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"Kosete!"

Nowele drops her keys in the front entrance of her quaint, shared house and continues down the hall, stripping off her winter layers as she goes. She folds the jacket and sweater and tosses them onto the arm of the couch, just because she's lugging the '50s tv set that a random customer - rather, a random stranger, as the girl hadn't even bought anything - had passed along to her.

She'd read somewhere about people turning old TV sets into fish tanks. That's one of the only reasons she didn't chuck the thing into the dumpster after work. Never mind the thing is actually really cute.

She calls out her brother's name again, with no reply. Odd. He wasn't at work, and not at home; he must really have taken a day off, and done something in the city. Nowele sets the tv on the counter, fidgeting in place to admire it from all angles. She could ask him later, if he's not too tired, to take the thing apart and turn it into her fish tank. She'd pick out the prettiest purple fish to put inside. Hopefully the fish last longer than her tulips did. She pushes that thought cheerfully out of her head.

She turns and collects up her jacket and coat; Nowele is a very particular woman, and loves to clean, but a space such as theirs has so very little storage, nevermind room to store things, that her efforts are probably lost on anyone who comes over to see their abomination of house cleaning efforts. This doesn't mean that every Thursday night isn't Nowele's favourite: housecleaning overhaul!

A week passes and the TV set, though moved to various locations around the cramped - no, cozy - house, was never taken apart like Nowele had thought to do. Neither sibling was home with enough time to figure out how to do it without shocking yourself with the lost electricity inside, and neither really wanted to spend more of their waking hours working, anyway, not after long shifts at the coffee shop keeping them on their toes.

The set is all but forgotten, at least for now..

Java Joe's - Day 15

Nowele was slowly - very slowly - adjusting to life as a mom. She couldn't decide whether it was the most fantastic gift blessed upon her.. or absolutely the worst one without a chance of returning it. If she had the choice, she would have liked to raise it all her own from the start, nature versus nurture kind of thing, but at least she hadn't had to suffer childbirth and the loss of her figure for it.

It's this sort of inner dialogue that wreaks havoc on her as she goes through the routine of her job at Java Joe's, in which she unofficially runs the place (but gets paid far less than if she officially did). And her mind hadn't stopped racing, because she couldn't yet enroll the boy in school - too late in the semester, they told her - and she had no other choice but to employ his help around the shop. And let's just say this isn't the boy's first choice to spend his afternoons sweeping up and wiping down tables.

"You're a wet rag!" Michael shouts at her across the cafe as Nowele points out another table needing a wipe down. She isn't sure if he meant to compare her to the tool he's using to clean them, or if there's some sort of database in his television head that stores weird slang from his production time for him to toss at her. Either way, she doesn't enjoy the comparison, especially with so many customers around to witness the scene.

She not-so-calmly rounds the counter and takes Michael by the wrist, pretty much dragging him by the tiny thing into the back room, in spite of his whining about her hurting him.

Safely away from the customer's ear, she gives him a very stern talking to with some choice words, her temper flaring like it hasn't in quite a while (though Nowele is known for her nasty temper, it doesn't rear its ugly head often). Michael scowls - or, from what she can tell, he does, as the face on his .. face.. dips its head and furrows its brow with a deep frown - but he grudgingly takes a mop and slowly, very slowly, walks back to where he came, dragging his feet with utmost lag just to spite his mother some more.

Nowele gives a heavy sigh, and resolves that she must, must find her son somewhere else to be during the day. And preferably something far away from her, for the sake of her blood pressure..

Michael isn't sure how he does what he does. His head just seems to sort itself out. So when he heard the whispers of a child asking their mother on the bus why that boy had a TV head, it sort of hit him right then and there. Why?

Bored out of his mind, and occupying the small back room of Java Joe's, Michael taps the casing of his head. It sort of gives way under his finger. It's not quite plastic, certainly not flesh, and has a sort of resistant give to it. It's certainly sturdy; he's smacked it when getting up from his cramped bedroom space almost every day. But his head has no pain receptors, so it doesn't smart, it's just.. uncomfortable.

