The Trial of Susie Derkins

Chapter I: Good Intentions

IMPORTANT: Again, I don't own Calvin and Hobbes. I make no profit from these save for the reviews.

…

"The problem is not with religion. It is not with the concept of organized worship, nor is the concept of belief in a higher power the cause for the tragedies we have seen."

"The problem lies solely with people who abuse influence- like my father- to achieve their own personal whims. It doesn't even need to be a religious setting, I've found. All you need for the greatest evils the world has yet to imagine to emerge is someone with enough charisma and sufficiently deficient conscience to use their skills to organize a big enough mob to serve as the driving force behind an idea."

"In the case of Rod and Whip, there was, as is the case in many of these tragedies, a scapegoat. Children. They wanted to lay at the feet of children as young as three years old all the faults, wrongs, and mishaps of society."

"We know now that the leader of that compound preached that theirs was a noble goal and that, eventually, everyone would love and respect them. Aside from the very obvious error of trying to enforce obedience with fear, which fades as soon as the cause for fear does, the idea that no child or teen deserved respect until they had survived long enough for an arbitrary 'neoidentification' process denotes a lack of mutual respect."

"If any authority, religious or not, demands respect and gives none in return, not even so much as to allow for confirmation of wrong-doing before punishing, and using discretion in meting out punishment, it sabotages itself from within."

"We have heard, recently, from one of the survivors, Calvin Halgins, about "Catch 22 syndrome"- albeit not related to the disease, but rather a mentality- in which a subject whose obedience and adherence to a code of conduct or law is punished anyway eventually learns that their obedience or disobedience has no effect. I for one, strongly agree with this assessment, out of my own personal experiences. To someone who tried to avoid breaking any rules, to avoid any infractions, to obey their parents or authority figures to the best of their ability, the idea of "we're going to punish you anyway to ensure you keep obeying" is a slap in the face that evokes nothing but resentment towards authority and a distaste for order."

"If organizations like Rod and Whip are allowed to continue the ideas of 'perpetual punishment' and 'pre-emptive discipline', then they will only serve to create the anarchy that they claim to seek to prevent."

-statement given by Faith X, Matthew Wellfield's estranged daughter, at a conference following her release from hospital care.

…

Calvin reclined on the couch, drained. No one mentioned how exhausting verbally reliving an ordeal could be. No one told him he'd remember so vividly what he'd seen and heard.

But, as part of his 'therapy', he was asked to recount what he'd seen, both in the Rod and Whip compound, and in his nightmares.

"So the deaths of the children you were trying to save are what really got to you?" the psychoanalyst, a elder man, poised the question gently.

Goddamn stupid question. No, of course they don't bother him. Never mind he saw a little girl go limp and not get back up, that whenever he closed his eyes he could still see children shaking others who had passed away from their wounds, begging them to 'wake up'.

Never mind that when he could sleep, he saw the corpses rise, pointing fingers at him, saying words he could not make out.

"Yeah" he said finally. "They're…" he paused. "In my dreams."

The man was quiet for a few moments. "And what do they do?"

"They point. They say something I can't make out."

More silence.

"What do you think they're trying to say?"

Calvin heard himself respond despite his desire not to.

"You failed us."

What else could they be saying?

"Calvin," the man began again, "what you're seeing are just your mind reacting to what you saw. They didn't blame you for what happened to them. The ones who survived don't blame you. You did all that you could!"

The man couldn't have known the truth of that statement. He had tried to use the Transmogrifier to change some of the children, to at least stop them from dying, to no avail. The pain and their bodies' aches and groans trumped any whispers that it was 'going to be okay'.

The Transmogrifier Gun could, with sufficient belief- or at the very least, plausible cause- alter reality. He had made cars malfunction, grenades explode prematurely, turned toy guns into real, working ones, reloaded a gun in the middle of a firefight, and, though he had pinned the credit on another boy, Jason Fox, defused a bomb meant to level a military-grade facility once he had managed to convince the children imprisoned there that there was a bomb squad member on the case.

But it could not trump a person's own belief that they were hurt or dying.

For all the power the gun afforded him, it could not hold back death, erase wounds, or even ease pain. All Calvin had been able to do was transmute some boxes full of papers into bandages, splints, and medical supplies. Veronica Miles and Chutney Darly, two other prisoners he had met, had done the heavy medical work.

"Yeah." He conceded, the same gun still in his pocket. "Yeah, I guess."

He kept it with him now. A necessary precaution. Initially, he had intended to use it once- when he was under home invasion- and then leave it locked in a box under his bed, hopefully for all eternity.

Now he found himself relying on its reality-warping power as a defense. He had lost count of how many times he'd used it during the incident, and he prayed that the only toll the gun took was a physical drain on him. For all he knew, too much warping of the world could cause something worse. A distortion in the laws of time and space? A black hole? He didn't know, and didn't care to find out.

"I'm going to write you a prescription- just something to help you sleep. In the meantime, try and do something to get your mind distracted and off these events. If you keep telling yourself you're guilty, you're never going to get better."

Calvin mutely took the prescription and headed out the door, greeted by his mother.

"How'd it go?" she was trying to cheer him up.

