_The Look-Alike Series_ Daria fan fiction by Canadibrit with Ben Yee Season 4, episode 12: "Process of Elimination" prose adaptation by Austin Loomis "Get'cha motor runnin' Head out on the highway Lookin' for adventure And whatever comes our way" -- Steppenwolf, "Born to Be Wild" Cast: Jane Lane, Daria Morgendorffer, A.P. McIntyre, Lynn Cullen, Janet Barch, Tim O'Neill, Karen, Cindy, Ted, Norville, Dawn, Charles "Upchuck" Ruttheimer III, Mara Fitzgerald, Rick Jeffreys, Mrs. Williamson, Mark Honson, Roz Wilson, Johnny Parks, Brett and other unnamed Cumberland contingents, vapid tour bimbo, intern, SS Rat, Warlock, Mark "Shooter" Renfield, Tom Sloane, cop, orderly, mysterious man, Nick Campbell, Trent Lane, Max Tyler, Jesse Moreno, Pagebert, Scar ACT 1: STAND "`Shiny happy people holding hands'? Hey, pull that bus over to the side of the Pretentiousness Turnpike, all right? I want everybody off the bus. I want the shiny people over here and the happy people over there. I represent the angry gun-toting meat-eating people, okay?" -- Denis Leary, "No Cure for Cancer" _Lawndale High_ Jane stood at her locker with a small jar of fire-engine-red paint in one hand and the camel's-hair (or maybe mouse-hair) brush in the other, painting an intricate flamelike pattern on the inside of her locker door. Unopened jars of orange and yellow paint sat on the cluttered bottom of her locker. Daria approached and peered at her friend's work. "Nice." She gave the tones of mild approval a moment to sink in, then added, "But it's a shame you're only going to enjoy it for another seven months or so." "Oh, I'm not doing this for my own benefit," Jane replied quite loftily. "This masterpiece will serve to remind countless generations of luckless students just how close to hell they are." "And I take it that, once you're through with this work of art, you're going to inflict similar works on the rest of us." "Oh, already done that -- with one of us, anyway." Daria raised an eyebrow, looking slightly hurt. "Lynn asked me to do some Celtic knotwork pattern on the inside of *her* locker door -- that's how I got the idea. I guess she liked all the stuff I did to her house, no matter how much she complained about the time it took." Her artistic muse took over her voice for a second. "Purple, black and silver...one of my better jobs, if I do say so myself..." "Done anything for A.P.?" "I *wanted* to, but he refused to let me near his locker. Something about messing with the burglar alarm set-up in there." Daria blinked at that. "I didn't ask. I don't want to know." "Speaking of A.P..." The McIntyre literally bounced into Jane's view, Lynn trailing along behind him with a fond half-smile on her face. He stopped and faced a bemused Daria and Jane, bouncing in place. "*poingpoingpoingpoingpoingpoingpoing*..." he said, way too damn cheerfully and with a grin so vast the corners of his mouth seemed to be trying to meet at the back of his head, then bounced off down the hall. Daria and Jane looked at Lynn. "What's with *him*?" Daria asked her elder sister. "First off," Lynn replied, "remind me never, and I mean *never*, to feed him Jolt first thing in the morning." "Jolt Cola? All the sugar, twice the caffeine? I've heard rumors, but I didn't think it really existed." "Thinkgeek.com," Lynn and Jane chorused, then looked at each other. "I'm an artist!" Jane insisted. "I need the caffeine and sometimes it's too hot for coffee! And it's on *your* links site, Lynn!" "Found it on subversion_is_we. And point taken." "Anyway! You fed him *Jolt Cola*? You've *seen* his reaction to your coffee!" "Yes, I know, I know, I know. Fact is, he turned up at my front doorstep this morning trying to be *poing*y. And you *know* what he's like in the morning." "How many times did you have to pick him up off his face?" Daria wondered detachedly. "Three. And you don't want to know what *poing* sounds like in Grog." She let them think about that. "Anyway, he was out of Coke at home, hence his state, and brewing coffee would have taken too long. So..." "I get the picture. So what's with the bouncity-bounce?" "You heard about the trip to NASA? Well, it's day after tomorrow. And he's discovered that he has a few ins from the last trip." "You mean to tell me that A.P.'s going to be wandering around NASA Space Center with people who like him?" "Worse," Jane sighed. "He's going to be wandering around NASA Space Center with people *like* him." There was a moment or two of tense silence after this. "Houston, we have a problem." _Later -- Lawndale High parking lot_ Barch and O'Neill were standing side-by-side with clipboards, checking off the names of the few students milling around them -- Karen, Cindy, Ted, Norville, Dawn, Charles, A.P. -- and while O'Neill merely looked worried, Barch looked actively pissed off. (Big surprise there.) "Isn't that just like *men* to be late at a time