Author's Notes: Freakazoid and Dexter talk in parenthesis. I want to take a moment to say a couple words. Dragon, goulashes and cornucopia. Also, thanks to my beta for editing this chapter so fast!
Disclaimer: Freakazoid! and all related things belong to Stephen Spielberg.

"A 404 error is a common website error message that indicates a page cannot be found. Regardless of the appearance, a 404 error means the server is up and running, but the webpage or path to the webpage is not valid."

Chapter 1

"When everything is wrong I'll come talk to you, you make things alright when I'm feeling blue," -Weezer

Today was a very strange day. And for God's sake, if it was a strange day for Freakazoid then it was intolerably, paralyzing weird for anyone else in the known universe.

It was equally weird that Freak was the first to sense something strange about today. If it was a weird enough day for him to notice how off it was, then certainly his alter ego—or was he the alter ego?-well, the person who shared his brain named Dexter Douglas should have noticed too. Dexter wasn't nearly as much of a, well, a freak as Freakazoid was—even though he was the 'weird kid' by normal standards. Dexter was just a regular old teen. Well, no. He was smart. He played with his computers and he did well in class. And if that qualified him as a geek then Freakazoid was okay with that. He was Freakazoid's geek and that was all that mattered.

If liking computers made Dex a geek then Freakazoid supposed he was a geek too.

And Dexter was currently engrossed in his note taking for his literature class this fine Fall day. This was a day that Freakazoid was pretty sure should be legally declared a school-free day because the air was crisp and cool and he just wanted to run around, or leap about, or just generally play in the sunshine because seriously. It wasn't like anybody could pay attention to such a boring class on such a pretty day. Freakazoid had tried tuning in, he'd tried to listen, but the little old man with the funny combover was not someone Freakazoid was inclined to listen to even if he tried. So he did what he did best: he pestered Dexter while the poor young teen tried to take notes.

A while ago, Freakazoid had discovered a link to Dexter's half of their shared mind. He couldn't really leave the Freakazone, but he could tug at Dexter's side of their brain. At first it was only sharing emotions, and weakly at that—but it grew and morphed, and eventually they were fully able to share thoughts and even carry conversations. Their long-suffering mentor Roddy MacStew chalked it up to Freak's growing telepathic abilities. He had warned them both about overstraining the link—"Yer not supposed ta be two people, laddies!"—but so far Freakazoid had been the one to use it the most. It wasn't that Dexter didn't want to talk to his alter-ego; he did initiate conversations sometimes, at which Freakazoid would pretty much have kittens in his absolute joy. Freakazoid was just naturally a more talkative, extroverted person. Or the more extroverted, talkative side of Dexter. Or whatever they were. Freakazoid didn't mind.

In fact, if Freakazoid was any more extroverted, he'd probably have busted right out of the skinny geek's head by now and taken over the whole place. And made school on pretty fall days illegal.

As it was, he couldn't do that just yet, and at any rate it would probably hurt Dexter to try and burst out of their brain which probably didn't even make neurological sense because seriously—and hurting Dexter was an idea that Freakazoid was firmly antagonistic towards. And besides, he was having lots of fun pestering the other teen.

Despite seemingly everyone else in Dexter's life, Freakazoid actually enjoyed his company.

(What's he talking about?) Freakazoid asked for the fourth time that class, peering out through Dexter's eyes, vaguely trying to watch before he withdrew back into the Freakazone, lying around on the sofa.

Dexter managed to make hissing in his thoughts a pretty effective sound. (Steven Pinker's book, The Better Angels: About Violence in History? …Remember?)

(Yeah. Wait. No.) The feeling of a mental shrug came from Freakazoid's side of their brain. Dexter sighed to himself, out in the real world. Here it mattered, things like homework and grades. In Freakazoid's world...not so much.

(Well, anyway, I'm supposed to be taking notes. You know Mr. Golding doesn't write things on the board.)

(What a weenie.)

Dexter smiled secretly. Despite Freak's slight insult, his teacher wasn't too bad. In fact this stuff was actually interesting.

"The real fascination of this book," the teacher said, "is how we got from being a species that enjoyed the spectacle of roasting each other alive to one that believes child-killers have the same rights as everyone else." Mr. Golding waited for the class to glance at each other. "You must be thinking: really? Did we really think that about such vile people? Yes."

(He should talk about superheroes. He should talk about me!) Dexter tried to ignore the too-chipper voice in his skull, but it proved useless when Freak switched topics with no warning as he was eternally prone to do and began rattling on and on about what they should do after class. Something about airplane noises.

"…What decides us between them is not virtue or vice but strategic calculation. We resort to violence when violence seems the better bet." Dexter nodded as he continued writing furiously, trying to combat the cheerful voice in-between his ears.

(Or we could go to the park and play with Foamy, or get a snow cone with Cosgrove, but I don't know if I want grape or lemon.) A pause. For a second Dexter had the crazy idea that maybe Freak would shut up. He was wrong. (I guess I could mix them. But gremon? Lape? No. Lape is too close to rape, I don't think—)

(FREAKAZOID!) All thought processes coming from Freak paused. It was the mental equivalent to Freak going still and staring down at him. Dexter looked down in frustration at his sloppy handwriting. It always got bad when he got distracted.

