A/N: This is going to be a veeeeeeeeeerrry DARK fic, or at least that's how I'm planning it. If you have a soul, you are probably going to cry. I'm not going for emo, but rather a particular subtype of post-traumatic stress disorder. If I've done it right, it should read a little like an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. It's under angst for a reason. I'm starting it off as rated T and it's going to seem like nothing seriouss is going on until a little later.

WARNING: The following story contains adult themes suitable for mature audiences. This is not a drill. The rating will go up to M starting at the next chapter. Reader discretion is advised. Thank you.

It was official; this was the most boring Tuesday afternoon Stanford had ever suffered through. There was no threat against this interstellar peace to be found as of late. The Vandals were licking their wounds and sharpening their claws, waiting for a chance to strike down their enemies. Whatever the Red Sentients were planning, they were keeping chatter to a minimum. Even Zemerik was out of commission, as far as they knew. The robot cult known as the Alpha Code was staying in its little corner of the Torborian Badlands, and not a peep had been heard from them. All this added up to a very slow week for the Battle Force 5 and absolutely nothing to complain about. But Stanford being Stanford, having nothing to complain about was something to complain about, and this peace did not sit at all well with him. Maybe, just maybe, deep down…he knew the other shoe was about to drop. Maybe he had a feeling this was the calm before the storm. …Or maybe he was just a whiny little git who liked to complain about everything and nothing. The point was, he was unhappy despite the time off the team had found.

Stanford glanced at Spinner; even that obnoxious prankster was quiet as a mouse. Why, the elder Cortez was practically sedate! It was terribly out of character, the manner in which he sat calmly with an air of utmost confidence, positively radiating cool. Spinner was a playful, mischievous sort of fellow with a love of bad jokes and a habit of pulling malicious pranks, but here he was, silent and smiling like he knew something his friends did not. That must have been what was bothering him, he thought. Spinner was up to something. Barely listening to his teammate's conversations, he watched the gamer like a hawk.

Oh, and there was some movement! Spinner appeared to be waving at someone. Stanford followed the gamer's line of sight to the door and saw a large and particularly frightening man in a Hawaiian shirt. It took a special variety of man to make a Hawaiian shirt look scary. He had a certain…presence was the only word Stanford could think of to describe it, though he knew it was inadequate to describe the sense of foreboding he got from the large, bearded man. But Scary Hawaiian was not waving back at Spinner. Rather, the small child who held his hand enthusiastically greeted the avid gamer. A little boy wearing a cape seemed to be waving a toy lizard at Spinner…No, wait, it crawled up his arm. He was waving a live lizard at Spin. But presently the boy followed his father to a table on the other side of the diner, and Spinner's attention turned back to his teammates.

His waving had not drawn just Stanford's attention, however. A storm shock had not opened for a few days, and most members of the Battle Force 5 had taken the opportunity to rest up and go off doing their own thing. Spinner had only really had serious contact with Sherman since returning home Sunday night, and even he had gotten a short version of Spinner's whacky misadventures. But now, all of his teammates were staring at the gamer's bandaged hand.

"So what happened to your hand, dude?" AJ asked, taking another bit of his pizza.

"What, this?" Spinner replied, holding up his injured right hand. "Oh, I got mugged on Sunday."

Sherman dropped his fries. "What? Why didn't you say anything when you got home? Are you hurt?" Spinner tried in vain to fend off his younger brother, who was now delicately checking him for injuries, asking if it pained him when he did this or that. "Did you recognize your attacker? I thought small towns were supposed to be safe. Where's the sheriff when you need him?"

"Bro, chillax!" he finally insisted. "I skinned a knuckle when I punched him. Dude wasn't bringing his A-game and got toasted."

"But you're sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine! Jeez, Granma didn't fuss this much."

The monotony had been broken, but seemed to settle back around them now. Stanford went back to picking at his key lime pie; he had probably eaten too much already, and he was debating whether or not to finish it. Not to mention he only got it on the house because the diner patrons like to make 'limey' jokes at his expense. Then a little flash of jumpy movement caught his attention and he casually glanced up; a thin, twitchy young man with a silly-looking bucket hat over his red hair was approaching Spinner.

