Grubber's turn, in all his disturbing glory.

And Jack Wednesday ('School House Rocked') gets a cameo. Because he is awesome. A jerk, but still pretty awesome.

Special

The sun shone. The breeze warmed. The ducks beat each other up in an effort to be the first to the bread crumbs that people insisted on throwing at them. Squirrels ran around doing whatever it was that squirrels did on their off days.

The sombre gentleman in the trenchcoat glared at everything that moved.

Jack Wednesday liked his job. Jack Wednesday did not like the park. Jack Wednesday was not partial to any area in which small children ran around with only trace amounts of adult supervision.

A troupe of boys stood near him, playing with a frisbee. He eyeballed them until they went away.

The weekend. Huh. A crime against this fine country. An excuse for would-be students to slack off from their duties, indulging in ill-disciplined recreational pursuits. Completely unnecessary. The day I find 'em on my beat is the day they'll regret ever wasting the opportunity to study harder.

Swatting away a butterfly that dared come too close, Wednesday tightened his shoulders and stalked forth. Had the choice been up to him, he would have spent the day rabidly filing reports, pausing only to take bites from a stringy sandwich. Doctor's orders, however, had made it plain that, unless he wanted to die very shortly, a day or two off was in order. Wednesday's lips pressed together; he wasn't a man to ignore the opinions of a medical practitioner. That was stupid. He wasn't a stupid man. He did think, though, that he would be changing shrink as soon as possible.

He headed for a quieter park of the lake, unencumbered by picnic blankets, yapping dogs and idiots with cameras. (Jack Wednesday had a special place in his heart for idiots-with-cameras; a dark, hot place, with lots of sharp things in it). There was exactly one tree left with an empty bench beneath it, situated unpleasantly close to a small, overflowing bin. On the bin read 'Keep Our Town Clean!', a message which several had already chosen to ignore, Wednesday surmised, noting the litter with distaste.

Reaching the bench, his heart sank upon the realization that it was already occupied. Its occupier was sitting in the shade of the tree, hunched over, knees drawn up to his chest. Probably why he hadn't spotted him before. He looked to be anything from sixteen to nineteen; Wednesday, who was normally quite good at judging ages, couldn't tell.

Wait. Wait a minute.

He'd seen this kid before.

His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing his quarry. He was aware that he was staring but the quarry in question didn't seem to care, or even notice. The boy had a vacant expression on his face that looked permanent, and his tongue was hanging out. And, Wednesday now noticed, although the shade had hidden it before, the boy's skin was an unpleasant shade of green. Yes, he had definitely seen this kid before.

"Grubber, right?"

The hunched boy blinked and turned his head to look up at him. For an odd moment, Wednesday felt like a fly being observed by a particularly nasty frog. Then Grubber blew a raspberry at him.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Right. It's Wednesday, Jack Wednesday. You remember. Truant officer."

The faded blue eyes stared up at him with neither worry nor recognition. For all he knew, the kid didn't understand a word coming out of his mouth. Hmph.

"You mind?"

The strangely bulging eyes stared for a moment longer, before Grubber shifted over. Allowed a space, Wednesday sat down. Warm as the day was, he didn't bother to remove his coat or fedora. It was a thing he had.

The kid had returned to staring at the lake. Following his line of vision, Wednesday caught him looking at the ducks.

"You like ducks, kid?"

Again, the stare, this time with no other response. It wasn't often that Wednesday interacted with his detainees when he wasn't busy detaining them. They rarely sought him out to interact with him, beyond spray painting his walls and throwing the occasional brick through his window. But he'd found Grubber hard to forget. He also suspected that he wasn't alone in this.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

Grubber didn't move. The next moment Wednesday nearly jumped clear out of his skin, as the weird-looking kid replied in his voice.

"None of your business, punk."

The business-like monotone was spot on. Wednesday stared, for once genuinely thrown off balance.

"How…how did you do that?"

"I would advise you not to talk back to your elders. And I can do lots of things."

"…Huh."

Grubber glanced sideways and gave him a big, bone-headed grin before returning to the ducks. Jack found himself fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes, and sat on his hand. He was trying to cut down. Grumbling, he looked at the ducks instead.

Lookie, there's a brown one. And a white one. And one with green feathers on its neck. All this excitement is just killing me. Hate weekends. Hatehatehatehatehate….

Why had the boy been hard to forget? There was the matter of his pals, all of whom were a pretty sorry-looking bunch, in Jack's opinion.

Let's see…a midget, a guy who acts like a snake, a two hundred pound nineteen-year-old with the mentality of a toddler and a guy who wears banana-yellow bell-bottoms as a matter of habit and still thinks he's cool.

Grubber had, doubtless, been the oddest of them all. A hunchback, dressed in rags that were bound with a piece of rope, despite the fact that all the rest could, at least, get their hands on clothes that sort of resembled clothes. Practically mute, apart from an ability to speak in raspberries that only the other boys had understood. And now, apparently, a mimic too. Cute.

"Where's the rest of your punk pals, kid?"

Again, the pause. This time, Grubber's voice changed completely, from a gruff, inflexible monotone to a smooth, slightly nasal drawl.

"Aaw, c'mon officer, we ain't doin' nothin'!"

After some thought, Wednesday pegged the voice as belonging to Ace, the long-haired punk who'd seem to qualify as the gang's leader. Cute.

"You do lots of those voices, kid?"

"Hundredsssss."

Whispery, snaky, almost snickering…the lizard-kid. Snake, that'd been his name.

"Not bad."

"D'ah, thanks."

The big guy. They called him…Billy. Big Billy.

"Your parents know you can do that?"

Silence came again, this time because the hunched boy had frozen. As Wednesday looked at him, he returned to staring at the ducks, the glassy, vacant look coming back to his eyes. Bingo.

"Where are your parents? Pretty sure they don't approve of those idiots you follow around."

The lion-like roar was startlingly accurate. It certainly startled Jack. When his pulse rate had slowed down and he had shifted a few inches further away, he nodded. "I'll presume that was a bad question."

They watched the lake. A duckling was being shoved from the bank by its mother. Probably a bit too early, as it immediately began flailing about pathetically, before sinking like a rock. It was saved by a swift manoeuvre from the elder, who proceeded to herd it quickly back to shore. Behind them, the sound of children at play rose. Jack shuddered.

"Say, kid, do you want ice-cream?"

"…Phhbbbt."

"…I'll take that as a yes."