricted for flying vivosaurs. Denver the champion ptera springs to life and stands at attention for his tamer before Joe makes it to his side. One leg over his back and Joe only needs a second to adjust himself before kicking his heels into Denver’s sides, “Hiya!”

 With a caw, Denver takes a running leap and then spreads his wings. It takes a few strong flaps of his wings to gain distance from the ground before they’re both airborne and headed for the frostiest area of the fossil park.

 Just as he suspected, Illium Village is already dark and the outdoor lights are casting their warm glows upon the heightened walkways and from behind thick windows. As soon as he is able to get a clear view of the blue frosted bricks of the landing strip below him Joe Wildwest hops off of Denver and return him to his medallion form. He wastes no time in booking it towards the Fossil Center.

 All the pop-up shops inside are already closed down. Tables folded or bare. Much of the sellers for the day had already left or were on their way with luggage filled with their decorations in tow behind them or a small vivosaur to help carry any stray bags.

 Joe’s hope dashes as he slowly dodges leaving guests and scans the room for any leftover shop keepers taking their time. It’s no use, he figures.

 Before he is able to stop and finally finally admit defeat, a shopkeeper near him sobs as she packs up her stock. Joe looks to his left and sees the downtrodden goth with her ten boxes of chocolates that look to have not sold well. He feels bad for them and approaches, “Howdy. Do you need any help here?”

 “Ah!” Spooked, dark makeup running, “Ah- Mister Joe Wildwest! Ah- Hi!”

 He gives a small chuckle at the title, used to the awe that people outside of his friend groups would give him, “I saw ya here bawlin’ want wanted to know if ya needed anything.”

 “Oh, how nice of you,” she sniffles, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief with cobwebs stitched into it. “I came here with my collection of Unusual Chocolates and all of them managed to sell so well. The bone-shaped chocolates were the best seller but- OH! Ah, it’s so embarrassing. My one collection that didn’t sell well was the one I put the most amount of detail and time into…”

 ‘Her! She’s selling the chocolates!’ Joe has to save his celebrations for later as there is a sobbing goth lady in front of him, “Ah… I’m so sorry for that. But, I will admit I came running when I heard of you’re here Unusual Chocolates being on the market.”

 “Wha- Really?!” Her teary eyes become owlish, blinking away her sadness almost instantly, “Oh I only have this bad luck collection but-!”

 “I’ll take two boxes.”

 “AH!” The seller squeals with delight and more tears well up, “You will? OH Thank you! Thank you!”

 Gold is exchanged and both he and the chocolate seller wish one another well for the night before Joe once again books it for the landing strip. He takes off for Cranial City atop of Denver.

 When the elevator opens into his private housing dorm within the Wildwest Tower, he sees his partner setting down a bag of groceries next to a decorated box. Oh snap. Just in time.

 “Hey!” Magnitude turns and gives his boyfriend a smile, “I just got in. How are you?”

 “Right as rain,” he’s too tired to purr but he holds out the boxes of chocolates. “What ya got there?”

 “Oh these?” He picks up a carrot from within the tote bag to show, “Just a few groceries from the mainland. Thought I’d make a nice dinner tonight since we’ll be having that date night this weekend.”

 Then his eyes go to the boxes Joe holds. That gets him excited, posture stiffening. A silent question of ‘Is that for me?’

 Joe pretends not to understand him, lightly shaking the boxes to allow his boyfriend to hear the clue of the gifts inside, “I did run a lil late picking up somethin’ I have been plannin’ a long while to get for ya.”

 “Oh! You didn’t have to,” he gives the same kind of caring song and dance that Joe expects but those brown eyes don’t leave the boxes of chocolates. Now Joe knew Mags was a hundred percent authentic with his assurances but he was also quite aware of one of his many weaknesses: Fun-shaped foods such as chocolates.

 “I even got you something since you’ve been so busy,” Mags puts the groceries down properly and shows off the decorated box he had brought in.

 “First dinner, then a promise of a future one, and a gift?” The cowboy can’t help but chuckle, “Yer spoilin’ me here.”

 “C'mon, we planned that date night last week,” Magnitude’s eyes finally leave the box to face Joe fully. He rolls his eyes, “Both of us would be too busy and we wanted to relax, yeah?”

 “Yeah?”

 “And I like cooking and we’re not going to the canteen tonight for whatever’s half-warm there,” with that, Joe’s gift is placed atop of the boxes in his hands. “So. You get to open yours first while I get stuff ready.”

 “Fine, fine,” there’s a light huff from Joe as he relaxes his shoulders and lets his boyfriend take advantage of the barely used kitchenette just a few paces from the green room. There are a few saving graces to having a quiet evening with a partner who can cook, he muses. Sometimes that nagging question of ‘what did I do to deserve him?’ comes up but it’s quieter now and can easily be shushed.

 Well he better get comfortable. Joe Wildwest sits down on the dark orange couch and sets the boxes atop of the coffee table before taking off his hat and coat. After he stretches his neck, he plucks his gift atop of what he recently bought and eases the lid of the red and gold box open…

 A new bandana. It’s that classic red but with rusted brown thread stitched at the edges. The fabric was comfortable and not too soft, almost just like his classic yellow one he wore nearly every day.

 He smiles lightly, fond at how Magnitude had remembered him complaining about how the store-bought ones weren’t as sturdy as the properly stitched bandanas he had come to love back home and those few times he had mentioned that he needed a few new ones for when he was going to visit the family ranch to help out. Joe takes off his gloves and strokes the fabric, touched at the gesture of how hand-made the gift was. Why does his boyfriend have to be an excellent gift-giver?

 “We can wait a bit for dinner, if you’re not too hungry,” Mags comes back and notices Joe admiring the hand-sewn bandana. “Ya like it?”

 Joe faces him, “I love it. It’s perfect.”

 “Fufu!” Magnitude cheers and sits next to him before picking up the top most box of chocolates, “My turn, then!”

 He sits at attention now, wanting to take a good look at the special chocolates he had picked up minutes ago. Magnitude tugs off the velvet red ribbon and lifts open the white gift box lid…

 And the two find organs. Chocolates in the shape of human organs.

 Pale. All the blood draining his figure. Joe Wildwest now understands why this collection of unusual chocolates didn’t sell well. He’s too weak to smack himself upside the face for not checking what exact shape they were before purchasing them.

 Joe’s about to leap over the couch and either run to his computer to put in do a rush delivery for regular chocolate truffles or to leap out the window. Fifty-fifty chance.

 “I love them!” Magnitude giggles, picking up the chocolate shaped like a liver, “They got all the groves in the liver right. It’s shaped just like mine! Oh how I hate my liver so much but now I can eat it-”

 And then he does just that, plopping the liver-shaped chocolate into his mouth to eat.

 All of Joe’s worries turn to stone and shatter with that. Maybe it was just the stress that made him second-guess the unusual chocolates. After all, these were a gift to his partner who always wanted to try eating the neon-colored sweets at any bakery they would enter. This was the man who had been studying anatomy since he was five, after all.

 “I- I’m glad,” he smooths himself down and leans into his partner’s side. Joe wants to take a deep sigh of relief at that very moment that all’s well that ends well but he decides to save it for later. Relief radiates off of him as he lays an arm over the redhead’s shoulders. He allows all his worries to fade away and to melt into his boyfriend on the holiday where love was to be celebrated.

 Joe hums as Magnitude rests into his one-armed hug, “It’s so easy ta find ya gifts. I don’t know why I pull my hair over it.”

 Placing his free hand upon Joe’s chest, Magnitude gives a quiet hum back, “You waited last minute?”

 Busted.

 …not that he minds anymore.

 “Maybe,” he gives him a wink and a small smile. “Can ya forgive me?”

 “I already have,” Mags reaches over and gives him a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, right where the right edge of his smile met his cheek. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

 “Lola, of course,” Cole deflates. “She’s been giving me hot and cold answers for the past two weeks about coming with me since she also has a med final coming up. Not chill of her but I think she just didn’t want to disappoint me. I don’t think she’ll mind if I were to flake.”

 “Well it is a mainland concert…” The silver-haired teen observes aloud, putting a finger to his chin in thought. Those tickets are sold out as in sold-SOLD out. Even rich billionaires like him can only weep publicly on social media to see if one of the members of the band would take pity and invite him. “In a nearby town for tonight too.”

 “Wow…” Dino, now inspecting the tickets closely, whistles, “I’ve never been to that town but I think it’s pretty large. Would I have to dress up in cowboy boots to still fit in?”

 “Pfft! A scene or emo cowboy? Why didn’t I think of that,” the hipster gets his groove back with his signature ‘ohohoho!’ laugh. “Should have put that together before this concert- GAH! It wouldn’t have worked because I can’t go! GRRRRRR!”

 And he was back to tearing at his dyed hair, “Nevermind- Nevermind! You’ll be fine there. Just maybe a dark t-shirt and a striped long-sleeve underneath if you wanna be lost in the crowd.”

 “I do have a few extra collars,” Rupert thinks aloud again.

 Dino grins, “I can get Dina to pierce my ears!”

 “Urk-” His friend is quick to turn to him with a pained expression, “No! Don’t do that!”

 “But what if I want the safety pin look?” The blunette crosses his arms, “It would look more metal and match my zipper pants.”

 “Venom Killjoys are actually a ‘yeah sure we can be emo if you’re desperate’ band,” Cole rolls his eyes, trying very hard not to sound too insulted. “Look, I’m not going to be a literal killjoy here but do you two want the tickets or not?”

 “I need to check my own sched-”

 “HECK YEAH!”

 -and that was how Rupert and Dino were able to stand in attendance for the Venom Killjoys’ reunion tour decked out in as much scene and punk accessories Dina and Pauleen could dump onto them.

 Dino had not gotten his ears pierced as he had wanted them to be and with the support of his twin sister despite Rupert, Todd, and Pauleen holding her back when she had gone to find a sewing needle. Eugh. Thank the great Igno and Frigi. Instead Rupert had given him a spare collar and some dark eyeshadow as Dino’s closet was full of striped shirts and other alternative fashion accessories (black and red zipper pants included). On the other end, Rupert had to borrow one of Dino’s long-sleeves and Dina’s ‘scary’ shirts with art of a V-Raptor ripping into the black cotton. Pauleen gleefully attended to his makeup of red eyeshadow.

 The flight over on a borrowed pterosaur had been surprisingly brief as well and, all in all, much of the travel to their venue had been easy. Blending into the crowd of other bright-colored heads and dark-clothed beings made Rupert feel safe. For once, no one could point him out of a crowd due to his silver head of hair when he was in a herd of alternative music fans with their various shades of white and blonde. It’s a little fun to see even a few dinurians in punk and scene fashions.

 “So, have you listened to any of their songs?” Rupert glances at Dino as they wait for the stage at the center of the arena to open up.

 “Kind of, have you?” The blunette blinks and stares back, the dark eyeshadow making his eyes appear eerie.

 “No,” his father would have called anything ‘less’ than classical noise or a distraction. Pop music and anything made after the fifties included.

 “Well I do know that a lot of their well-known stuff like ‘Victory Over My Grave’ and ‘Helena’ were on the list to be played at my middle school’s Eighth Grade dance. I’ve listened to them before and I think I prefer ‘Helena’ because the guitar is so so so good!”

 How odd, he muses. His Mapo King was also named Helena. Rupert hums, nodding along, “Did you go?”

 “Huh?”

 “To your school’s dance?”

 Dino is quiet for a moment before looking back out at the dead stage, “Heh. Nah. I didn’t have any friends back then.”

 Something twists in Rupert’s gut. Guilty at turning the mood sour, Rupert looks down for a moment, “Sorry.”

 “Don’t apologize,” Dino is quick to flash him a grin. “That was ages ago! We’re part of the Patrol Team, BFFs for life!”

 “Heh,” he can’t help but quirk his lips into a half-smile back. That’s right. Being a member of the Caliosteo Patrol Team meant you didn’t have to be who you were in the past.

 “Look! It’s starting!”

 Rupert doesn’t need to follow where Dino is pointing as the lights dim and the crowd explodes into cheers as band members file out onto the stage. Fog machines spill artificial smoke around the center of the arena and a light show starts. The opening band starts and Rupert and confidently place them as a delight to play their music whenever he’s planning vivosaur battle strategies late at night. The perfect sounds to listen to when he needs to envision his Krona thrashing an opposing vivosaur.

 He and Dino cheer with the rest of the crowd when the opening act gives room for the main performers to take their places. The centermost part of the stage falls dark and a guitar rift plays that instantly starts a spark within the arena. Everyone goes wild as more instruments join in and the lights at the main singer’s studded boots flash upwards to illuminate his face.