like this!" "Uh, Janet? I think it isn't only the boys who have fallen behind a little. I think--" "Shut up, Skinny!" She considered a moment. "Well, I suppose at least *one* of those back-stabbing testosterone-carrying scum had the decency to call in late, not like my no-good excuse for an ex-husband!" "Janet, remember what we talked about? Let *go* of the--" "SHUT UP!" "Eep! I mean, yes, Janet..." "All right, ladies...and the *rest* of you...on the bus!" As the students filed onto the bus, A.P. stopped Karen. "Hey, you know what other schools are coming along on this thing?" "Cumberland and Oakwood." Study in wide-eyed fear. "Eeeeeeeeeep." "What's up with you? They're not *that* bad..." "Not if you don't know them, they aren't..." She gave him a quizzical look. _Oakwood High parking lot_ Mara was particularly conspicuous in the crowd as the Lawndale school bus pulled up, but A.P. also recognized Rick Jeffreys from the marching band. Those two were standing about as far apart from each other as they could get and still be in the same zip code, probably because of their dating history (they did, once). Barch and O'Neill filed out and greeted Principal Williamson. She was standing with two people none of the other Lawndalers knew -- a tall, thin man with sandy blond hair, and a rather overweight half-Chinese woman with a laconic stance but very sharp eyes. "Welcome to Oakwood," said Williamson. "These are the two chaperones we're sending on this trip -- Marc Honson and Roz Wilson." "I'm Janet Barch, and this is Timothy O'Neill." "And may I just say how much of a pleasure it is to bring three schools to--" "Stuff a sock in it, Skinny! We have one more school to get to!" "You'll find our group a fairly well-behaved bunch," Williamson resumed once this byplay was done. "But watch the one in black around the male element..." She trailed off, noticing A.P. at the bus window, and turned pale. "So *that's* where he wound up..." Roz looked up to follow Williamson's gaze. "Oh, I see." She waved at A.P. He gave a manic grin and waved back. "Oh," said Honson dismissively. "*Him.*" He turned to Roz. "It was a mistake to let him run wild in that lab..." "Geeks will be geeks." "Get...on...the bus," Williamson gritted, "and get him...out of...my school." Barch and O'Neill exchanged looks, then both looked curiously at the stoic Honson and the smirking Wilson. "I'll explain on the way to Cumberland. But I assume you know a little about *that* one by now..." Barch and O'Neill nodded gravely and got back on the bus, followed by Roz, Marc and the rest of the Oakwood contingent. * * * Once the bus had pulled away, Mara walked up to where A.P. was sitting and looked at him. "Hey, geekball." "Hey ho, Nympho-Goth. You still with this bunch?" "Well, yeah. The astronomy trips are *great* excuses for--" "Too much info! WAY too much info! Stop *right* there!" Mara's face sprouted a lascivious smirk. "Darkened planetariums ...overnight stargazing trips..." "NYMPHO-GOTH!" "Stop calling me that." She settled into the seat next to him. "They let you *stay*?" "It's not Boy Scouts anymore." Johnny, the young man with the nearly white hair sitting in the seat behind them, heard that, peered over the seat, spotted A.P., then hurriedly vacated his seat and headed for the back of the bus in a nervous scramble. A.P. grinned. Mara sighed and put her boots up on the seat back in front of them. * * * We've never been to Cumberland High before, but a high school's a high school, so your imagination can probably fill in the details. Three students filed onto the bus, along with a very thin man with white hair, one glass eye and a perpetual smirk. One of the students might have seemed relatively familiar for some reason -- brown hair, khakis, red shirt. He took the empty seat behind Mara and A.P., looked behind him, did something of a double take, then sat down and faced front again. AP spotted him and did a slight facefault, remembering Erudite Emerald's story about the time Narcissa hosted the school dance, and the cool-seeming guys she and Art-Smart Scarlet had met there. _And it turned out they were carriers of the dreaded Ruttheimer gene. If it hadn't been for the Fashion Club getting locked out in unseasonable snowfall, we'd only have broken even on the night._ "Hey Brett!" Mara greeted him. Brett -- so now A.P. knew for sure which one it was -- did a worried facefault. "Uh...hi Mara...Uh..." He got up, moved further back, put on a Walkman and shut out the outside world. "Jeez. Three scars on a guy's back and he never speaks to you again." "I'd say I wonder about you, Nympho-Goth, but I don't, and that's the problem." The bus pulled away from Cumberland High. "GEEK-BALL!" *smack* "Ow! Okay, okay, okay! *Mara*, if you've gotta be picky!" He took a moment not to consider. "What part of that do you have a problem with, anyway?" *smack* "OWWWWWWWW!" _parking