"Hey, man, look," the jumpy fellow said. "I just wanted to apologize for the other day at the shop. I know Chet can get pretty…hands on with his sales pitch—"

"Yeah, that's an interesting way of phrasing it," Spinner interrupted.

"Look, if you still wanted to come shopping, take this card. It's got all the hours when Chet's usually off somewhere else. Come in any of those hours, and I'll give you a discount for your troubles."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mitch," Spinner said accepting the card. They shook hands.

Stanford was not the only one watching Spinner's exchange. In the back of his mind, Vert Wheeler's gears were turning. He knew this particular redhead, though he could not quite remember where. In a number of alternate timelines in which Vert had been raised in California, he had wound up driving for a Dr. Peter Tezla, pigeonholed into saving the universe…multiverse, whatever… from evil robots created by an otherwise outwardly peaceful alien race. It was the same story told in a different way, in a different time…and usually with fewer mutants. In many of those timelines, Vert had eventually landed with the Teku, an LA street racing team focused on techno music that had a heated rivalry with a heavy metal-themed team, and the young man before him had been the Metal Maniacs' mechanic. But this was in another lifetime, of course; Vert did not know all of this consciously. He knew this "Mitch" person from somewhere more mundane, merely giving him this insanely strong sense of déjà vu—or rather, as he was thinking in that moment, 'that feeling; you can only say what it is in French.'

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Mitch scowled. "Yeah, you're that freshman who used to pick on me when I was a senior."

Finally, the déjà vu went away and everything came into clarity. They had attended school together! Vert smiled, remembering their time as classmates far more fondly than the redheaded fellow before him. "Oh, yeah! Monkey McClurg, right?"

"My name is Mitchell!" he snapped, suddenly violently angry. "Not Prince Charles, not Radar Ears, and sure as hell not Monkey! It's Mitchell!" Mitchell stopped and took a breath, throwing up his hands in surrender. He looked genuinely hurt. "Y'know, I heard you had grown up a bit and you weren't nearly so much an asshole as you used to be, but I guess that was just too good to be true. Take care, Spin. I hope you find a better quality of friend."

Mitch McClurg turned on his heel and exited the diner. A few minutes later he came back, blushing profusely, paid Zeke, took his pizza, and left again.

Okay, Stanford thought. That exchange had certainly been entertaining. Stanford made a mental note to question the flummoxed Vert about his high school years. He had trouble picturing the blonde as a bully, unless he squinted just right and remembered the day they had accidentally brought evil alternate universe Vert home with them. So for all that strangeness, maybe this day was not so boring after all.

The little bell on the door signaled yet another new customer for Zeke's Diner. The place certainly was hopping for a Tuesday afternoon! And this time, Stanford's eyes nearly bugged out of his head as the intoxicating scent of jasmine and vanilla washed over him. Instinctively he nudged Vert in the side, alerting him to the attractive female in the hopes that they might make a game of it, but the leader of the Battle Force 5 merely rolled his eyes and snorted.

He was insane to ignore her, Stanford thought. She was tall and curvy, filling out her tight daisy dukes and low-cut tank top almost too perfectly, blonde curls framing her gorgeous, whiskey brown eyes…and she walked right up to SPINNER. She kissed Spinner on the cheek and curled a piece of his hair around her finger. Spinner grinned at her as she walked off shaking it so all the guys would know what they were missing. As soon as she was out of sight he started inspecting his nails nonchalantly, as if she meant nothing to him.

"I call bullshit!" Stanford said, throwing down his napkin in disgust. "When the bloody hell did you get so popular? You expect me to believe you got with that leggy blonde? There's no way! There's just no bleedin' way! You've been acting weird all day and I know you're up to something!"

Spinner looked at him askance as if what Stanford had said was so asinine it did not even warrant a face palm. "You know, I do have a social life outside the base," he said darkly.

"Since when?"

"…Sunday."