 Dino cheers even louder and he grips Rupert’s hand as an upbeat song that is enjoyed by the whole stadium is played. Drums and cymbals thrash. Basses thrum. Guitars shred.

 Yeah. He gets it now.

 Rupert jumps with Dino, still not knowing the words as the song nears its end. He doesn’t need to understand what is going on as another song plays with explosive lyrics and then another and another. The silver-haired teen gets lost in the moment as he’s having a great time with his friend as they held hands and jumped together to whatever lyrics were being shouted into the audience of excited fans. Rupert understood why his father wouldn’t let him listen to this kind of music with its contents but he does find it kind of ironic that music wasn’t what put him into therapy.

 But he doesn’t need to think about that. Everyone’s belting out lyrics about hope in the dark. Some are emotional about it and others are just happy to thrash their head in every direction. His jumping equates to dancing.

 Then the stage grows quiet before a long guitar rift starts again. Leaning so close into the mic that was so personal, the lead singer crows out low notes. The crowd cheers for a few seconds out of glee before growing silent to listen in.

 He and Rupert stop jumping, understanding that the song being performed at the moment was important. Rupert is able to judge that it’s a ballad based on the lyrics before the rest of the band mates join in with the thrumming of their rock instruments. The crowd goes wild again. Both Patrol Team members start their jump-dancing and whoop.

 “Well, I’ve been holding on tonight-”

 A chord gets strung through Rupert’s chest and he nearly stumbles. The stadium is warm but his chest feels just like the chill of Iceberg Plateau. Rupert stops.

 “What's the worst that I can say?”

 “Things are better if I stay-”

 The chorus continues but the feeling doesn’t leave Rupert. He chokes, his mind a mess.

 “Rupert?” Dino had stopped his jumping alongside Rupert, unlatching one of his hands to wave at his friend. He sounded worried, “Rupert?”

 There’s hollering from the crowd as smoke and pyrotechnics go off. Everything’s building but Rupert doesn’t take it into account as only the lyrics and the guitar chords are able to pierce him.

 Everything’s a rush of color in his head. The ballad of a friend who is long gone and the grief and guilt of what has happened. Something is screaming in pain, in such sadness through angry tears. It’s all unfair.

 A skull with purple eyes. Clutching his late mother’s hand. Floating atop of an ancient castle. Going up against his father with Dina. The zombified dinosaurs gnashing their teeth at Dino. It’s all flashes of black and white and over within just two seconds. Pain. Grief. Anger.

 Therapy has helped him greatly. This song? It fills him with all the dread and grief and trauma that had been built up from the events of that tournament and now he’s able to filter it all back out. He needed this too.

 “Rupert,” Dino finally pierces through the fog of his mind and his face full of concern is only within Rupert’s vision. “You’re crying.”

 ‘Ah…’ The last Majestic Vessel of Zongazonga raises a hand to the side of his right eye and finds a wetness mixed in with Pauleen’s red eyeshadow, “Oh.”

 There’s a fade in the song that sends a thrill within the audience around them as the lead singer’s vocals echo. Guitar strings thrum in stereo that rocks your ribcage.

 “Can you hear me?”

 “Are you near me?”

 “Are you okay?”

 Rupert nods a few more times than he had meant to, sniffling, “Yeah. Dino?”

 “Hm?”

 “Can we pretend to leave, and then,”

 “We'll meet again-”

 “What’s this song called?”

 Dino gives him a kind smile, so very unlike his wild and cheerful grins, “It’s ‘Helena’.”

 “The one you like?”

 “Yeah!”

 “I like it too.”

 The blue-haired teen’s smile widens as the band explodes back into focus.

 “When both our cars collide?”

 Rupert grasps his free hand back into Dino’s. Their fingers interlock and Rupert gives a smile back. Dino starts laughing, the heat of the stadium making his cheeks red. Laughing along, Rupert also feels his face flush. They get back into their jumping as the song starts to come to an end. The crowd goes wild and howls, cries, yells, cheers…

 “So long and goodnight,”

 “So long and goodnight.”

 He can’t help but cry along with others in the audience as the band finishes their performance and the last of the pyrotechnics go off. Rupert looks out towards the stage to not let his friend see him like this and Dino gives him that peace.

 They fly back on towards Cranial Isle atop of the borrowed Ptera. Rupert hugs Dino’s middle as the blunette pilots. The stars are out and shining down upon them as they glide above the clouds. A full moon guides the way.

 “I liked that,” Rupert admits after a bit.

 “Yeah! Yeah, they were awesome,” Dino grins but his friend can’t see it. Thankfully, Rupert can easily imagine his cheery face.

 “Better than that Eighth Grade dance you didn’t go to?”

 “Heh, you betcha.”

 They’re quiet again. The Ptera flaps his wings and makes a few guttural noises.

 “…I know you and Dina were homeschooled.” Rupert speaks up again, eyelids drooping, “That’s how Todd says the three of you became friends anyway.”

 “Mhm,” the mirth isn’t in Dino’s usual voice. His smile drops.

 “He didn’t say as to why though,” the canary-eyed teen chooses his words carefully. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

 “I was bullied,” Dino doesn’t turn around. “I couldn’t go to school anymore.”

 “O-oh. I’m sorry I shouldn’t-”

 “It’s okay. I trust you,” Dino gives him a slow glance over his shoulder. The black eyeshadow obscures which emotion he’s expressing, “A lot of my teachers and classmates just didn’t understand me. I just didn’t smile or talk as much as the other kids and got picked on for being ‘too childish’. I didn’t have any friends and it got so bad I just didn’t want to go anymore. So, uh, yeah.”

 Rupert hugs Dino tighter, “No one deserves that.”

 “It’s fine,” Dino lets out a hollow chuckle, failing to hide a sniffle. “I guess that’s why I like ‘Helena’ so much.”

 Nodding into Dino’s back, Rupert sighs, “Yeah. I get it now. So much pain.”

 “And we all made it to Caliosteo in the end, huh?”

 Rupert smiles, humming in agreement. The Patrol Team was his best unexpected destination for sure,  “I wanna punch those bullies for you.”

 Dino lets out an actual laugh this time as he guides the Ptera in the right direction, “Dina got you beat there. She’s was homeschooled alongside me for beating up my classmates.”

 A laugh from Rupert now, “Really?”

 “Yeah!”

 “What kind of music does she like?”

 “Don’t make fun of her but she likes Dinosynth the most.”

 “What?”

 “Lots of music that just makes weird sounds. I don’t get it but it’s what she enjoys. Thousand Gecs, mostly too. Also Creatives Draconics.”

 “Oh! They’re good. I like their music.”

 “Heh, maybe we’ll get more concert tickets from Cole and invite her.”

 “Good plan…”

 “Rupert?”

 He snores into Dino’s back. Asleep.

 Dino gives a small smile and focuses ahead. He pats the neck of the borrowed pterosaur, “Come on, let’s go home.”

 Ptera grunts and angles himself into a descent. They pass through the layer of the clouds and Dino can see Cranial Isle with its sleepy lighting. The Wildwest Tower is still alight.

 “Hey, George, buddy,” Hunter gives his future father a smirk, bags under his eyes evident. “You weren't at school, what have you been doin’ all day?”

 “I overslept. Look,” in one smooth motion, George slicks his hair back and sniffles. “I need your help. I have to ask Lorraine out, but I don't know how to do it.”

 Hunter’s smirk grows, teeth escaping. Perfect.

 He stops playing with the soda pop, brown liquid inside fizzing, “Alright, okay. Listen, keep your pants on, she's over in the cafe.”

 Never mind. He really wants that soda. Hunter is back again, yanking on the metal top and wishing he’d brought his pickaxe from the future with him, “God, how do you do this?”

 With a roll of his eyes, George yanks the bottle out of Hunter’s hands and uses the metal bottle opener drilled into the side of the building to yank the bottle cap off. He gives the now-opened soda back to him without a word. There’re possibly thoughts of ‘Why do I give this guy credit he can’t even use a bottle opener’ drifting through his brain.

 Hunter gives his thanks and grins at him, “What made you change your mind, George?”

 With the straightest face ever put on by George Alti, he states, “Last night, Dinomaton came down from planet Dinorian and he told me that if I didn't take Lorraine to the dance that he'd melt my brain.”

 In some alternate timeline, Hunter busts a gut laughing.

 But he can’t do that in this time, especially since he must allow this fear to fester in George for a little while longer. (Sorry dad. – Hunter) He gives a slow sip of soda, thinking over the next steps in his grand master plan of three steps. After a satisfied sigh and a slow nod, he looks upon his father and ushers for him to follow, “Okay. Weird. I believe you though.”

 George sighs, falling into step, “Thanks.”

 “Yeah, well, uh, let’s keep this brain melting stuff to ourselves, okay?”

 “Oh, yeah, yeah,” George nods eagerly as they round the corner.

 The diner is just across the street. It’s a grand time for teens to hang out and gossip or dance. Maybe there’s one kid doing their homework. The jukebox can be faintly heard from where Hunter and George stand. Plenty of teens are seen laughing and talking from behind the large glass windows.

 Hunter takes another sip of soda and gestures towards the window to the far left, “Alright, okay. Alright. There she is, George. Just go in there and invite her.”

 Lorraine Beckles chats near the phone booths with her friends. They sit together with their schoolbooks and chat over milkshakes. She’s wearing her casual best, hair perfect, and makeup soft.

 George takes a deep breathe, “Okay, but I don't know what to say.”

 “Just say anything, George,” Hunter eyes him. “Say whatever's natural. The first thing that comes to your mind.”

 His lips thin, “Nothing's coming to my mind.”

 “Fossil Gods, George. It's a wonder I was ever born,” Hunter murmurs into his soda.

 “What, what?”

 “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he dismisses him with a wave of his hand. He’s never flirted before but he’s had to read plenty of lines from school assigned reading and has watched plenty of movies. Fictional characters have got to be doing something right. “Look, tell her destiny has brought you together. Tell her that she's the most beautiful girl you have ever seen. Girls like that stuff. What- What are you doing George?”

 While Hunter had been handing out half-baked advice, George had retrieved a spare notepad from within his sports jacket and had decided to jot down some notes. He’s halfway through penciling in a page, “I'm writing this down. This is good stuff.”

 A small huff of a laugh from Hunter. That’s right, his father liked to write. He glances back towards the diner, readying the soda pop against his lips to take another sip, “Yeah okay.”

 “Oh,” George gets a little flustered, now writing his own ideas down.

 Hunter finishes off his soda and peeks down at the written notes. It only takes the words ‘smilodons angling their heads correctly to kiss’ to get him flustered, “Let's go.”

 George crosses something out, “Oh.”

 He has to be dragged away by Hunter so they could at least cross the street, “Will you take care of that?”

 After a rough few seconds of getting hyped up, George Alti bustles into the diner with newfound swagger. There’s a paragraph about an underdog getting ready to say some clever words of longing to his lover before getting onto a spaceship to conquer outer space in his head that grows longer as he pieces together the dialogue. No one pays attention to him. His peers are lost in their own worlds, jiving along to the cheerful music.

 The paragraph becomes a full page. The lover and underdog passing short snippets of words about destiny and love. It’s good stuff.

 Now he just has to apply it to the real world, maybe.

 “Right,” the bluenette adjusts his jacket. He raises a hand, finding an empty spot at the bar, “Lou, gimme a milk. Chocolate.”

 A glass of chocolate milk is slid towards him and grasped within his hand. He takes a strong swing of it and understands why those race car winners drink milk after winning the race. He’s ready.

 George Alti calmly walks down the aisle between the dancers and guests, finding the table with his future dance partner Dinomaton had demanded upon him. The world fades out. Jovial music thinning from his ears. The bell ringing above the diner to signal that Hunter sneaked in behind him is mute. Saliva gathers in his mouth, causing him to gulp.

 Lorraine’s girlfriends whisper to her after noticing George’s approach. They giggle lightly, pretending not to notice him. But Lorraine looks up with interest. Her eyes meet George’s and suddenly it’s just the two of them on this island. She glows in the sunlight from the window.

 Roses and seashells adorn the edges of her silhouette. Every boy’s dream girl they wished lived next door to them. Her eyes are glittering like gems. She was too pretty for George, let alone the world. But those were only the doubts in his mind.

 “Lorraine,” he stands a foot away from her now, his voice quiet and nervous. She looks up at him expectant. George stares into her glittering eyes, “My density has bought me to you.”