lot, NASA Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center, Houston, TX_ And so the Trisuburban Science Club found themselves standing outside their bus, being greeted by a woman of middling height with a lot of dyed-blonde hair, big blue eyes, a larger smile than should really be possible on a human face, and an almost palpable aura of condescension about her. "Well, isn't it such a lovely bunch of children we have visiting us today?" This led to shared looks all around -- even the teachers looked a little bit appalled. "Now, we're going to name you all *official* Astronauts for the day! We usually don't get such *big* boys and girls coming to see us...but lucky for you, we just got a whole bunch of *brand new jackets*!" They followed her gesture with their eyes to a box marked TEACHERS, which was being dissected via X-Acto knife by a young man whose manner fairly screamed "intern." He opens it and extracted the first jacket, which appeared now to have been pulled off either a murder victim or a very unlucky lion tamer. "Oops," he eeped. Barch fumed. "Isn't that just like a--" "*Anyway,*" the tour bimbo hastily interjected, "now we issue you all *official* Astronaut Jackets...Line up by height!" As they all did so -- or at least tried valiantly to do so -- Mara and A.P. gave each other who-the-hell-does-she-think-she's-kidding looks, complete with rolling of the eyes. Roz turned around at the sound of a few teenagers moving toward them. "Oh, I guess these must be the latecomers." "Oh," the tour bimbo gushed, "little lost sheep back to their flock..." "What institution did *you* escape from?" Her response showed that she completely failed to get it. "Lane College, in Oakland, California. Why? Did you go there too?" Roz collected a jacket and wandered back to the teachers with an I-give-up expression. The tour bimbo turned all her shiniest teeth on the class. "Okay, boys and girls, let's start our exciting adventure to the magical world of outer space! We're walking, we're walking, we're..." Thump. She looked back in alarm. "Oh, young man, are you all right?" A.P. was facedown on the ground, Mara's boots on his left. "Note to felf," he muffled into the pavement. "Filly wawk onwy workf faw Pupple Pewil." _some time later_ A sniper scope moved over a loosely collected throng of teenagers in silver Mylar jackets. The crosshairs came to bear on a twosome -- long black glossy hair on the left, unkempt red on the right. The crosshairs focused on the redhead. The finger tightened on the trigger of the rifle -- breathe, aim, slack, squeeze, *BANG*. Seen through the crosshairs, the red hair got redder as its owner dropped, first to his knees, then to the ground, face first. The crosshairs followed him down, the raven- head's boots visible to his left. ACT 2: KILLING IN THE NAME "Hey now, when I'm knocking on your door This special delivery is yours... And the voices tell me to blow you away..." -- The Offspring, "Special Delivery" From a different vantage point, somebody else watched the scene through binoculars. The face behind them was one Lynn would have recognized -- a man in his mid-thirties, angular, with long brown hair and a rather negligible tan for a Texan; he'd called himself "SS Rat" when he met with Lynn and Tom at the Feeding Trough Bar and Grill in Highland. He swept the surrounding rooftops and found absolutely nothing. He put down the binoculars, pushed himself back and up from his prior position -- which had been flat on the ground on his stomach, face upturned. He looked at the gun at his hip, silently decides to make his getaway and headed away from the edge of the roof. He moved toward the exit as if he belonged there; a couple of security guards passed him at a dead run, barely glancing at him. He pushed open a door, looked nonchalantly at his watch, converted time zones in his head, then plucked his cellphone from his belt and hit a speed-dial button. "Warlock?" he asked when he got pickup. "Rat." _The Blue Motorcycle inner sanctum, San Francisco_ After hanging up, Warlock looked at his phone for a moment. He dialed, then waited for pickup... At length, he heard a voice, with typing in the background. "Cullen's Mortuary. You bag 'em, we tag 'em." He facefaulted. "Peril...?" "Warlock." She took a moment to digest the datum, then her tone turned accusatory. "This has to be important or you wouldn't be calling me." "Have you heard from the Maverick lately?" "No, and I don't expect to for a while. He's at NASA this afternoon." She thought about it. "Why?" "I know he's at NASA. Lehrer tipped us off. That's why we sent cover." _The Chamber of Dark Mysteriousness, Chez Cullen, Lawndale_ Sitting at her computer, typing away at her homework, Lynn experienced a peculiar blend of anger and shock. "You're *watching* us?" "Protecting." "I say tomato..." She paused for him to dignify that with a