My ears hurt. I'm hearing too much. Too much noise. And I'm hearing nothing.

Static is the worst solid possible.

And I should know. Earth, Wind, Fire, Water. I was water, too. I was supposed to be the quickest, versatile and everything. And the case being, I could turn into a hard solid possible.



I'm kind of hungry.

Stand up, stagger, reach for the refrigerator door. Pure impulses and reflex are able to pull the door open, and I reach for what I guess- what I'm assuming- what I hope is leftovers from two days ago. Seeing spots and everything, I stick it in the microwave, and hit 3:45. I think. I guess so. I assume so. I hope so. Not really.

I haven't done much hoping in the last while.

3:45 tells me it's time to go. But do I want to? I feel like shit.

The whirring mechanic hum starts and I stagger back to the couch, turn Sportscenter on the TV. Some raccoon mobian with the voice of a sleazebag hams it up with a colleague.

"…And maybe that snub really affected the Giants, huh?"

Oh right. Called in sick. Not from work or anything, but a special appearance. Some sports event. I guess so. Team ended up losing anyway. Call it a snub, call it a sickness, whatever. Not much of a Mobotropolis Giants fan anyway.

But I'm not sick. I'm sick.

In a different way. I don't know what happened. And honestly, I don't care. I feel like shit.

I am shit.

Radiation affects people in many, many different ways.

I don't know what it is. Maybe exposure to whatever shit Eggman's putting in his bots. Maybe it was the chaos crystal, or whatever the fuck it was. I never knew what it was comprised of, and before Miles could analyze it, some whiny palate swap of me made off with it.

Probably just have sinus iss-


Oh, where have I been.

I'm no role model for him, am I? What have I done for him? Pulled him into a mess of trouble. As much as many life-or-death scenarios I've had, I've probably had him along for half of them.

And I shouldn't have. No child, no fucking eight-year-old kid needs to, should be, in that kind of situation. I mean, he's not eight now, but still, the time I let him attempt to drive a car was the last. That was like being a dad, almost. I am a father figure to him.

I'm a fucking terrible parent.

Anyway, stopping was the greatest thing I've done for him. There's danger in the world and I- for the most part- put him away from it. Way away. I think I made it up to him.

I wonder if I did the right thing.

I glance at the watch- Still seeing shit, of course- and deduce from the position of the hands that it's been around two minutes. I stand up and go into the kitchen again. This is where I realized that I had never unwrapped the shit.

Fucking foil in the damn 'wave

No time for self-reflections, I guess. I hope Miles is proud and safe and happy. Somehow. An old man dies, a young boy lives. Fair trade.

I hope I did the right thing, because 3:45's telling me it's time to go.