First in a series, the All Grown Up! Rugrats start a new school year (a year and a half after the series end) with new challenges. This is my take from old drafts and plots of a fanfiction I started years ago.

Mysterious events occur in a small town in the San Bernardino Valley, as new changes and problems plague a handful of family and friends, old and new. A cruel, new teacher starts at the middle school and wreaks havoc bringing questions of a darker connection to the Valley town. There are worse calamities than seventh grade.

All recognizable characters and familiar scenery belong to Klasky-Csupo.

The flight from New York to Los Angeles was late. The passengers filed out onto the tarmac by two in the morning. Dressed in a trench coat, one of the men on the flight strode stealthily toward the baggage claim. Wordlessly, he collected his two pieces of luggage before hailing a cab to the car rental lot by the airport.

The quiet man studied his notes, not paying attention to the incessant questioning from the chattering taxi driver. Running a hand through his sandy hair, he read the directions to his destination. He had always preferred the big cities, where he could blend in with the crowd. This assignment was to take place in a small town by the San Bernardino Mountains- a town of about 13,000 people. It was minutes away from the small city of Yucaipa, and that was all that he knew. The school district that served the town and its nearby communities now ranked among the highest in the state of California after years of mediocrity.

Big deal. He had a mission to complete.

The stranger arrived at the car rental lot and immediately searched the premises for his new Jaguar that would serve him for the rest of the week until he came up with the funds for his own vehicle. His pager beeped and he released a sound of annoyance from the back of his throat. With a glance at the message, the tall man swept across the lot toward the rental he had been searching for.

He drove for an hour and a half before he approached San Bernardino County. The mountainous scenery was a stark contrast to the concrete jungle of LA or New York City. He drove through the city of San Bernardino located in the foothills of the eastern portion of the San Bernardino Valley. The county seat had fallen into hard times due to the recession of the late eighties. The man grunted. If this place was bad, what would the smaller cities and towns be like? He was tempted to stop here for the night but the message on his pager kept nagging at him. He had to move on to his destination.

With a sigh, he kept driving east toward the mountainous valley. The welcome sign of his new town greeted him with a lit-up Welcome with a shining sun and mountains. Shaking his head, he drove onto the main thoroughfare. The so-called business district was small, with two main streets and only a few stoplights. The man turned onto Whitman Avenue and drove away from the government buildings. He spotted his destination, a bar just across the street from a coffeehouse and shoe shop.

Rock music played as the man pushed open the door to Stedman Bar and Grille. Four customers sat at the bar with the restaurant area shut down for the night. A short man closest to the door spotted the newcomer.

"Y-You're l-late, sir."

"Don't call me sir, the cloaked man spat. "I've arrived."

"So, you h-have." The nervous portly man stood to meet the newcomer. "Y-You are aware of the mission at hand?" he asked, fidgeting with his glasses.

"Without question." The taller man spoke in a voice laced with sarcasm. "I would have rather spent the night in San Bernardino than this backwater village, Peterson."

"But y-you had orders to c-come here immediately upon f-flying from New York, sir. Oh, sorry!" Peterson winced as his companion threw a dirty glare. "Would you like to read today's newspaper?"

"I suppose." The taller man sat next to the anxious Peterson. He swiped the newspaper and scanned the headlines with a twisted expression of vexation. This town was so small, the daily newspaper was merely four sections: News, Sports, Entertainment/Lifestyle, and Classified.

He stopped at the main headline of the Entertainment section. LOCAL STUDENT SHINES AT SAN BERNARDINO FILM FESTIVAL. An accompanying photo showed a young boy wearing a film reel t-shirt. The boy of about eleven or twelve years grinned from ear-to-ear and held his left hand in the thumbs up gesture. His black hair was cropped neatly on his head and his right arm wrapped around a younger boy with curly reddish hair and similar features. His brother, perhaps? The tall stranger scanned the introduction to the article.

Thomas Pickles, 12, has had quite the summer. The incoming seventh-grader at James Whitman Junior Middle School took first-place honors at the 2002 Young Filmmaker's Film Festival for his short documentary "Yucaipa Eureka! A history of San Bernardino Valley Communities Since 1810."

"Pickles. The wonder of American English surnames." The man scoffed to himself, slamming the paper down.

"You want anything to drink?" the bartender's words brought his gaze up. "We're closing in thirty minutes."