response; then, as she realized he wasn't going to, opened a browser window. "And I am now checking news sites. Unless there's something you'd like to tell me first hand..." "Rat saw a redhead go down." There was a pause. Her fingers just hovered maybe an eighth of an inch over the keys for a moment, then she broke for her desk drawers and commenced to rummage through the top one. "Did he say which one?" "He's not even sure it was fatal. It...wait. What do you mean, `which one'?" She pulled her .45 out of the desk drawer. "Vaya con dios, Warlock." With that, she threw the phone on the bed and took off. In her haste to exit, she barged past Daria, who was carrying two cans of soda and, in the wake of that high-speed passage, looking really confused. "Lynn, whe--?" Slamm. "Okaaaaay..." She spotted the phone on the bed, the "talk" light still lit. She picked it up and put it to her ear. "Peril?" Warlock shouted. "Peril?!? LYNN?" "Not as such." "Emerald." He got a command voice on. "Stop Peril!" "From..." Amethyst's engine started up, and the bike roared out onto Glenview Road at approximately Mach 1. "...from doing *what*?" "From doing what I just heard her do." Daria heard the *clunk* of the ladder against the window. "A.P., get up here!" she called to the without. "We have a problem!" "You're telling *me* we have a problem," A.P. muttered from outside; "they cut short our trip 'cause some gunhappy--" "Wait a minute," Warlock barked, and Daria held up a hand for techno-weasel silence. "A.P.? As in A.P. `the Maverick' McIntyre?" "Yes," Daria replied. "He's here. *Shouldn't* he be?" A.P. scrambled in through the window, watching Erudite Emerald closely. "One, he's home early. Two, *keep* him there until I talk to you again. And lay low!" "But--" "He sounds like he knows the story -- talk to him!" Klik. Daria looked at the phone for a moment, then put it back on charge. Then she looked at A.P. "Okay, what happened?" A.P. was not *quite* in speedrant mode. "Can we save it for when we're all together? I think we *all* need to hear this, 'cause if it's what I think it is we're *all* in a *lot* of trouble..." "A.P. Calm down. We can't leave yet. Apparently, we all need to lay low." "But *why*? I mean, Art-Smart Scarlet has to hear this too and I REALLYREALLY*REALLY*wannatalktoRustaboutbeingtheonewhogetspeopleinto situationswherepeoplearegettingshotatjustcausetheyhappentohaveredhair andIdonteven*know*whathappenedtoHefnersFollyandbelieveme--" "WAIT," Daria cut his speedrant off. "*Upchuck* got *shot?*" "Shot *at*. They won't tell teenagers *anydamnthing.* All I know is that I split off from the rest to check out the surveillance gear and let Hefner's Folly hang with Nympho-Goth and I was poking around with some of it and I don't know what exactly happened but there was a gunshot and he was on the damn floor -- why'd he have to start wearing the black jeans and crap *anyway?* And Mara was screaming and Wimp-in- the-Willows FAINTEDandsodidthetourbimboandBarchstartedOFFononeand... EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!" Daria, having had just about enough of this, slapped him once, forehand. He blinked at her and rubbed his cheek. "Sorry. You were hysterical." "*You* didn't get *shot* at!" He thought about it, once he noticed her Look. "Recently. ANYWAY." "You're right. The others have to know." She picked up the phone and dialed, then waited for pickup. "Jane? Outside Lynn's. With the Plymouth. Five minutes at the *very* most." A.P. guessed Scarlet must be asking what went on. "We're going to pry answers out of the *other* bartending bastard in our lives." Another pause. "Oh, and call Tom." That presumably got a reply asking why her. "Because *you* have his number carved on your wall from when you were dating. It's the one ringed in barbed wire." Pause for more query. "Yes, you can bring it to the inquisition. Five minutes." Daria hit the cutoff button and looked at A.P. He looked back at least as stoically as he knew how. _Biers_ Daria, A.P., and Jane barged through the door and came striding up to the bar. Shooter looked a little bit panicked. "Uh...what can I get you?" "Information," Daria replied. "PEOPLE ARE *SHOOTING* AT ME!" A.P. added. "AND LYNN'S *GONE*!" Shooter raised an eyebrow at that. "Gone as in...?" "Gone as in `voom,'" Jane clarified. Shooter grabbed the bar phone, dialed a long distance number and waited. At length... "Warlock? I have three teenagers in my bar telling me things concerning Peril. Are you updated on this?" He must have been. "Oh *Christ.