 Lorraine sits still for three seconds. She then blinks, “What?”

 George heats up, processing what he had said. He gulps, “Oh, what I meant to say was-”

 “Hey,” she interrupts, tapping a nail against the table. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

 “Yes, yes,” he brightens up. Fears settling, “I'm George. George Alti. And I'm your density. I mean, I'm your destiny.”

 A soft blush grows upon her cheeks. That glow of hers becoming warmer, “Oh?”

 There’s a heavenly chorus. Archeopteryxes and Sinosauropteryxes chirping. Pink and red hearts floating into the air and popping gently like bubbles. The music swells…

 “Hey, Alti! I thought I told you never to come in here.”

 Cue the jukebox’s record scratching. Bartholomew Bullwort stands at the entrance of the diner with his two followers. Everyone is staring at him and George.

 That heavenly ambiance is gone from George and Lorraine. George stares in shock at his bully and tormenter.

 Bart huffs, “Well, it's gonna cost you. How much money you got on you?”

 George looks down at the floor, feeling the weight of his pockets as Bart begins his approach, “Well, how much you want, Bart?”

 “Alright, punk. Now-”

 Hunter pops up from the bar, “Whoa! Whoa, Bart! What's that?”

 The remains of George’s chocolate milk are tossed onto the bully’s shirt.

 There are gasps from the crowd. George’s attention is on the question as to how much did Hunter see of him messing up his line delivery before being engulfed with horror that Bart was covered in chocolate milk. There’s giggling from behind him.

 “That's Calvin Klein!” Lorraine tries to stifle her squeals, “Oh my Fossil Gods! He's a dream.”

 Bartholomew puts a hand to his chest and pulls it away to inspect the thrown drink. Brown milk that will be staining his nicely pressed shirt for years to come. He growls, hackles raising.

 This was Hunter’s que to dash out of the diner. He rushes into the street, everyone inside the building watching him.

 “Let's get him,” Bartholomew wastes no time in chasing after him. He and his pose dash out to see the bluenette already halfway across the town square. “To the car! To the car! Go, go!”

 Narrowly voiding getting hit by a car, Hunter yelps and makes it to the center of the town square. He takes a moment to gauge the distance between him and his pursuers. Seeing them clamber into Bart’s polished car is enough to strike a bolt of fear through him. Crap!

 If his opponent is using wheels then it would be wise to switch to his trusty skateboard-

 Hunter nearly trips on his own two feet. That’s right. His skateboard is back in the DeLorean all the way on top of the hill.

 Two kids roll past him on bulky wooden scooters. The fronts of the scooters are just milk crates nailed to the wooden plank bases. Wheels screwed onto the undersides. There’s a weak handle that pivots the front two wheels and both kids laugh aloud in delight as they wildly swivel their scooters down the sidewalk.

 Hunter pushes the nearest kid off of his scooter and starts to yank the milk crate and handle off of the plank. The kid cries and the other one yells at him before the pieces come off. He tosses the useless pieces of wood to the side and takes off on the makeshift skateboard, “Sorry-I’ll-give-it-back-later!”

 The bluenette swivels off the sidewalk and into the street to get some proper legroom and distance. In just a few strides, Hunter is gliding down Main Street. Bart’s car charges just a turn behind but it doesn’t stop him from pressing on the gas.

 He rounds back around and passes the diner where the crowd inside has been enraptured by the chase. Some had exited to get a better view outside. One of Lorraine’s friends looks on, confused, “What's that thing he's on?”

  “It's a board with wheels?” A boy near her squints.

 Lorraine swoons, “He's an absolute dream.”

 Hunter screams as Bart and his gang inch closer and closer to him. Three guys in a large steel box of burning oil vs one skinny guy on a plank. The odds were not in his favor.

 The burly high school bully growls and pats the side of the steering wheel, impatient, “Come on, come on, come on!”

 Car bumper nosing at the end of his makeshift skateboard, Hunter screeches from panic, “Ah! Whoa!”

 “I'm gonna ram him,” Bartholomew decides, eyes locked onto the weirdo from out of town.

 Crap crap crap crap crap-

 Hunter hastily gains some extra speed as Bart’s car pulls away to gain some extra momentum for the ram. He gulps and tries to figure out a solution, eyes searching the street for an exit-

 There! A ramp!

 Actions first, regrets later. Hunter sharply turns onto the ramp and goes flying over a hedge right as the car picks up speed.

 There’s a shocked ‘Ooo!’ from the audience on the sidewalk as they watch Hunter disappear but their attention is back onto the car as it burns rubber. They obviously miss the bluenette by mere inches and lose sight of him.

 But that’s the least of their worries. For the ramp had an orange sign attached to it cautioning drivers and pedestrians alike to slow down as there had been an accident ahead. What kind of accident? Well-

 The trio in the car yells as they notice the toppled over truck of vivosaur droppings for the farms farther along the island, “Shit!”

 -and ram themselves into the horrid-smelling pile. It’s gross. Many people in the crowd gag or even laugh.

 Hunter pants, returning to the town square once the sound of the horrible car disappears. He finds that same kid he had stolen from and hands them back the wheeled board, “Thanks a lot, kid.”

 Bart groans, wiping at his face. He is overcome with a fury so hot it could melt the Earth’s crust, “I'm gonna get that son-of-a-bitch.”

 Lorraine and her friends watch Hunter run out of town and towards the uphill drive. Her friend to the right of her puts a finger to her lips in thought, “Where does he come from?

 “Yeah, where does he live?”

 The bluenette softly shakes her head, a plan forming, “I don't know... But I'm gonna find out.”

 Within the dark garage up on the hill and on the property of the mansion that had been in his family for many many generations sits Dr. Diggins. His face is close to the television screen and the cable connected to the camera is plugged into a series of switches and connectors to make sure it plays the recorded footage onto the screen.

 The footage has been rewound for the umpteenth time. Footage starts to fray around the corners of the screen. Dr. Diggins only has eyes for the subject of the recording: Himself.

 This supposed Dr. Diggins of the future with his stress wrinkles and streaks of white hair looks away from the camera and supposedly over Hunter’s shoulder. Despite the darkness of night, it’s clear to see how his face pales, “Great Frigi and Igno, they found me. I don't know how but they found me. Run for it, Hunter!”

 The tape is rewound.

 Again, future Dr. Diggins pales, “Great Frigi and Igno, they found me. I don't know how but they found me. Run for it, Hunter!”

 Hunter silently comes into the room, staring oddly at the professor, “Doc?”

 Instantly, Dr. Diggins jumps to attention and stops the tape. He turns off the TV set and turns to Hunter, “Oh! Hi, Hunter. I didn't hear you come in. Fascinating device, this video unit.”

 But Hunter had already seen too much. He frowns, “Listen, Doc. You know there's something I haven't told you about the night we made that tape-”

 “Eh! Eh! Eh!” Dr. Diggins wags a finger in Hunter’s direction to silence him, “Please, Hunter. Don't tell me, no man should know too much about their own destiny.”

 “You don't understand!”

  “I do understand,” the paleontologist with engineering skills huffs. “If I know too much about my own future I could endanger my own existence, just as you endangered yours.”

 The blue-haired teen is about to argue some more but his tongue twists. He’s one to talk, “You’re- You’re right.”

 Relaxing, the good doctor then tugs the cotton bedsheet off the uneven table near him, “Let me show you my plan for sending you home. Please excuse the crudity of this model, I didn't have time to build it to scale or to paint it.”

 What he thought were books, papers, and mechanical equipment upon the old dining table had actually been a small-scale model of the town square. Hunter’s doubts and fears ease themselves into the furthest corners of his brain as his attention focuses on the impressive artistic feats of Dr. Diggins. Some items such as a ketchup bottle or some silverware had been painted white to fit in with the muted scenery, but everything pulled together so well that Hunter exactly knew what he was looking at.

 A model car painted silver with triangular spikes sits near a black piece of yarn that’s strung from the buildings and clocktower and over the road. It has a metal hook attached to its bumper that’s raised at a height to hook onto the yarn. It’s very easy to tell what this might be.

 Hunter nods, “It’s good.”

 “Oh, thank you, thank you,” Diggins washes himself in the praise for about five seconds before snapping back to attention and pointing at the yarn on the scale model. “Okay now, we run some industrial strength electrical cable from the top of the clocktower down to spreading it over the street between two lamp posts.”

 His finger goes to the model car, “Meanwhile, we out-fitted the vehicle with this big pole and hook which runs directly into the flux-capacitor.”

 An electric cable to catch the lightning and channel it directly into the car. Got it.

 “At the calculated moment, you start off from down the street driving toward the cable accelerating to eighty-eight miles per hour,” the model car is picked up and gently placed further down the street. “According to the flyer: At ten-o-four PM, lightning will strike the clocktower sending one point twenty-one gigawatts into the flux-capacitor. Sending you back to nineteen eighty-five. Alright now, watch this…”

 Dragging the car backwards a few inches, the inner mechanics of the model click softly. He lifts his hand and the wound-up toy heads straight down the street. It rolls at an alarming speed towards the yarn. The hook catches it-

 -and the car is yanked so hard that it soars into an arc around the string. It gets flung off of the table and into a bucket of oil-soaked rags meant to be disposed of.

 Both doctor and teenager stare at the car as it emits a dull whirring noise before the rags catch on fire.

 Hunter’s face is pale. His eyes trace the flames, the model car melting already, “You extol me with a lot of confidence, Doc.”

 Diggins sighs and gets out one of his many fire extinguishers to tame the flames, “Don't worry, I'll take care of the lightning. You take care of your pop.”

 He covers the fire in extinguishing foam before the smoke or heat catches the attention of the smoke detectors. It’s quite peaceful now that the sounds of crackling flames had been cut, “By the way, what happened today? Did he ask her out?”

 The bluenette pales, combing through his memories of today as to what had happened after crashing Bart’s car, “Uh, I think so.”

 “What did she say?”

 Hunter looks away, pretending to be interested in the model, “Uh…”

 He’s saved by a few rapid knocks onto the door of the garage. Both men swivel to stare in surprise at the surprise visitor.

 Dr. Diggins approaches the door and looks out the window before turning to an approaching Hunter, “It's your mom. She's tracked you down. Quick, let's cover the time machine.”

 They quickly pull the bed sheets and tarps over their projects and the DeLorean in record time. Barnum even pushes the fire extinguisher under a cabinet. Finally presentable, Hunter opens the door to greet their guest as Diggins feigns disinterest in a far corner.

 Lorraine Beckles gives Hunter a charming smile, clasping her schoolbooks in her arms, “Hi, Hunter.”

 “Uh, Lorraine,” he gives her an uneasy chuckle but does his best to be friendly. “How did you know I was here?”

 She giggles, “I followed you.”

 All the way up the hill? Gee, thanks.

 He ignores that for now. Clearing his throat, Hunter raises an arm outstretched in Dr. Diggins’s direction, “Oh, uh- This is my Doc- Uncle. Diggins.”

 Lorraine looks the good doctor up and down and gives a polite smile, “Hi.”

 Dr. Diggins, who had been busy trying to blend into the corner of the room and pretend to not exist, gives a hesitant wave, “Hello.”

 She turns back to her future son, “Hunter, this may seem a little forward, but I was wondering if you would ask me to the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance on Saturday?”

 Hunter feels his earlier hope fossilizes into heavy coal and drops into his gut. His uncomfortable grin starts to mask hopelessness, “Uh, you mean nobody's asked you?”

 “No, not yet.”

 “What about George?”

 Lorraine’s lips quirk, eyes focusing elsewhere for a few seconds. She blushes, “George Alti? Oh, he's kinda cute and all, but… Well, I think a man should be strong. So he could stand up for himself and protect the woman he loves.”

 Her gaze meet’s Hunter’s, “Don't you?”

 Hunter gives a weak nod, “Yeah.”

 After a five-minute internal yelling match with himself and a good night’s rest, Hunter is at the Alti family residence. George is clipping fresh laundry onto the clothesline to dry and Hunter is matching his pace while speaking with him about what Lorraine had proposed earlier. The sun is stretching across the sky, the sky is blue, and a gentle brreze flows throughout the town and bristles the tops of the trees.

 “I still don't understand,” George huffs, putting the laundry basket down. “How am I supposed to go to the dance with her, if she's already going to the dance with you?”