Today, he's concentrating on honing his somewhat innate skills.

I mean, c'mon, there has to be more of this stuff! I can change my face, but I dunno how I do that. It just flips automatically. Michael pushes a coffee cup lid across the table boredly with one finger, his chin in his hand. There gotta be some rad things I can do with this bulky thing that no one else can!

He sits back in his chair and begins to fiddle with all his buttons. They don't seem to make any difference, but, then again, he can't really see himself, and he isn't talking. Maybe he has some crazy face on, or he can suddenly speak in Spanish or something!

He slips into the staff washroom, hitting the door against a chair because of the room's cramped setup. He freezes up, hoping his mom doesn't rush in and catch him. When he hears nothing but the usual cafe noises, he slips all the way inside and locks the door behind him.

The light takes a bit of flickering before it turns on completely. When it does, Michael stares at the face in the mirror. Is this supposed to be his face? He's not really sure if he has a face. He shows many faces, but which one is his? He leans in toward the mirror and tweaks a knob on his cheek. The screen fuzzes up, obscuring the projection of a boy's face and replacing it with TV snow and a bit of feedback.

Michael jerks back. No, not good. Other way. He tweaks it back into place, and realizes he can't turn it any farther the other way. He moves to a button instead, poking it in all the way. The screen projection warps like whoever is filming this boy live is using a fish eye lens.

Michael growls to himself and slams his hand down on the sink. This is stupid! Why can't I make it do something cool?!

As his temper flares, so does the image. It morphs, changing into a more obscured, but clearly animalistic, version of the boy, almost in a demonic way. It's gone when Michael sees himself in the mirror, and his anger is replaced by shock and intrigue. What? What was that?

There's a knocking at the door. Michael jerks up and tries to go for the lock, but the knob twists and there's Kosete in the doorway, raising an eyebrow at Michael.

"You done in here, little buddy?" he asks quizzically.

"Er, uhm!" Michael stammers, looking left and right. "Yes!" He squeezes out beneath Kosete's thick arm and makes a getaway, but not without also knocking clean into the table he seemed to have forgotten was there.

Kosete watches the boy bolt like a scared bunny, and ponders why the boy was alone in the bathroom.. and at this age? Really? He'll have to have a talk with him way sooner than he thought..

Michael finally, finally convinced his mother figure to leave him at home today, insisting that he would not in fact make a mess of the place while she was away, nor would he run off and join a biker gang and get lots of vile tattoos.

He thinks his mother worries too much.

Regardless, with the premises clear, he could practice all he wants to make his head do what he actually wants it to do. He'd watched Retro Television religiously all morning, and thinks he has a good handle on what his black and white face can do if he tries. It seems his head might have a database of faces; how large of a database, he's trying to figure out. Maybe just all those he's seen? Or is it limited to what age of TV he.. is?

His pursuit has led to a lot of soul searching. His funny slang and his outdated technology, he decided, are the fault of whatever the heck kind of TV he's made out of. But why is he part TV? He's never seen a kid like himself before.

Michael tries not think about it. He hates getting down on himself.

Instead, he holds up his mom's hand mirror, and wills himself to make a face.

The screen fuzzes up with a whole lot of snow, and, pushing through the "snow"storm, comes the face of his favourite cowboy figure, the Rifleman. Chiseled, uber manly, and donning a fantastic hat, the Rifleman was on twice this morning, so he was able to memorize all his features and mannerisms. He winks at himself in the mirrored reflection, and, lo, the face does what he wants it to.

His excitement flairs up, and he grins wildly. The face grins back, but melts, sort of, or maybe morphs, into the Rifleman's young son. Michael stops, his smile quickly replaced with a scowl. Mark McCain was a lame character, and certainly not as cool and sophisticated as his dad. Why, when he let his guard down, do his faces become affected by his own youth? Can't he be cool and grown up and manly if he wanted to?