*" More from the far bar. "You're kidding. And you didn't talk her *down*?" Whatever Warlock said to *that*, it made Shooter nervous. "Right, right; sorry. I'll get in touch as developments warrant." He hung up. "Okay. Now why are you here? I'm pretty sure you *should* have stayed low." Tom entered, with the utmost trepidation. "Oh, I see. Enter the goat." "First it's H," the new arrival muttered, "now it's `goat'?" "Better you than me, H..." Tom then noticed the glowers being sent his way. "Uh...hi." "Oh, hi." Jane turned to Daria. "Can I hit him?" "Not yet." Now Daria turned to Tom. "What did *you* know about this?" Tom almost visibly bigsweatdropped. "Know about *what*?" "Oh, great, typical," Jane snarled; "once *again* he's clueless!" Tom looked around at them, beginning to realize that something was amiss. "What went down?" "More like whom," Daria replied. After a moment, she noticed his you're-going-to-make-me-ask look. "A red-haired boy, age seventeen... Presumably, Charles Ruttheimer the Third. AKA Upchuck or, more recently, Hefner's Folly." A shocked silence followed this flat statement. After a moment to recover, Tom got back to business. "...Where's Peril?" "Probably halfway to Houston by now!" snapped A.P. "Did we talk to Rat?" Now even Shooter was exasperated. "How do you think we *know*?" Tom became very interested in his own shoes. "Oh. Right." A bleak pause descended. "You're not going to ask," Daria realized at length, "so I guess it's up to us. What's being done to *find* her?" Tom shrank back with an I-should-have-thought-of-that look. "Rat's spreading out his few contacts," Shooter replied. "Rat himself is at the morgue they took the redhead to. They'll find her." Daria, Jane and A.P. looked at Shooter and Tom for a moment. Then they went to a table at the far end of the room and sat, waiting. Tom looked over at Shooter. "One more question." "What *now*?" "Who gets to tell Falcon?" Long silence. They looked at Daria, Jane and A.P. They looked at each other. Then they looked at the phone. Then back to each other and, with one accord, "Warlock can do it." _a deserted road, somewhere in Texas_ All seemed peaceful to the passing critters. Then a motorcycle engine became audible in the distance. The sound dopplered, then a purple blur shot into view, finally screeching to a halt on the shoulder. It was very quiet. Not a car in sight. Lynn looked out at the very flat ground around her. "I got him shot. And it keeps on happening, no matter *what* I say." She unzipped her jacket and pulled her gun from the shoulder holster. She looked at it a moment, her face growing resigned. Then she raised it to her temple. ACT 3: CALL AND ANSWER "Only you can fill my blank heart And I'm resigned to that... I'll forget to breathe someday I never stop to think why." -- Blur, "Resigned" "And," to quote the final fit of the original _Hitch-Hiker's Guide_ radio series, "since this is of course an immensely frustrating and nerve- wracking moment for the narrative suddenly to switch tracks again, that is precisely what the narrative will now do." _A hospital waiting room (undisclosed for security reasons), Houston, TX_ The students were milling around, looking shocked and a little frenzied. Rat was off to one side, very inconspicuous with the tense waiting posture of *anyone* in a hospital waiting room. An orderly came in with a pack of cigarettes in one hand, stopped in the doorway and surveyed the scene. Police were milling around, talking to people. A pair of them were speaking to a deeply distraught Brett. "No, I didn't see anything! I was walking behind them -- as far out of sight of his girlfriend as I could get -- and next second my cousin..." He choked on tears of anger or grief, or probably both. "Your cousin -- that's Charles Ruttheimer?" one of the uniforms asked. "The Third, yeah. Now can we *drop* this?" "We're trying to get to the bottom of this, son. Now, if we can just ask a few more questions..." Brett gave an aggrieved sigh. Rat pulled out his cellphone. As he flipped it open, it rang. He hit the RECEIVE button. It was just the Warlock he'd been about to call. "Peril inbound. Catch her." "Right. Update -- casualty named Charles Ruttheimer the Third." "Warlock: Understood." Klik. Rat put the phone away. In another corner of the room, a lonely payphone stood. The orderly I mentioned stepped over to that payphone, groped for change, plunked some into the phone and dialed. He waited for pickup...and, when he got it, said, "Room 216 please." _Room 216_ It was a fairly nice hotel room. To maintain suspense, all we'll see of its occupant is the back of the chair he sat in and his black-clad elbow leaning on the arm, reading the paper. He didn't have a white cat to stroke, but he should have had. The phone on the table beside him rang. He shut the paper and picked up the phone. "Yes?" he said in a politely bland voice. "Uh...uh...uh..." the orderly said intelligently. Total lack of emotion. "You have a report?" Pants-wetting fear. "Turns out the casualty is one Charles Ruttheimer the Third. Apparently he looks a lot like your target." Long silence. Then the man hung up. More silence as he digested this, almost audibly. At length, and still with no trace at all of any emotion you've ever experienced in yourself or seen in another, he noted, "Damn." _The roadside_ Mere moments have elapsed since Lynn put the gun to her head. _You *want* his death to be wasted?