 “Cause, George, she wants to go to the dance with you,” I lied. I didn’t get a good night’s rest. There’s bags under my eyes and I think half of my shirt isn’t tucked into the pants Diggins loaned me. I’m just rehashing a speech Diggins and I concocted up the night before, “She just doesn't know it yet. That's why we gotta show her that you, George Alti, are a fighter. You're somebody who's gonna stand up for yourself. Someone who's gonna protect her.”

 Dr. Diggins and I came up with over thirty plans. We threw away about twenty-five of them before going to bed. This was one of the ones he didn’t want me to pull.

 George frowns, looking away for a moment, “Yeah, but I never picked a fight in my entire life.”

 “You're not gonna be picking a fight, Dad-” Hunter starts to choke. Eyes wide, stuttering as he hastily plasters over his mistake, “Dad- Dad- Daddy-o. You're coming to her rescue, right? Okay, let's go over the plan again. Eight fifty-five, where are you gonna be?”

 Rolling his eyes at how odd his new friend was, George recites, “I'm gonna be at the dance.”

 “Right, and where am I gonna be?”

 George nods, following, “You're gonna be in the car with her.”

 “Right, okay,” Hunter clears his throat and adjusts his stance, flexing his hands. “So right around nine o’clock she's gonna get very angry with me.”

 “Why is she gonna get angry with you?”

 “Well, because George, nice girls get angry when guys take advantage of them.”

 George is uncomfortable, “Oh, you mean you're gonna touch her on her-”

 “No, no, George, look. It's just an act, right?” I was raised well-ish. Okay. I would never conceive of this plan in a million years. It’s a stupid shit plan. But also I am days away from fading from existence at this point and I’m desperate here. If making my dad become my mom’s protector then I’d make my own mother uncomfortable. Even if I wanna throw up just thinking about it. “Okay, so: Nine o’clock. You're strolling through the parking lot. You see us struggling in the car. You walk up. You open the door and you say… Your line, George.”

 “Oh, uh-” George clears his throat, gets into a practiced stance, and points elsewhere, “Hey you! Get your damn hands off her!

 He then appears confused and glances at his future son, “Do you really think I ought to swear?

 “Yes, definitely,” Hunter drapes an exasperated hand down his face. “God damnit, George. Swear.”

 He then sighs and rolls back to the plan, “Okay. So now: You come up. You punch me in the stomach. I'm out for the count. Right? And you and Lorraine live happily ever after.”

 “Oh, you make it sound so easy,” George sighs, deflating. “I just… I wish I wasn't so scared.”

 Feeling bad for the eighty-seventh time this adventure, Hunter softens. He has no style or class back home and was only getting this far due to his years of bad luck bouncing back into good luck. No one should be doing this. But he also wanted to live, and maybe see his parents happy to be together for once.

 So he puts a comforting hand to George Alti’s shoulder and takes a deep breathe, “George, there's nothing to be scared of. All it takes is a little self-confidence. You know, if you put your mind to it, you could accomplish anything.”

 Hunter is quick to at least note that there is no trash or graffiti on the premises. He normally has to kick away three plastic bags that come flying at him in the wind when he runs up the steps.

 They enter through a side entrance and walk through the near-empty halls as a bell finishes ringing overhead. Students and teachers alike exit classrooms at various speeds to either make it towards their lockers or to head for their next class. Must be homeroom ending. Those bells haven’t changed in how many years…

 Hunter whistles, looking towards the ceiling, clear of mildew, “Whoa, they really cleaned this place up. Looks brand new.”

 “Now remember, according to my theory you interfered with your parents’ first meeting,” Diggins adjusts his glasses with one hand and pulls Hunter along by his long sleeve with the other. “They don't meet, they don't fall in love, they won't get married, and they won’t have kids. That's why your older brother's head disappeared from that photograph. Your sister will follow and unless you repair the damages, you will be next.”

 Hunter grumbles, falling into line behind the good doctor as they roamed the halls, “This sounds pretty heavy.”

 “Weight has nothing to do with it.”

 They pass a group of cheerleaders in bright orange and red colors. The two passing by undisturbed by any staff or students within the facility.

 Diggins gives a huff when they round a corner, “Which one's your pop?”

 The sound of rough housing and pitiful noises is just a few yards ahead of them. Hunter weakly points in that direction, “That's him.”

 George Alti is walking down the hallway right towards them. Well, trying. He’s got two warts the size of human teenaged boys on either side trying to tackle him to the ground. It’s 3D-Glasses and baldie from the diner. They’re laughing and taunting him as George is trying to just mind his own business with a stack of papers and schoolbooks in his arms. Ignoring them does nothing as their snorting laughter grows and tackling turns into kicks.

 After one embarrassing kick to the butt, George stumbles and turns around to face the two. Hunter and Diggins see the scrappily written ‘Kick Me’ sign taped to his sports jacket and grimace.

 “Okay, okay you guys- Oh ha ha ha very funny,” he’s not laughing. “Hey, you guys are being real mature.”

 Diggins softly shakes his head, “Maybe you were adopted.”

 “Okay, real mature, guys,” Bullwort appears from out of left field and smacks his books out of his hands. Papers and folders flying, “Okay, Bart, will you pick up my books?”

 “Alti.”

 That dead judgement voice with a nasal overtone. Hunter feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His head whips towards the source of the noise.

 It’s Snivels, the Vice Principal. He’s missing a few wrinkles on his face and his blonde hair is slightly shinier but it’s almost as if Hunter’s own Vice Principal had traveled back in time with them. The man’s smirk is upside down and tired eyes glued to the poor George.”

 “That's Snivels,” Hunter bites his bottom lip. “Jesus, didn't that guy never have dark circles under his eyes?”

 Snivels tears off the ‘Kick Me’ sign from the back of George’s jacket and sniffs, “Shape up, man. You're a slacker. You wanna be a slacker for the rest of your life?”

 It takes a second for George to respond, “No.”

 Diggins’s face has a look of disappointment aimed at George, “What did your mother ever see in that kid?”

 I’ve asked myself this for the past seventeen years. Kind of, “I don't know, Doc. I guess she felt sorry for him cause her did hit him with the car- Hit me with the car.”

 The good doctor tsks, combing through his curls with his fingers, “That's the Florence Nightingale effect. It happens in hospitals when nurses fall in love with their patients.”

 Shit.

 Snivels stalks away, leaving the bullied student to crawl onto the floor. George is still sadly collecting his papers and pens like a moping edaphosaurus. Some of his notes are crumpled and one even has a dusty footprint on it. He needs a friend.

 Diggins nods once as Hunter approaches his teenaged father, “Go to it, kid.”

 Hunter does just that. He picks up a fallen schoolbook on Advanced Biology and hands it to him, “Hey George, buddy. Hey, I've been lookin’ all over for you. You remember me, the guy who saved your life the other day?”

 George Alti’s eyes grow wide at seeing who he’s talking to. He almost gasps for breath. Instead, he clears his throat and tries to play it cool, “Yeah.”

 “Good,” Hunter looks up in the nick of time and sees his future mother pass by with a gaggle of girls. They giggle to themselves about something or other. Perfect, “There's somebody I'd like you to meet. Lorraine.”

 Upon hearing her name, Lorraine Beckles glances in their direction and gasps in surprise. A shy grin splits across her face as the boys stand up, “Calvin.”

 Looks like we’ll have to work on that.

 Hunter doesn’t mind it, for now. He gestures to his future father, “I'd like you to meet my good friend George Alti.”

 George stutters, bashfully. He stretches a hand out in greeting, “H-hi, it's really a pleasure to meet you.”

 Lorraine brushes right past him to inspect Hunter’s forehead. Her eyes don’t leave his face, “How's your head?”

 “Well, uh,” a light blush dusts his cheeks. It would be fine if this was his mother from thirty years in the future, but this is his teenaged mom who doesn’t know that yet. “Good, fine.”

 “Oh, I've been so worried about you ever since you ran off the other night. Are you okay?”

 No. I wish you were my mom and could hold me and tell me it was all a dream and we’re actually in nineteen eighty-five.

 But I don’t get to say that. The bell overhead rings.

 “I'm sorry I have to go,” she pouts and starts gliding down the hallway with her friends as they make their way towards their next class.

 Her friends giggle once they’re a good distance away. She whispers to them, “Isn't he a dream boat?”

 George has long since scampered off.

 Hunter deflates, the hallways now empty besides him and Diggins, “Doc… She didn't even look at him.”

 Diggins sidles up next to him. His hands clasped and pointer fingers raised upright in thought, positioned right over his lips, “This is more serious than I thought. Apparently, your mother is amorously infatuated with you instead of your father.”

 It’s no epiphany but Hunter freezes in place anyway. Attraction is something he doesn’t one hundred percent get but the fact that it doesn’t fully go away even for the weirdest of reasons gets him to turn and question Diggins, “Whoa, wait a minute, Doc. Are you tellin’ me that my mother has got the hots for me?”

 “Precisely.”

 Hunter stumbles, putting a hand to his cheek, “Whoa, this is heavy.”

 “There's that word again, heavy,” Diggins huffs, raising his arms in the air in mild exasperation. “Why are things so heavy in the future. Is there a problem with the Earth's gravitational pull?”

 “What?”

 Diggins waves his hand dismissively. It’s time to prescribe a cure now that a doctor has noted all the symptons, “The only way we're gonna get those two to successfully meet is if they're alone together. So, you've got to get your father and mother to interact at some sort of social-”

 “What, well you mean like a date?” Feeling slightly better, Hunter crosses his arms and leans against a way. He listens with rapt attention.

 Diggins snaps his fingers and points to him to confirm, “Right.”

 “What kind of date? I don't know, what do kids do in the fifties?”

 “Well, they're your parents. You must know them. What are their common interests? What do they like to do together?”

 Mom liked to drink and forget her day. Maybe eat some ice cream and watch some soaps on the television from time to time. Dad eyed the comic book store before it shut down but now he just keeps his head down and writes in his little notebooks about work and such. He likes to crunch numbers too, mostly numbers about the money Bullwort eats up. They don’t really do anything together anymore.

 “Nothing.”

 Diggins scrapes his curls back with his fingernails, huffing. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy since it’s space-time science, but the Alti Family was drying up his well of patience. He eyes the hallways for a bit before coming up a beautifully decorated poster. Walking up to it, he gives a light chuckle at what’s advertised, “Look, there's a rhythmic ceremonial ritual coming up.”

 “Rhythmic what-now?” Hunter follows Diggins and finds himself in front of the poster. There’s colorful tissue papers fish and seaweed around the title and description. The Homecoming Dance: ‘Enchantment Under the Sea.’

 A memory surges forth, just from two nights ago, “Of course… The Enchantment Under the Sea Dance! They're supposed to go to this, that's where they kiss for the first time.”

 “Alright kid,” Diggins pats Hunter’s shoulder. “You stick to your father like glue and make sure that he takes her to the dance.”

 With enough dilly-dallying, Hunter is able to wait until lunch time to make his approach. It’s easy to find George Alti in the lunchroom as he sits at an empty table near the back with his hunched-over form. George Alti is one of the few people in Vivosaur Town he can pick out in a crowd anyway.

 “George, buddy,” Hunter slides into the seat across from him and ignores the little jump his future father does at his appearance. “Remember that girl I introduced you to, Lorraine… What are you writing?”

 What he had assumed to be homework or even notes for Bullwort, Hunter is able to peak at lines of dialogue and descriptors. Writing and Literature classes or not, he was sure the word ‘alien’ doesn’t come up all that often in high school classes.

 His writing peters out and George stumbles a bit with his words. Pen jittering between his fingers, “Uh, stories. Science fiction stories. About visitors coming down to Earth from another planet.”

 That’s so awesome!

 “Get out of town,” Hunter’s eyes brighten, glittering with stars. A grin splits across his face, “I didn't know you did anything creative! Ah, let me read some.”

 He outstretches a hand but it’s smacked away. Papers being stuffed into George’s school bag in a hurry, “Oh, no no no! I never, uh, I never let anybody read my stories.”

 “Why not?”

 “Well, what if they didn't like them?” George bites his bottom lip and looks at Hunter’s face for the first time. His future son sees fear and embarrassment, “What if they told me I was no good? I guess that would be pretty hard for somebody to understand…”

 “Uh no, not hard at all,” his voice lowers to a comforting level.

 He gets it.

 But he has to be born first, “So anyway, George. Now Lorraine, she really likes you. She told me to tell you that she wants you to ask her to the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance.”

 George replies flatly, “Really.”

 “Oh yeah. All you gotta do is go over there and ask her.”

 He thumbs over his shoulder to where his future mother sits just three tables away. Her friends laugh and gossip amongst each other. They hadn’t spotted Hunter while on his way towards George so that’s helping the future boy’s odds of enticing George.

