Escape 030
[Memory Theater | Viewable to All]
A boy of about nine or ten years of age is lying on his bed, plugged into a Walkman with his eyes closed and an impassive look on his face. The room around him is neat but nondescript; strangely, there seem to be few, if any, personal touches to the decor of the bedroom. The walls are faded blue, the curtains brown. The bedspread beneath the boy is a shade or two darker than his jeans, and slightly rumpled but clean. In one corner is a desk and chair of dark wood; next to the bed is a matching nightstand. The bookshelf appears to house the only real signs of personality, with its shelves half-full of stacks of comic books, cassette tape cases, and the occasional novel.
The scene holds for a minute. Then, the door creaks open and a young face--that of a boy about five or six--peeks around the door. The resemblance to the boy on the bed is unmistakable; though the intruder's features are softer, rounder, and not nearly so schooled in a perfect mask of impassivity, it is clear that the two are related. Quietly, the younger boy slips through the partially-opened door and then turns his attention to it, shutting it as noiselessly as possible and looking quite pleased with himself as he does so.
"Welcome back, 007. What do you have to report?" the boy on the bed remarks, not bothering to open his eyes.
The other boy's expression melts into one of wide-eyed surprise as he whirls to look in the direction of the sound. "How do you always know?"
The boy on the bed reaches up, pulling off his headphones and snapping off the Walkman with a click. Then, setting it carefully aside on his nightstand, he sits up and opens his eyes, arranging himself into a new position leaning against the wall and silently cocking a knowing eyebrow at the intruder.
"Gee, Rudy, you know everything." Having answered his own question, the boy by the door trots over and takes a seat on the floor, sitting cross-legged and fairly squirming in place in apparent eagerness.
"Naturally," Rudy answers, his eyes taking on a faint gleam. "And codenames only, please. You're still on assignment."
"Sorry, M," the sitting boy--codename 007--replies with a sheepish look. "But I made it! Nobody heard me or anything!"
"Marvellous." Rudy leans forward slightly, looking vaguely intrigued. "Report?"
"Mom and Dad are still downstairs talking about that recruiter guy. They're sitting in the kitchen and they've got all those brochures spread out over the table and Dad keeps picking them up and looking at them and Mom keeps stirring her tea and sighing a lot," 007 answers with great authority. "They were talking really quiet. It was hard to hear the stuff they were saying. But Dad kept tapping the brochure on the table and Mom said 'maybe it would be good for him' and Dad said 'I just can't understand it' and Mom said 'maybe it's just a phase' and Dad said 'you know what his counsellors said'. And they kept saying something about the Ol...Ollar...Ollie..."
Rudy's expression darkens. "Olympics?" he supplies blandly.
"Yeah, that's what they said! What is that?"
"Punishment," Rudy answers quietly, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his arms atop them.
007's eyes widen dramatically. "How come? You didn't do anything!"
"Because of the game today."
"But Mom and Dad said you did good! They said you scored eleven goals!" 007 protests; the distress in his tone is evident. "And all the suit-guys looked really happy when they came to shake Dad's hand and stuff!"
"Good for them," Rudy corrects in a tone that could almost be called gentle. "And good for the suit-guys, as far as they're concerned. It is a subtle yet entirely significant distinction." He pauses, then adds briskly, "Another job well done, 007. That was an excellent report."
A flicker of pleasure crosses 007's face at the praise, but it quickly shifts back to the tentative look of a hesitant child as he regards Rudy nervously. "Is the Olympics a bad punishment, Rudy? I mean, M?"
"It's 'are'," Rudy replies, "And yes, they're really bad. The guys in the suits want to kidnap me, brainwash me, and sentence me to years of hard labour. They think they can break me and turn me into another trained monkey for their legions of doom. But don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."
007's lip trembles. "Promise?"
Rudy nods. "Yeah. Now, are you ready for the final phase of your assignment?"
"Yeah!"
"Then your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to return to your bedroom, evading detection and capture. Once there, begin preparations for bedtime," Rudy orders decisively. "Make sure you are not seen."
"Understood!" 007 says, getting to his feet and squaring his shoulders with pride before beginning his tiptoed return to the door. Once there, he opens it as soundlessly as he had when he entered, then maneuvers through the slight opening. Then, a moment later, he pokes his head back into the room and stage-whispers, "Goodnight!"
"Goodnight, 007," Rudy answers at the same volume.
The door closes noiselessly, and Rudy is left alone once again, still seated on his bed with his knees pulled to his chest and a brooding look on his otherwise expressionless face. Then, after a silent minute, he throws himself down onto the mattress and reaches for his Walkman once again, plugging in and thumbing the volume up nearly to full.
This time, however, his eyes remain open and dark.
[/Memory]
...This is an invasion of my privacy.
[OOC: Headcanon, ahoy! So here we have a memory of Rudy's from a few years ago, in which he once again confirms that just because you're good at something doesn't mean you like doing it, and nobody but him seems to understand this fact. With a little added bonus of Rudy and his little brother, Jeffrey. ♥ Feel free to hassle him about this, but be advised--he is not happy about his memories being put up for all to see.]