_ Lynn literally jumped, as if she'd actually heard Warlock speak the words aloud. Then she lowered the gun and looks at it. Obviously shaken, trying mainly to convince herself, she observed, "It's not for sure yet." She reholstered the gun, remounted Amethyst and rode off. _Outside the hospital_ Amethyst rolled up and Lynn hops off. She headed for the door, but was stopped by Rat. "Peril." A tense moment. Lynn squared her jaw and got businesslike. "Sitrep?" she asked flatly. "Casualty name Charles Ruttheimer III. Cause of death: bullet wound to the back of the head from long range. Secondary cause of death, probable: resemblance to Maverick." Lynn closed her eyes for a moment; her breathing went slightly ragged. "Traceability to the Family?" she asked. "The police are totally confused. As usual." She allowed herself a very brief smile. "That's one thing." Another moment. "And you're still here because...?" "First, to intercept you. Second, to cover you. There's a Merritt sniper running around this town and you're probably target #2." She took an instinctive step back. "I see." Rat looked around, mostly at rooftops and the like. "I have a pretty good idea who it is. In the meantime, try to keep low." Another step back. "I'm sick of `keeping low.' I'm a teenager, not a field mouse." "As you will. Just don't lose your head." "Oh, the sense of humor. Get the hell away from me." Rat turned and walked off. Lynn sighed and slumped against the wall. _The kitchen, Casa Lane_ Daria and Jane came in, the former that little bit too quiet. "Look," Jane insisted, trying desperately to stay cheerful, "whoever's out there will find her. The Smythes seem good enough at what they do..." "So are the Merritts." After a moment, Daria noticed the stricken look on Jane's face and changed the subject. "I keep feeling like there's someone we forgot to tell." Voices floated up from the open basement door. "I'm *really* getting *sick* of this!" Nick snapped. "Hey man, chill," Trent rasped. "She'll be by." Realization hit Jane. "Oh crap, I forgot. Spiral rehearsal." She thought a moment, then turned to Daria. "I think I have a purple jacket somewhere..." "Jaaaaaaaaane..." So they went on down into the Dungeon and approached the original Spiral lineup with some trepidation; the quartet all looked very annoyed at Lynn's absence. "Hey Janey. -- Hey Daria. Seen Lynn?" "Uh...yes," Daria said simply. Silence. "She was supposed to be here half an hour ago." "She...had something else to do," Jane replied unhelpfully. "One of these days *I*'m going to have something else to do." Daria heard that mutter and got snappish. "It's not like *that,* Max!" Sheepish silence. "Then what *IS* it like?" "Uh..." the girls replied. Jane sighed. "Guys, she took off for Houston." After a pause, she decided she might as well say it. "*Family* business." "She *what?!*" arose from four throats at once, closely followed by "...OH." "Look," Daria interjected, "if she comes back..." That was the wrong thing to say to Sir Naps-a-Lot. "`IF'?!" "Some of the Family `business' involved flying bullets." Trent looked at Daria, past her to Jane, then back at Daria. "Did it involve the punk?" "Sort of," Jane allowed as. "You maybe remember us telling you about Upchuck Ruttheimer?" Nick remembered. "That redhaired idiot who hit on you at that one gig? Sure." "He took a bullet," Daria explained, "that was apparently meant for A.P." "Problem is," Jane took the thread back up, "Lynn didn't know when she left that it *wasn't* A.P. who took that bullet." Stunned silence. "So, where *is* the punk?" "At home," Daria replied, "hiding from his parents. And us. He just couldn't take any more." "Is that really smart, if someone just took a shot at him?" "Jesse, I don't know, and frankly, I don't much care. I'm too busy worrying that I'm going to go back to being a one-sibling family again." Looks were exchanged. "What if we go after her?" Trent volunteered. Jane had an instant answer to that. "What if I break out the red and white paint and do target designs on our backs?" "Are you *kidding*?" Max scoffed. "Her Merc would leave the Tank *or* your car in the dust -- not to mention her bike!" "And it's the bike she took," Daria pointed out. "So you can drop that idea right now." After letting that hang there a sad moment, she confessed, "All we can do is wait." "Does she have Family down there?" Jesse wondered. "Well, *one* of the rat-bastards lives there. Emphasis on `Rat.'" "Can we call *HIM*?" Max snapped. "If we knew his number. Which we don't." "Can we call *anyone*?" "No one I particularly want to speak to." "Even if it means her life?" "Trent, we're the last people on the planet she trusts. She ever finds we turned to them, she ceases to trust *us.