[REG] You say: lab rat. I say: pay me. (Parker/Charlie)

[Akina Tokuwa]

Getting your a** handed to you by a couple Negaversers trying to piss off some senshi had several down sides.

1) Hospital stay.
2) Broken arm.
3) Bruised rib.
4) Damaged pride.
5) Fear of school girls.
6) Fear of militant hoes.
7) Dreams of being choked by jumper cables.
8.) Hole in shoulder from stiletto heel.
9) Increased feeling of despondency.
10) AHGODWHYISITALWAYSME?

Needless to say, Parker was feeling like a bag of horse crap that had been set on fire and then stomped out by a trio of stiletto-clad evildoers. Okay, so maybe only one had on stilettos, but the feeling of that heel piercing through the meaty part of his shoulder was god awful. To add insult to injury, the time Parker had to take out of life had cost him quite a bit of money. He had seven calls to come repair computers in that time, which would have been more money than he had made so far that month. Instead, his clients took their business elsewhere, and Parker could only hope that the switch was not permanent. Oh, and then there was the whole issue of hospital bills.

Parker needed cash, and he needed it now.

And so he came to Prometric Testing Facility, a sterile white-building in Destiny City that ran focus groups for market research and psychology studies day in and day out. Most of them paid little, but Parker had dedicated his entire day to experiments. In the morning, he had to do a series of eye tests. He tried a couple new sodas. He was asked to smell new perfumes. The afternoon had brought a reflex analysis, but Parker had to be disqualified because of the broken arm. It was nearing 4:00pm, and Parker was in the waiting room for his next test.

A woman in khakis and a maroon polo passed him a clipboard. "Go ahead and read that over before you sign it. We're waiting on a few more participants before we start the briefing," she said, making a few marks on her own clipboard. Parker nodded in response and she disappeared behind a frosted glass door. Dropping his eyes to the paper, he read over the basics of it. It paid $50 for a one-hour testing session. It was a bit high, actually, which made Parker smile. Some of the others paid less, almost half as much.

The sheet didn't say what the study was on -- they never did -- but it told him that he would only be given the full amount of payment upon completion. He read the last few lines and then struggled awkwardly to sign with his right hand. Parker was a lefty, and lucky him, his left arm had been the one that broke in the little skirmish he got caught up in the a week or so before. It was almost a distant memory. Almost. He lifted his arm, but the cast bumped into the clipboard, knocking the pen to the ground. Leaning to pick it up, Parker had to make several attempts before he was upright once more and signing his name.

His handwriting looked worse than ever, but he didn't care. Parker just wanted to get this over with so he could take the money and be on his way. His day had been long enough already. Drawing his knees together, he carefully propped his broken arm on them, running his free hand through his hair. Despite the bruising on his torso, his face had been relatively undamaged. There had been some initial swelling, but it had faded by now -- a small mercy in what had been a terrible situation.  

[Shazari]

Charlemagne Boyle's new life -- which was really just his old life plus some totally unwelcome and unasked magical complications -- took not just some getting used to (and it sure did take that), but also a fair bit of improvising. From making up strange and new sources of injuries, to finding suitable weapons on a moment's notice, to replacing his racquetball racket at a time when he definitely didn't have the spare money to go casually spending it at sporting goods stores.

By the time he'd returned to the place in the park where he'd left his bag so it wouldn't get damaged in the battle, it was gone --stolen, he guessed. Replacing his housekeys was irritating. Replacing his racket was -- expensive.

So here he was, too busy fighting the forces of evil to get a real job, instead forced to lower himself to the unenviable position of being a science lab rat in order to turn a dollar. He signed the release form, grimaced at the woman with the clipboard, and sat in the nearest chair.

Then he looked up, and his face lost all its color.

One of the things about Charlie's new life that took some getting used to was that somehow, some way, people who saw Sailor Thuban did not make any visual connection with Charlie Boyle. Through some magical glamour, he looked entirely the same yet not remotely the same, so that even when confronted with people he had known for years as Charlie Boyle, Sailor Thuban was a total stranger to them.

It was a weird feeling, and so when Charlie first looked up he didn't immediately remember that he had this protection -- when he looked up all he saw was the boy who'd been savagely beaten in the park while Sailor Thuban attacked people with his umbrella, and all he thought was "Now my cover is blown."