 “What, right here right now in the cafeteria?” George’s cheeks dust pink and he looks down at his clenched hands. “What is she said no? I don't know if I could take that kind of rejection. Besides, I think she'd rather go with somebody else.”

 “Who?”

 He raises his head to nod towards Lorraine’s table, “Bart.”

 Hunter turns around, eyes raking through the rows of lunch tables filled with teens. He lands on Lorraine’s table and narrows his eyes at the scene of Bullwort manhandling her.

 She’s not having it, wriggling in his grip as he tries to kiss her cheek or guide her away from her friends. Bullwort doesn’t seem to mind, both hands grasping her arms, “C’mon. C’mon.”

 “Leave me alone!”

 “You want it, you know you want it, and-”

 Lorraine, face flushed and hair messily askew, breaks free and slaps him upside the head, “Shut your filthy mouth! I’m not that kind of girl.”

 There’s a resounding noise of surprise and awe from the nearest around the two. The cafeteria begins to quiet down as Bullwort rubs at his face and narrows his eyes at her, “Well maybe you are, and you just don't know it yet.”

 Another large hand goes to her but Lorraine smacks it as well, “Get your meat hooks off of me.”

 He growls and curls his hand into a fist but his wrist is caught by another young man.

 Standing tall, Hunter frowns at him. His voice has an uncharacteristic rumble to it, “You heard her. She said get your meat hooks…”

 Bullwort slowly stands up and stands over Hunter. He’s got a good foot over him in height and wide enough shoulders to clog the hallways.

 “…off, uh please.”

 I’ve got no chance. My face is melting like butter.

 “So what's it to you, butthead,” Bullwort sniffs down at him and takes his wrist back. It goes back to the front of the bluenette’s button-up as he revs up his free hand into a fist, “You know you've been lookin’ for a...”

 From over Hunter’s shoulder, Bullwort takes notice of Vice Principal Snivels crossing his arms near a pillar. The eyes of the student body and Snivels are now upon him and Bullwort has at least the tact to lower it a notch or two. For now.

 He lets the new guy go and gives a faint chuckle. Smirking, “Since you're new here, I'm gonna cut you a break today. So why don't you make like a tree and get out of here.”

 Hunter gulps.

 I wasn’t going to win today so I just turned my cheek and left the building. Cowardly? Maybe. There’s strength in running away, though. I just gotta think…

 George Alti is in a hurry after school, no doubt not wanting to run into Bullwort and his cronies. He scuffles down the high school’s front steps where Hunter had been chilling and the future boy starts to follow, “George!”

 “Why do you keep following me around?” George Alti scoffs, heading for the bike rack where his bike is safely chained.

 “Look, George, I'm tellin’ you George- If you do not ask Lorraine to that dance, I'm gonna regret it for the rest of my life.”

 George starts to unhook the chains and put them away into his school bag, “But I can't go to the dance. I'll miss my favorite television program, Science Fiction Theater.”

 Hunter gestures, pleading, “Yeah, but George! Lorraine wants to go with you. Give her a break!”

 With one leg over his bicycle’s seat, George gives Hunter a hard look. He’s just about had it with the weird kid, “Look. I'm just not ready to ask Lorraine out to the dance, and not you, nor anybody else on this planet is gonna make me change my mind.”

 He pedals away, bell ringing when he enters traffic to head home.

 Hunter sighs, pushing his hair back with his fingers. That gel Diggins lent him was starting to wear off, some blue strands wilting forward. He looked the way he felt.

 Well that was a bust. Unless I wanted to stalk George to his house, I’d have to get a bike or something. I’m not going to repeat falling out of a tree like yesterday, thanks.

 So he starts walking back to the topmost hill where Diggins resided. He takes his time, saving his energy since it’s going to be a tough walk up in the last portion.

 There was one comforting fact he had learned: His father enjoyed science fiction and writing.

 Hunter whistles a slight tune about the power of love, hands in his pockets. He kind of wishes he brought his guitar with him into the past so he could practice…

 His thoughts get stuck on what he had brought back with him into the past and the fact the farmer family had thought he was an alien with that hazmat suit on. He puts his mind to it, brain chugging, “Science Fiction Theater, huh?”

 Late that night, under the cover of darkness and with the help of a few screwdrivers… Hunter breaks into George Alti’s house with his silver hazmat suit on. With the help of Diggins ‘supplying’ another yellow pages book and ‘lending’ him some tools, a few permanent black markers lying around, and his memory of what Duna had spoken about dinurians (he’s going to have to give her a long and sincere apology when he gets back), Hunter stands at the foot of his future father’s bed.

 He had placed a set of headphones over George’s ears and readies his boxy music player. At least there were some good things he had taken into the past with him. A tape of heavy guitar riffs is locked and loaded.

 Hunter presses play and George promptly rockets upwards in his bed at the guitar notes of Eddie Van Halen assaulting his ears. He clutches at the headset around his head, confused at the contraption.

 The future boy presses pauses and George falls back onto his bed, wide awake, sweaty, scared. He looks up at who stands before him.

 A silver figure in some sort of meshy fabric unseen of before and without a visible face. Black details of bolts, welding lines, numbers, vents, joints, eyes, teeth. The yellow visor flashes in the light of the autumn moon, triangular markings easily mistaken for teeth. Orange gloves with taped ends that make it look like they were filed so sharp they could cut steel. A harrowing sight to see in the dark at two in the morning.

 George stammers, “Wh- Who are you?”

 He hears clanking and shuffling from within before knocking on the front door, “Doc?”

 That clanking and shuffling halts. Someone approaches the door and unlocks a large set of locks on the other side before opening the door. Who opens the door is a younger Dr. Diggins without wrinkles and fewer white streaks in his sage and turquoise hair. His face is set indifferent, only staring back at Hunter for a few seconds before pulling him inside. There’s a large white bandage on his right temple.

 Dr. Diggins closes the door behind him, “Don't say a word.”

 “Doc...” Relieved, Hunter sighs. His voice is scratchy and faint. Everything’s going to be alright.

 Cables and wires drape across the floor inside, covering the large carpets. Blueprints are taped over pictures and wall décor. Fine wooden furniture is chipped at the edges and bulky machinery is either thrumming continuously or half-completed. There are few fossils here and there, mostly behind glass cases for display. A radio plays faintly on the other side of the house as Hunter is ushered past the entryway and into the living room.

 The good doctor shuffles past him and pulls a bulky geometric device onto his head. Rods and suction cups on his cranium and a thick cable dropping to the floor behind him, “I don't wanna know your name. I don't wanna know anything- Anything about you.”

 Good ol’ Doc. Hunter tries to catch his breath, “Listen, Doc.”

 “Quiet,” Dr. Diggins turns to him, putting a finger to his lips to try and silence the mysterious visitor.

 “Doc, Doc, it's me, Hunter.”

 “Don't tell me anything.”

 “Doc, you gotta help-”

 “Quiet, quiet,” the good doctor flips the switch to a large machine and a thrumming noise takes up the entirety of the room for a moment before quieting down. Lights on his headpieces flash and pulse, “I'm gonna read your thoughts. Let's see now, you've come from a great distance?”

 “Yeah! Exactly!”

 Dr. Diggins expresses a short grin before schooling himself to concentrate once more, “Don't tell me… Uh, you want me to buy a subscription to the Saturday Evening Post?”

 No! “No!”

 “Not a word, not a word, not a word now. Quiet,” getting frustrated, Diggins squeezes his eyes shut. “Uh, donations, you want me to make a donation to the coast guard youth auxiliary?”

 Hunter frowns, “Doc, I'm from the future. I came here in a time machine that you invented. Now, I need your help to get back to the year nineteen eighty-five.”

 The good doctor stares at Hunter before slowly taking off the apparatus on his head. He looks at the tubes and wires as they pulse light, “My god, do you know what this means?”

 There’s a growing excitement coming from Hunter. He nods along, a smile growing. He’s going home!

 “It means that this damn thing doesn't work at all!” Diggins unhooks the cable from his invention and throws the head piece across the room.

 He’s not going home!

 Hunter gasps at the damage. This is his last and only chance to get back home. The bluenette must start grasping at any and all straws, “Doc, you gotta help me! You were the only one who knows how your time machine works.”

 “Time machine? I haven't invented any time machine,” but Diggins doesn’t listen, waving him away to go turn the machine off.

 “Okay, alright, I'll prove it to you,” a good scientist does need evidence for experiments. Hunter digs through the many pockets on his person. His front left pocket provides his driver’s license. “Look at my driver's license, expires nineteen eighty-seven. Look at my birthday, for cryin’ out load, I haven't even been born yet.”

 He then takes out a picture of him and his siblings, crumpled at the edges, “And look at this picture, my brother, my sister, and me. Look at the sweatshirt, Doc, Class of nineteen eighty-four.”

 The doctor adjusts his glasses and squints at the photo. It’s Hunter and his siblings on vacation posing in front of a dig site. Their last vacation off the island from just last year. The sun is in their eyes and makes the trio look slightly uncomfortable. Hunter himself was only able to bring a half-grin with his eyes squinted near closed. His brother had khakis and a graphic tee while his sister wore jeans and her high school graduating class sweatshirt with its triceratops mascot. He was wearing the exact same set of clothes as now but less drenched.

 Diggins only takes five seconds to observe it before sniffing, “Pretty mediocre photographic fakery. They cut off your brother’s hair.”

 Hunter drops his arm, voice raising in pitch, “I'm tellin’ the truth, Doc! You gotta believe me!”

 The good doctor stalls to inspect the bluenette again. Glasses being adjusted, he gives him another chance, “So tell me, Future Boy, who's president of the United States in nineteen eighty-five?”

 “Ronald Reagan.”

 “Ronald Reagan, the actor?” His scoffing evolves into a high-pitched cackle, “Then who's vice president, Jerry Lewis? I suppose Jane Wyman is the first lady!”

 Diggins starts to corner Hunter towards the door and the teen finds himself walking backwards towards it. He holds up his hands, “Whoa, wait, Doc!”

 “And Jack Benny is secretary of the Treasury!”

 “Look, you gotta listen to me-”

 “I’ve had enough practical jokes for one evening,” he doesn’t even get sparred a glance after he’s shoved through the wooden front doors. “Good night, Future Boy.”

 The door closes and locks reset. Hunter is left alone in the rain.

 He growls and throws a punch at the door. That’s it, no more Mister Nice Hunter. He’s going back home or committing some serious crimes trying.

 Think- Think- Think-!

 Hunter knocks on the door once again, “No wait, Doc! The bruise- The bruise on your head. I know how that happened, you told me the whole story. You were standing on your toilet, and you were hanging a clock, and you fell, and you hit your head on the sink, and that's when you came up with the idea for the flux capacitor, which makes time travel possible.”

 The rain continues. Wind howls.

 Locks unlock and the door is thrown open-

 Lightning claps. Thunder roars.

 -Dr. Diggins reappears with a haunted face. Eyes blown wide as he stares down at Hunter.

 A dense fog ghosts over the country roads of Vivosaur Town as Dr. Diggins drives Hunter in his pale car. The rainstorm has moved northwest, and the world is starting to dry. Headlights flash over the road and the radio is only a faint whisper in the background as the two keep their focus on the road. Hunter points to the twin Smilodon statues and the good doctor veers off the road before coming to a full stop.

 The exit the vehicle before Hunter guides him to the nestle of bushes. They are only armed with flashlights to pierce the dense fog. He pulls away the dead brush and twigs with gloved hands and is relieved to find the DeLorean still in one piece. Cables, plates, and antennae undamaged from the storm. Dr. Diggins stands just two feet away, eyes trailing over the majestic sight of his future creation. Awe, fear, wonderment, caution.

 With the last bundle of sticks thrown to the side, Hunter pants, “Something wrong with the starter, so I hid it.”

 Diggins approaches, one hand ghosting over the silver frame of the car, “After I fell off my toilet, I drew this…”

 From within his lab coat, the good doctor pulls out a half-crumpled sheet of paper with blue ink written upon it. A scribbly Y, dead center.

 Hunter raises his torch to get a better look at it. He breathes, “Flux capacitor.”

 He pulls out the keys to the car and opens the passenger gulf bay door to reveal its inner workings. From within the center of the tank, lights dead and in between the two seats, is the Y-shaped flux capacitor.

 Diggins shines his light upon it. His face lights up in delight and he starts to laugh giddily, “It works… Ha ha ha ha… It works. I finally invent something that works!”