"Okay." Calvin said, unable to lie any further. It was not 'okay'. The kids he had failed stayed dead. The people responsible remained on the loose. All the shrink could do was give him something for sleep. He held the prescription up, weakly trying at a joke. "We need to go see my drug dealer for another dose of happy pills."

His mother, bless her, tried to smile as they walked to the car.

Even after they had 'ungrounded' him once they felt it was safe for him to go outside, Calvin, drained by sleepless nights, had remained reclusive, searching for records on the Grindstone camps, on Rod and Whip, on the rumors coming up ever since their compound was raided.

Part research. Part standing over the remains of his enemy.

However, the fact was, that aside from the guards he had to gun down during his escape/rescue attempt, the higher ups of that compound were still on the run. He had a list all his own of people to look for.

Matthew Wellfields, ex-pastor of some church called "The Church of the Unyielding Rod". The entire story, about a church that emphasized daily corporal punishment as a means to prevent disobedience, made the whole thing stink of a cult-like religious sect. The fact that only six of the 50 children that were brought in by the church survived had sealed the deal. The asshole hadn't even treated his own daughter well- Faith Wellfields, or Faith X, as she called herself now, told a story, backed up by scars, sprains, fractures, and the testimony of her teachers, of how her father and mother had began beating her at age thirteen and never stopped, using lies about her being involved in drugs, pornography, and witchcraft as excuses as to why such excessive force was necessary.

Gregory, Diane, and Barry Wilkins. Curtis, one of the boys he had fought alongside during the incident, described in vivid, angry detail how he had lost sight of his brother during Obama's inauguration (due mostly to Barry running off), and the family had been increasingly abusive and hateful towards him ever since, culminating in assisting Rod and Whip in kidnapping Chutney to lure him out of hiding. If his and Chutney's reports were to be believed, Diane and Gregory were about to kill Chutney to punish him when Jason intervened.

Barry himself was a special case. Rod and Whip apparently considered him some sort of messiah, a 'ready neoidentification candidate'. Supposedly neoidentification meant a process by which obedience became the only priority for a child, but in Barry's case it seemed that he, by nearly beating to death a five-year old girl, Hope Miles, had proven himself so sadistic and devoted to the destruction of innocent life that one of Rod and Whip's best 'breakers' had deemed him of their own.

Mary Gathwells, who reportedly was responsible for Barry's brief training, was described sympathetically as a psychopath. More often, she was referred to as a soulless bitch, who, during her brief career as a teacher, had caused more injuries in her students than all the accidents and fights at her school combined over a three year period. She had apparently been recruited by Rod and Whip as a breaker- an agent whose sole purpose was to physically and emotionally destroy the children they kidnapped or fooled families to turn over to them for 'discipline'.

Sir Father, real name unknown, the head of that particular compound. Whether the 'Sir Father' was a personal code name or just the rank given to Rod and Whip agents of his stature, Calvin was unsure. It had been Sir Father who, once Jason had managed to send off an email containing information that would incriminate Rod and Whip, had armed the self-destruct sequence, and, over the P.A. system, blamed him and the others for 'forcing' him to do so.

That these people were still on the loose, not dead, or in a prison cell at the mercy of other inmates, was an injustice Calvin wanted remedied as soon as possible. So he did not complain when the men bearing FBI badges wanted to talk to him about the details of the compound, no matter how many times he had to explain to an incredulous agent, certain they'd heard incorrectly, that he had been fired upon with a rocket launcher.

To top it all off, school started in a week.

Eighth grade, and he had an entire criminal organization out for his blood.

Calvin, with a great bitterness, remembered how his biggest obstacle during his past school years was that school was boring. That something would liven up the drudgery.

He had gotten his wish, it seemed.

…

AUGUST

The start of eighth grade came too soon, for Calvin's tastes.

He could have done without the stares, too, as he made his way to homeroom.

By now, everyone knew about Calvin Halgins, the daring, heroic boy who infiltrated a compound full of cultists bent on child abuse, fought his way through thousands of soldiers, saved hundreds of lives, and still had the guts to spit in the face of the people who wanted him dead. Some bloggers had even gone so far as to call him the 'toughest boy in Ohio'.

What shocked them was that the Calvin they'd heard about and the Calvin they knew- the 'noodle incident' kid- were one in the same.

Oh, the tales they told varied from mild embellishing to outright lunacy. In the milder versions, he'd snuck in, crawled through the air vents, sabotaged the security systems, and gunned down hundreds of soldiers- all armed to the teeth- after a failed kidnapping, in which he gunned down both his kidnappers and stole their car.

In the more fanciful stories, he'd deliberately set himself up to be kidnapped, killed the agents sent to retrieve him, drove the car through Rod and Whip's front door, and led the child prisoners to revolt against their captors, charging at the fore of them, gunning down leagues of guards with an ak-47, or a sub machine gun, or two shotguns held in both hands, depending on whom you asked.

What the stories didn't tell, however, was what got to him.