But it wasn't; the other boy looked up and there was no flash of recognition, no sly squint and "do I know you from somewhere?" Charlie tried to look calm and composed again.

"What happened to you?" he asked instead, as an excuse for why he'd been staring as though he was in the woods and had just found himself standing in Bigfoot's giant footprint.  

[Akina Tokuwa]

When the other boy entered, Parker flashed a glance in his direction, but little else. He was still learning how to manage the whole cast thing; he felt more awkward than ever. So when the blond boy decided to enter into a conversation with the ever-so-delicate accusatory question, Parker was a tad ruffled. He flickered a cold cerulean gaze to the other boy's face, and then moved his eyes away just as quickly. "I broke my arm. It's not that special," he said, struggling to complete the form. He didn't recognize the boy; they probably didn't go to the same school.

Before Parker could shoot any kind of dirty look in Charlie's direction, the woman from before reemerged. She glanced down at her clipboard and then back to Charlie. "You are... Charlemagne?" She dropped her glance downward again, consulting a small photo on a roll sheet. "Yes, well, please fill this out. Two other participants are supposed to arrive. We will give them fifteen minutes. If they aren't here by then, we will start the study with just you two." She passed a clipboard to Charlie in the same matter-of-fact way she had regarded Parker and then disappeared once more.

As she left, Parker snorted. Charlemagne. Charlemagne. The name screamed douche. King Douche. To someone as social-class sensitive as Parker, he only assumed that this boy must be some rich well-to-do guy -- way too full of himself to ever be worthy of good conversation. He probably went to Barren Pines, the college prep school that had denied Parker's detailed application only a few days prior. It added insult to injury -- literally. Throwing one last scathing glance toward Charlemagne, Parker returned to his sheet, struggling to fill it out. He dropped the pen again and it rolled to the floor. "Damnit," he said, leaning forward.  

[Shazari]

Charlie was faster -- he bent forward and snatched up the pen before Parker could get to it. Then, instead of passing it back to the other boy, he sat back in his chair, pen in one hand, clipboard in the other. He looked at Parker for what seemed to be a good, long, awkward while.

Parker, from what Charlie observed, looked like he'd played a game of chicken with a mack truck and had proven his bravery (unfortunately, so had the truck). It was nothing to do with what had actually happened to him -- and both of them knew what that was, but Parker, of course, didn't know that Charlie knew. Charlie decided he probably had no use for this information anyway, but it was good to see the kid was alive and apparently plenty feisty. Not so many people had much grit nowadays, at least not in his experience.

He felt a faint, whispery itch of guilt that Parker had fallen victim to the Negaverse's a*****e agents, that Thuban hadn't arrived sooner, or been more superheroic. Or maybe it was guilt that Charlie had survived the experience with no long-term injuries (thanks to whatever magical healing factor) whereas Parker looked like someone had chucked him down eight cascading flights of stairs like a failed human Slinky. It was guilt. He felt compelled to be extra-nice to this poor, unlucky victim.

"You look like an idiot trying to write with that thing," Charlie said in what he felt was a mild and gentle voice. "Here, give me your clipboard and I'll fill it out for you, you'll just take forever. Trying to write with a cast is slower than molasses in January."

He set down the pen in his lap, and reached over for Parker to hand him the clipboard. This, to him, was the obvious solution.  

[Akina Tokuwa]

It wasn't terribly difficult to be faster than Parker. Not only was he a bit on the unfit side, but he was prone to laziness anyway, the kind of person who believed sloth to be his most pressing Deadly Sin. He liked sitting in front of his computer, teaching his mind to be a marathon runner (which was, to him, a far nobler pursuit). His mouth thinned to a dissatisfied line as Charlie took the pen, dark eyebrows dipping downward when it was not imemdiately returned to him. What, was he trying to pick on the injured kid?

