(This is only the second draft of the book Worthless. Expect typos, plot holes, odd subplots and the occassionally wrongly named character, especially minor characters. It is made public only to give people a rough idea of how the final story will look)

Chapter 9

Rain dropped like an act of war. The courtyard with the old tree and limited parking space sounded like thunder rolling across the broken asphalt. It had been like that for what seemed like forever.
It hadn't, though. It took maybe all of half an hour for Mischa and Patrick to find their way to the old school. The car was barely even visible in the downpour before it was actually there, like the water was some kind of liquid curtain. Then again, the car was about the size of a crate of oranges, so it had an easy time hiding in the rain.
"Hey, need a ride?"
Mischa was being the same unusually glip he always got around Patrick. Some people just had that effect on others, apparently. Dripping from just my quick sprint from the rattling window to the archway, I sent him a disapproving frown. He took it nicely, but clearly got the message, zhutting up as he opened the backseat door on the pazsenger side.
Patrick was at the wheel, of course, being just old enough to get lessons. He was about a full head taller than Mischa, making the two seem like an odd match, side by side in the front seats. Despite his typical cheerful demeanor, sometimes annoyingly so, Patrick was gripping the steering wheel so tight he seemed about to snap it into pieces.
"Drive..." I stuttered, trembling slightly, and not just from the cold. There was a moment's pause as the two,boys glanced at me, then each other, but eventually, Patrick began to back out of the archway, painfully slow.
"What happened, Ida? You sounded kinda scary on the phone. Plus, since when are you even the calling type?"
I tried fixing my eyes on the world outside, but that world was more or less washed away by rain, the windows looking like a bad aquarium attraction. The eyes were finding nothing to fixate on and flickered back and forth, finally unable to avoid Mischa's.
"It's nothing," I grumbled under my breath, folding my arms and looking instead at the back of the seat in front of me.
"For #*@!'s sake," Mischa sighed, "I want to... we want to help you, but you gotta te..."
"Where'd you get those tripping threads?" asked Patrick all of a sudden, cutting Mischa off quite rudely. I had to think about his question for a second, translating his usual odd choice of wlords.
"The clothes? The flea market inside. My own stuff is completely soaked." I shook my bag, the wet clothes sloshing in the plastic bag inside which held them. Patrick somehow seemed like I hadn't fully answered his question, though, as he kept sending me glances in the rearview mirror.
"Seriously," he suddenly added, his voice hiding an odd giggle, "you turned to crime for those things?"
Part of me wanted to remain quiet, and part of me wanted to sneer a devastating comeback at him, but in the end, a completely different part of me looked down at the faded red raincoat and the sweatshirt and pants, and I sighed a tired smile.
"Yeah, well, I left some cash. And you're driving on a learner's permit without supervision, so who's the re,al #*@!ing criminal here?"
Finally, Patrick smiled, clearly feeling victorious about geting me to loosen up.
"If we smell the fuzz, we'll just slam it and jump the border."
"We're on an island, dipshit," I replied with a tired chuckle. "Also, smelling the fuzz means sticking your nose in someone's pussy. And not the cat kind!"
"Nah, there's a bridge, and translators gonna translate, if you get my drift."
"I don't, and the bridge goes the wrong way, moron."
With a grin and a quick drum on the steering wheel, Patrick closed down our brief banter. I noticed him nudge Mischa with his elbow, but I didn't make much of it. I was more or less ready to deal with questions now, anyway.
"Seriously, Ida, what the hell happened with you?" asked Mischa, his voice now calmer, although still with some worry to it.
I looked out teh window again, but this time to try to get things straight in my mind. Somehow, it already seemed hours ago that I had been inside the old school building, and merely trying to recall it made my stomach clench uncomfortably.
"Something really bd happened in there, Misch. Something just.... #*@!..."
He seemed conflicted about my answer. For a time, he stayed quiet, clearly mullin git over. But there was something hiding behind his quiet, something almost angry. I had no idea what it was.
"I told you not to go in there," he finally remarked, in a hushed voice, almost as if it was only meant for himself to hear. But I did hear it.
"Yeah, you said there were weird people in there, right?"
He nodded. I nodded, too, but it was more a mockery of his confidence.
"There was nobody in there," I continued. My eyes caught a glimpse of his, looking at the rearview mirror before he realized it wasn't aimed at me, not from his perspective, anyway.
"There was..." I cut myself off. Black stains on linoleum floors danced before my mind's eye, and their meaning sent shivers through my brain. Those shivers apparently continued out through my physical body, because Mischa clearly noted something wrong.
"There was what, Ida?" he asked, sounding far too calm for what was running through my brain. Of course, he couldn't know that.
"Something burned in there. There was some kind of fire. And people got hurt."
The entire car was suddenly very silent, he only sound being the low hum of the engine and the drumming of water against the roof and windshield.
"What do you mean, burned?" It was actually Patrick who finally asked, and his earlier, carefree banter had left his voice entirely.