About how the worst of Rod and Whip was still out there. How this was only one compound out of God-only-knew how many. About the children who, contrary to popular tales, didn't die fighting for freedom, rather, they died, alone, scared, and in pain, in the crude triage center Veronica Miles had set up, under the care of the best doctors and surgeons, who for all their skill could not undo the damages done by repeated beatings and, in several cases, repeated injections of a toxin meant to increase pain, dubbed by one survivor as "Whip Venom", or for some, they had died before Calvin had ever even heard of the center, beaten or starved to death.

Worst of all, the stories seemed to portray him as something straight out of a video game, a nigh-invincible hero who shrugged off injury and gunned down foes without so much as a stumble. That some aura of raw courage surrounded him, giving him super-human powers, when the reality was that he owed his life to a device he didn't wholly understand, and even with it, one bullet that escaped his notice would mean the end. No continues, no reloading a save point.

He became aware of another eighth-grader, someone he'd never met- a boy about his age, brown hair, punk-wannabe with a heavy metal t-shirt and fake metal piercings. "Dude, how's it feel to kick so much ass?"

That question got some heads turned. Conversations died as ears strained to hear what the crowd was sure would be a recounting of a war story, along with tips as to the sure-fire way to defeat a grown-man trying to kill you, even if you were half their height and weight. Silence fell in the wake of the question- everyone wanted to hear the 'master' speak.

It was time for a dose of reality.

"You mean, how does it feel to kill someone?" Calvin stated this correction without malice. He had no intent of dressing down the boy, but it was time to dispel a few myths.

"Uh, yeah." Minor discomfort, from him, from those around him. 'Ass-kicking' must've felt more comfortable a way of phrasing it. Not that he could blame him- "How's it feel to shoot someone with the sole intent of killing them" had a very venomous, inflammatory feel to it.

"All right. I'll tell you. I felt afraid."

This was not the answer they expected or wanted to hear.

"Because it's not like firing one of those recoil pistols in the arcade or an air-gun. There's a kick, and if you let go, it's going to fly out of your hands, smash your jaw open."

Now they were interested. They seemed to think he was going to give them a grim, gritty survival lecture.

"But for me, there wasn't any time to think. I would shoot and shoot, hoping I'd hit someone before I ran out of ammo and then I would duck behind anything- anything- before they could shoot me back. The recoil is a bitch, and when you're running and dodging and trying to shoot at something, well, you can be firing at someone ten feet from you and never hit them once. Oh, and after a few rounds, your finger and hand start to ache. It physically gets harder to just pull the trigger. Oh, and on that note, remember when I'm talking about shooting a gun, I mean I'm doing it like this-"

And he pantomimed, holding his right hand as a gun in his left, how he needed both hands to steady it. For a few seconds the students around him, and those who had gathered in the doorway to hear the tale, backed away, startled, unsure if Calvin was incapable of shooting someone with just his bare hand.

He waited until they were certain he wasn't going to fire bullets out of his index finger before he continued.

"-meaning that to just try and hit someone, I needed both hands on one gun. So, those stories you may have heard where I held a gun in each hand and did Matrix stuff? No. It doesn't work that way at all."

"-but that brings me back to your question." The punk boy looked uncomfortable now.

"How does it feel to kill someone? Well, at first, you don't feel anything, except for fear, which I said, or adrenaline, depending on the situation. That lasts for as long as the adrenaline does. When it wears off, and you have time to think, you know what you feel?"

No one dared to venture a guess. Stone silence with nearly a hundred junior-high kids. Any teachers observing would think it was a miracle.

"Nothing." Calvin said simply.

And when the punk boy and all the other students began to relax, he, to their horror, continued. "You feel a great, big, overwhelming nothing in your chest. You ever heard of black holes? That's what it's like- a big ball of nothing, growing bigger inside you, crushing everything. Like something's been ripped out of you, and it's not coming back, ever. And that feeling of nothingness? One, that's what I feel, knowing that the people I had to shoot were willing to kill me for the sake of being able to keep torturing kids. Two, feeling that nothing is a good sign. It means you're still human. If you don't feel it, you need to check yourself in. Or so I'm told."

They now looked at him as if he had just got done telling them he had some sort of horrible, incurable malady, a reaction he didn't think entirely unwarranted.

"Q and A is over, folks. Please… please just leave me alone for a bit."

Partly out of some sense of respect, as if he were some grizzled war hero, and partly out of fear, as if he could kill anyone who irritated him further, they left him alone, not even looking at him directly.

Calvin only barely registered the rest of the day. Announcements. Regulations. Forms to be signed.

The name Derkins got his attention, and he looked at one of the forms.

He felt himself smile.

If there was a person in whom he had the confidence to point at, before Rod and Whip and everyone else who supported the idea of perpetual punishment and children being inherently evil, and say, with full confidence, "You are wrong, dead wrong, and here is my proof", it was Susie Derkins.

In recent years, she'd broadened her scope from mere academic excellence to community service. Religious but not a bible-thumper, she eschewed the tactics of beating people over the head with scripture in favor of aiding those who needed it most- the poor, the ill.

Now, even as the school year was starting up, she was organizing a charity food, clothing, and electronics drive for the city's impoverished and homeless, encouraging students via flyers to help out.

Checking his schedule, Calvin saw he had journalism class next, something he had signed up for, writing quickly becoming something of a forte for him.