A boy of about nine or ten years of age is lying on his bed, plugged into a Walkman with his eyes closed and an impassive look on his face. The room around him is neat but nondescript; strangely, there seem to be few, if any, personal touches to the decor of the bedroom. The walls are faded blue, the curtains brown. The bedspread beneath the boy is a shade or two darker than his jeans, and slightly rumpled but clean. In one corner is a desk and chair of dark wood; next to the bed is a matching nightstand. The bookshelf appears to house the only real signs of personality, with its shelves half-full of stacks of comic books, cassette tape cases, and the occasional novel.
The scene holds for a minute. Then, the door creaks open and a young face--that of a boy about five or six--peeks around the door. The resemblance to the boy on the bed is unmistakable; though the intruder's features are softer, rounder, and not nearly so schooled in a perfect mask of impassivity, it is clear that the two are related. Quietly, the younger boy slips through the partially-opened door and then turns his attention to it, shutting it as noiselessly as possible and looking quite pleased with himself as he does so.
"Welcome back, 007. What do you have to report?" the boy on the bed remarks, not bothering to open his eyes.
The other boy's expression melts into one of wide-eyed surprise as he whirls to look in the direction of the sound. "How do you always know?"
The boy on the bed reaches up, pulling off his headphones and snapping off the Walkman with a click. Then, setting it carefully aside on his nightstand, he sits up and opens his eyes, arranging himself into a new position leaning against the wall and silently cocking a knowing eyebrow at the intruder.
"Gee, Rudy, you know everything." Having answered his own question, the boy by the door trots over and takes a seat on the floor, sitting cross-legged and fairly squirming in place in apparent eagerness.
"Naturally," Rudy answers, his eyes taking on a faint gleam. "And codenames only, please. You're still on assignment."
"Sorry, M," the sitting boy--codename 007--replies with a sheepish look. "But I made it! Nobody heard me or anything!"
"Marvellous." Rudy leans forward slightly, looking vaguely intrigued. "Report?"
"Mom and Dad are still downstairs talking about that recruiter guy. They're sitting in the kitchen and they've got all those brochures spread out over the table and Dad keeps picking them up and looking at them and Mom keeps stirring her tea and sighing a lot," 007 answers with great authority. "They were talking really quiet. It was hard to hear the stuff they were saying. But Dad kept tapping the brochure on the table and Mom said 'maybe it would be good for him' and Dad said 'I just can't understand it' and Mom said 'maybe it's just a phase' and Dad said 'you know what his counsellors said'. And they kept saying something about the Ol...Ollar...Ollie..."
Rudy's expression darkens. "Olympics?" he supplies blandly.
"Yeah, that's what they said! What is that?"
"Punishment," Rudy answers quietly, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his arms atop them.
007's eyes widen dramatically. "How come? You didn't do anything!"
"Because of the game today."
"But Mom and Dad said you did good! They said you scored eleven goals!" 007 protests; the distress in his tone is evident. "And all the suit-guys looked really happy when they came to shake Dad's hand and stuff!"
"Good for them," Rudy corrects in a tone that could almost be called gentle. "And good for the suit-guys, as far as they're concerned. It is a subtle yet entirely significant distinction." He pauses, then adds briskly, "Another job well done, 007. That was an excellent report."
A flicker of pleasure crosses 007's face at the praise, but it quickly shifts back to the tentative look of a hesitant child as he regards Rudy nervously. "Is the Olympics a bad punishment, Rudy? I mean, M?"
"It's 'are'," Rudy replies, "And yes, they're really bad. The guys in the suits want to kidnap me, brainwash me, and sentence me to years of hard labour. They think they can break me and turn me into another trained monkey for their legions of doom. But don't worry. I'm not going anywhere."
007's lip trembles. "Promise?"
Rudy nods. "Yeah. Now, are you ready for the final phase of your assignment?"
"Yeah!"
"Then your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to return to your bedroom, evading detection and capture. Once there, begin preparations for bedtime," Rudy orders decisively. "Make sure you are not seen."
"Understood!" 007 says, getting to his feet and squaring his shoulders with pride before beginning his tiptoed return to the door. Once there, he opens it as soundlessly as he had when he entered, then maneuvers through the slight opening. Then, a moment later, he pokes his head back into the room and stage-whispers, "Goodnight!"
"Goodnight, 007," Rudy answers at the same volume.
The door closes noiselessly, and Rudy is left alone once again, still seated on his bed with his knees pulled to his chest and a brooding look on his otherwise expressionless face. Then, after a silent minute, he throws himself down onto the mattress and reaches for his Walkman once again, plugging in and thumbing the volume up nearly to full.
This time, however, his eyes remain open and dark.
[/Memory]
...This is an invasion of my privacy.
[OOC: Headcanon, ahoy! So here we have a memory of Rudy's from a few years ago, in which he once again confirms that just because you're good at something doesn't mean you like doing it, and nobody but him seems to understand this fact. With a little added bonus of Rudy and his little brother, Jeffrey. ♥ Feel free to hassle him about this, but be advised--he is not happy about his memories being put up for all to see.]