Three people stare at a boulder in front of them. One man says it is a rock. The second man say’s no, that it is a boulder. The first man argues that a rock is still a rock. The second man asks the third man to agree with him. The third man states he says it is a fish. The first and second man argue with the third that it is most definetly not a fish. Frustrated with not convicing the third man, the first and second leave. The third stays, staring at the boulder.
It is shaped like a fish, unnoticed to the first two who saw it with little degree of thought.
What is this about? Well…lets quote an old friend, Anton Ego.
“A little Perspective…”
Perspectives are held, kept, changed, or perhaps immobile. Subjected to truth and ignorance, and come to realizations.
This story is about taking a look at people who have had many people perseve them as one thing, where in fact they more. However it is doubtful that people will alter their perspective despite realization. In fact, it could become a lost cause as the “main character” who we follow in this story might come to.
But nonetheless, this is his short story of his interaction with these people. Realizations are abundant, and a twist at the end to throw your own perspective out the window.
VILLAIN’S INFERNO
Amon Bradley stared at the files on his desk as if they were the lifeline to his existence. In fact, they sort of were. It was his purpose, he believed, for him to help people. But how? How could he help these people? When society has already claimed ownership of their reputations, their pasts, and their futures. Unfair perhaps, but that’s how things were.
Amon looked aside from the faces on the files, he couldn’t stare at them any longer. He was unable to believe he could make more of a difference than he had already. No. His eyes drifted to the bronze revolver beside those faces. He couldn’t recall where it came from, or if it was loaded. But he knew it was his. Almost willingly, he picked it up, and placed the weapon’s barrel to the side of his head, his temple. His fingers tensed.
His mission was inevitably hopeless. Sure, there was fruit for the labor, but in the end it meant nothing. They say the journey should matter, but not the destination. But Amon found that, right now…that saying didn’t matter when the destination came up. All that effort, all that pain-staking work. It was certainly like looking into the eye of some child and telling them straightly that they would die soon. Vulgar perhaps, but true. That was how Amon felt now.
No. He would not blame them, the people he helped. No. He would blame how the world worked. How it was molded by stereotypes and black and white perception…
Amon checked his pocket watch as he walked down the hall of the institute. In all honesty, his mind couldn’t pick the numbers out right. Not that it mattered. The perception of time was already chained to numbers.
Amon placed the watch back in his pocket, continuing. He noticed the window at the end of the hall, showing the sun starting to set. At least the starting perception of time still existed. The sun and the moon made more sense to him than the numbers on some ticking machine. It was actually much more simple. Much more pure. People were always constricted by time these days, either from when they started working, to the limited hours they were given to sleep. At least it was easier for children. But Amon wasn’t a child right now…
He stopped at the window and turned left, looking at the cold metal door before him. Cold…and uninviting. But that didn’t stop Amon. He believed that something cold and uninviting could still be explored. Yes. It made sense that it might be dangerous and better to leave it alone. And yes, perhaps that was best for most. But that didn’t stop Amon. He believed that something cold and uninviting SHOULD be explored, and that perhaps in it’s dark depths find something warm and compassionate. And he believed it only became the way it was because “nobody let themselves in”.
He turned the knob with conviction and entered.
The room was practically empty. Which was understandable to Amon and the few residence. After all, probably all the residents were in this room right now. This room…recreation it was believed to be called. But in fact there was little there. The floor was polished, the walls were well maintained. They didn’t look out of the ordinary from the stereotypical institute. Perhaps the only thing one would find peculiar is the windows. Despite Amon’s view of the starting sunset, he was only able to see a foggy representation. The windows…appeared to be in a permanent disarray of what lay on the other side. The view outside always appeared foggy, or splattered, or fractured. Nobody ever got a clear look at what lay outside the walls. Which might be treatment in itself. Nobody here wanted to remember what happened out there. One of the patients was looking out the window though. Amon decided to leave him for last.
Taking his seat in the uncomfortable fold out chair so many schools and presentation buildings have in bulk supply, Amon flipped open his notebook, placed it and his black pen on his lap, and looked up. It was time to begin.
All in all there were six patients that Amon had worked with. He had forgotten how long. but it didn’t matter. Progress had been made for some of them. The others, perhaps hopeless in their futures, but Amon admired their spirit.
However to any other person faced with this situation, their reaction would be ghastly. Of course, that would be understandable if you were counseling someone who thought they were a superhero, hunted a rare bird, were a toy, a bug, and an intelligent computer in front of you. But that is what Amon was here for.
“So doc…we starting?” came the croaky voice of the third patient from the left in the arc of chairs in front of Amon.
