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[Seanie]

very well then, reserved.

[Mushroom Pie]

Today was a good day.

Whitcomb took in a deep, long breath, various scents of nature filling his lungs, then let out a content sigh. He lay completely prostrate in the middle of a small, grassy clearing, taking in the beauty of the morning sky. He had no memory of how he had come to be here; he didn't care. He was normal now, for however brief a time. He refused to allow anything to ruin this perfect five hours, even his mental clock which seemed to careen ever faster towards his next change.

When your life is run on a rigid schedule for long enough, that schedule gets internalized. In no one is this truer than Daniel Whitcomb. He had absolutely no reference for time, no idea how long he had been asleep before awakening in this meadow, and yet somehow knew in his head that he had exactly 35 minutes and 48 seconds of normalcy left.

47.

46.

"Well," he half-spoke, half-yawned, "I don't got much time left. If I'm gonna do this, I guess I better do it now." He patted his right pocket lightly, smiling a bit wider at the feeling of the tiny treasure within it. Without sparing another second, he curled up onto his back, and sprang up to his feet. He brushed aside the tattered strips of suit that hung from his body, and dug down into his pocket, smiling still wider as his hand wrapped around the tiny object therein. Eagerly pulling it out, he gazed down upon his hand contentedly.

He was holding a cigarette.

A crumpled, bent, old cigarette.

Sweet bliss.

The anticipation gripping him tighter, he dug into his left pocket much less ceremoniously. To his horror, he found nothing but a gaping hole. He stared straight ahead for a few moments, dumbfounded, before his face twisted into an angry grimace and he kicked sharply at the ground. An increasingly louder growl rose from his throat, which ultimately turned into a loud "son of a bitch!" Almost immediately afterward he stopped himself. It was only going to be a good day for 32 minutes, 28 seconds more. He couldn't waist that time on anger. Instantaneously his smile returned, though much more strained than before. With a depressed sigh, Whitcomb dropped his cigarette back into his pocket. He reached into his suit, pulled out a pair of deep black sunglasses, and shook off a few loose shards from the lenses before pushing them onto his face.

"I wonder if there's anyone else around here," he thought aloud as he left the sun-drenched clearing for the shade of the surrounding forest. Never once did he notice the envelope that had been placed beside him.

He hadn't walked a long way before his nostrils flared, a familiar scent caressing them gently. It was easily the most beautiful, most perfect smell on the face of the earth.

Even secondhand-smoke is better than no smoke at all.

Like a bloodhound on the hunt, Whitcomb diligently followed his nose as it led him towards the source of that sweet smell, that smell like carcinogenic flowers in springtime. Ultimately, he spotted a speck of red about twenty feet off, and stopped dead. Just beyond the trees was a small clearing, this one shaded by overhanging leaves. On the far end of it sat a blonde-haired man in a white coat. He sat on a large log, reclining against a boulder behind him.

Whitcomb noticed absolutely none of those details.

He did notice one, however.

A flaming cigarette was hanging from the youth's mouth.

"You can come out from 'hiding,'" the man said, his cigarette bouncing up and down tauntingly as he spoke. Whitcomb hardly realized the embarrassing situation he had just found himself in and stepped out into the clearing, his grin now once again backed by sincerity. The man's head stayed leaned back against the rock as Whitcomb took a seat next to him. Whitcomb eagerly dug into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette once more, then patted himself down thoroughly, before finally turning to the stranger.

"Say," he said, grinning wider then ever, "you got a light?" Instantly, the man produced a silver lighter from seemingly nothing. It hadn't even seemed like he had moved. Whitcomb hastily stabbed the broken tip of his ruined cigarette into the flame, and immediately began taking long, contented puffs.

"Oh, God, it has been so long," he said in a voice that would suggest that the gates of Heaven had just opened before him. The other man continued to ignore him. "I picked this thing up three months ago," he continued. "Decided that I would save it for the next time I was normal." Whitcomb's last words caused the stranger's eyes to roll towards him, but other than that there was no response. Whitcomb went on.

"I don't know what it is, but something about these things being their right size just makes them better, you know?" No answer, though the absolute subtlest hint of curiosity flashed across his face. Whitcomb chuckled quietly. "Of course you don't know. I guess I'm the only guy on Earth who does." He paused and enjoyed his cigarette in silence for a few moments.

