velesdonnersen

[Tarvek dozes beside Ilsa, on the sofa bed in the home office. She's back, and there's little that makes him even one tenth so happy... The blankets are piled high, pillows are tucked around them, and he can lie half-dozing, watching her through the veil of half-lowered lashes.]

Mmmmmmmm.

[Verdammt, what a dream.  That's the first thing he thinks as he wakes up.  Even waking, it makes his skin crawl -- and his temper blaze.  Verdammt.  Fire and hail.  What in the name of the spark itself made him say he'd die if it was needed?  He rises, stretches, and tries to scrub the eerie sense of displacement from his skin and scalp.  He didn't feel this twitchy when Mayfield brought him through, or on waking from the several deaths the town has handed him.  He gets up, barely noticing the reliable sounds of Not!Luka!Anymore making breakfast, and Catherine and Perry preparing for school. He shucks out of his Mayfield-proper pajamas, takes a shower that doesn't seem to wash away the uneasy twitchiness. He brushes his teeth, shaves, and dresses for the day in a nice suit.  He wants to stop by Ilsa's on the way to work this morning.  He needs the reassurance she provides: the sense that he has a place in the universe, and a heart that welcomes him. He ambles down, grabs toast, a strip of bacon, and a glass of orange juice, then calls good-bye to his not!family, suddenly hungry for non-drone society.]

Action, arriving at Ilsa's, 1490 Kramden.

[Tarvek knocks on the door, and hunches into his very nice woolen coat: a proper lawyer's deep gray, tailored overcoat. He shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls his neck down like a turtle, hiding as much of his skin as he can in his cozy wool scarf. His fedora sits neatly on his head.  He dearly wants a cup of coffee and a warm hug from his liebe Ilsa. He'd even accept a friendly grunt from Egon, and a nod from the new not!child.]

Guten Morgen, Liebe!  It's cold out here.  Let a poor lost prince in, for the sake of the spark.

[Tarvek has watched the amazing parade of people marching through Ilsa's house, eating her food, chatting with her.  She's such a well-loved lady, with so many friends.  He considers her queenly, regal, a hostess and a sheltering friend.]

[He helps her clean up, after people go, putting leftovers-- what few there are-- into the strange plastic storage containers. (He "burps" them, just as she taught him.  He always laughs when he does it.]  They wipe the counters, prepare things for tomorrow's meals.  When they've finished... there's no sign of Egon. He looks at Ilsa, and says, softly,]

Do you want to go for a drive?  It's been a hard day.

[Tarvek has not had Maine Lobster, but by GOD the boy has had Parisian homard, and he knows dinner when it comes creeping through town.  Giant crabs, giant lobsters... he even thinks he sees a few giant clams. (Clams got legs!) Seeing them, he knows just what to do.]

[He immediately starts putting together the Giant Lobster Pot, gets out the self-adapted Elephant Gun, and then gets on the phone.]

OPEN CALL TO ANYONE: CLAM BAKE

Ilsa! Stoke up the backyard grill and start melting butter!  Nall, wanna help me with a bit of seafood hunting?  Everyone else, the thing to do with Giant Seafood is have a Giant Seafood Party.

NOM!

[He goes out to hunt him some verdammt lobster and super-giant-irradiated King Crab.]

Ilsa told me about this "Halloween" thing, and I'm just... I mean... it's awesome! [He's all giddy, in need of some fun.]  I was thinking we could get together, plan out costumes, and I could design.  But I need some help -- there are supposed to be devices for sewing, and there must be sources for fabrics and makeup, and I'll need some shop assistants, if we're going to really put on a show.

So -- I've cleared out space in the garage, and we can work there and set up a shop.  Come on over!  Bring food: all I've got is Mayfield standard, here....

[Tarvek is a weekend sight to see: he ambles from the house in neat chinos, with a short sleeved, blue-checked  oxford style sport shirt, with a pair of docksiders on his feet.  In his own opinion the only off-element would be the ugly glasses. Poor boy.  Such a blow to his amour propre. ]

[He waves to neighbors, considers the state of the grass (needs mowing, must ask Perry to do that chore for fifty cents), admires his convertible, and arrives at the mailbox.  Inside there is a small, slim box, longer than it is wide.   He is now enough of a Mayfield resident that his heartbeat picks up.  There was day when Ilsa was kill-droned... It would make sense for him to get a little "present' from Mayfield, now.]

[His hands tremble slightly, as he peels the celophane tape back with one thumbnail. Fearing to look, he slips a finger in, finding a piece of paper, first.  He draws it out. On the paper is printed, carefully, what he is just spark enough to see first as an infinity symbol.  Then his breath catches, and he can't bear it any more.  He shakes the contents out onto his palm.]

[The pince-nez, HIS pince-nez, glitter in the bright, eternal Mayfield sunshine. To his surprise and dismay, he finds he's almost crying.  More than anything so far, this gift shakes him up, forcing homesickness on him, making him aware that, for all the terrible things he doesn't miss, he does still miss HOME. And, yet, at the same time, they make him feel like himself again.  With great dignity he slips his horn rims from his face, folds them, and tucks them in the breast pocket of his shirt. (He knows a wise man is never without spare glasses.) He puts on the pince-nez.... Then he races inside, and picks up the phone.]