“Patience…the young fella just got here” replied the old man to the former speaker’s left.
“Yeah, give Bradley a break…he’s done allot for us” added the young man with strange hair at the other end of the row.
“Consarnat! Quiet…ain’t your turn!” replied the second old man, though this one much much smaller.
“I concure” said the last patient, in a mechanical voice.
Amon waited a few moments till all eyes were on him. And then he spoke in a clear voice. “Gentlemen…we’re here again. I know that allot of you have made great progress over the time we’ve been here…”. The patients in front of him looked, or those who could, at each other with prideful bliss. “So I think…it’s time we all remembered how we got here…and compare it to how we all now…any objections?”. While there were several arm-rubbings, scratches to the neck, and disgruntled looks, none objected.
“Lets go in order shall we? Hopper how about you?”
HOPPER
The grasshopper nearly laughed. If he could. But Hopper continued regardless, staying in the chair that was many times his size.
“How I got here? Well lets see…I was once leader of my whole gang…got it from my mother you see…great woman…loved her dearly…so things go in the natural circle of life way between us and the ants. Simple right? It’s nature”. Hopper paused to cough, but couldn’t bring up a limb to cover it in courtesy. “So two ants get it in their heads to start changing things…I nearly got things back to the way they were…but no…”. He coughed again. “I understood though…there were more of them than us…that’s what mom told me…I thought it meant to be a warning you know…that they could rise up against us…but now…”
Amon wrote something down. He didn’t know what. Maybe he felt to write something. “And…how are you now?”
It was an un-tasteful question. Anybody who looked at Hopper as he was now knew. The only thing you could really see was his face. One antenna was torn, but the rest of his face looked intact. But his body was incased in wrapping. So much so that he might be confused to be a caterpillar entering the chrysalis phase. He could only move around with somebody’s help. As sad as it seemed, this was good for him. He had to rely on other’s help for a change. However, it was still a sad sight.
“Well…” Hopper continued. “That bird nearly killed me and fed me to those small ones…it was damn luck my wing broke that I fell away from it…and then I blacked out…then I was here”
Amon wrote something again, unknown to what it was. “And what has being here done for you?”
“Here?” Hopper began, coughing again. “Well…I’m alive aren’t I? So what if ants did all that to me…so what…I mean sure I’m mad enough I wanna kill them!” he said with a shout, followed by a series of more coughing. After a breath, he continued. “Right now…I just want to get on the road to recovery…who knows…maybe I’ll pick things up again elsewhere…be careful this time…do it right…don’t want to go through THAT again…I have one wing left, but I don’t want to lose that one too”.
Amon nodded, as did the other patients. As the others gave small congrats to how far Hopper had proceeded, Amon thought of the time himself. All Hopper could think about at first was squashing every ant that he came in contact with. But as the realization of his condition started to become more clear, Hopper eventually settled that he was still alive, and that his mistakes could be rectified. He even consoled in Amon that he wouldn’t even mind seeing his brother again, if only to know he still had family left. Sure, he dislike his brother’s dullness, but he wanted to keep his promise to his mother he made on her deathbed that nothing would happen to him.
Amon smiled inwardly. Hopper had the longest time to work with in his realization, so he was quite easy to reach a conclusion. Still…would he be able to live life again?
“Great job Hopper, hang in there…Pete how about you?”
STINKY PETE
“Well…sad story as you know…” the toy began. “I was…in a dime store for several years…watching other toys be brought and sold before my eyes…it was like being reminded everyday that nobody wanted me”. Pete took a moment though, realizing he couldn’t make tears, continued. “Eventually I detested children…I hated them…we toys are subjected to the prospect of “fads” and “what’s new”…I realized this standing up on that shelf for so long…that is till I was finally picked up by a collector”
“And how did that feel Pete? After waiting so long?” Amon asked.
“It felt wonderful…” Pete said with pride. “McWhiggin admired me everytime he came into the room. Eventually I learned why…because my show was so long ago I became a “collectable”…I was rare…like…one of a kind”. He paused. “It was the answer, the hope I needed…so I never stepped out of my box…I wanted to be mint in the box…to be admired by anybody who saw me and knew who I was”. Pete laughed a little, brushing that non-existent tear. “Wasn’t before long that Jessie joined me. She told me her sad story…and I could understand it. She felt as well as I did…and I gave her the further hope that I had received…being admitted to the museum to be admired forever…”. Then Pete’s hands became fists.
“But in order to do that…we needed…ugh…Woody…I thought that he would have been in the same boat as the rest of us…but no…HE had to be owned…we were almost there…almost to the glorious museum…but NO…he and that “spaceman” ruined everything!”