"Name's Whitcomb, by the way," he finally offered.

"Seth," the other man muttered.

"Nice to meet you, Seth," Whitcomb answered cheerfully. Cheerful didn't seem to be what Seth was interested in. Whitcomb's smile faded slightly.

"Say, I'm not bothering you, am I?" he asked.

"Actually," Seth said, for the first time fully turning his head towards Whitcomb, "you are." Whitcomb let out a laugh.

"Well, you like to speak your mind, don't you? The world could benefit from more people like you." Seth said nothing, but nodded and turned his head away again.

"All right, well then, I'll shut up. I'll be out of your hair in one minute and 33 seconds anyway. Oh, 32."

"That's awfully... precise," Seth remarked. Whitcomb smiled.

"Well, of course it is! That's when I've got to change." Seth raised an eyebrow. "Yup," Whitcomb continued, "I've got to change once every five hours. It's a bitch, but that's the rule. I'd show you now, but God knows how long it'd take me to get back to normal ag-" a twig snapped. Whitcomb's head shot in the direction of the sound, then a split second later swung his arm out towards Seth.

"Get DOWN!" he shouted. To his surprise, his arm grabbed nothing but empty air. Momentum carried him behind the log, where he found Seth already lying prone.

"Shut up, you idiot," he said. "Do you want him to hear us?" Whitcomb didn't answer. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on the direction of the snap. Some grass began to rustle, and a man dressed in military clothing emerged. He looked around the clearing curiously.

"Is anybody here?" he asked the air.

It was a good day for another 45 seconds.

44.

43.

Whitcomb didn't have time for this. He climbed to his feet, immediately alerting the third man. The second his head began to turn, Whitcomb dove down again. For the first time, he had seen the strange metallic cylinder attached to the stranger's right eye. The man raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Sorry bud, personal policy. I don't let anyone train a scope on me."

"What are you talking abou- oh, you mean Lotta. Don't worry about it, it's not doing any harm," the man said as he approached the log. Whitcomb immediately dove around behind the man just before he could enter his field of vision.

"If you want to talk, put that damn thing away first," Whitcomb said as he danced around, constantly staying just out of the man's eyesight.

"This isn't doing you any good, you know," the man said as he spun around, always just slightly too slow for Whitcomb. "Lotta can scan you without you being directly in front of it. All you're doing is slowing down the process slightly."

"Don't care," Whitcomb muttered as he continued to jump around. "Turn it off, or at least stick it in your pocket or something." Dash was now growing indignant.

"No! It's staying right where it is!" he shouted. Whitcomb groaned; today was a good day no longer. And it was this guy's fault. He had spoiled Whitcomb's last 13 seconds.

12.

11.

A little bit of payback was in order.

10.

9.

Have to time it just right.

8.

7.

6.

Duck, jump, run to the right.

5.

4.

3.

He's got a gun holster on his side.

2.

Stupid place to keep a gun; it's easy to steal there.

1.


Now.

Whitcomb moved like lightning, slamming his palm into the man's face. He was caught completely off guard, and fell onto his back, just like he was supposed to. Whitcomb figured that he had a good two seconds before the guy knew what had hit him.

2.

Whitcomb grabbed his gun out of the holster. It was beaten up, but it was nice. It was light... too light.

1.

Whitcomb opened it up, and didn't bother looking to confirm that it was in fact empty. His yes darted rapidly from one pocket to another, until he found exactly what he wanted; bullets.

When you're a secret agent, making out vague outlines is just part of the job.

With all the speed he could muster, Whitcomb loaded the gun, and brought the barrel directly against the little piece of metal over the man's eye.
The cigarette burnt out; time's up. The guy now knew what had hit him. The surprising part was his reaction, a smug grin.

"Go ahead, shoot," he said. ""You won't damage it, and you're certainly not going to hurt me." Whitcomb paid him no attention. He pulled the trigger, and the tiny machine shot off and rolled away. Whitcomb dropped the gun onto the other man's chest and walked off, brushing off his suit.