The man waved a dismissive hand with a request of the finest brandy in the joint. Why not be more adventurous? He had just arrived on a red-eye flight across the continental United States and was set to start his mission in an unfamiliar town in Southern California. The man pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering the past missions that brought him all over the world. Now he was here, a close-knit community in the west coast of North America.

"So, you're new in the area, eh?" the bartender spoke, wanting to make conversation.

"You could say that." The man's dark eyes gleamed.

"Name's Ron."

"Malachi. And my companion here is Clarence."

Peterson jumped at the other man's introduction. No one usually addressed him by his Christian name. He was lucky that Malachi even addressed him at all.

"Evening," the small man managed with a wave.

"What are you here for, Malachi?" Ron asked. "Business?"

"Yes. Business." Malachi's gaze bore into the barman. "I suggest you not ask me any more questions."

With a soft grumble, Ron turned away to wipe at a dirty glass. He kept one ear open for the conversation between the man, Malachi, and his companion Clarence Peterson.

"Well, Peterson?" Malachi's voice was clipped. "Why the urgency?"

"Your flight was l-late, sir. The C-chairman paged me an hour and a half ago, wondering if you had arrived."

"Tell him that I arrived, Peterson. What do you think I hire you for? To sit around, reading newspapers?"

"No. I mean, uh-"

"Silence." Malachi held up a hand. "I have no use for your excuses. If I am to rot away in this backward "community," I demand a detailed explanation of my assignment."

"Well, the school-"

"I know about the bloody school!" Malachi slammed the counter with the palm of his hand. "What about the child?"

"The child?"

"Yes, Peterson. The child! The reason I am here in this godforsaken place. Have you found out more information about the identity of this…child?"

"Not a clue, save that he or she is living here in this town and attending the local school system."

"So, the same status as last month. You disappoint me, Peterson."

The anxious man stared down at the counter. "I've tried everything. Thirteen thousand people may not seem a lot, but it took me hours at the library to even find the surnames of the residents of the town."

"Including Pickles?"

"Pickles?" Peterson echoed, his brow furrowed.

Malachi groaned. "Yes. One unfortunate family in this town goes by the name Pickles. It's tragic really."

Peterson shrugged. He knew that Malachi didn't really have an ounce of pity for these faceless strangers. The reserved man only cared for two people: his best friend and his godson. The list ended there.

"I-I would like to mention that there are a select few familiar surnames," said Peterson. He picked up his satchel from the floor and searched inside. He took out a notepad. "I made some notes of the surnames mentioned by the Chairman. Some are new to the area. Some have lived here for generations. Some are in between."

Malachi took the notepad and flipped through the pages. "Hmm. At least you took the time to study these people."

"I went onto information," Peterson said with a beaming smile. "I googled. I went through newspaper articles. Birth records, marriage records, death records, the likes. It seems to me that some of these families are connected in some fashion to…the cause. Plus, some live in the same neighborhood and some are even related by blood or marriage. I also looked at the schools in the area. There are two high schools, three middle schools, and four elementary schools, as well as two private schools- a charter and a Catholic school."

"Good. Good. You are useful for something. Perhaps we are closer to our objective. I would also suggest looking into families who have adopted in the area. We need to cover every single possibility, Peterson. We have until the winter solstice, the child's thirteenth birthday. The Chairman will return to his hometown."

Peterson bowed his head. "Of course. I'll get right on it."

"You had better." Malachi stood up and made for the door. "And from now on, you shall address me by my...alias."

"Understood." Peterson gave a weak wave. "Goodnight."

Without a farewell in return, Malachi swept out the door.

"Course he'd leave me with the tab," Peterson grumbled to himself. He cast a glance toward Ron and heaved a sigh. He took out his wallet. "Do you take cash or credit card?"

Malachi strode down the sidewalk, heading back to his rental car. His gaze flitted toward the coffeehouse windows.

"Java Lava?" he muttered to himself. "I swear…the people in this wretched town...I don't know what is in the water here." He shrugged to himself. He'll settle for the Starbucks in Yucaipa. Hopping into the Jaguar and slamming the car door, he turned on the ignition. The hotel was just on the outskirts of town, closer to Yucaipa. Sometime next week, he would have to find more long-term housing...perhaps an apartment in Yucaipa, so he wouldn't have to spend a lot of time in this town beyond his new assigned job.

He sped off toward Yucaipa making a note to himself of the greater mission at hand. The child must be found, for the sake of the cause.

Across town, the resident young filmmaker laid awoke in his bedroom. The first day of school was a week and a half away and Thomas Pickles had been feeling nervous. The seventh grade may be the year before the last year at middle school, but people had been calling it the unluckiest year. Well, next to junior year at high school.