“And that didn’t feel good at all did it?”
“Of course not! Years of being neglected! Of overlooked! And then finally hope…and after another lifetime…we are given the keys to an eternity of being admired and HE ruins it!”
Amon paused to let Pete calm a little. “And…comparing that now?”
Pete blinked. If anybody saw him as he was now…in all honesty…they would laugh. Needless to say, Pete was more better off than anybody else in the institute…albeit in a rather strange way. Because beside wearing a prospector outfit, Pete was covered in several different tattoos and stickers. Needless to say, some looked fierce while others look strange.
“Well…” Pete started sheepishly. “Right now I’m enjoying my time with Amy…she’s just one person…but the attention she gives is more than I ever really wanted”
And on that note, half of the patients congratulated him as well, and the other half smirked behind hands, or their equivalent of hands.
“Any regrets Pete?” Amon asked.
Pete thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on his large constructed gut. “Regrets? Well…I do regret…Woody was right…us toys being played with matters much more than standing in a cold box for eternity…I did enough standing when I was alone”
For that, the other patients clapped, for that was what Pete thought. Amon wrote that down, this one he knew. Pete had learned much better.
Amon looked over at the patient alone at the window. Chronologically it should be his turn. But Amon didn’t push. This was his first meeting where he could stand on his own feet. He decided what he did what he started, he’d save him for last.
“Buddy? How about you? You’ve made great progress…”
BUDDY PINE
Buddy smiled. Indeed, he had made great strides in his treatment. “Right Brad…” he said with a laugh, leaning down for a moment and placing his fingers together. “Back in my deep dark past” he began ominously. “I…wanted to be a superhero…”. In that short time, Buddy now became serious.
“I didn’t…have superstrength…or shoot flames from my hands…I wasn’t that special…all I had was a knack for making things”. “And then one day I saw…er…Mr. Incredible…he was just that…incredible in more ways than one…I thought he could do it all…”. “Sure…I watched the other superheroes, but Mr. Incredible was right in my own town…and then one day I thought…I may not BE a superhero…but I can BECOME one…”. Buddy smiled at the thought.
“And that’s when you got to inventing?”
“That’s right” Buddy said with a point of his finger. “I was just starting out…so allot of them didn’t turn out right…so I paused on that and made my own suit…nothing too good I admit but I was a kid back then. I went to all the conventions and the signings…I was always there”. Rubbing the back of his neck, he slapped his boot with the other hand. “Then I invented my rocket boots…and they worked…that was enough for me to start to convince Mr. Incredible that I would be his side-kick…”
Buddy leaned back, and everyone could see the change of expression on his face. “But no…he rejected me…it tore my world apart…it meant that no matter what I couldn’t join him to help people…if my own hero rejected me…then what option did I had?”. “So I invented weapons…and kept the best ones for myself…why? Because I never forgot…one day I would find Mr. Incredible again and show him what HE made”
Buddy slumped, looking down. “Ugh…this is the part I hate…”
“Go ahead Buddy” Amon coaxed.
Buddy tapped his finger tips together. “So I made the Omnidroid…but I had to know it could beat him…so…I had to go through trials…”. Buddy leaned up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I regret it…I’ll say it now…through the trails…so many Supers died…I…I regret it alright…but I figured out a way I could at least try to fix it with my own…recent work…”
Amon nodded. He knew what the work was.
“Yeah you all know…after my little misstep…literally…I was nearly sliced to pieces by my own plane heh…but…”. He slapped his shins, though each produced a different sound. “I’m here now and walking…”
Amon paused again. “How did the operation go Buddy?”
Buddy smiled, and Amon got a look at him again. Buddy had made great progress. He wasn’t even wearing the Syndrome outfit anymore. He was dressed in a white shirt and green shorts. Nothing fashionable, but comfortable. Early on, Amon remember how Buddy considered himself to be Syndrome…not just as an alter ego, but an actual person. Amon figured that Syndrome was that, an alter ego, but one who mainly personified Buddy’s rage and revenge. It made sense. Syndrome was the villain, holding back the kid, Buddy. It was a perfect example, Amon considered, that reflected people in general. How there’s always a bad person and a good person…most of the time forming a normal person. Sometimes the scale tips, and it can go both ways.
Buddy then pulled up his right short leg a little. “It went great…” Buddy announced. Buddy didn’t die from the turbine…but he didn’t escaped unscathed either. He had received serious burns on nearly his whole body. That…and the turbine took his right leg. Now in it’s place was a realistic prosthetic. In fact it looked exceedingly well-designed. The only thing that would make it seem out of place, was the shining metal at the joint.