The world could wait for another dose of doom and gloom, and he needed a break from the constant self-inflicted torture that was going over the events of the compound liberation.

…

It had cost her personally, this endeavor.

Monetarily, at least. Her parents had asked her several times, "are you sure?" regarding her using the $100 check she was given for her birthday towards the charity event she was planning.

She had thought about it, long and hard, and she had decided the memory of one good thing was worth whatever she could buy in the short term.

The money went quickly- into supplies for the event. Into the flyers. Into getting a permit to host the event in the middle of downtown. But slowly, steadily, support from her fellow students and her teachers came pouring in.

The event was two weeks away, and with the planning and her schoolwork, she had very little time to herself- her time at home became a routine of planning, schoolwork, dinner, and sleep, and though she had no regrets about her decision to do this, she was looking forward to getting it done and finished, and relaxing a little.

She had finished putting away her books in her locker, preparing to go home, when she noticed someone standing to her right.

Calvin.

Her initial response was to ask "what do you want, jerk?", but she realized that she, as of late, had very little contact with him over the past two years. What with the efforts to get Calvin passing his classes of two years ago, he had no time whatsoever to pull pranks or any sort of mischief she had come to expect of him.

This year, however, even during the summer, which she heard he had earned with unprecedented straight B's, he had an entirely different reason for staying inside.

The details were sketchy and rumors abounded ranging from the simply ludicrous to the drug-addled, post-lobotomy ridiculous, but the gist was that Calvin had somehow come under fire by an agency specializing in boot camps, which turned out to be (and here she had been sure she was being misinformed) a cult dedicated to child abuse, and after evading capture several times by this cult, Calvin had, of his own volition, tracked down their hideout, stormed it, and freed hundreds of children alongside five other people.

It sounded like some sort of bad 'darker and gritty' Kids Next Door fanfiction, and if the tale was centered around anyone else, anyone but Calvin "we still don't know how he caused that big an explosion with cold rotini noodles" Halgins, she would have dismissed it as fictitious and gave it not another thought.

But there were the news stories, the investigations, and the warnings to parents to watch their children, and these lent credibility to the story.

She gave him a cursory glance, and didn't like what she saw at all.

Calvin's usual 'devil may care' grin and carefree smile was gone, replaced by a weariness that didn't belong on anyone his age, much less Calvin Halgins. He looked as if he had been having trouble sleeping; dark bags under his eyes.

The details of his summer were still vague, but Susie knew one thing for sure- whatever Calvin did, it had cost him dearly.

"You doing okay?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine" he said with what might have been his cool, dismissive tone, but wasn't. "I just wanted to ask something- is it okay if I write about this charity event going on? For the school newspaper?"

The impulse she fought now was to hold this imposter down, scream for the police, tell them to look for the real Calvin.

"Why?" she managed. "It's not going to be anything fancy, just a charity event-"

"I know. I just wanna be able to do something that doesn't have anything to do with… you know."

So it was that bad. Whatever happened to Calvin, it was so traumatic he didn't even want to talk about it anymore, whereas the old Calvin would be weaving fanciful tales about anything that came close to adventure.

She slung her backpack over her shoulder. "You should come to the charity event, then. Help out."

Then she added "I find helping others helps me put my problems in perspective, personally."

It had been a risky gambit, but he had smiled, seemingly pleased with her permission and her suggestion.

"Oh, Calvin-"

He stopped as he was walking away.

"If you ever want to talk, call me, okay?"

He turned, smiled. He looked, at the very least, less tired.

"Okay."

Sometimes, making someone less tired or miserable for a little while was all she could do.

…

Calvin walked home, rather than ride the bus. Partly because the buses were, as usual, packed to overflowing, stinking of hormones and body odor from the many students who had yet to learn the virtues of habitual bathing. Partly because he wanted to think.

Talking to Susie was, sadly, out. She didn't need to know the gory details of the events he'd seen, nor did she need to act as his emotional punching bag. She had enough on her plate as it was.

Her suggestion to participate rather than sit back and write made sense, though. If nothing else, it'd tire him out enough that he could sleep well. Maybe doing some good would help his conscience.

He became aware, slowly of a car following him. Not speeding past, but slowing down to tail him.

He spun- if Rod and Whip was back on their feet enough to attack him again then…

A cop car.

Already, considering the fact the local police department had been infiltrated deeply enough that the people sent to escort him to a safehouse turned out to be Rod and Whip agents, cops cars evoked a certain sense of dread and unease in Calvin.

But this particular one held a special place in Calvin's list of things to avoid, and all too quickly he remembered why he rode the bus home every day, regardless of the heat, cold, or stench.

Moe Caldern, the stereotypical thug/bully/extortionist given flesh and put on earth to torment others, stepped out of the passenger seat as the car came to a stop.

His presence was bad enough, but someone had to drive the car…

Out of the driver's side stepped Joe Caldern.

Once, after Moe had given Calvin a particularly savage beating for refusing to give him money, his parents and Joe Caldern were called in to discuss the matter. Derrick Halgins, Calvin's father had threatened a lawsuit. Caldern had suggested they give the two boys knives and let them settle it once and for all, a suggestion that fell on deaf and appalled ears.