"Black burns on the floor," I answered, knowing that it was not exactly what he had asked. But I wasn't sure how to truly answer his question. "Lots of them, ashes. Ashes and burns."
The two said nothing. Out the window I could see things farther away than before. The rain was fading. Not much, but it was a start.
"Can you go faster?" I finally asked. Mostly I just wanted to break the silence. Patrick shook his head.
"Keeping it clean here, kids. We're in Nakskov in a moment."
The fields of crops outside suddenly vanished, giving way to buildings. We were in Nakskov. The trip had seemed like mere seconds. In reality, it had perhaps been a ten minute drive, even in the horrible weather, but it still seemed like it had all snapped past in the blink of an eye. I could finally see houses, see the harbor pass us by and taller buildings make their presence known. Rain continued to fall heavy, but buildings were now closer and denser, making it seem less overwhelming.
Patrick avoided the entire one-way issue that many drivers complained about in town. The inner parts were leaning more and more towards catering to the pedestrians, with the oromenade and small streets, more than half of them one-way. The town was old, many centuries old, and had been designed for different times, times before cars and mass migrations to and from shopping centers. Traffic had to be designed accordingly. But people complained. They always did.
"Where are we going?" I asked, as the sugar factory passed by outside the windows. Rain was thinning out more by the second, but not enough to make me see dry air in the near future, not by a long shot!
"I need food," remarked Patrick dryly, "and I think you two need to talk something out. There's this weird tension between you, I can almost feel it in the air."
Without thinking about it, I looked at him with wide eyes and a slightly opened mouth.
"Also, Mischa is grinding his teeth so loud I thought I had engine problems," he added, making Mischa turn with a surprised look in his eyes. Patrick just smiled at him, a wide, dirt-eating grin.

As the car rolled into the small parking lot near the train station, I did my best to pull the red raincoat's collar up around my ears, but it was not very cooperative. It felt wrong on me, like it was made for someone shorter but wider. Not that that was unusual for me, but this seemed a bit much. Honestly, I had grabbed it in a bit of a panic as I left the school building, my head filled only with thoughts of getting away. Now, with that uilding far away, my thoughts returned to more present comforts. It would pass. My mind would return to the things I saw out there. But for now, being bothered only by a troublesome collar was a blessing in disguise.
The train station was little more than a small waiting room with some uncomfortable, round blue chairs, all metal, like a railing that had been beaten into shape to let tiny people like myself squeeze their asses into them, but not larger ones, like nearly everyone else. On one side was a kiosk, on the other side was the train station grill, a cozy little place that had the fortune of taking in not only passengers from the trains, but also kids from the local schools. It seemed like a good business plan.
At the moment we stepped in, however, there were very few others there. One regular, a guy I had talked to a few times before, stood at thecounter, shooting the breeze with the owner. Two young people sat by a table, finishing their meal. It was not the buzz of activity I was used to from school lunch runs.
"Three pita kebabs," Patrick said loudly, not even going all the way to the counter to order, something I saw a lot of the regulars do but never felt comfortable doing myself. In the mean time, I stood at the fridge with beverages. My eyes were staring at its contents, but my mind was somewhere else. In a hidden basement, full of misty lights, surrounded by...
"Try that one, they just got it. Real good."
My world snapped back! Mischa was pointing at a can with some odd writings on it, Greek or Turkish or something, I wasn't sure. It had a big picture of a mango split open and dripping with what I assumed was meant to be mango juices, although it looked more like it had been dropped in the sink and cleaned off. I peeked at the sugar content, frowned without thinking about it, and picked a light soda.
"They don't really do anything for you unless you're on a strict diet, you know," Mischa said, grabbing the can of wet mango, his arm going by my face close enough to almost punch me. "Your body just thinks it's getting more sugar, releases some chemicals and stuff to go get it, and ends up getting sugar you would have never used."
I looked at him, making my best impression of someone who was both impressed and completely indiferent. His mom was big on facts about everything, and it had always seemed like he inherited that trait.
While Patrick had a talk with one of the guys working there, Mischa and I grabbed the chairs at the table in the middle of the eating area. My eyes kept meeting the floor, and then the table, somehow never wanting to look up. It bothered me, i wanted to look up, I wanted to tell Mischa all the gory details of that weird building. But something in me blocked it.
"Be about five minutes," said Patrick as he finally joined us. "Now tell us about your adventures in that old place!"
Forcing my eyes to look up, I peeked at Patrick first, then Mischa. They were both sitting quietly, showing full interest in me. And I had absolutely no idea how to react to it.
"I went in the window to get away from the rain," I started, then stopped, pretending to struggle with opening my soda. Working up my nerve again, I continued. "One building was okay, but the other was..." My mind suddenly flashed to the shirt on the floor. It had been lightly charred. What did that mean?
"Anyway, there were these black spots, and I think they were ashes. Downstairs I found bits of burned clothing, like someone had burned themselves, and there was a bit of burned skin in a shoe or something."
Ending the sentence by losing my nerve again, I silently cursed myself for adding the two last words. I knew what I was saying. Why did my brain try to trip me up all the time?
