ATLAS // Five Hargreeves

[#3] Whack-Job

ELLIOTT GUSSMAN HAD BEEN KNOWN to be a complete and utter 'whack-job' since the day he first came out of his dear mother's womb.

He would cry and he would shout and he would kick his small, chubby little legs outwards to collide with the nurses, causing them to scowl and shake their heads with a low tutt. The only way his parents would get him to stop crying was if they let him sleep under a view of the stars, which seemed to settle him greatly and they would find him in a soft slumber, the twinkling above him brightening his eyes and making his hair glitter.

At least when he was screaming, he wasn't blabbering about spacecrafts and crop rings, about conspiracies and government secrets – an irritating habit that he developed at the age of sixteen after listening to Crazy-Joe in the street corner preach about the aliens that had apparently kidnapped his daughter. (Of course, it was common knowledge that his daughter ran off with a Texan cowboy last year, but Joe was Crazy and hence nicknamed Crazy-Joe for a reason, so nobody tried to correct him all that much.) But regardless, sixteen-year-olds shouldn't be discussing elemental particles or the theory of other life forms on other planets, and all of the things that drove his mother mad and drove his ex-wife, Eleanor, away.

But still, a whack-job was a whack-job and Elliott Gussman had never been anything different.

Even though he won his Highschool Science Contest three years in a row; or earned a scholarship to his dream school; or gained an internship at NASA (Something that wasn't true but instead a cruel practical joke from his classmates and the school bully, Brian), it would not change the fact that he was guaranteed to go insane by the age of forty-five.

Now, Elliott was reaching forty-three without any major issues, (major issues, that is) and on the day of his birthday, he would mark another cross on his calendar and admire it with a smile. He only had two more years to go.

It was only when a small alien turned up on his doorstep draped in a navy school uniform and an appetite for good coffee, that Elliott thought his retirement had come early. Maybe he hadn't been careful enough, maybe he was going insane much earlier than scheduled, maybe the nurses at the hospital and his mother and Eleanor were right.

But then he took his meds. And then he recalled the alien that fell through the sky on February 11th 1960, stumbling, spluttering, spitting words into the air – and Elliott knew it was all worth it. Because now, he was certain that he was right.

Screw you, Eleanor.

The process repeated itself, the same thing occurring in the same way. The next time it was a tall, black woman with unruly hair that he thought looked hard to maintain, gaping a lot but never yelling or screaming like the others before. He marked the date as February 11th 1961.

Alien after Alien after Alien. Until now, he had never seen one so close before.

"Same thing each time, a bright blue light then something appears," He gasped, excited to share his research with someone who might care. An alien, moreover. Five watched him with furrowed brows and remained silent, focusing on each of his words with a great deal of compliance. Elliott's enthusiasm grew – the alien was interested!

Elliott Gussman wasn't the whack-job, not anymore!

The alien stepped forwards, head tilted and eyes glittering with curiosity. "Did you get a good look at any of them?"

"Yeah, the first and the third one." Elliott nodded, swallowing as he wildly gestured to the large pinboard behind him, pictures stuck with blue tack and pen scribbled incoherently beside them. "And then the last one... the big sensitive one?"