 “Bet your ass it works,” Hunter chuckles back. A rush of relief starts to flow through him.

 Laughing louder, Diggins shakes Hunter’s shoulders, “It works! IT WORKS! I invented something THAT WORKS!”

 “Yeah!”

 “Hah!” Diggins looks back over his shoulder at the DeLorean, “Well, now we gotta sneak this back into my laboratory. We've gotta get you home.”

 “Right!”

 He’s going home!

 Dr. Diggins takes him back to his mansion and Hunter gets to sit at the table with hot cocoa to properly dry off with a towel and hang up some of his clothes to dry. He’s even given some cookies from a metal tin before he starts setting up the camera to the television set in the garage where Diggins has the DeLorean housed and more open space.

 Bundles of wires are inserted into a cube behind the TV and reverse-engineer the technology of the camera to properly display onto the small screen. There’s a flicker of static for a few seconds before the Dr. Diggins from nineteen eighty-five is displayed.

 “Okay Doc, this is it,” Hunter stands back to let the past- Future Dr. Diggins explain away.

 “Never mind that, never mind that now, never mind that, never mind-” The older Diggins on TV rambles.

 Diggins from nineteen fifty-five crouches in front of the TV to squint. It’s an odd thing to see yourself doing and saying things you haven’t done, “Why that's me. Look at me! I'm an old man.”

 “Good evening, I'm Doctor Morrison Diggins, I'm standing here in the parking lot of-”

 “Thank the fossil gods I still got my hair,” he touches his own colorful hair in thought. “What on Earth is that thing I'm wearing?”

 “Well, this is a radiation suit,” Hunter supplies.

 “Radiation suit, of course, cause all of the fallout from the atomic wars.”

 Hunter gives him a look but doesn’t correct him.

 “This is truly amazing, a portable television studio. No wonder your president has to be an actor, he's gotta look good on television.”

 “Whoa, this is it,” the teen points to the television screen. “This is the part comin’ up, Doc.”

 Hunter from the day before (let’s not get confused now) finishes asking a question and older Diggins answers, “No no no this sucker's electrical, but I need a nuclear reaction to generate the one point twenty-one gigawatts of electricity-”

 Dr. Diggins blinks, “What did I just say?”

 Footage rewound, volume raised, “No no no this sucker's electrical, but I need a nuclear reaction to generate the one point twenty-one gigawatts of electricity that I need…”

 “One point twenty-one gigawatts!?!” Diggins leaps to his feet, hands clawing at his face, “One point twenty-one gigawatts!?! Great Scott!!!”

 The man flees towards the DeLorean, muttering incorporeal things. He’s gone mad too early, maybe.

 Hunter runs after him, “What the hell is a gigawatt?!”

 “How could I have been so careless? One point twenty-one gigawatts,” Diggins swerves towards the mantle place and picks up a picture of Gideon Mantell to stare into the paleontologist’s eyes. Teeth clenched, he puts it back on the fireplace mantle with the other portraits (right between Barnum Brown and Mary Anning), “Gideon, how am I gonna generate that kind of power. It can't be done, it can’t!”

 Sighing, Hunter decides to ease his friend, “Doc, look, all we need is a little plutonium.”

 Diggins snaps out of his stupor, “I'm sure that in nineteen eighty-five plutonium is available at every corner drug store, but in nineteen fifty-five it's a little hard to come by. Hunter, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you're stuck here.”

 Despite being full of cookies and hot chocolate, Hunter feels his insides grow cold. He stumbles back a step.

 Stuck in the fifties… No friends, no home, no vivosaur battles. He wasn’t looking forward to taxes and election seasons. His music was too loud and…

 He really really missed everyone back in nineteen eighty-five. Yes, even his parents. He wouldn’t get to stand on stage with his friends when they graduated high school. Wouldn’t be able to rock out with his bandmates ever again. Wouldn’t be able to see his brother and sister get married. Wouldn’t be able to help his mother and father as they grew old. Not even able to watch Bartholomew Bullwort rot away in an elderly home and punch his lights out when he got too weak to defend himself. Not to mention, all the fossils he hadn’t uncovered out in the world. He wanted his vivosaur, damnit!

 “Whoa, whoa Doc, stuck here,” Hunter gathers his wits, leaning over the couch. “I can't be stuck here. I got a life in nineteen eighty-five. I got friends!”

 Diggins takes a few seconds to respond, turning to face the teen, “Your friends… Do they love you?”

 When he was ten, Hunter had guided Rosie out of a dark cave on the coast of Vivosaur Town and she had cried so hard despite being the one to talk them into entering it. He had never told anyone she had been the one to get them lost nor the fact her tears hadn’t stopped for hours. She grew braver and tougher and was the one to hold his hand and take him to a fast food restaurant when Bullwort was lurking around.

 When he had tripped over on his skateboard in front of McJunker’s at the age of eleven, Hunter had skinned his knee so bad that there was enough blood for anyone to gasp in horror. Holt had leapt outside with a bottle of water and some bandages. He had barely known his name before finishing up but had taken one look at the skateboard and, instead of scolding him for being on something dangerous without protective gear like his mother would do, had only gotten excited and proceeded to ask if he could try it out. Despite getting a skinned chin, he and Hunter had become close friends by the end of the day. Holt even lets his band hang out at the junk store after school.

 Duna had been his tutor when he had turned twelve. He had trouble remembering basic division and the dinurian shared the same math class as him. She was asked to do so afterschool by their teacher and, despite the many miscommunications, got him to a high B by the time the semester ended. Hunter invited her over for Christmas dinner when he found out she doesn’t celebrate Christmas and she brought over Raptin as well so the two weren’t lonely that day. He and Duna started hanging out more often and Duna began to invite him, Rosie, and Holt over whenever a Dinurian holiday rolled around. They made sure they weren’t lonely during the holidays or when one home was empty for the night.

 Cole had been the coolest kid to Hunter when he was thirteen. Always dying his hair two different colors and wearing ripped jeans. The only time he was ever downtrodden was his birthday so Hunter wanted to sit with him because he was so cool and maybe he could cheer up the cool kid. What he hadn’t known was that Lester and Lola had been late to sit with their friend and thus Hunter had found himself befriending the three of them. Cole laughed at anyone who dissed Hunter’s dreams, Lester would inspire Hunter to not let jokesters get the best of him, and Lola always had a spare knife on her in case the younger teen needed one. He never asked about the knives, but he was always happy for them to have his back.

 They cared about him and so did he them.

 “Doc, they’re amazing. I’d go crazy or worse without them,” a folded piece of paper is taken from his pockets, Rosie’s landline written on the back of the flyer and shown to Diggins. Her pink gel pen writing of ‘love you’ dried and crisp. “Look at this, look what Rosie did for me, Doc. That says it all. Doc, you're my only hope.”

 Diggins pinches the bridge of his nose after being handed the folded piece of paper. He really wanted to help this damn kid but… “Hunter, I'm sorry, but the only power source capable of generating one point twenty-one gigawatts of electricity is a bolt of lightning.”

 A lightbulb flicks on in his head, “What did you say?”

 “A bolt of lightning. Unfortunately, you never know when or where it's ever gonna strike.”

 Hunter takes the flyer out of Diggins’s hands and unfolds it. Showing off the side with the information about the clock tower being decommissioned by a bolt of lightning years ago, “We do now.”

 Diggins is given it back and he reads over the information from the future. The date the clock tower was struck by lightning is only a week away.

 “This is it,” Diggins shakes the paper in his hands before looking back at Hunter. “This is the answer. It says here that a bolt of lightning is gonna strike the clock tower precisely at ten-o-four P.M. next Saturday night. If we could somehow harness this bolt of lightning, channel it into the flux capacitor, it just might work. Next Saturday night, we're sending you back to the future!”

 Hunter cheers, a grin forming on his face. He’s going home! He’s finally going home! With a laugh of triumph and a small jump, “Okay, alright! Saturday is good, Saturday's good! I could spend a week in nineteen fifty-five. I could hang out. You could show me around-”

 “Hunter, that's completely out of the question. You must not leave this house,” the good doctor’s expression turns serious. “You must not see anybody or talk to anybody. Anything you do could have serious repercussions on future events. Do you understand?”

 Bummer.

 “Yeah, sure, okay,” maybe he can pay Diggins to get him some fast food during this time. Some fries that weren’t cold or maybe any sugar-free soda that was sold on the island.

 “Hunter, have you interacted with anybody else today, besides me?”

 “Um, yeah well,” a heavy pit forms in his stomach. “I might have sort of ran into my parents.”

 “Great Scott,” the blood in his face drains once more and Diggins gestures towards Hunter to hand him something. “Let me see that photograph again of your brother.”

 “Uh- Okay,” Hunter pulls it out again and hands it to him. As the tension is increasing, his heart rate decreases.

 Diggins sucks in a breath through clenched teeth as he inspects the photograph again, “Just as I thought, this proves my theory. Look at your brother.”

 Hunter does so, almost gasping at the vision of Dave’s head gone in the photograph, “His head's gone, it's like it's been erased.”

 Diggins gives a small nod, voice quieter, “Erased from existence.”

 “Pa, what is it?” The mother questions her husband, hiding right behind him for protection, “What is it, Pa?”

 Old Man Peabody squints into the night, holding a shotgun within his grip. They make it to the barn and peer around the busted doors, “Looks like a’ airplane, without wings.”

 “That ain't no airplane,” their youngest, a daughter with pigtails, holds up a comic book with a spaceship and a silver alien on the cover. “Look.”

 Her parents gasp at the imagery, comparing it to the metal tank of technology half-covered in hay.

 Suddenly, a door opens upwards from the mysterious metal tank. Bright yellow and white light emit from its interior.

 Old Man Peabody gasps out of fear, gathering his family behind him, “Children.”

 What comes out is Hunter in his silver hazmat suit with the hood up and reflective screen facing the four. He raises his gloved hands slowly upwards in surrender. Hunter stutters, trying to calm himself and the man holding the gun, “Listen, whoa. Hello, uh, excuse me. Sorry about your barn.”

 Sherman Peabody, the young son, yells in fear, “It's already mutated into human form, shoot it!”

 Old Man Peabody doesn’t need to be told twice. He cocks the gun and takes aim.

 Not again! Hunter dives back into the DeLorean and shuts the door closed. He yells as he gets the modified car to come to life.

 A few rounds of the shotgun go BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Towards the DeLorean as it peels out of the haystack and exits the barn. Hunter tries not to cry as he swerves back around to get the car onto the dirt road.

 He looks into the rearview mirror to see Old Man Peabody take aim again. Hunter screams and puts the pedal to the metal.

 Dirt flying, the DeLorean revs out of the farm.

 “Take that you mutated son-of-a-bitch,” more shots fired, blasting at the dust left by the modified car.

 Hunter screams as he crashes through a young pine tree, leaving its twin still standing upright.

 “My pine, why you!” The farmer drops his gun and shakes his fist at the escaping teen, “You space bastard, you killed my pine!”

 But Hunter doesn’t stick around to apologize. It’s been a long night. The roads are familiar, but the landmarks barely register in his head. Is this what trauma feels like?

 He gasps, feeling sweat pour down his face. Hunter rips the hood of the hazmat suit off and takes in a lungful of air. Breathe in, breathe out. Count your breaths. It’s all a bad dream.

 When he feels safe enough, Hunter slows just enough to follow the speed limit.

 These trees are so tall up in the hills. This is where rows of houses are supposed to be. There’s not even a streetlamp. It’s so dark. The shadows of the headlights over the trees are so long.

 I just want to go home.

 The sky is turning a pale blue color, signaling morning on the horizon. How long have I been driving?

 But the trees thin the closer I get to home and I must stop the car at the entrance of a construction site on a desolate plane of land. The twin Smilodon statues are standing in pristine condition to the right of advertised construction plans of my neighborhood.

 No.

 No!

 Hunter’s head grows hot, vision blurry, and static fuzz filling him. He clutches the sides of his head, “Alright, alright, okay Alti, get a grip on yourself. It's all a dream. Just a very intense dream.”

 He can’t go home so he has to wake up! Right?!

 A car slowly drives past him on the empty road. Without thinking, Hunter rushes towards the passenger window and knocks on the glass, “Whoa, hey! Listen, you gotta help me.”

 The elderly woman in the passenger seat screams, “Don't stop, Wilbert, drive!”

 Burning rubber, the car speeds off and Hunter falls onto his butt. He grunts and coughs. Dirt and gasoline entering his lungs. The coughing slowly turned into sobs.