"Jesus," Mischa muttered, almost under his breath, "it's those firework #*@!ers again! How much you wanna bet they had a bunch of that shit stored out there, and it blew up in their faces?!"
I frowned so hard I felt strain on my face, his words echoing in my head a few times before I took back full control.
"How do you know about the fireworks thing?! Did my mom talk to your mom? 'Cause it's not #*@!ing fireworks, I told..."
I stopped talking, letting the sentence just run out on me. Both boys were looking at me like a lunatic, like I had just put on a silly hat and screamed something about aliens. In fluent Swahili.
"What?" I asked, drawing out the word as my eyes shifted between them.
"Uhm, all bursts of crazy aside... You didn't hear about that?"
I shook my head, not sure if I was even following or not. Mischa just looked at me, his face twisted into such a symbol of skepticism that he almost became a caricature of himself.
"For #*@!'s sake, Ida, it's been all over the news. There's, like, a bunch of retards running around blowing shit up! There was, like, nothing, and then yesterday, they set off some pipe bombs or something in a ton of places around town! Why don't you know?!"
In my head, the whole ordeal the night before began to run on repeat. The exploding woman. The shoes and tattered clothes left behind. But also the sound of loud pops around town, the ones I only heard in the distance.
"I saw one of them," I half whispered. Mischa reacted instantly!
"You what?!? You saw..." He lowered his voice even more. "You saw somebody set up fireworks in town?! Is that why you weren't in school? Were you talking to the police??"
His last remark made a few rounds through my head, as well. Police. What would I say? It had occured to me before, but getting sent to the therapist had somehow warped my idea of what to do. Now, everything was kind of colliding in me, images and concepts smashing together in my brain, none of it fitting anywhere, all of it paralyzing me.
"Ida, we need to figure this out, somehow. And you need to..."
Mischa was cut off by Patrick's honestly rather loud phone. He picked it up, but barely got to say anything. He tried a few times, but apparently got cut off by whoever was on the other end. As he hung up, he looked a bit pale.
"Okay, so... I'm basically a dead man. Like, I'm a walking corpse right now," he muttered in a very nasal tone. "I'll be getting my dad's car home while medieval torture has not entered his mind. His very, very angry mind."
Patrick's dad was a pretty nice guy. This seemed bad.
"I just need my bag, I'll go with," Mischa said quickly, getting up from his seat. He stopped as he grabbed his jacket, which had soaked an impressive amount of water on just the way from the parking spot to the station. Without a word, I handed him my newish red raincoat, which he soon gave up putting on and just slung over his head. Then, they were out!
Suddenly findinmyself alone, I looked around to avoid my own thoughts. The young couple and the older regular were all gone, the only activity now being the young guy putting together someone's ordered pizza behind the big kitchen counter. My attention went to Mischa's mango thingie, still on the table. I flinched as the young guy, whose name I desperately tried to remember, set our food on the table, wishing us, or perhaps now just me, a good meal. As I picked up my big pita, breathing in the scent of moist kebab meat, the sight of a red jacket sitting down across from me hit the corner of my eye. I didn't bother to look up at him, but instead wrapped my maw around the defenseless pita.
"Ida, we need your help."
I froze at the sound of a woman's voice. Teeth still on the verge of biding into my food, I turned just my eyes to look around. There was nobody else there. Then, I turned those same eyes upwards. Mischa was not sitting across from me. Someone else was.
"We are time travelers, hiding in your time to fight against a great evil that has taken over our own and is hunting those who do not obey them. We need your help to fight back!"
I didn't move a muscle. The woman was dark blond and fair-skinned, a few reddish cutsmvisible on her face, healing scars no doubt. She wore some old, rather ridiculous sunglasses, hiding her eyes except for a vague outline behind the tinted glass. Or plastic, it looked like. Her hair was a bit of a mess, and her hands were stiff by er side, making her posture look a mix between very awkward and extremely unnatural.
"In the far future, time travel has let powerful people spread out through history. Some used it to help others escape, too, and they are now being hunted. We are trying to fight back, but we are very few, and we need special people like you to help us. Please come to this address, at this time."
Her face made no expressions as she tentatively put a small piece of paper on the edge of the table, the one on her side of it. Then, she just looked at me while not moving a muscle. Suddenly, without warning, she just stood up and left. I just sat there myself, teeth still locked around my pita kebab without biting. Even after she was gone, I stayed that way.
"So, Patrick wasn't supposed to take the car alone, I guess," said Mischa as he casually sat in the chair that the woman had been in a moment earlier. "I never heard him talk about his dad being angry like that, good thing we..." He looked at me funny, his eyebrows twisted in a variant of confusion. "Uhm, you okay there, Ida?"
Slowly, I bit down into my food. A small bite, much smaller than originally intended. I chewed slowly, my eyes still fixed on the glass door that the woman had exited through. I didn't finish the bote before speaking the only words that were on my mind.
"There're some freaky #*@!ing people in this town, Misch."