Right on cue, Grace brought Tezz his sundae. She turned towards Spinner, scowling. "I can't believe you even pay any mind to that bottle-blonde skank. God, back in high school she was like the village bicycle; everybody's had a ride."

"Yeah, even Grace tapped that," Vert said, smirking.

"I was drunk!" the waitress snarled.

"Yeah, so was she. And so were the other two cheerleaders, as I seem to recall…"

Grace backhanded the leader of the BF5 before storming off in a huff.

Vert straightened out in the booth, cracking his neck. He rubbed his aching jaw, looking more annoyed than hurt, and glared in Grace's direction.

"Dude, that's my girlfriend!" Zoom said, lightly punching him in the arm.

"Yeah, and I've got a video of your girlfriend's lesbian foursome. Y'know, if you're interested."

Zoom tried to sound indignant when he insisted they would discuss it later, but Vert knew his scout was too excited for words.

Stanford gaped, eyes still on Spinner. "But-but! What! HOW! Okay, start over. What the bloody hell did you do on Sunday? I know you left in the afternoon and Vert said you didn't get in until two in the morning. What happened?"

"Umm, well, it was after I got Chinese," Spinner murmured, counting off on his fingers. "You were right, Tezz; Lucky Panda's egg foo young is to die for. I wandered around Totem Corners some more, and I met Bambi."

"The town slut!" Grace called from behind the counter.

"Yeah, it was an interesting weekend," Spinner said, grinning.

This did not compute. By all accounts, by all the people who were being so friendly to him, Spinner came off as cool. Spinner was an unrepentant geek! He had admitted on several occasions that many of his evenings consisted of rolling dice and playing make believe. How did he have more friends in this town than someone filthy rich and of noble blood? It made no sense!

"It's not that big a deal, Stanford. You heard Grace. Bubbles'll get with anyone."

"Bambi," Vert corrected.

"Whatever her name is," Spinner said dismissively.

"Why would she even look at you?" Stanford asked, still in shock.

Spinner's ears turned red. "Well, I was over by the Tipsy Roadrunner, see, and…"

Spinner trailed off as a shadow loomed over him. Standing next to the table was Sheriff Johnson, as if he had heard Sherman asking for him earlier. The deep set scowl that he wore on his face was far more imposing than the golden badge that gave him his authority, and they knew they were in for a world of trouble.

"Spinner Cortez?" he sternly demanded. "Are you acquainted with a Mr. Lloyd Carter?"

Spinner glowered. "Yeah, that'd be the walking cancer who tried to mug me twice in one night." He turned back to his friends. "Over a D&D game. Can you believe that crap? What a loser!"

The sheriff raised his eyebrows. "And you didn't report it?"

"Well, I had someplace to be," he contended. "Anyway, it's not like he was successful. The worst injury I got was hurting my hand when I decked him."

"So you assaulted Mr. Carter?"

"What? No, it was self-defense! What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. Mr. Carter is in critical condition. He's in surgery right now."

That caught Spinner by surprise. "W-what? I—"

"He was found comatose on the salt flats with a concussion and other severe injuries. Seems an awful lot to me like someone left him out there to die."

"I don't know anything about that!" Spin insisted, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Last time I saw him was Sunday night, in the alley across from the Tipsy Roadrunner. I went straight to Dragon's Wing Gaming after that. You can check with Strider."

Sheriff Johnson called across the diner. "Is that true, Mr. Drake?"

A scary looking fellow in a Hawaiian shirt answered. "Yeah, Spin got there around seven. I can let you check the security tapes just as soon as Junior finishes his onion rings."

"Much obliged," the sheriff rumbled before turning back to the elder Cortez. "In the meantime, I'm going to have to take you to the station for questioning."

Spinner hoped no one noticed him cringe or heard him whimper, but he knew it was impossible to miss. Of course he had not been involved in something so terrible, but if he were the last person to see Lloyd relatively unharmed, and seeing as he had caused at least some of that harm… It was all perfectly logical and perfectly obvious. He had to admit, things looked pretty bad. Really, in light of certain facts, who would not consider him a suspect?

"Uh, yeah. Sure," he said, swallowing nervously. "Anything to help, Sheriff."