(Yes?) Dexter could almost feel Freak smile.

(Be. Quiet.)

"Pinker is adamant that we should not be complacent about the decline of violence," Dexter's teacher continued on, "The inner demons are still there. But neither should we be fatalistic: as things stand, our better angels are a truer reflection of who we are….yes, Mr. Douglas?"

Dexter stared at him. Mr. Golding stared back.

"...What?"

"Did you have a question, Dexter?"

"Wha…" Dexter looked up to his hand raised. He swallowed and felt himself blush a deep red. (F-Freakazoid!) A crazed chuckle filtered through his thoughts, as unbidden as the involuntary muscle reaction was. His alter ego was—was controlling him! Raising Dexter's hand! Dexter yanked back control of his body, shoving his hand back down.

(Ask about superheroes!) Freakazoid begged.

"Do you WANT me to get beat up after class?"

"...no, not really Mr. Douglas."

Dexter's face went the color of Freak's super suit. He hadn't realized he'd said that out loud. Freakazoid saw his chance and, instead of taking it, tackled it the ground and shoved forward.

"What about superheroes!" Dexter blurted out excitedly. He clapped a hand over his mouth, jostling his glasses as he glanced left at right and his snickering peers and sank lower down, attempting to either disappear or become an integral part of the uncomfortable chair below him.

Mr. Golding turned to fix a gaze on Dexter, who wilted under the man's glance as the class laughed around him and he tried to force down his arm. It went down finally to hang limp at his side, but Mr. Golding had to snap his ruler on his desk to quell the resurgence of laughter throughout the room.

"Superheroes, Mr. Douglas? Superheroes have hardly anything to do with the real world—with real violence. Now, if you would be so kind as to pay attention?"

"Yessir," Dexter mumbled quietly while in the back of his mind his alter ego sulked.

(Geez, he is a weenie,) Freak snapped to no one in particular.

His teacher eyed him a moment longer, just a second, as if to see if the boy would have any more wild outbursts. When it was apparent he wasn't going to, the man continued, throwing himself into the theory of the book. Dexter tried extra hard this time to pay attention.

(Hey Dexter, did you know that dried yak dung is used as fuel in the treeless Tibetan plateaus? Isn't that weird!)

(Freakazoid, please, I need to pay attention-)

(And when Yaks mate they have to-)

"Freak, knock it off or I will break your—!" Dexter stopped dead as he stood before the class in the middle of his row, his body leaning toward an invisible person who only he could hear. The class stared. Some muttered and the poor girl closest to him looked frightened.

"Mr. Douglas? Really? Do you have anything more to add to the discussion about violence?"

Several snickers were heard as the geek shook his head and clumsily clambered back into his chair. "N-no sir. Sorry."

"…Very well." The little portly man nodded to Dexter, a warning glint in his eyes as Dexter nodded beseechingly.

Mr. Golding straightened his hair, (Freakazoid giggled) and continued his speech on the book while scribbling pens picked up out of the silence. Mr. Golding glanced back at his class, stopping his sweeping gaze over Dexter, who was trying to look innocently intrigued by his teacher as an insane superhero rambled about kittens and peanut butter and soccer nets in his skull.

"Does our gradual move away from violence towards civility leave us better or worse equipped to deal with the next great calamity when it comes?" No one raised their hands when they noticed he was asking a rhetorical question. "…No one can know."

After class, several of his classmates took precious time out of their day to congratulate Dexter on what a loser, geeky, lame-ass and retarded idiot he was. The ones who didn't say such things to Dexter simply ignored him altogether, and Dexter was eternally grateful to those people. As he tossed his notebook into his bag he tried to ignore the feeling of being hugged from behind as deep in his mind Freakazoid snuggled up to his half of their consciousness.

(…Sorry, Dexxy.)

'Dexxy. The only one who has a nickname for me and it's basically myself.' Dexter was careful to keep that thought private.

(S'fine, Freak.) No, it was really the opposite of fine, but it wasn't like Freak could do anything about it. It wasn't his fault he was such a... freak.

(…I don't think you're a retarded idiot, you know. Or lame. Or a loser.)

(…What about geek?) Dexter probed as he left the class room as the bell rung shrilly, signaling the end of class. Hundreds of student milled about and around him, but none made a motion or a comment toward Dexter.None of them ever did.

Freak brightened up considerably, his bubbly self shining beneath Dexter's gloomy aura. (Well of course you're a geek—but you're my geek! That makes you a special geek.)

Dexter sighed as he walked out the front door of his school in the fall air, seeing a familiar Squad car sitting in the school's pick up and drop off lot.

(Of course it does, Freakazoid.) Dexter thought back, and he could almost feel how exhausted his own thoughts were. Freakazoid noticed the cop car after that and immediately swelled up inside him, eager to be let out but patiently waiting, like always.

Today was a very strange day. And, knowing Freakazoid, it was only going to get stranger.