“I umm…gave the docs some tips on how to design a better prosthetic…at first they didn’t listen but…when I designed the model…they tried it on me…and it worked out…painful but…it worked out…” Buddy said, with a bit of a grin. He leaned back up. “I’m able to walk again…thanks to science and engineer…”
Buddy ran a finger under his nose, and breathed. “You know how it felt?”
“How did it feel?”
“…Heh…it felt great…and you know what…I think it’ll make other people feel great too…”. He looked over the other patients. “So…you guys know what I’m going to do?”. Buddy dragged it out to get the maximum curiosity out of everyone. “I’m not gonna design weapons…I’m gonna design things that make people’s lives easier…”.
Buddy got out of his chair and to his one foot and prostetic foot. “I’m gonna make glasses that let blind people see! Gonna make head phones that let deaf people hear! I’m gonna…gonna make something so old people can always stand on their own two feet!” he announced, then pointed at the old gentlemen. “That mean’s you Muntzy…just give me the time and you come see me!”.
Amon watched this display. It was not madness. It was not insincere yelling. It was honesty. Buddy had moved on from Syndrome and was on the road to being the Buddy Pine that helped people the right way. He won’t be a superhero…but he’ll be a hero. It will take some time…but he can make it.
“Good for you Buddy…I’m sure we’ll all see what a success you can become…”. After a moment for congrats for Buddy, it was time for the next patient.
Amon thought chronologically. Skinner would have been next, but he was released early, mostly on the grounds that he was not in the condition those here were. So that meant the more odd patient…
“Auto? How’s that emotion chip working for you?”
AUTO
Auto was more-or-less himself. Of course in order to attend these sessions he was hooked up to a large contained battery. Recently, before his operation, Buddy had made some upgrades to it so Auto was able to participate better.
“AN EMOTION CHIP IS NOT NECESSARY…” Auto replied, his circular frame bolted and connected to the plated battery he sat upon. “MY ACTIONS ABORD THE AXIOM WAS THE RESULT OF FOLLOWING MY PROGRAMMING DESIGNED BY BUYnLARGE CEO, SHELBY FORTHRIGHT…”
Amon paused. “Auto…could you activate that chip please?”
Auto didn’t say anything for a moment. “…VERY WELL…”.
“As you were saying…?”
“MY ACTIONS WERE DICTATED BY THE OBJECTIVES ORDERED OF ME…HAD I AN INDEPENDENT PROGRAM…I…”
“Yes?”
“…I WOULD…HAVE PERFORMED DIFFERENTLY”
“…Any regrets Auto?”
“…I REGRET…AGGRESSION TOWARD THE WALL-E AND EVE UNITS…ACTIONS AGAINST NON-UNFUNCTIONAL IN SUCH A MANNER I REGRET…”
"Difficult to express Auto…what would you do now?
“I AM UNAWARE OF THE ACTIONS MY PROGRAMS WILL TAKE…HIGHEST PROBABILITY WILL HAVE ME BE SHUT DOWN…DECOMMISSIONED…OR RECYCLED…”
“But you have said your actions were orders” Amon started. “They were not your own. Why should you be judged for what you were ordered to do?”
Auto couldn’t express emotion, but anybody who knew a machine with artificial intelligence could simply feel the uncertainty.
“IT…IT IS THE WAY IT IS. REGARDLESS OF ANY INDEPENDENCE MY PROGRAMING HAS, I MUST COINCIDE WITH THE DECISION OF MY PROGRAMERS…”
“That’s just stupid…” Buddy said.
“I second that…” Hopper coughed.
“It’s Auto’s time guys…let him speak…so you’d do as they say? Your programers? You have no desires yourself?”
There was a long moment of silence. Buddy silently suggested perhaps Auto’s voice system was malfunctioning. But as soon as he had suggested, did Auto reply.
“I…DESIRE…”
“Yes?”
“I…DESIRE TO NOT BE SHUT DOWN…” Auto replied.
“That all?”
“IS THERE…MORE ONE WOULD DESIRE THAN TO CONTINUE ON?”
Amon smiled. “There can be Auto…but a desire to live…despite what other people say…is a start…”.
The other patients started to agree, having compared their own standings. Amon wrote something else down, thinking. Having a machine express itself is difficult. Auto was already advanced…but not so that he could be chained to “order”, and relinquishing his own independence. But Amon considered machines the same as anyone. They lived, they died. They had purpose. They were taken care of or destroyed. And eventually they could become a personality all their own. Nearly all are shackled to what their maker tells them to do. And that made them morely prisioners of the fates they were to comply with. Hopefully for Auto, all he needs is the desire to continue on. Amon, sadly, felt that this would not be enough. For now…perhaps…
“Good breakthrough Auto…stay with that…and…Muntz?”