* *Then* who keeps her alive?" "None of us wants to sit and wait," Max groused. "Then rehearse!" Jane snarled. "Bash out something loud and obnoxious!" "How are we supposed to concentrate on playing when..." Nick trailed off. In surprisingly gentle tones for someone turning that sharp a knife, Daria said simply, "She would want you to." "She wants that," Trent rasped. "But she *needs* help." Jane cut her eyes to Daria, then shoved Trent up against a wall. "And love-of-your-life," she gritted quietly, "needs *you* to *drop* this before she starts to cry and blows her entire persona, do you understand?" "And if Lynn doesn't come back?" Asked equally quietly. "Then we help her through. But right now, A.P.'s not the *only* one who can't take any more." _Inner Sanctum kitchen, TBM_ Pagebert was at the counter, assembling a "meal" out of spare parts. Warlock barged in and makes for the fridge. While Warlock was rummaging, the phone rang; Pagebert, sensing the bad mood, dropped what he'd been doing and picked up. "Blue Motorcycle. -- Rat." Warlock looked around and seemed to develop a sudden itch to grab the phone from Pagebert. There was silence as Pagebert listened. "So she knows? -- And she went home? -- I don't think Warlock's going to like that `probably,' Rat..." He disliked it enough to hit his head on the inside top of the fridge. "*`Probably'*?!? Give me that!" He snatched the phone from Pagebert without waiting for a handoff. "You didn't follow her? -- *Fine,* she pissed you off; she *does* that. Still! -- Okay. Okay." (...) "How long ago?" (...) "Do we have any idea *who*? -- Touche." (...) "First priority is figuring out exactly who." (...) "Right. That's your job; I'll leave you to it." He hung up. Tense silence supervened in the room as Pagebert watched him warily. And along came Scar, in a black T-shirt, blue boxers and bed- hair. "Coffee?" she semi-grogged, then noticed Warlock practically giving off steam. "What's up, Warlock?" She caught Pagebert's warning gestures, but a second too late. "What's *up* is that *Peril* is pissing off her protection and driving through a city where *one* Merritt sniper has already struck." Scar turned to Pagebert with a look that says, "What the *hell*?" Pagebert sort of shrugged at her and continued his effort to become one with the walls. "I'll be on the range," Warlock said and stormed out. Scar and Pagebert both winced, then she turned on him. "You. Explain. NOW." Pagebert tried to burrow into the wall again. _basement armory, TBM_ Warlock looked over the weapons, eventually picking out an M-16. As he picked it up and started to load it, his cellphone rang. He picked up with something resembling a snarl. "Warlock," he grated. "It's Shooter. She's here." He sounded nervous. "Peril?" "No, the Queen Mother. Of *course,* Peril. -- Uh, I think I need advice here." "About. *What*?" "Her and drinking. Staring at a San Fran Iced Tea like she'd like to drown in it. Being *way* too quiet." Warlock charged upstairs. "Were it anyone else, I'd say draw her out." Shooter nearly sounded thankful. "But not me?" Warlock held the phone away from his face and shouted, "Scar! Contact the Lawndale group, tell them Peril alive and well!" He thought about that, then added, "Physically, anyway." Back to the phone. "*I* can barely do it; I don't think *you* can." "So what *do* I do? I don't know if I like the look on her face. Or lack thereof." "Do what works with her." His bitterness traveled down the airwaves nicely. "Nothing." In Biers, Shooter looked over and winced a little. "Well, she's left." "Shit." Warlock hung up and dialed again. _Living room, Casa Lane_ From the basement, Daria and Jane could hear the Spiral bashing out one of their pre-Peril originals -- and doing it no justice at *all*. The phone rang, and Jane leaped up, nearly knocking the sofa over in her haste to grab the receiver. "Yeah, yeah, what?" "Scarlet? Scar here. -- That sounded *stupid.*" "We don't normally hear from *you.* Or *anyone* other than..." Jane groped for a decent insult. Scar intervened before she could find one. "Warlock, I know. He's as much of a people person as we have. Anyway, just letting you know that Shooter called -- Peril's back there." "Back *where*? And for how *long*? There was rehearsal and she hasn't been here!" "She was at Biers, then bugged out." Jane couldn't keep the scorn out of her voice; she hoped it oozed all over the counter at TBM. "I take it you people keep *no* track. We'll find her. She's on *our* turf now." She hung up very abruptly, then turned to Daria -- then, without another word, headed for the door to the living room. "YO, IMPOSSIBLE MISSION SQUAD! YOUR MISSION, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT..." Daria rolled her eyes, looking a little relieved. _The Techno-Weasel's Den, McIntyre Manor_ The Barenaked Ladies' "Call and Answer" was coming out of the stereo -- loud. A.P. frowned worriedly at CNN.com, then alt-tabbed to reveal Yahoo News. He frowned deeper. "Oh, come *on,* you stupid..." He made a frustrated noise and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "You're supposed to be updated *regularly!