The settlement had been for just enough to cover stitches. In this day and age, Calvin could have gotten Moe suspended and arrested.

No such luck now, even given a repeated beating.

How Joe Caldern, an overweight, sadistic, extra-strength formula version of Moe became a cop, Calvin wasn't sure, but details didn't matter now.

What mattered was that, as of last fall, Joe Caldern had a gun and the license to use it.

It became readily obvious to Moe's victims that anyone who complained about his actions would have to deal with Joe. Those who complained about broken noses had weed found in their lockers.

The principal knew it was bullshit. The teachers knew it was bullshit. The students who watched the victims of these frame-jobs be hauled out of school by none other than Joe Caldern himself knew it was bullshit. But that didn't stop it from happening.

The charges never stuck- a lawyer needed only a few minutes with the school security cameras or the teachers to get enough evidence or witnesses to exonerate the accused. But even when the charges were dismissed, the accused were broken, somehow. Walked stiffly. Limped. Two of them had moved away, and no charges against Joe, of corruption or otherwise, ever stuck.

"There a problem, officer?" Calvin found he couldn't quite eradicate the contempt in his voice. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling two reassuring items. One, in his right pocket, was the transmogrifier gun that had saved him so many times. The other in his left was something he had meant to use should Rod and Whip get him cornered and he had no way to run- a tape recorder, meant to provide a record of his confrontation and what might be his last moments. He clicked that on, suppressing a smile.

"Yeah, several problems." Joe did a quick look around to make sure no one was within listening distance. "Your face, for starters. Then there's the fact your breathing annoys me and my son, and wastes oxygen. Third, you're dumb as a brick made of shit, twice as useless, and, oh, and the fact your hair looks like you just pissed on a power line."

Calvin wondered, silently, why the man didn't get the word "Asshole" tattooed across his face. It would be a good warning for anyone unfamiliar with him. At least he didn't have any false pretenses.

"Now, normally, that's just who you are, and I'm not one to blame someone who had the misfortune to be born dumb and ugly. But there's a price to pay for making my son put up with having to look at you. Oh, and seeing as you've had the summer to save up, the price is up to $20 bucks."

"Apiece." Moe added, greed flaring in his eyes.

Calvin turned out his pockets, revealing only a set of housekeys- he'd thankfully stashed the Transmogrifier Pistol in his jacket pocket. "I don't carry cash anymore. Just a lunch account at school. One of the little precautions my parents set up when I 'lost' 60 bucks in one day." He stuffed his hands back in his jacket. A smart cop would tell him to keep his hands visible. Joe was probably lucky to have the IQ to tell which end the bullets came out of his gun. Or he didn't considered Calvin a threat.

Joe frowned. "Then I'll be taking your backpack, jacket, shoes, keys, and yeah, just to make sure you have the money next, your shirt, pants, and briefs."

A thug, through and through. "Hey, I don't consent to any searches, much less you taking all my stuff, not without a lawyer present…"

Joe drew his gun. If that was how he wanted to play…

"Hand it over, now, or you get a bullet in your head." Joe had the same look on his face Calvin had seen on the agents of Rod and Whip- a visage of anger mixed with a world-class entitlement complex.

"So now-" Calvin said, feigning shock and horror, "You're threatening kids because they won't give your kid money?" Time to reveal one of his secret weapons.

He pulled out the tape recorder, which elicited the reaction he had hoped to get- Moe and Joe both at least recognized what having their extortion attempt on tape meant, horror creasing their faces.

Joe's next reaction, however, was not what Calvin had planned on.

"Screw this." Joe leveled the gun at Calvin and fired, Calvin jerked to the side instinctively, something white hot clipped his ear, bringing searing pain. The man had gone off the deep end. Stunned, Calvin squeezed the trigger of the transmogrifier gun as he aimed from inside his pocket, willing the gun to jam…

But Joe was faster, firing again just as Calvin pulled the trigger, and the bullet slashed his left side.

Calvin screamed and went down on his knees, clutching his side, pain radiating through his body- the bullet had glanced off his rib.

Joe advanced. "Shoulda handed your shit over, kid. Coulda walked away with a little less dignity but kept your life." He raised the gun to point directly at Calvin's face.

"Dad, wait…" Moe started, advancing.

Calvin blinked. Could the boy have limits? Of course. He should have known better. Moe may have been a bully and a thug, but of course he wasn't a murderer-

"I wanna do it."

Calvin blanched despite the pain, watched as Joe considered briefly, shrugged, and handed his son the gun.

"For the record," Calvin gasped, feeling blood soak his shirt and jacket, "I fucking hate both of you." If this didn't work…

"Feeling's mutual, twinkie."

He had counted on Moe gloating, taking crucial moments to stop and give one last insult, one last jab before killing him, and Moe, in all his single-tracked mind glory, had complied beautifully. He squeezed again, focused on the gun, willed it to jam, break, something-

There was a deafening bang, and a moment later, Moe was holding, holding his injured hand, wounded from the police revolver backfiring horrifically for no reason whatsoever.