MUNTZ
The old man cleared his throat for a moment. “Yes…lets see…how was it for me…?” he thought, scratching his head.
“Take what time you need Charles…” Amon said.
“Ahh…oh yes…my dogs…all my dogs…I remember them all now…loved them dearly…” he started with a smile. He rose one finger shakingly. “Every time I adopted or brought a new one…I couldn’t help but adpot or buy out the whole building…”
“Generous?”
“Of course” Muntz smiled. “I loved dogs since I was a child…and…when I started…as an adventurer, my first dog…Jacob…was quite a helper…pushing me forward when I thought I could do no more…even after he died…I continued on with the dogs I obtained through the years…I invented my airship…to accommodate myself and all of them…I never expected the admiration…being in magazines and on the telly…people loved me…I grew accustomed to it…”
Muntz looked down, as if he remembered something dreadful. “…But…after my journey to Paradise Falls…they claimed my find a fake!”. He banged his fist on his chair, but there was little sound, as the force was not that much. “I knew it was not so…after all I’ve done…they hold that one mistake against me…I promised myself…I promised the people that I would go back and PROVE that my finding was real and true!”
Muntz shook his head. “Years and years…I…it’s a blur…years and years I searched…I couldn’t find it…nothing…I KNEW it was there but I couldn’t find it…”
Then a small smile. “Then…some of my admirers came…at least the old gentleman was…it was a delight to see someone as old so dedicated to me…”. Muntz held his head. “I…I didn’t realize what I had become…I look back now…and when anybody mentioned that bird I…I…”
“Snapped…?” Amon suggested.
“Yes…yes that’s it…those years…years of searching…I…I didn’t want anybody to be in the way…it was my desire…and I admit…”. Muntz seemed to be on the verge. “…my obsession…”
“It’s alright Charles…all of us here have had some form of obession…”
“Perhaps…” Muntz replied. “I…never intended to hurt anybody…but I regret my actions…I can’t…blame my age for what happened…and now…”
Amon knew what Muntz was referring to. He wasn’t in a chair like the others. He was in a wheelchair. Though the balloons had had been tied to slowed his descent enough that he landed in the body of water Paradise Falls encased…Muntz suffered a broken back, making him unable to move without a wheelchair without some assistance.
“Now…all I want…is what I originally wanted…to clear my name…before I die…”. Muntz looked over to Buddy. “I’ll take that offer if I’m still alive…”. Buddy grinned, and the other patients encouraged Muntz on his new desire.
Amon wrote another sentence on his pad. Muntz had suffered a common vain of most people, especially those with desire. In the young mind, you may know the difference between good and bad desire. But as the time of waiting for that desire increases, the line between that difference becomes thin. It makes it difficult to understand the person’s actions, in relation to how other people see them. Perhaps their intentions were pure at first. Then…how did they become unpure? That is a question most don’t care to ask.
Amon stared over the patients before him. They had all made great progress, and perhaps have a more promising future outside the walls of the institute. Now…all that was left was patient number 6. Looking up, Amon saw he was still at the window, looking out. As strange as it seemed, he should have arrived earlier, before Muntz, Auto, and Buddy arrived. Amon came to the conclusion they “took their time” bringing him in. He always felt that was strange. Muntz, Buddy, and even Pete were brought in almost immediately…Hopper and Auto were a bit longer…but no where in comparison to how long it took them to bring him in. Almost as if out of all of them, they cared about him the least.
“Randall? You going to join us for this session?”
RANDALL
Randall was not sitting in a chair. He was standing. It wasn’t because the chairs didn’t have some opening for his tail, as they had those. No. It was because he wanted to. Because he wanted to prove that he could, and that he could stand again.
Amon remembered when he first came in. Randall was essentially bed-ridden for the first several weeks. Needless to say, he despised it. In fact, he responded in the way Amon thought Muntz would. The disruption of independence and relying on others…Randall hated both of these. It was easy to tell why, but he didn’t say the reason. He only yelled or threatened to bite anybody who came near him. In the end he complied, but he sure didn’t make it easy.
Physically his condition was like Muntz and Buddy. Thankfully none of his limbs needed to be replaced…but his body was battered to the point…that it was like he was an old man already, despite the files stating he was in his mid-20s. As if intended by nature, while some of his arms were broken, Randall had the spares. But his right hand was usually accompanied by a cane. It would be better for him to be in a wheelchair as well, but Randall demanded a cane instead. It helped, but his limp was all but noticeable.
