Wrangling teenage emotions is hard enough on good days, but what if on bad days they could manifest as giant flesh and blood monsters?
Pacific Rim meets Friday Night Lights as knee-jerk rebel Sage Sawyer is forced to join her high school "tourneytub...
"So the team almost has every position covered now." Peter says.
"We still need a new thaumaturge." Artie adds.
"Oh, not this again!" Peter sighs, exasperated.
"Dude. I talked you into joining the team back in the day and I'm determined to talk you into this too." Artie says.
"You did not! I wanted to join. An excuse to punch the things that killed my... Anyway, I didn't need convincing. This is totally different." Peter gazes into the far distance for a few seconds.
"No it is not, Peter. Look. Only ten percent of the entire world's population is able to manifest humors at will. My sister has that gift, but she can't help us right now. Obviously. You're the only one I know who can!" Artie says.
"I can't though, can I? You've seen me try to manifest. Sometimes it works, other times everything just goes haywire." Peter says.
Artie stops his wheelchair several hundred feet from Gee and her jeep. He reaches up and grips Peter's arm, tightly.
"You can do this, bro. I believe in you. Just trust me. No one on the team knows everything you're capable of. Not yet. But I do, and they will. And soon we'll all be counting on you. Talia's not on the team right now. We can't count on her anymore. But you and I, we're brave as hell. We can get through this. We can accomplish great things." Artie says.
Peter visibly shudders. "Well if you're so brave, how come you haven't told blondie over there how you feel about her?"
"Low blow, bro. Low blow."
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock on Peter's bedroom wall is clearly taunting him.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
As soon as Gee dropped him off at home, he whipped past his Oma trying to ask him if he had a good day, stumbled up the carpeted staircase leading up to his room, finally arrived in his room, and collapsed in a gawky heap in the chair by his desk.
The cluttered desk has really taken on a life of its own at this point, with books and papers and music sheets tumbled on top of one another in an abstract pile. Peter should probably clean the jumbled mess up. But after tourneytub practice, there's always homework hanging over him, just like that infernal clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Why did he ever put it up there?
Why did he ever leave it on?
Peter attempts to flip through an aged algebra textbook, but his energy and his mind are just not in it. His mind keeps floating back to his most recent conversation with Artie. Deep down he knows his friend is right, of course, Peter is the Jackalopes' only chance of having any sort of reliable thaumaturge. But reliable is the key word there. And Peter knows he is far from what they need.