Calvin stood, sneering at Joe, whose look of gloating had turned to plain confusion. "Don't make guns like they used to, do they?"

Joe simply reached into his car, and Calvin saw the stock of a rifle- a shotgun.

Calvin felt his head spin Pain was a distracting factor that was making what were ordinarily endurable drains from the gun all the more debilitating. He wasn't sure how long he could keep them at bay in this state, and that had been with a glancing wound- the bullet had grazed him.

Something honked behind him. A car, getting closer…

Moe looked up, eyes going wide, and scrambled to get out of the way. Calvin followed suit-

Right as a car plowed head-on into the Cop car, sending Joe sprawling.

"GET IN!" A familiar voice, not mom or dad, but any port in a storm…

Calvin grabbed the tape recorder, made sure it was still working, still recording, made a mad scramble into the backseat just as Joe staggered to his feet…

Whoever was driving was skilled- they were far enough away from Joe that, once he recovered, only a few of the pellets fired from the shotgun hit the car…

Regaining his bearings, Calvin recognized a familiar smell. Old chips and soda. The interior of the vehicle was a station wagon…

"Hey, Uncle Max." Calvin spoke once he caught his breath. "Long time no see."

…

The news that his car had a camera to record the events of his patrol came as a shock to Joe Caldern.

Of more drastic impact however, was his being informed that, with the video evidence that showed him firing on a minor, then handing the gun over to his son to finish the job, then going to retrieve a shotgun, his report that Calvin had jumped in front of the car and started throwing rocks held little weight. Nor did the tape recording of his extortion attempt help matters at all.

The final slap in the face was, as he was being led to his cell, stripped of his weapons, being informed that due to his attempted murder of a minor in a failed extortion attempt, Max Halgins, the interfering uncle of Calvin, would not be charged.

All the old instances of complaints were going to be used against him, too. That meant several charges of corruption, planting evidence, unlawful detainment, police brutality of minors, extortion, fraud… all tacked on to this current case's slew of attempted murder.

His son was in juvenile hall. Without his father to twist the story favorably for him, Moe's past, full of petty assault charges and extortion- was going to be used against him.

Ex-cops had it worst in the pen, there was no doubt about that. Even if he got a plea bargain for reduced time, there was no guarantee of his safety. His son was tough, but being tough meant very little when you had numbers against you, and the notoriety of being a crooked cops' son.

Bail had been flat out denied. The judge had deemed him a flight risk, but the look in her eyes clearly stated "Because fuck you, that's why" when she had heard about his attack on Calvin Halgins, apparently now a celebrated hero, what with some business about a cult and boot camps.

His trial was twelve days away, but the evidence against him was pretty much iron-clad.

It was going to be a long time to wait just to hear a guilty verdict.

…

"…and you can be god-damned sure that I will be mentioning your screw up over the summer when I file suit against your police department for this!" Derrick Halgins shouted into his cell, clicking it off.

From what Calvin could gather as he lay there in the hospital, examining his stitches, his parents, given the summer's incident where two Rod and Whip agents infiltrated the police department, were already pissed about the lack of security they had seen, and a corrupt cop taking potshots at their kid had not helped matters in the slightest.

"So, uh, I may be a little behind in current events, but I drive down here to visit, Calvin's being shot at, I have to ram a cop car- again-"

Calvin would have to ask about that.

"…and now I'm hearing about him being hunted by a cult for releasing human sacrifices? Could someone fill me in?"

And so Uncle Max had gotten the short and gritty version of the summer's events from him. The initial boot camp he avoided with good grades, where an agent of Rod and Whip still tried to retrieve him anyway. The email with the virus. The home invasion. The third kidnapping attempt. How Calvin somehow killed one agent and crippled another, then managed to find his way to the compound where he proceeded to unleash havoc on every agent who crossed his path.

"As for why they shot at me, they wanted money. I didn't have any. Then they wanted my clothes-"

"Like, your jacket and shoes?" Betty Halgins handed him a cup of water, from which Calvin drank deeply.

"No, like, all my clothes, everything, underwear included."

Disbelief showed in his parents faces.

"Then, when I told him I wanted a lawyer, he pulled out his gun. So I showed him the tape recorder, and that's when he started shooting."

The looks of shock and rage they gave him were enough to solidify his belief that if he didn't have both a video recording backing it up and an audio recording of the threats, he'd never get anyone to believe his story.

"That's when Moe asked to finish you off?" his father asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah." In a way it was vindicating for Calvin. There was nothing redeeming about his tormentor, everyone could see that now. In other ways, it was sickeningly depressing- if Susie Derkins was his personified rebuttal to Rod and Whip's argument children were inherently evil, then Moe was their evidence.

Or, given how quickly they'd warmed up to Barry, he'd be a welcome ally with his sadism. Curtis had told Calvin in unflinching detail about how, over the years, Barry had gone from a mere brat to a full-blown sadist, whose devotion to making those around him- namely Curtis and other children younger than him- was so pure, Rod and Whip saw him as an ally. If they got their hands on Moe, he would all too easily mold into a role of tormenting their prisoners- no restraints meant Moe wouldn't need to maintain a façade of morality for the purpose of appearing harmless to a stray teacher.