 Like a wounded animal, he retreats towards the parked DeLorean and strips the gaudy hazmat suit from himself. It gets thrown onto the hood of the vehicle and he stumbles into the shade of the car. Falling to his knees, Hunter cries.

 “Can’t be…” A sniffle, a sob, “This is nuts!”

 Dr. Diggins inputting a date into the dashboard of his time machine from thirty years ago…

 He was still in Vivosaur Town. Not the same Vivosaur Town. He was in the past, not even born yet.

 Doc was dead. His friends were not even born yet either. Hunter was truly alone. What could he do?

 Sniffling, Hunter just allows himself to wallow in the crisp morning air. At least it doesn’t smell like hot garbage for once in Vivosaur Town…

 When the sun hits his face, the bluenette gets back on his wobbly legs and opens the passenger door to stuff the hazmat suit with Dr. Diggins’s camera before closing it and coming around to the driver’s side to open the door and slide in. At least he had a working car and time machine. All he had to do was go back to his time and… Figure out what to tell people about Dr. Diggins. A good cry was all he needed to clear his head, yeah. Go back in time, meet up with his friends with the DeLorean to go camping with, dodge all questions about why this cool car was modified to hell and back-

 Hunter pushes down on the clutch and turns the keys in the ignition. The car thrums and stirs but does not rev and vroom. His heart sinks, “Aw, c'mon…”

 It continues to stall for about five more minutes. He then gives up, hits the steering wheel, and slams his head into the horn. The DeLorean’s stupid car horn echoes along the desolate plane for a few minutes.

 Back to square one.

 Breathe in, breathe out. C’mon Hunter, you can think of something.

 Lifting his head from the steering wheel, Hunter does some basic math in his head, “Doc was in his sixties. He’s gotta still be around.”

 His stomach rumbles. Half-eaten dinner catching up to him. Alright, looks like a checklist is coming together.

 Hunter pushes the DeLorean into the bushes next to the housing plans and advertisement. He takes a few dense branches from decayed bushes to layer them atop the car for camouflage. Once he finds his work acceptable, Hunter follows the road towards a familiar horizon.

 “Remember, fellas, the future is in your hands. If you believe in progress, re-elect Mayor Red Thomas, progress is his middle name,” a reelection van passes through the streets as Hunter strolls through the town square of yesteryear’s Vivosaur Town. It’s so much cleaner. Cars are sleek and shiny. The abandoned buildings from his time are up and running. There’s smiles and contraptions Hunter has never seen before. People he can’t put a name to their face. He feels self-conscious about being in this time. What if he says the wrong thing? Oh well. “Mayor Red Thomas's progress platform means more jobs, better education, bigger civic improvements, and lower taxes. On election day, cast your vote for a proven leader, re-elect Mayor Red Thomas...”

 “This has gotta be a dream,” Hunter mumbles to himself, adjusting his hat.

 He comes across a corner café that his parents used to take him to for ice cream when he was younger. In his time it went bankrupt but in this era it was running in pristine condition. Hunter pushes open the sleek pink door and walks in.

 It’s nice and nostalgic inside. Mint green painted walls, black and white checkerboard tiled floors, white polished stone countertops, barstools and booths silver with glittering red cushions. A jukebox near the door, vinyl records hung on the wall, dancing silhouettes of sauropods painted onto corners. There’s the scent of black coffee and fresh pancakes in the air. For a few seconds, it feels nice.

 The guy behind the counter, a gruff older man with a white apron and old washed-out stains on his uniform. He must own the place. Hunter is caught in his line of sight and he grunts at the poor boy, gesturing to Hunter’s puffer vest, “Hey kid, what’d you do, jump ship?”

 Other patrons, albeit few, turn to look at him. Hunter feels trapped, throat tight, “What?”

 “What's with the life preserver?”

 Crap. It’s probably not in fashion yet.

 Sweating, Hunter spies the wooden payphone area in the back, “I just wanna use the phone.”

 Another grunt, a small tilt of his head to gesture towards the payphone, “Yeah, it's in the back.”

 “Thanks.”

 Trying not to shuffle too awkwardly, Hunter slides into the booth and closes the door for privacy. He keeps his back to the rest of the store as he pulls out the yellow pages book from the shelf to rifle through it. Holding his breathe, Hunter scrolls through the D section.

“Diggins, Diggins, Diggins, Diggins, Diggins,” AHAH! Morrison A. Diggins is listed right here in Vivosaur Town. “Great, you're alive.”

 He rips the page from the book and stuffs it into his vest pocket. Address memorized, the bluenette exits the payphone and approaches the counter, “Do you know where sixteen-forty Riverside-”

 But the owner interrupts him, “Are you gonna order somethin’, kid?”

 “Yeah,” Hunter blinks and remembers that he left his wallet back in his room… In his own time. All he had was the change in his pocket and all of it wasn’t enough for a heap of pancakes and sausages. “Gimme a Tab.”

 “Tab?” An eyebrow is raised, “I can't give you a tab unless you order somethin’.”

 “Right, gimme a Pepsi free.”

 “You wanna a Pepsi, pal, you're gonna pay for it.”

 Clearly there’s some miscommunication going on. Hunter sigh through gritted teeth, “Well just gimme something without any sugar in it, okay?”

 “Without any sugar.”

 Hunter is poured a cup of black coffee in a porcelain cup and saucer. He sits down and holds it with both hands. Jesus… It smells like tar this up close.

 Whatever. It’s whatever. He grimaces while taking a loose sip. Just this one coffee then he’ll have the energy to march over to the good doctor’s to explain himself and get a nice breakfast.

 Hunter sighs after a few more sips of coffee. He brushes back his blue hair in tandem with the fellow bluenette that sits next to him eating his cereal as he writes notes.

 The café’s door opens, bell jingling. Someone heavy enters and stops at the doorway, “Hey, Alti! What do you think you're doin’?”

 Both blue-haired teens turn to look over their shoulder at the person and his two cronies. Despite not having a mustache, he still had a large frame.

 Hunter’s eyes grow huge at the large teen in the doorway, “Bullwort.”

 Bartholomew ‘Bart’ Bullwort, now thirty years younger and a high school jock with a navy button-up and khaki pants. He’s not focused on Hunter. Instead, he points a meaty finger at the teen next to him, “Hey, I'm talkin’ to you, Alti, you Irish bug.”

 The teen gives a nervous laugh and Hunter’s jaw drops at the sight of his teenaged father. George Alti, “Oh, hey, Bart. Hey, guys. How are you doin’?”

 Bullwort huffs, walking up to George with his two snickering cronies right on his heels, “Yeah, you got my homework finished, Alti?”

 “Uh, well, actually, I figured since it wasn't due till Monday-”

 “Hello? Hello?” Bullwort gives him a few lumps to the head that were too familiar to Hunter. “Anybody home? Think, Alti! Think! I gotta have time to recopy it. Do you realize what would happen if I hand in my homework in your handwriting? I'd get kicked outta school. You wouldn't want that to happen would ya, would ya?”

 George gasps for breath once the fists are put away. He gives a hasty nod, “Now, of course not, Bart, now, I wouldn't want that to happen.”

 “Uh, no, no, no, no,” Bullwort waxes false sympathy to George, but it fades when he glares at Hunter, “What are you lookin’ at, butthead?”

 One of his friends, the completely bald one in a beanie cap, pokes harshly at Hunter’s vest, “Hey Bart, check out this guy's life preserver. Dork thinks he's gonna drown.”

 Snickers from Baldie and 3D-Glasses. I can’t recognize the two.

 Bullwort laughs with them for a second before patting George’s shoulder, “Yeah, well, how about my homework, Alti?”

 “Uh, well, okay Bart, uh,” the quivering blue-haired teen ducks his head. “I'll finish that on up tonight and I'll bring it over first thing tomorrow morning.”

 “Hey, not too early. I sleep in on Sundays. Hey, Alti, your shoe's untied,” George looks down to see where Bullwort is pointing below but gets nicked in the chin with his bully’s fist. “Hah! Don't be so gullible, Alti.”

 George Alti rubs at his chin, jaw clenched in pain, “Okay.”

 One more laugh before Bullwort turns on his heel to leave. His friends follow him. The large teen waves a hand, dismissive, “I don't wanna see you in here again.”

 “Yeah, alright. Bye-bye,” when the bell finishes ringing, George lets out a deep sigh through his nose and gets back to his breakfast. His wheat loops are all soggy now. George is about to take a bite but notices Hunter staring at him. The spoon is put down, “What?”

 Hunter is haunted. This is seventeen-year-old George Alti. No glasses, clean sports coat, light gray paints, straight spine George Alti. I’ve only seen him like this in old pictures. Fossil Gods… We’re seeing eye to eye. I can’t call him Dad, “You're George Alti.”

 “Yeah,” he gives a light frown back. “Who are you?”

 I’m the son you’re going to have in thirteen years who travels back in time thirty years from now just to get away from some shooting gang members.

 But I don’t say any of that because a sweeping mole man in a waiter’s uniform appears by his side to address George, “Say, why do you let those boys push you around like that for?”

 George shrugs, “Well, they're bigger than me.”

 “Stand tall, boy,” the mole man puts a paw to his hip and gives George a hard stare. “Have some respect for yourself. Don't you know that if you let people walk all over you now, they'll be walkin’ all over you for the rest of your life? Listen to me, do you think I'm gonna spend the rest of my life in this slop house?”

 His boss appears behind the counter, stern, “Watch it, Lemo.”

 Lemo isn’t intimidated. He shakes his head, “No sir, I'm gonna make somethin’ out of myself, I'm goin’ to night school and one day I'm gonna be somebody.”

 Lemo the mole! Who’s going to be mayor!

 Hunter stands up when he makes the revelation, “That's right, he's gonna be mayor.”

 “Yeah, I'm- Mayor…” Lemo is taken aback at the proclamation, blinking at this newcomer. The thick fur on his face ruffles into a slow growing smile, “Now that's a good idea. I could run for mayor.”

 “A mole mayor, that'll be the day,” the owner isn’t too interested anymore. He walks away to check up on the kitchen.

 “You wait and see, Mr. Carchar, I will be mayor and I'll be the most powerful mayor in the history of Hill Valley, and I'm gonna clean up this town.”

 “Good, you can start by sweepin’ the floor.”

 George finishes his cereal and his dish gets taken away by Lemo. The moleman is humming a tune, lost to his fantasy, “Mayor Lemo, I like the sound of that.”

 Hunter stares after Lemo before turning back to George Alti…

 The seat next to him is empty.

 A bike bell rings lightly outside and Hunter swivels his neck to see George pass by on bicycle through the large window on the east wall. He digs into his forgotten change pocket, slams a couple dollars of quarters onto the counter, and takes off out the door.

 Hunter runs after George but he’s down a skateboard and his young father has pretty good biking skills, “Hey Dad- George! Hey, you on the bike!”

 He eats dust, only able to jog after him and follow his distant form. This is what he gets for skipping breakfast. At least the caffeine gave him a boost. With a huff, Hunter settles into a walk as he makes it into a nice neighborhood with rusting leaves and two-story family houses lined up in rows.

 Young kids play outside every few lawns. A car passes along on the road and gives a light honk in greeting. The trees are so tall that the branches arch over the road and provide ample shading. It would be lovely to walk down this road during the summer, maybe.

 Hunter is able to walk far enough to see a bike leaned up against a large oak tree. He picks up speed and finds it to be George’s bike, “Finally.”

 No George in sight. He peers around until a rustle from above him gets his attention.

 There he is. A pair of binoculars in hand, George Alti is scoping out something from across the road.

 ‘What in the world,’ slowly, so slowly, Hunter follows his father’s trail of vision to the house across the street. On the second story open window, a young woman with sapphire colored hair takes off her sweater and brushes her hair in the mirror. She sits down and then starts to unbutton her blouse-

 “He's a Peeping Tom!” Hunter shrieks in horror.

 They had met because he had been injured birdwatching. BIRD. WATCHING. He was never going to look at his father the same way again. No respect for his blood father. NONE!

 That rustling noise happens again and Hunter snaps back to George. He’s adjusting his binoculars, but the strap is stuck on the bark. The rustles turn into cracks.

 Before Hunter can shout a warning at him, George Alti falls out of the tree. George tumbles into the road without a scratch but a sleek white car is just ten feet away and not looking to stop-

 “Dad!” Hunter rushes into the street. He shoves his father out of the path of the car-

 It screeches to a stop but Hunter is still hit. He falls over onto the asphalt with a grunt and is out cold.