Right now, Randall looked like he was put through a cheese grater, various cuts and slices all over his body, and the recognizable deep scar on his forehead. Of course Amon knew, like the others, there were scars on the inside too. Unfortunately it was a crosshatch that Amon felt himself unprepared for.
For awhile, Randall didn’t reply. “Yeah com’on…” Buddy said with a wave and grin.
“We had to do it…” Hopper muttered, though he was unable to see who he had muttered it to.
“Nothing you want to talk about?” Muntz asked. Being an explorer, Muntz was use to surviving in wilderness situations. He didn’t have the ability to blend into surroundings, unless he had the gear, but not completely. However there was one drastic difference…which in all honesty should not matter, but the world demands this difference…the difference…was that Muntz was human. Randall, despite being close, was not in the eyes of many.
What happened next surprised all but Amon, Randall laughed. He rose his head and laughed with a hand to his head, over his head scar. Buddy looked like he had missed the joke, Muntz was dumbstruck, Hopper was wondering what was going on behind him, Pete was the same as Muntz, and Auto had no references at the moment to compare Randall’s act to anything in his database.
After a minute, Randall stopped, and moved his head so his left eye was visibly staring at the group.
“Something to talk about?” he said, his raspy voice even more grated. He looked back at the window, and began tapping the butt of his cane on the floor. “Oh yeah…I have ALLOT to talk about…”. He turned around, showing an unamused face, going between one of great amusement and devilaity. “But I won’t…because I’m not some whiney bunch of grits who think it’s all nice and rosey after getting their ass handed to them by people who should bugger off!”. All through this, Randall had place the can in front of himself, upper hands over the top. He had leaned in with a smile doing the “nice and rosey” bit, before leaning back to resume his unamused expression.
“What’s a grit?” Hopper muttered.
“Corn and hominy…delightful” Muntz informed.
“Don’t HAVE to get edgy you know” Buddy muttered, loud enough for them all to hear.
“Oh yeah…sure you know how to get “edgy” buddy boy” Randall muttered, staring intently at him. And a moment later, he smiled wickley. “How’s the leg?”. Buddy got to his feet. It took a cough from Amon to change his attention long enough to break one of Randall’s legs. Buddy sat down, albiet regretfully.
“See what I mean” Randall chuckled, leaning back up. “Always a little reminder isn’t it…”. He paused, looking over to what he consider was a “sorry bunch”. He didn’t feel sorry for any of them right now. “We get blown over and everyone else expects us to just move on and take the blows?”. He leaned again, staring daggers at them all. “Well that may be all great for you morons, but I’M not gonna take it lying on my back! I’ve done enough lying down!”. He stamped the cane again.
“So you still hold what happened to you?” Amon asked intently.
Randall’s eyes went to him, and Amon could see the deluded green iris in each one. He hoped Randall thought he was looking at the right person. With a chuckle he leaned up. “And why shouldn’t I…look at me”. Everyone did.
“And not like anyone ever forgets it…”. He backed up a little so he could hold his left hands on the elevator of the window for support so that he could point the cane at everyone individually. He started with Muntz.
“YOU? Teh…your a freakin cripple…you think ANYBODY is gonna help you get to that little pond of yours? Oh but maybe they’ll feel sorry for you…but that’s just because your a f-r-e-a-k-i-n c-r-i-p-p-le”. Muntz stared, then looked at his old fleshy hand.
He moved to Pete.
“YOU? Your just a stupid plaything…I seen hundreds of them in kids’ rooms…sooner or later you’ll get through away and find yourself in a garbage dump!”. The image haunted Pete, being in stinking rotting trash, buried where nobody would care to look, and it showed on his limited face.
Then Buddy.
“YOU? Who’s gonna give YOU a chance at a medical practice or research? Your name’s pretty much slandered…soon as you get out of here you’ll probably be snitched on by your relatives for the reward money…ironic if that happened…you WERE already BEATEN by a FAMILY”. Buddy was currently working on a mantra that Amon had taught him. It wasn’t working as well as it should be.
“That cricket over there…teh…what’s HE gonna do? A freakin mummy is all he’ll ever be good for anymore”. Then Auto. “And the computer over there? Say all ya want…he’ll be spare parts by the end of the week”
Randall leaned back. Despite depressing nearly everyone in the group, he didn’t have a look of victory on his face. “Your all just lying…like anybody gives a damn if you change…your still nothing but damn villains”.
Nobody wanted to add anything. As the silence dawned, Amon quickly broke the silence. “And how about you Randall?”