"You know," he remarked, "I can't help but shake the feeling that that thing seems sort of familiar. Where did you--what the Hell!?" Whitcomb had turned around to see the other man back on his feet, picking the device up and fitting it onto his eye.

"It... it survived!?" he demanded angrily, stomping towards him.

"I told you you couldn't break it." Whitcomb made to swipe the device off of the man's head for a second time, but his hand was caught, and squeezed tightly.

"Sorry, but you're not getting the better of me so easily a second time," the man said as he shoved Whitcomb away.

"What I don't understand, though," the man said, his aggression replaced by curiosity "is why Lotta can't get a good read on you. It can definitely detect some sort of genetic deformity, but nothing in its database matches what you've got." Whitcomb shrugged, his own anger fading as he realized that he was going to end up having the last laugh.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one to ever get my disease." Process enough units on an assembly line and you're bound to get one defective one eventually.

"And just what is that disease?" the man asked. Whitcomb didn't answer, but merely grinned and pointed upwards. Dash followed his finger, and gasped when he realized that it was no longer trees, but blades of grass that blocked his view of the sun.

"My disease is what has made us both two millimeters tall, give or take," Whitcomb said. The man's gaze fell back towards Whitcomb.

"Can you change us back?" he asked. Whitcomb's grin grew wider.

"Oh, sure. In 4 hours, 47 minutes, and 32 seconds, that is." The other man gritted his teeth. An increasingly louder growl rose from his throat, which ultimately turned into a loud "son of a bitch!"

Maybe today would be a good day after all.

[Sharp]

ITS, your scanner best not be telling about any powers. That would be ridiculous. As far as anyone knows, Charles is a street performer.

[Its_The_Sneak!!!]

it can, but it won't unless you make them apparent, 'k?
_________________
Come into my den let me hear you cluck
You can be my hen and we can f(Bu-GAWK)
A bite to the leg, it's time to play
Baby, let me be your egg that needs to get laid.
- CEO Nwabudike Morgan
"The Chicken of Lust"

[Sharp]

Well, for the sake of writing material, the puppets are scattered across the forest, and Charles is sitting in a tree.

[Its_The_Sneak!!!]

as long as the puppets don't exhibit any unusual characteristics... but don't forget, Lotta's from the future where puppets are animatronic, so I think they can get away with quite a significant bit of motion before Lotta alerts Dash about them.
_________________
Come into my den let me hear you cluck
You can be my hen and we can f(Bu-GAWK)
A bite to the leg, it's time to play
Baby, let me be your egg that needs to get laid.
- CEO Nwabudike Morgan
"The Chicken of Lust"

[Sharp]

Ah. These puppets are made of wood and metal. And magic.


Maaaaaaagiiiiiic.

EDIT: Reserved.

[Tacofiend]

Reserved.
_________________

[Its_The_Sneak!!!]

[Tsuta]

[Sharp]

Unreserved. ITS is too small for most of my setups, and I wasted too much time on AIM for a good post tonight.

Get Dash normal size soon, guys. I kinda need him.

[Its_The_Sneak!!!]

I will.
_________________
Come into my den let me hear you cluck
You can be my hen and we can f(Bu-GAWK)
A bite to the leg, it's time to play
Baby, let me be your egg that needs to get laid.
- CEO Nwabudike Morgan
"The Chicken of Lust"

[Tacofiend]

Mush or ITS are really the only two people that need to mess with Whitcomb and Dash's situation right now. It would be a shame for someone else to hurry through it and neglect the possibilities of that encounter.

[Sharp]

Look, all my ideas of what I'm going to do at the beginning have been based off Dash.

[Its_The_Sneak!!!]

"I'm gonna kick him!" "I'm gonna punch him!" "I'm gonna steal the god device and break it, even though that's impossible!" "I'm gonna steal the god device and hack it so I can use it myself, even though that's impossible!" "I'm gonna steal the god device.... and then punch and kick him!"

y'mean those ideas? Come on.
_________________
Come into my den let me hear you cluck
You can be my hen and we can f(Bu-GAWK)
A bite to the leg, it's time to play
Baby, let me be your egg that needs to get laid.
- CEO Nwabudike Morgan
"The Chicken of Lust"