 The last thing he sees is the autumn sky above while George makes a run for his bike.

 Samuel ‘Sam’ Beckles gets out of his car and gapes at the fallen teenager. He shouts towards George, “Hey wait- Wait a minute- who are you?”

 Suspicious George Alti high tails it out of there on his bike. Cracked binoculars swinging around his neck. He doesn’t look back.

 Sam huffs before yelling towards his house, the one George had been peeping into the second story window of, “Honey! Another one of these damn kids jumped in front of my car. Come on out here, help me take him in the house.”

 Hunter slowly awakens hours later in a very comfortable bed. The white sheets with floral patterns are so soft and warm. Rain and thunder echo outside, making a comforting noise against the glass paned windows and wooden house. Washed in the dark of the room, Hunter believes it to be nighttime.

 His lips are dry and he groans. Wow what a horrible dream it’s all been…

 There’s a silhouette at the end of his bed. She’s very familiar. Hunter peers at her, “Mom, is that you?”

 “There, there, now, just relax,” she scooches forward to gently feel his forehead with the back of her hand. The touch is comforting, soft, “You've been asleep for almost nine hours now.”

 “I had a horrible nightmare, dreamed I went back in time. It was terrible.”

 “Well, safe and sound, now, in good old nineteen fifty-five.”

 Wait. That doesn’t sound right.

 Hunter’s senses come back to him. Eyes shaking off that sleep, comfort gone, “Nineteen fifty-five?”

 His eyes adjust to the darkness. The woman next to him is actually a seventeen-year-old with bright sapphire hair, big gray eyes, pouty lips…

 He sits up in bed, blood draining from his face, “You're my ma- You're my ma…”

 “My name's Lorraine, Lorraine Beckles,” she isn’t affected by Hunter’s gaping. In fact, her sweet doe-like eyes don’t leave his face. Her voice is soft and silky.

 “Yeah, but you're uh,” Hunter stammers. What to say, what to say, “You're so, you're so thin.”

 A normal girl would have taken offense or at least questioned what was wrong with being thin, but Lorraine does not. Her features are only worried, hand going to his forehead to inspect a bandaged bruise, “Just relax now Calvin, you've got a big bruise on your head.”

 “Ah…” Hunter looks down and notices that some of his clothes are missing. His puffer vest and long-sleeved striped undershirt are gone. So that’s why he had a pleasant sleep. “Where're my vest?”

 Lorraine nods towards the location of Hunter’s shirt, vest, hat, and shoes, “Over there, on my hope chest. I've never seen red and black stripes on a shirt that size, Calvin.”

 Record scratch. Freeze frame. Where did that come from?

 Hunter squints at her, “Calvin, why do you keep calling me Calvin?”

 “Well, that's your name, isn't it? Calvin Klein,” she giggles. “It's written all over your shirt.”

 It’s actually written on the tag of my shirt but OKAY!

 “Oh, I guess they call you Cal, huh?”

 Hunter tries not to wheeze, “Actually, people call me Hunter.”

 “Oh, pleased to meet you, Calvin Hunter Klein,” she blinks sweetly at him before gesturing to the edge of the bed next to him. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

 “No, fine, no, good, fine, good,” he stammers, not liking whatever situation he was in now.

 Lorraine’s gaze falls to his head, back to the bandage, “That's a big bruise you have there.”

 “Ah…” She’s already said this.

 Her hand goes to his head and Hunter keeps trying to lean back. Lorraine doesn’t care, pressing herself further into Hunter’s personal space. His nervousness builds up like bubbling lava and there’s a tremble forming in his throat-

 “Lorraine, are you up there?”

 He’s saved by a woman’s shout from downstairs.

 “My god, it's my mother,” Lorraine gasps, shoving Hunter off the bed with both arms. “Put your shirt back on!”

 Hunter falls onto his butt with a yelp but scuttles towards his clothes without a moment to spare. Pull off his shirt- DON’T RIP IT- Pull his long-sleeved shirt on. Footsteps coming up the stairs- Dear lord, get that overshirt back on- The puffer vest, hat, shoes-

 Stella Beckles, Lorraine’s mother, opens the door to her daughter’s bedroom right as the two teenagers stand up to greet her. She stands tall, belly large from carrying another child, and pink hair curled into a short bun. Suspecting nothing, Stella looks her future grandson up and down, “Dinner’s ready.”

 She gets a little caught up when she leads her eldest kid and the weird teenager down towards the dining area, “So, tell me, Hunter, how long have you been in port?”

 “Excuse me?”

 “Yeah, I guessed you're a sailor, aren't you, that's why you wear that life preserver.”

 Whatever. Might as well roll with it if his puffer vest makes him stick out like a concavenator’s back, “Uh, Coast Guard.”

 Stella seems satisfied with that. She nods to her husband when they enter the dining room, “Sam, here's the young man you hit with your car out there. He's alright, thank God.”

 The house is big and homey. Pictures of family members old and young adorn the walls. Floral patterns on all the fabrics. Dark wooden linings and furniture supports. Shelves of more portraits and porcelain dinosaurs. Hunter is too nervous to pick out the tiny details, but he’s comforted enough to understand that this is where his future grandparents live. He can imagine them having parties and family gatherings here and maybe a younger version of him getting all snug in a guest bed for an overnight stay. Not that he had those memories but it’s a comforting thought of false nostalgia.

 Sam Beckles is busy messing with the bulky television set. Adjusting it atop a small shelf and trying to get the antennas to pick up a signal. Once satisfied, he’s stands up to stretch his back, “What were you doing in the middle of the street, a kid your age?”

 Hunter takes a second to think up a good excuse, but Stella picks up on his apprehension, “Don't pay any attention to him, he's in one of his moods.”

 He promises his future grandmother to bake her some cookies or something during his next visit for the save.

 “Sam, quit fiddling with that thing, come in here to dinner,” she shuffles towards the dining table where a full meal for eight. Hot plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, greens, and rolls set with glasses of milk and water. “Now let's see, you already know Lorraine, this is Milton, this is Sally, that's Toby, and over there in the playpen is little baby Joey.”

 Right. His future uncles and aunt. They look at him with bright, innocent gray eyes and are much smaller than his memories of them in the future. Milton, Sally, and Toby had a mixture of features from their parents. Milton had light lavender hair and big ears, Sally had dark ultramarine hair that was up in pigtails and a button nose, and Toby had spiky pink hair and freckles.

 Hunter instead focuses on little baby Joey in the playpen next to the table. Joey is too young to make out distinguished features and Hunter had only seen him in pictures but the fact he’s behind wooden bars gets a light chuckle out of him. He crouches next to the playpen, speaking under his breath, “So, you're my Uncle Joey. Better get used to these bars, kid.”

 “Yes, Joey just loves being in his playpen,” Stella sighs as she sits down and adjusts herself. “He cries whenever we take him out, so we just leave him in there all the time. Well Hunter, I hope you like meatloaf.”

 It was probably the only thing his mother cooked. At least, he assumes it’s the only thing she knows how to cook up from scratch. He’s too hungry to be picky.

 But he also doesn’t belong here. He clears his throat, “Well, uh- Listen, uh, I really-”

 “Sit here, Marty,” Lorraine pulls out the chair closest to the television set.

 “Right…” Meatloaf it is.

 As he sits down with Lorraine, Stella snaps at her husband, “Sam, quit fiddling with that thing and come in here and eat your dinner.”

 The antennas find the right frequency and Sam Beckles pulls the shelf closer to the table in triumph, “Ho ho ho! Look at it roll! Now we could watch Jackie Gleason while we eat.”

 A familiar sitcom’s opening number and credits play on the TV. Hunter feels something scratch at the back of his mind.

 Lorraine has her eyes on the future teen after she’s served herself some meatloaf and side dishes, “Our first television set. Dad just picked it up today. Do you have a television?”

 “Well yeah,” he piles on the potatoes and rolls, not really returning her gaze. “You know we have two of them.”

 “Wow,” Milton gasps, holding his glass of milk with both hands. “You must be rich!”

 “Oh honey, he's teasing you,” Stella tsks, cutting into her meatloaf. “Nobody has two television sets.”

 The sitcom rolls along. That scratching at the back of his brain becoming a thrumming frequency that matches a memory-

 “Hey, hey- I've seen this one, I've seen this one,” Hunter points at the television set, excited. “This is a classic, this is where Ralph dresses up as the man from space.”

 Milton tears his gaze away from the TV to squint at Hunter, “What do you mean you've seen this? It's brand new.”

 “Yeah well, I saw it on a rerun.”

 “What's a rerun?”

 It’s too late and he’s too hungry to keep up this cycle of questions, “You'll find out.”

 Stella now also stares at Hunter. She’s measuring him up and down, “You know Hunter, you look so familiar, do I know your mother?”

 Hunter did have the same face as his mother. Maybe in a crowded room, Stella would accidently mistake him for her if they were on the opposite sides.

 He’s awkward for a moment, sipping from his glass of water, “Yeah, I think maybe you do.”

 “Oh, then I wanna give her a call. I don't want her to worry about you.”

 RED ALERT! RED ALERT!

 “You can't, uh,” he sets the glass down and buys a few seconds to clear his throat. “That is, uh, nobody's home.”

 “Oh.”

 WRONG PHRASE!

 “Yet.”

 “Oh.”

 Time to shift gears before he has to answer more awkward questions, “Uh listen, do you know where Riverside Drive is?”

 Sam swallows some meatloaf, “It's uh, the other end of town, a block past Maple.”

 “A block passed Maple, that's John F. Kennedy Drive.”

 His future grandfather stalls putting more ketchup onto his vegetables to look at him, “Who the hell is John F. Kennedy?”

 Lorraine politely wipes her mouth with the floral napkin in her lap and then puts it down. She leans towards the table, catching her mother’s attention, “Mother, with Hunter's parents out of town, don't you think he oughta spend the night? After all, Dad almost killed him with the car.”

 Stella Beckles glances between the two teens. She hems and haws for a moment, putting together her best judgement after all the answers Hunter had given them, “That's true, Hunter, I think you should spend the night. I think you're our responsibility.”

 “Well gee,” Hunter finds himself trapped by societal convention. He rubs at the back of his neck with his hand, “I don't know.”

 On one hand, free room and board for the night. It’s storming outside and he’d rather be safe and dry. He could even get a nice homemade breakfast in the morning. His future grandmother could be the type of person to make fresh pancakes in the morning for overnight guests…

 “And he could sleep in my room,” Lorraine leans back into her seat, lightly pulling herself closer to Hunter.

 She grips his hand under the table and squeezes.

 Hunter sees white for a few seconds. In this present, he was wide awake and sitting at his young-not-yet-mother’s dining table with her-and-his-soon-to-be family. He was having a great dinner after not eating for an entire day.

 Internally, Hunter screamed in horror.

 MY MOM IS HITTING ON ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 This is bad. Horrible. Horrendous. The worst. Deplorable. Immoral. Depraved. Every synonym for bad and disgusting.

 Look. She obviously doesn’t know I’m going to be her future kid. I can’t fault her for this one. However… I need to come clean about something: I don’t experience attraction to anything.

 I’ve never had a crush. Never felt hot. Never bothered on going on a date. I don’t really look twice at anyone. I don’t even dress to impress.

 All I care about is fossils, dinosaurs, vivosaur battling, my friends, Barnum, Dr. Diggins, my family, extra fries on the side, snow cones, cool rocks…

 And I don’t think I’m ever going to tell anyone. Okay, maybe my friends one day. Am I going to spill the beans now? HELL no. It’s the fifties. I’ve read enough horror stories online, thank you. I’ll just put this situation in my Top Five Worst Scenarios I’ve Been In list. It’s number one. Scratch that- It’s number two. Lester’s Pudding Incident is hard to beat.

 Unpause.

 Hunter leaps out of the wooden dining chair, released from Lorraine’s grasp. He gasps and finds all eyes on him and not the sitcom playing on the television set, “I gotta go. Uh- I gotta go.”

 He quickly makes it towards the front door. It’s still storming outside as he pulls his gloves on, “Thanks very much. Tt was wonderful. You were all great.”

 The door is unlocked and he waves to them before exiting, “See you all later, much later.”

 The seven of them still stare after him after he’s left. His horrible sneakers sprinting away in the rain. The sitcom continues to play in the background.

 Stella sighs, getting a helping of seconds, “He's a very strange young man.”

 “He's an idiot,” Sam huffs, focusing back onto his plate. “Comes from upbringing. Parents were probably idiots too. Lorraine, if you ever have a kid like that, I'll disown you.”