Tommy heaved a sigh. He would have to survive seventh and eighth grades before heading off to high school. The memories of the past two years of middle school had put doubts in his mind about seventh grade being the unlucky year.

Fifth and sixth grade had been wild and sometimes agonizing. Fifth grade, their first year at the middle school, was the year of preteen awakening for Tommy and his friends. Puberty reared its ugly head, as he and the other boys became hairier and their voices began cracking. The girls had their share of issues, and Tommy had no desire to research deeper than the basic information he learned in health class with Mr. Pangborn.

During the first semester of his fifth-grade year, Tommy got his first kiss. He never saw the girl, Olivia Benson, again. It wasn't long before he met Rachel Ann Wyatt Horowitz, his first official girlfriend. The two met at the Hebrew school that his mother made him attend and began dating afterward. His family had commented that their relationship somewhat mirrored that of his maternal grandparents, Boris and Minka Kropotkin.

However, it was due to what Tommy believed was his stupidity that the relationship ended in disaster. He had almost lost his friends at the time, save his best friend and brother, who both put up with his depressed state of mind. His parents, however, were another story.

"You were too young for a girlfriend anyway, sweetie," his mother had said.

Tommy gritted his teeth at the memory of the unhelpful comment. It was typical of Didi Pickles to sprinkle her so-called advice or words of comfort with passive-aggressive reminders of her slight disapproval. He could see it in his mother's behavior, from constant hugs and kisses, neatening his hair, and the babying tone of voice she had used with him...all in front of Rachel, no less! In retrospect, Rachel had dodged a bullet.

Sixth grade was better, but not by much. The school year brought him a strict science teacher for homeroom, Mrs. Guppy. The older woman was the opposite of Mr. Beaker, who was kind of a joke. Next, his aunt Charlotte got her CEO position back after a lengthy lawsuit and trial involving one Jonathan Patalas. Of all the years, Tommy had known Jonathan, he never saw the scandal that ended his promising promotion over his at times, abusive boss.

Now set to begin seventh grade, Tommy realized that life would only get more complicated for him and his friends. He felt blessed to still have his closest friends and brother around after all the drama of the past two years and the drama to come. The knot at the pit of his stomach twisted, now thinking about his little brother. Younger by fifteen months, the unique Dylan Pickles would be starting the sixth grade. Although young enough to be in fifth, Dil was clearly smart enough to be in seventh grade. The new program for Gifted students ran by Vice Principal Estes Pangborn and Tommy's future English teacher, Miss Shelley O'Keats kicked off last year with Chuckie Finster, Tommy's best friend, and Dil practically a grade over their peers.

Tommy hoped that Mrs. Guppy wouldn't give Dil a hard time, even though he was in the Acceleration Program for Gifted Students. Mrs. Guppy would be the least of Dil's problems, Tommy knew. Dil would be going through puberty, starting this year. Middle school pre-teenagers were also more likely to submit into peer pressure. Poor Chuckie was the evident example, before Miss. O'Keats helped him through it last year. As for a unique kid like Dil…well it could break or make him stronger. He desperately hoped it would be the second possible outcome.

Meanwhile, his cousin Angelica, along with Susie Carmichael and Harold Frumkin, would be starting ninth grade at Winona N. Whitman High School. Tommy knew that he and his friends will not be able to survive another year of Angelica's ridicule. Even at fourteen, Angelica was cruel and vindictive, but none of her current bad deeds could compare with those from her pre-school days.

Summer had gone by so quickly. Articles from the local paper about his filmmaking projects decorated the board hanging over his desk. His camcorder, Roman, was right on its place on the desk. Deep in thought, Tommy wondered about his next film project. The past year had been a significant one in his amateur film career. Tommy had made a fifteen-minute 'Young Adult' thriller, a ninety-second commercial for the Java Lava, and an hour-long documentary about the history of their area. The doc ended up taking honors at the film festival for young filmmakers in their county. The Java Lava hosted special showings of his films, leading kids from all over the San Bernardino area to travel many miles just to see his work.

"What next, Tommy?" he said, gazing up at the ceiling. "What's up for this year? Some inspiration would be great right now."

He heaved a sigh as he shifted in his bed. The soft snoring from the other room kept him lingering awake. Dil had always kept his door open. Maybe he should do something about that…

Tommy drifted off to sleep, the worries about the future overtaking him.