Randall scoffed. “Me? Your asking me? You all know what I did…pales to what most of you guys did…not that it matters”
“What do you mean?” Amon asked again.
“What I MEAN “suit”…is that you all can go out with your freakin day dreams and high hopes…but it isn’t worth a damn that your never gonna spend a day without those mistakes being rubbed in your face”. He looked at Buddy, then Muntz and spoke respectively.
“And you know what makes me sick…YOU two…YOU kidnapped a tot barely out of freakin diapers. But what did the public do to you? Just froze your money that’s all…nothing else. And YOU old man? You nearly KILLED a boy…anything? NO”.
Amon saw Randall’s cane hand gripping for dear life. “And me? What do I get?”. With a strong motion, Randall, still holding the cane, bashed it against the window. It didn’t break, but produced a loud bang that echoed through the room. “PEOPLE WANT ME TO DIE LIKE A DOG!!!” he yelled.
He flipped the cane so that he was holding it like a weapon. “IT ISN’T FAIR! You all can TRY and go back to your damn lives! But what about me!? I’m a DAMN wanted criminal!”. He whacked the can against the wall, not as loud a sound. “And those “heroes” or whatever you wanna call those damn saints…LOOK AT ME! THEY did this to me! And what do they get! DAMN REWARDED FOR IT!”
Needless to say, everyone was shocked at these lashing statements Randall was making. Auto and Hopper soon found themselves glad they couldn’t turn around.
“And you know what? PEOPLE CAN’T LEAVE IT ALONE! Look what the hell they’re doing in Japan! SHOWS JUST WHAT PEOPLE WANT. ME DEAD!”. He wacked the cane against the window again and kept it there.
“WHAT THE HELL MAKES ME DESERVING OF THIS! YOU ALL DID JUST AS BAD SO WHY THE HELL AM I TAKING IT ALL! JUST WHAT THE HELL MAKES IT ALRIGHT!?”.
He took a step forward then, realizing he needed the cane, placed it to his side. “So you all go ahead and have those damn sky-high dreams or whatever the hell it is…I’ll still be in this damn place…”. He turned so he was between the window and them, and pointed with his cane-hand to the window. “You think it’s easier out there in the real world? I LIVED in the real world…and looked what happened. One damn mistake that’s held over for the rest of my life…and everybody wants you dead…nice feeling ain’t it?”
He chuckled, straightening and turning to the group. “Heh…Pinecone and old man over there heh…they’ll probably be better off than the rest of us…they’re human aren’t they…they’re “people”…flesh and blood and they bleed”. Randall tapped his head scar, the crimson stain was still there. “Guess I have my biology wrong and this isn’t what I think it is”.
He nodded his head toward the window. “People out there don’t care what good you ever did for anyone…even when you show your TRYING to do it…”. He closed his eyes and waved his hands. “But go ahead…try and do it and see where it gets you…right back where you started…”. He turned his back to them, facing the window. “Do what you want…I don’t give a damn…”
There was a long pause after that. The group looked over each other. It was as if the early congrats each gave to the other didn’t matter anymore.
“So…” Amon started, breaking the silence and surprising the group. “…what is it that you do want Randall? Hypothetical if you must…”. Everyone looked to the patient looking at the window.
Randall suppressed a visible chuckle. “What “I” want huh? Who gives…who EVERY gives a damn to what “I” want?”
Amon paused for a brief second. “Do you…want revenge on the people who caused this to you?”
Randall laughed, but it wasn’t a maniacal one. “Heh…what? Sullivan and Wazowski?”
“What about the girl?”
Randall stopped laughing, and shook his head. “No…I didn’t want to hurt her…and no not even now…”
“So just those two then…”
Randall laughed again, small one. “Heh…you know what…that’s a real stereotype…then again guess I’m one two…but it might surprise you of “just what I want”…”.
“Then surprise me…” Amon asked.
Silence again. Tension was in the air, but it was also affected by realization. And if truth could be something in the air, that was there as well.
“What I want…” Randall started. He rose his cane. Instead of bashing the window, he tapped it. “What I want…is to walk outside without someone reminding me of my mistake”. He placed the cane down and shakingly placed his hands on it. Anyone behind him notice his tail twitching.
“I want to eat something I didn’t have to hunt…I want to drink something that didn’t make me sick to my stomach…” He tapped the cane. “I want to do what I like for work…I want…”. If there was a reflection on the window, they would see his mouth shaking.
“I want to sleep in my own bed…want to see people smiling at me again as I walk down the street because I do something that makes people’s lives better”. He turned. His face was of anger, but there were tears forming in his eyes.
“I want to just go home! I want to live my own damn LIFE!”.