He tries again. He'd sustain a face for an hour if it killed him. By the end of fourty minutes of staring at himself, Michael was mighty bored of seeing the Rifleman's face straight on, doing nothing more than turning side to side with gruff expressions. He didn't want to risk pushing expression to far, less he loses the Rifleman's face all together.

There's a loud clanging sound that rings out, which causes Michael to jump and shove the mirror deep into the couch cushions. Turns out it's just the mail dropping through the chute on the front door, but it nearly scares the face off of Michael. He rushes over to the window and watches the plump mail carrier turn the corner and lug her bag back to her doorless car.

He frowns and drops his shoulders, truly discouraged. He lumbers back to the couch and, miserably, digs the mirror out of the cushions, holding it in his lap without looking in it. He can't bear to look what awful face his stupid shock had given him now.

But curiosity, after a minute or two, gets the best of him, and he slowly tilts his enormous head down. He's genuinely shocked to see that he'd maintained the Rifleman's face the whole time (or, at least, reverted back to it, for he hadn't seen his own expression at the moment of shock, but whatever, he didn't care). He jumps up and pumps his fists into the air at his small victory. Yes yes yes! He's taught himself how to maintain a face!!

He plops back into the couch and flips on his mom's tv (much, much more up to date than his own), and resumes watching Retro Television. Now, to memorize more faces.

Java Joe's - Day 146

"No, I'm not neurotic. I just have a good sense of how many days have gone by since my kid's been placed into my care. Or I've felt every single one of them individually.

What can I say other than this - the kid has his own special way of doing things. One day it's cowboys, the next he's a spaceman from Venus, or reporting on a train wreck in Minnesota. How am I supposed to keep up with someone who's brain fires off at a mile per minute? And someone who's face is just a projection of what he thinks he should look like? It's all too much, I'd say. I'm just lucky Kosete's around to teach him a few manners, else I think I'd be in here more often than not, doctor."

Nowele twists in her chair to face her psychiatrist for the first time in fifteen minutes. The woman is busy etching something into her notebook, but Nowele is convinced that it's just to look busy and not specifically make eye contact. Nowele, a woman of a very small stature, usually swimming in oversized clothing to make matters worse, suffers from anorexia - pretty ironic for a chef. It took a long time for people to notice, whether it was because of her deceptive clothing or keeping other people busy eating save for herself. But now she's confined to this chair once a week, until the good doctor releases her with a good bill of health.

Which, in her opinion, won't happen soon, as this b***h won't even look her in the eye when she's being talked to.

Finally, the psychiatrist raises her eyes to Nowele, looking perfectly owl-y in her features.

"You're certainly talking about your son a lot. He must mean a great deal to you," coaxes the doctor.

Nowele scoffs into her puffy scarf, and readjusts her seating position. "He's a bit much."

"Yes," her psychiatrist agrees, "But I'm sure he adores your attention."

Nowele squirms a little under the poking and prodding. "Of course. He loves any attention he can get." She swings around suddenly. "But how do you read a kid who's putting on a face? A kid who can literally SHUT OFF if he doesn't want to listen!?" She sinks into the couch, looking like she's melted.

The psychiatrist sets down her clipboard and removes her glasses. "Every child comes with a separate, individual set of challenges, as each child is an individual in themselves. It's a parent's duty to seek out methods of connecting with them, and figuring out what works for each child. It will help a good deal for you to ask Michael what makes him tick."

Nowele laughs bitterly. "The gears and cogs and mechanical do-hickies make him tick. Oh, and my electric bill cries under the pressure of his recharging, with no thanks from his end."

The psychiatrist tilts her head a little, her eyes locked steadily on the side of Nowele's head that is facing her. "Have you been eating properly?"

"Yes," Nowele growls shortly.

"Good. Now-"

Nowele rushes off the couch and to the door before her doctor can continue, knowing this to be their usual dismissive small talk.

"- make sure you continue to, like we've planned."

"Mhgmmm."

The door shuts with such abruptness that one of the plaques on the wall shudders.