Parker began to object, but Charlie was too fast -- again. He was rattling off insults while Parker was still trying to eek out an annoyed, Hey! Fortunately, years of experience had taught Parker to never ask for the thing that he wanted back. When a bully stole your notebook, you simply walked away and got another. And then, some time later, you sneaked into said bully's room to retrieve the pilfered possession. If someone ever asked you if you wanted something, it was always best to act ambivalent. That way, they would not know how to react, and since many of these annoying types depended on the reactions of others for their immature fuel, Parker simply denied them the satisfaction. Normally, they would lose interest and return his things with some kind of You're no fun! tacked on to their departure.

In this case, Parker was a tad surprised to see that Charlie claimed to want to help him. So, naturally, he immediately assumed that Charlie was full of s**t and simply trying to screw with him. Like everyone else. "I would rather not have p***s McDickface written on my form -- but thanks," he said dismissively, keeping his clipboard to himself. He had a pen in his bag anyway. If Charlie refused to give it back, he could always get one out.

Eying the other boy with increasing scrutiny, Parker waited quietly to have the pen returned, and for Charlie to decide that it was not worth pestering him at all. He was in no mood to be poked and prodded by some egotistical bully who sensed the passive-aggressive nature lurking under Parker's skin and decided to manipulate it. Siiiiiigh.  

[Shazari]

There was no way for Parker to know that Charlie Boyle was about the last person in the world who would write explicit pejoratives on anyone's medical release forms. (To be fair, Charlie was best friends with Charys Murphy, who was just the sort of person who would 'spice up' your medical release form if you let her.) Charlie had a deep and abiding respect for important documents of all kinds, release forms included. He also harbored a general loathing for what he referred to as "pulling shenanigans," and for him, this was an umbrella term that caught an unusually broad range of activities under it.

The sort of person Charlie was, however, was the kind who did not endear other people to himself. He gave Parker a look that said, 'why were you born so phenomenally stupid?,' and it was only by some miracle of fate that he did not pose this same question aloud, and to its subject. "Are you kidding me?" he asked instead, which was still close, on the scale of Polite Things To Say. "What am I, twelve?" He sighed the sigh of a person who has had one too many tiresome run-ins with 'kids these days,' and passed the pen back instead. "Suit yourself."

Pride, Charlie decided. Pride was what compelled some poor, sad sack of an injured kid with no remaining hand-eye coordination to rebuff a simple offer of assistance from a more capable human being. He considered that understandable enough -- if, of course, stupid -- and worked on his own form instead.

After a few minutes, during which Charlie made some hasty notes about his family medical history on the form, the study worker reappeared, picking at a bit of fuzz on her dark shirt. He thought she looked like an employee at the Build-a-Bear Workshop in the mall.

"They're still not here?" she said, half to herself. "Well, we're almost ready for you, make sure you sign those forms on the reverse side, too."  

[Akina Tokuwa]

Parker didn't need help. That is what he told himself every day in the mirror.

I'm good enough,
I'm smart enough,
and gosh darnit -- people like me!

Well. Something like that.

He took the pen back from Charlie with little haste, free from the erratic snatching of a more compulsive person. "Thank you," he said, without a single ounce of politeness. Even if Charlie was the sweetest little old lady on Earth, Parker would have had the same reaction. There was no such thing as help -- at least, help without strings attached. Parker didn't know Charlemagne, and he didn't want to know him either. Ever since the attack in the park, he had been in an even fouler mood than his usual chipper self. The wound in his shoulder from the stripper's heel still stung each time he lifted his arm, and with all the physical labor he was subjected to at Hillworth, that was far more frequently than he would like. It would take him a while to forget the feeling of death approaching, of how easily his life could have been extinguished. His survival didn't seem like a miracle; it seemed like an incredibly cruel practical joke. He was forced to face his impending doom, and then released with a little giggle from the Powers that Be. <******** up, if you asked him. Which no one did.

Until the incident receded from his immediate memory, Parker would just be a grumpier, more difficult version of himself. Lucky Charlie. Furrowing his brow, Parker straightened up in his chair and continued to write the slow, sloppy letters of what most certainly had to be those of a deranged toddler who had dipped in to Mommy's Sad Pills. When the study worker reappeared, Parker did not even glance up; he was far too focused on writing a proper R. Before she darted off, the worker paused to look at Parker's form. She reached out and took the clipboard from him, clicking her tongue. "Oh, I can't read this. I can't read this at all. And I work with doctors." She flipped his sheet over to check the other side, absent-mindedly picking stray lint from her shirt. Flickering her eyes over to Charlie, she smiled a bit warmly. "Charlemagne, would you mind filling out the pertinent information for Mr. Dammit? Then he could just sign it on each side. It would make my life a lot easier." The woman passed Parker's clipboard straight into Charlie's hands, not waiting for a response. It seemed like a bit of a procedural violation, but the woman didn't seem to care. The center would close after this final study. Perhaps she had already checked out. Parker certainly thought so, watching with derision as his board was given to the boy whose help he had just refused.