Everyone stared. All these things, they were simple enough. Simple little things people take for granted. In fact, everyone in the group could relate.
Muntz remembered his dogs. What had happened to them? Were they safe. He believed, now, that the man Frederickson and the boy wouldn’t let harm come to them…would they? And then the other simple pleasantries. Having a scotch and reading a book by the fire of places he would explore next.
Pete could only recall his time with Amy. Sure, she decorated him with stickers and tattoos, but that made him more interesting to him. Simply having someone around who cared about you mattered so much. And Pete knew…that he didn’t have that before. The feelings he had when nobody seemed to care. They were…horrible.
Hopper recalled his mother again. His brother as well. The gang too. Sure, he was the alpha in most of it, but he enjoyed a good back massage and a drink at the bar. And enjoyed a ride just for the feeling of. He wouldn’t be able to do it again…but he had his memories.
Buddy recalled his parents. He wondered how they were now. He had sent money in an account for them, but that was all. He was so obsessed that he had disregarded them. And he remembered Mirage. Though she didn’t like his approaches all the time, simply having her around could sometimes calm the fury he had. He missed that.
Auto remember his daily tasks about the Axiom. His emotion chip regarded them as rather redundant and predictable. But it made him feel useful. Everyday he was doing something, and the ship relied on his procedure. The captain as well, for his advice.
Randall turned his back on them again. “But “they” won’t let me…So you go ahead and help “Mr. Bradley”…but let me tell you you’ll get nowhere…nowhere with somebody the world will always hate”
Amon stared at his book and pen, unsure what to write down. In fact, the page was blank. Apparently it seems he hadn’t written anything afterall, he had no idea.
Amon Bradley stared at the files on his desk as if they were the lifeline to his existance. Pete, Hopper, Buddy, Auto, Muntz, and Randall. It was his purpose to help them. To help themselves. And to help others understand them better. The world thinks in black and white because the people think in black and white. But there are shades. You can’t turn on a light without seeing shadows. And you can’t turn on a light without seeing the shades all around you.
Amon looked aside from the faces on the files, he couldn’t stare at them any longer. What Randall said made him think. Perhaps his endeavors were worthless. That trying to get others to see past the canon suggestion was impossible. If that was indeed true, he had no worth in living himself. His eyes drifted to the bronze revolver beside those faces. He couldn’t recall where it came from, or if it was loaded. But he knew it was his. Almost willingly, he picked it up, and placed the weapon’s barrel to the side of his head, his temple. His fingers tensed.
No. He would not blame them, the people he helped. No. He would blame how the world worked. How it was molded by stereotypes and black and white perception…
Fingers drifted from the keyboard as Will Johnson, age 12, heard his mother call him down for breakfast. With a yawn, Will pulled his chair from the desk and away from his computer, and stretched.
Will Johnson had the common breakfast, and grabbed his backpack. He walked down the street, enjoying the fall weather…
Will Johnson went to school. He wasn’t a genius nor dumb, but average. He sometimes talked with his friends about his views, and they’d laugh at him saying he thought too much.
Will Johnson had lunch in the cafeteria. He sat alone despite the other empty seats that begged for others. He ate alone, reflecting on his views.
Will Johnson went home. He went to the restroom and got some chips from the kitchen and went to his room. He dropped his backpack and let his computer turn on. Feeling for light, he switched it on and looked over his room.
Will Johnson was a fan. His bed covers were from Monsters Inc over his Cars bed. He had Finding Nemo curtains, and Incredibles towels. He had a Bugs Life pencil holder with Toy Story pencils. He had Wall-e placemats, Ratatouille posters, and an UP calendar. There was a whole array of merchadise around his room and on the shelves.
Will Johnson noticed his computer was working. So he sat down and logged in. Before he began, his eyes noticed the figurines that decorated the upper shelf of his desk. He smiled. There was Stinkey Pete, Hopper, Syndrome, Auto, Charles Muntz, and of course Randall Boggs.
Will Johnson smiled, and seemed to say in his mind…“I do it for you guys”
Amon Bradley opened his eyes, and took his finger off the trigger. No. He can’t give up yet. What Randall said, what the others felt. It shouldn’t make his quest doomed. It should encourage him. It should let him known what he was fighting for.
He set the gun down and sighed relief. When he looked down, the gun was no-where to be seen. Nor should it. He couldn’t give up. He had a mission, and nobody could tell him it was hopeless. He would keep trying.
Amon looked up at the picture above his desk. His inspiration, the one who gave him this mission. Implated on gold was the name of who he did this all for…
“WILL JOHNSON”
His inspiration, his assigner. And more importantly…his creator…