*" There was a *clunk* as a ladder hit the outside of his windowsill. Deafened by frustration and loud music, he didn't hear it and alt-tabbed again to "Morbid Mort's Mortuary Mania." After a scan, he alt-tabbed away from that with a wince. He was perusing Ananova when Lynn appeared at his window, pried it open and clambered in, watching him warily. He continued staring at the virtual girl on the screen. "C'mon, c'mon, tell me something, *anything*..." "I got back okay," Lynn said from across the room. A.P. didn't hear. "C'mon, *please,* I've got to know..." "NO NEWS IS GOOD NEWS!" "GAH!" He spun round and fell off the chair. Lynn winced. "I'm okay, I'm okay, I just did the falling-down thing *again,* I..." The full impact hit him. "Lynn?" For one of a few times in her life, Lynn was lost for words. "Uh...hi." "I...kind of want to hit you for scaring me so bad. But I'd lose an arm, right?" Lynn just looked at him, squaring her jaw as if to say, _Go ahead if you're going to -- I probably deserve it._ A.P. got up and stepped toward her, his arm coming up...then he just grabbed her in a firm hug. Lynn did a facefault, then relaxed a little and hugged back -- *tight*. _outside McIntyre Manor_ The A-Tank rolled up in front of the house. The front passenger window rolled down and Jane poked her head out. "There's a light on in the window and a silhouette...can't quite..." Daria craned her head out, looked around...then gave a slightly exasperated little smile and tapped her best friend on the shoulder. "Um...Jane?" She pointed out Amethyst, parked in the driveway. "oh." The girls pulled their heads back into the A-Tank, and Jane rolled the window up as the A-Tank pulled away. ADAPTOR'S NOTES Sorry I'm late, but I've been too deliriously happy to spoil the mood working on a story like this. Then the source of that delirious happiness said she'd like to see it done. Who am I to argue? I gave "Johnny Parks" that name in honor of John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris, better known simply as John Wyndham, whose book _The Midwich Cuckoos_ inspired both versions of _Village of the Damned_. The white cat mention is inspired by Blofeld's white cat, the basis for MAD Cat and for Dr. Claw's habit of staying out of sight. Obligatory legal blap: Daria Morgendorffer was created (as were the rest of the Lawndale characters) by Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis Lynn, and she and her neighbors are copyright 1993, 1997, 2001 MTV Networks, a Viacom company. (As Michelle Klein-Haess has pointed out, work-for-hire sucks the yolks from ostrich eggs.) Monty Python quotes and characters are copyright 1970, 2001 Python (Monty) Pictures Ltd. They are here used, without the permission of their creators or owners, in the not-for-profit context of fan-fiction. The characters of Lynn Cullen, A.P. McIntyre, and the rest of (a) the Oakwood posse and (b) the Smythe Family are copyright 1999, 2001 by Janet "Canadibrit" Neilson. This storyline is copyright 2001 Canadibrit and Ben Yee and was adapted by Austin Loomis (to whom the prose format version is also copyright 2001) with their permission. All other characters (in this case, St Christopher's own Roz Wilson and this Marc Honson guy), locations (the Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center) and incidents are either imaginary or used fictitiously. Any coincidence of names is regretted, and any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or wandering the night in ghostly torment is either purely satirical or not my fault. As a "substantially transformative" derivative work, this story is protected by the Supreme Court's decision in re Campbell v. Acuff Rose Music. It may be freely redistributed as long as this copyright notice is maintained intact, but may not be in any way redistributed for profit without the permission of the legal owners of all concepts involved. The present author hereby gives permission for any and all keepers of Daria fanfic pages to archive this work (as if I could stop them). Any publication of this story for profit without the express written permission of Austin Loomis, Janet Neilson, Ben Yee and MTV Networks (like any of that'll happen, especially the last) is strictly prohibited, and violators, if I ever decide to track them down, will be strung up by the thumbs, beaten about the head and shoulders with a free-range carrot, and then handed over to corporate lawyers who will do terrible things to them. On purpose. Austin, and good day. 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