Parker's jaw lowered, but he kept his mouth closed, parting his lips only to say, "It's Damhnait. DEV-naht."

The woman glanced over to him. "Didn't I say that?" He sighed. She shrugged, offering a standard-issue professional smile, and then began to walk away. "Thanks, boys. It will be just a few more minutes." With that, she disappeared again.

Parker didn't say anything. He just looked vaguely defeated, as per usual.  

[Shazari]

Charlie, who was stuck with 'Charlemagne' again because the worker kept disappearing before he could suggest otherwise, wedged his own clipboard down into the side of his seat, against his leg. He looked at Parker's, while absently grabbing for the pen at the top of the clipboard (he missed on the first try).

"Wow, this looks like it was written by a sasquatch. I think I could actually fit legible letters inside your unintelligible gigantic chickenscratch."

He got the pen successfully this time, and started in at the top of the form. "So how do you actually spell 'Parker Damn Hate?' "

On the form where Parker had attempted it, it looked like a four-year-old child's idea of Chinese characters. No wonder the woman had been stymied.  

[Akina Tokuwa]

Parker stared.
And stared.
And stared.
And stared.
And staaaaaaaaaaared.

His eyes were half-lidded, mouth drawn into an annoyed line. His cast extended past his elbow, and until a few days ago, he had been stuck with a waistband fitted with metal rods to hold at a specific angle out from his body. And now some douchebag named Charlemagne was insulting him? God, it was the perfect snapshot for the Parker Damhnait Anthology of Bullshit. "D-A-M-H-N-A-I-T," he spelled, not bothering to correct Charlie's pronounciation. It had been intentional. That much was obvious. "Do you think you can handle Parker all on your own?" The kid beside him was clearly not only an idiot, but a cruel one. Terrible combination. It was the same combination that the majority of the Hillworth bullies had too.

It was hard for Parker to not get more combative. Not aggressively, of course, but through snide little comments. Still, he needed this idiot to fill out his form so that he could sit through yet another study and get yet another paycheck. He would not be pushed away from some big-foreheaded overgrown preschooler. Parker kept his eyes on the clipboard, watching carefully to ensure that Charlemagne did as he was told.

Like a good little helper bee.  

[Shazari]

Charlie had no problem filling out 'Parker' on his own -- but he stared at the other boy, baffled, until he finally figured out the reason he was so vitriolic at that particular moment. "Are your painkillers wearing off?" he asked, half-interested, half-transcribing some of the other legible parts of the form. "That can make people irritable."

He didn't look up to see Parker's face, which he assumed was . . . still irritable, but puzzled over another section of the form. "In this family history section, were you trying to check 'Asthma' or 'Glaucoma'? Um, or 'Cystic Fibrosis,' I guess?"  

[Akina Tokuwa]

The crack about painkillers would get no response from Parker. It struck a nerve too close to something personal. He had no intention of sharing it with Charlie. It was bad enough that his father's trial was one of the most public Destiny City had had in recent history. He didn't want to get in to the horror of Marcus Damhnait's staggering addiction to pain medication. Instead, his face relaxed, wiping down into practiced annoyance. It was a familiar adjustment for him, and Charlie made things easier by changing the subject.

Parker started to gesture with his left hand, but the cast pinched against his waist. "Asthma. And heart disease," he said, trying to indicate with his good arm. "Cancer too. Bone disease. Blood disease." He pointed out a handful of other things and then paused. "My grandparents had terrible health," he said flatly. Before his mother died, she had only ever had eye problems, but her mother died of breast cancer and her father of a heart attack. It was a similar story on his dad's side of the family. Parker let the silence fall again, unsure of what to say to Charlemagne.