Max shook his head. "So, what, did I miss something? Did all the wackos of the world get together and say "Hey, you know what? Let's really pour it on this year"?"

Calvin sat up, wincing as he did. "Grindstone, or Rod and Whip, has been around a while. They just recently got more confident. As for Moe and Joe? They've been assholes since the day we met."

But as they discussed who to sue and how one couldn't trust a police officer these days, Calvin sat in thought. Rod and Whip's activities would have had to have been ramped up only recently, of they had been operating on the scale he'd seen in that single compound, there was simply no way no one would have taken notice.

If in fact they had recently just become more aggressive in retrievals and recruitment, what- or who- had spurred them?

…

It had taken a doctor's okay and several hours of assuring his parents he'd be fine for them to let Calvin go to Susie's charity drive to do his report for journalism class and the school paper, but they had finally agreed he could go, provided he stayed with the group, caused no trouble, and reported in hourly via cell phone.

Hobbes was against it through and through, though.

"You have got to be kidding me. You just escaped hell on earth AND a cop trying to kill you, and now you want to go downtown? Alone?"

Calvin shook his head. "I won't be alone. There's going to be lots of adults, lots of students, lots of witnesses all around. If Rod and Whip or any of Joe's friends… well, if he has any friends- try anything, they're not going to get away."

Hobbes crossed his arms. "So you're dead, but they leave a lot of witnesses that may think twice about speaking up or testifying. Bravo."

Calvin frowned. "You're a tiger. Do you charge into the middle of a herd, or pick off the animals who are alone?"

"…the loners." Hobbes conceded. "But that's dealing with an entirely melee perspective. These people have guns and cars. They'll just spray lead in your direction and speed off, not giving a damn if they mow down fifty or so innocent people in the process-"

"Yeah, but remember- we've got cell phone cameras, anonymous hotlines, and probably security cameras on several streets. It's not a risk I'd take if I wanted to kill someone."

Hobbes growled low, and for a moment, Calvin wondered if he was going to physically prevent him from leaving. To others, Hobbes was just a stuffed toy. To Calvin, he was real, which made him a good confidant and ally, but also a legitimate threat if he disagreed too strongly.

"Fine. But if things go south, you get out of there- no heroics? Promise?"

Calvin nodded. "Promise."

That made the tiger relax a bit, and he curled up to sleep.

Heading downstairs, he grabbed a sack lunch, several bottles of water, and headed out the door. His parents would be busy with discussing a lawsuit, but they had arranged for someone from the school to pick him up. One of the teachers.

A car pulled up- old Honda civic. Not that Calvin complained about cars, or that he expected much from a teacher's salary.

He was about to say a word of thanks when the driver stepped out, when he- and the driver- got a good look at each other.

Ms. Wormwood spoke first. "…oh God dammit. Not you again."

…

The drive downtown was in silence for a good portion. Wormwood insisted that Calvin stay in the shotgun backseat, convinced he could destroy the car anywhere else. Granted, he could very easily disable a car like this, but that was something he'd prefer her not to know.

She might have been a good teacher as far as academics went, but one flaw Wormwood had- and was seemingly oblivious to- was that she had her mind set on how certain people were always going to be, and once set on her views, she didn't change her mind. So it did not matter that several years had passed, that Calvin was doing better in school, or that recently he became a minor hero.

As evident by the dagger-glare she cast him every five minutes, she still thought of him as an incorrigible youth, who dragged everyone around him down.

"So, are you going to get her thrown in jail, too?" her tone was acidic enough to burn through steel.

Ironically, she had thought of Moe as a victim of Calvin, rather than vice-versa, and when Moe had, in desperation, explained his harassment tactics as retaliation for Calvin's 'distracting him from class', she had been sympathetic. That sentiment was as strong as ever now.

"Well," Calvin said, feeling offended, "her dad's likely not going to pull a gun on me, and even if he did, her first reaction would not be to ask if she could finish me off." There was politeness, and then there was stating the blatantly obvious. The dashboard camera and audio recording were all over the internet and news.

Wormwood did not take her eyes off the road, but Calvin could feel her scowl. "We both know you provoked him."

"How? By not having money? By walking home? By wearing the wrong color pants? You had to have seen the tapes, heard the recording-"

"You did something earlier, I know it." Her tone was firm, but Calvin allowed himself a smirk as he heard that telltale uncertainty, that decline in confidence that marked her grasping at straws.

"Look," Calvin said, not wanting to have to walk the rest of the way to- or home from- the event. "I know that you think I'm still the antichrist incarnate. I also know you think that someone like Moe, who hands you an apple and says 'ma'am' every time he sees you can do no wrong. And you know what? That's fine with me, plenty of other people think I'm Satan or his right-hand man. After, you know, dealing with a cult and being shot, I don't have the energy to convince you that people change and aren't always what they seem. I'm just going to write a story about something that isn't doom and gloom."

Wormwood inhaled, as if about to launch a scathing rebuttal, but something must've struck home, because she fell silent for minutes.

Then she spoke, more softly this time. "I miss when the most outrageous thing you did was act like a superhero to get out of taking tests."