CLOSED PHONE CALL TO ILSA

Ilsa?  Ilsa, can I come over?  Please?  I... I want to see you.

 Tarvek goes to mailbox, mind really not on much of anything but the nights spent sleeping next to Ilsa...and the conundrum of Mayfield.  He flips the lid open, reaches in...

...and removes a small cardboard box.  He frowns, and cautiously, warily opens it.

Nestled in a handful of packing tissue, he finds a clean, new, neat little bit of a machine.  He frowns harder, trying to decide if he knows what it is.  He's sure he knows something about it.  It's nothing from Europa: he knows that much.  At least, not as designed, and, yet... it's... there's something...

 Tarvek wakes on the Fourth of July, a date that means only slightly more than nothing to him -- and that only because he's been told of it.  Except today?  Today, he knows what the Fourth of July Means To Him, because He is a Patriotic American! (And let's ignore the faint Romanian accent, shall we?  He will, today.  Some of today. The parts where he's entirely convinced he's a native of Mayfield and These United States.)

He wakes as he does every day, and goes down to breakfast, as prepared by his darling wife, Betty.  As he sits at the table listening to the chatter of dear Catherine and Perry, he frowns, slightly.

Something.... something is wrong.  Wrong...

No.  Of course nothing is wrong!  What could be wrong?  It's a holiday, he's free from his legal work for now.  Later today he'll take the family to see the parade and then go to the big Fourth of July Picnic.  There will be games, and later fireworks.  Right now, what he must do is tell the kids about the importance of the Signing of the Declaration of Independence, and the value of freedom.

 [Tarvek has found Ilsa, before her death.  He was there for her.  Now, he's placed her body in the passenger seat of his convertible, laid her out as well as he can, and he's preparing to track back along Bilko Boulevard, then make his way to his home, 1126 Taylor Road.  He's been crying, but right now he's in a sort of cold, sad and angry place of mind.]

[As he cruises, slowly, a flash of white and red and wing catches his eye.  He pulls over, this time being very careful to take his time and park properly at the curb: if he isn't careful Ilsa's quickly cooling body may slip from it's current placid position, and then she could go into rigor mortis in an ugly, humiliating shape.  He doesn't want that for her.]

[Once he's parked, he slips from the driver's seat, out onto the street.  He walks around.  Under a big, green Mayfield tree, he finds the remains of one of his comparatively few other friends in Mayfield: Nall, the dragon who looks like a cat. Tarvek squats, and looks at the bloody, shattered mess.]

Damn it, Nall.  You're little and fast, and you can keep out of trouble if you want to.  Fire-and-hail.

[He sighs, and his head droops for a moment.  He sets his jaw, and slips out of his nice, tailored jacket.  Working carefully he eases Nall's body onto the silk lining.  Nall, small thing that he is, has already been through cooling, rigor mortis, and he's beginning to relax again.  Tarvek carefully tucks the dragon-cat's wings around him, and wraps him in the jacket. He puts the little bundle on Ilsa's lap, gets back in the car, and drives home.]

[Megurine, his not-wife, isn' t home, and hasn't been all day.  He's worried for her, but is relieved to find the children calmly playing in the back yard.  It's hard for him to believe that they just don't notice the mayhem... but they don't.  They exist in the perfect, unshaken life of Mayfield as they believe it to be.  He takes the time to wash his hands and make them bologna sandwiches and Kool-Aid, which he carries out to the backyard picnic table.  He tells the kids he'll be in his in-house office, and not to come in.]

[Then, knowing they will leave him in peace, he removes Ilsa and Nall from the car (along with Ilsa's purse), and carries them to the office.  He carefully lays Ilsa out on the Danish-style sofa, there, wrapping her carefully in an afghan, with her hands folded at her breast and her purse tucked beside her, against the back cushions. He puts the small bundle that is Nall on her lap.  Then he goes to the kitchen, finds a bottle of Johnny Walker and a glass, and returns to the office.  He pours himself a shot, and settles into his office chair, which he swivels so that he can see his friends. He raises the shot-glass.]

To unexpected loves, in unpredictable places.

[He sips, cautiously.  Ilsa's comments about self-medicating haven't escaped him entirely... and he's not stupid enough to think things are going to get any better if he becomes an alcoholic here.]

[Tarvek Knows Nothing of Mother's Day.  Waking up, he cheerfully showers, dresses, and proceeds to putter, failing to notice for the longest time that his drone wife, The Betty, is huddled in bed, pouting.  Indeed, he himself never notices.]

[Instead he feels a tug at his sleeve.  It's Catherine, his drone daughter (approx. 5), who had red hair and horn-rims, just like Tarvek.]

Daddy? It's Mother's Day!

 Huh?  [Tarvek blinks]  What?

'It's Mother's Day! We're supposed be really nice to Mommy today.

We?  [Quite clueless.]

We're supposed to make her breakfuss, and sing for her, and give her cards, and presents, and it's supposed to be all nice and her day.  Isn't it, Perry?