Calvin gave a dry laugh. "Funny. So do I."

…

Susie had expected Calvin to brag about his gunshot wound. Had expected him to need reminding he was here to work and write, not tell war stories. Had expected him to do something, give some vestige of the old prankster he was.

But Calvin worked hard and stopped only to eat, write, and use the restroom, occasionally needing a break when his side bothered him.

The news that he had been shot had been a shock to the school. That it was Joe and Moe Caldern who were responsible was not.

If he was in constant pain, he didn't show it. When he wasn't sorting food donations or aiding in distribution, he was talking to the families who needed assistance. Rather than be pushy or barrage them with questions, Calvin would approach, strike up conversation, and sit and record the responses from those who volunteered them.

It was a startling professionalism to see from someone who regularly made snow sculptures that would have given Lovecraft pause.

Not that Susie had much time to watch Calvin. As the vanguard of this effort, she had to keep busy- organizing, leading volunteers, directing, answering questions from reporters who seemed to always get right in the way as she was trying to do something, asking the same damn questions over and over again.

What made her decide to do this? The kids at school who could only afford a banana for lunch. The news a friend's father had been laid off and that they had to choose between air conditioning and paying the water bill. Maybe it was the 'Christians' who thought spreading God's love meant picketing funerals, and she felt that she could set a good example. They could take their pick.

Around mid-day, Calvin walked up to her, shirt damp with sweat, notepad and recorder in hand. "Okay, Ms. Derkins. Now I get to play 'stupid question time' with you. You've probably been asked this fifty times, but for the school paper, what made you decide to do this?"

If he was going to work his ass off for her, he at least deserved an intelligent answer.

"To many people, homelessness and poverty is 'someone else's problem', or something they expect the poor and homeless to remedy themselves. What many people forget is that to get out of their situation, these people need clothes to go apply for a job, food to sustain themselves, sometimes an old cell phone to receive calls. Moreover, a lot of people just think you get homeless by drug addictions or making really dumb decisions. That's not the case. If a family has one 'breadwinner' that loses their job and can't find another quickly, bills add up, fast. I'm not saying we should pay for someone's lifestyle forever, but if we can make minor sacrifices to help someone out of homelessness, it's better for the community in the short and long run."

Susie drank deeply from a water bottle as some adults, gathered to participate or watch the spectacle, applauded. She decided she could avoid telling them she'd rehearsed that line in the mirror several times.

But then, why had she given the big name reporters short answers, and saved her best for Calvin?

Because I was busy. she told herself. Because Calvin did more than just stand around and look cute.

There were more 'because's, but she still had a job to do.

…

For many people who looked at Susie Derkins, they saw in her a girl that was as close to Mother Teresa as an eighth grader could reasonably aspire to be. A self-sacrificing spirit of kindness who preached her faith and beliefs through actions rather than mere reciting of a book.

However, Simon Highweller, a judge for twenty years, saw her for what she truly was: a dangerous religious nutcase who undermined his work with these empty, ineffective public relations displays.

His was a very luxurious condo, bought with hard-earned money from his years of service as a judge, and outfitted with elements of luxury that even now tempted him from his task- the flat screen, the swimming pool, the imported wines.

He sat at his computer, reviewing the article that had piqued his interest while browsing. He had intended, originally, for a quiet night of rest and relaxation, but now he had more important objectives.

The truth about children, he'd found, was that they had a dangerous habit of only following the law so long as it suited them, and so long as they were watched with wary eyes. Once either of those factors- the personal tastes, or the distrust necessary to keep them in line- faded, it was only a matter of time before their innate anarchic tendencies kicked in.

This Derkins girl was preaching a dangerous idea, even if she didn't wholly know it- the idea that adherence to the law and good works were means by which a child could render themselves immune to the law's punishments. Her actions had made so many see her as a child who could do no wrong- Ohio bloggers had praised her 'selfless sacrifice' and her inspiring many other students in her city to do the same.

A hundred dollars and one weekend down and they were ready to accept her as a messiah. He, silently, wished he'd known that was the way to go about gaining popularity- it would have saved him thousands in campaign expenses.

As it was, Susie Derkins was, intentionally or not, spreading an idea that threatened the community he had struggled to build- a gathering of people who thought like him, could see through the dancing bear acts people like Derkins put on, see the truth- that beneath the benevolent façade was someone like any other child- a potential anarchist who inherently bucked at law and tradition, and needed constant discipline to beat out their inherent flaws. That unquestioned acceptance of those who were called to interpret the law- namely him- was necessary for order.

Her actions undermined his authority, and Highweller had long ago learned the problems that arose when one tried to convey authority with mere words to someone of Susie's age and mentality.

They- the coddling public, the people who she seduced- would not understand what must be done, not in this year, likely not in several years. He was no wide-eyed idealist; the changes he wanted to bring about would take years of effort on his part and all those who were loyal to order. They would call his methods vicious, baseless, antagonistic- as they had before, when he had handed down 'cruel and unusual' sentences to those in his courts.

History would show, in time, that she had struck the first blow in a subtle campaign of undermining his authority. He would see to that.

The winners, after all, were the ones who wrote the books.