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Chapter 5

Professor Greenberg stood up at the blackboard in front of a lecture hall full of students in various states of repose. He was well past his prime, with deep creases lining his face, and the bulbous, venous nose of someone who'd had more than a few drinks. In one hand he held a piece of chalk, in the other an eraser. As fast as he could write, he also erased. The students were expected to take their notes in the few microseconds between the creation and destruction of each thought.

Prof. Greenberg is physically modeled very closely on the prof who delivered the Grimm's Law lecture that inspired this story. However, my prof didn't write and erase like that. I don't know if it's a university student urban legend (because I've heard of it, but only from someone who knows someone who had that kind of prof), or if it's just really common amongst professors who have been teaching the same material, exactly the same way for thirty years. The prof who delivered the Grimm's Law lecture, for example, spent a week on the material--and he managed to deliver the exact same lecture two days in a row (word for word) without noticing. I can see how he'd be able to write it on the board and erase it just as fast.

"The undeniable fact," he lectured, "is that the English language is always changing, always growing. While its primary ancestor was the Germanic branch of the Indo-European family, it is being raised by a truly global village, each of which has left -- and is leaving -- its mark on this linguistic child.

A small attempt to infuse some actual linguistics into this story.

"Some of those marks can be traced to specific places and specific times, others are not so obvious. One of the questions on the final might deal with this topic, so listening now would be a good idea." He glared out at the lecture hall. Half the approximately 250 seats were empty, but weren't supposed to be. From somewhere near the middle of the hall came music, a walkman turned up just a notch too loud. The beat that poured from it sounded like the fight scene in a kung-fu movie.

Lisa couldn't hear the song well enough to recognize it; she doubted the Professor could hear it at all, or he would have kicked the student out of class twenty minutes ago. She shook it off and tried to focus on the lecture; her pen rested on the open notebook, all set to take notes as soon as she found find a break in the writing-and-erasing that would let her start. She couldn't seem to wake up today; couldn't gather the energy to keep up with the pace of the class. Being unable to sleep after returning from the Ship that morning, she had tried to get some homework done; she'd ended up sitting in the lounge, staring at a blank television screen.

Now she was sitting in an auditorium, staring at a Professor who might as well be lecturing in Tocharian. Her mind just wasn't on school.

Tocharian is a dead Indo-European language of the Centum family (same as Latin) that was recently (as in, late 1800, early 1900s) rediscovered on some scrolls dug up in the middle of Satem territory. This has baffled linguists since no one can agree how this one tribe of Centum speakers established themselves where they were, yet never adopted Satem characteristics.

Adam said he'd lost track of her.

She'd already yelled at him about that, he assured her that he wasn't spying on her, the matter was supposed to be closed.

This is part of the re-transitioning that occured after the first or second grand reshuffling.

Dammit. The matter wasn't closed. She did not like the idea of Adam, or anyone else, keeping tabs on her every move. It was for that reason that she had come to be where she was now. Not the college part. The part with the ever super-paranoid mom who made her phone in every day and who questioned anyone who looked at either of them even a second too long. A mom who did not know her nineteen year old daughter was dating, and wouldn't approve of it if she did.

Because once someone had tried to keep track of them, and it had nearly gotten them both killed.

Adam had meant to be comforting. He wasn't. It could *never* be a comfort that someone would both have the ability to know her mind and would choose to use it. Lisa learned that lesson too well. She felt a shiver run up her spine. She pondered this for a moment, then realized with surprise that the shiver came not from knowing that Adam hadn't just let her walk out of his life, but with the knowledge that she expected nothing else from him.

Lisa had long known she would grow up to be important. Really important. Her earliest memories were daydreams: the kind of super hero stories where the bad guy only looked monstrous, the challenges were right within her ability to overcome, and she always, always finished on top. In her dreams she was rich, powerful, and subject to no one. She lived immersed in the unspoken admiration of all around her.

I think I originally wrote this as her wanting fame, and sage_theory said it seemed out of character, so I rewrote with Lisa wanting the kind of power that would let her divorce the world, if she wanted to.

When she turned twelve, she packed those dreams away along with her Barbies, just another toy outgrown. Lisa Davis didn't have time for heroics anymore: she had boys, clothes, and a reputation to worry about. She was a teenager who had a woman to become.

Then came the talent show, the one where she teleported in front of a room full of people.

And it wasn't a fantasy anymore. It wasn't a daydream where she could manipulate the outcome until it suited her needs; where she could look at all the people who made her life difficult and think, "If only you knew."

Since TF, of which this story is technically a part, is a crossover universe, I try to write each of the stories to be essentialy stand-alone. I don't know where any readers may be coming from. It's a struggle to figure out the correct balance of backstory, and I'm not sure I have found it. But, I think it's only realistic for characters to sometimes talk about or dwell on canonical events.

Now she worried about exactly that: who knew? After her mom was captured and held hostage, after she was subjected to that horrible *thing* that destroyed her ability to think, after her new found friends had nearly died trying to save them . . . After all that, she learned that wealth, power and freedom didn't belong to people who had something to exploit. She figured the only way to ever be safe again was to make sure no one knew the truth. If she didn't acknowledge her powers, she wouldn't use them. Then, maybe, she could forget she wasn't just like everyone else sitting in this classroom. Maybe, someday, everyone who knew better would also forget. And Lisa Davis would be once again left alone to grow into the woman she always wanted to be.

Except it wasn't quite that easy, as last night so succinctly reminded her. Sometimes, she was learning, she had to be a person she *didn't* want to be.

Like right now: She wanted to be angry. Adam had reached into her head without being invited, had reminded her of a part of her life she didn't look back on fondly. But she knew that even for all the distance she had tried to put between them, there was a connection that hadn't been severed -- because she could still reach back. Adam had let her walk away, but he couldn't let her disappear. That wasn't in her nature.

The dream. That wasn't his fault. Sara had come to her, twice, and would probably keep coming to her until she figured out why. She sighed into her pillowed arms. Of all the problems she thought she'd find in college, this hadn't even made the list. But, it wasn't in her nature to turn down a request for help.

"Miss Young," the professor said, interrupting her thoughts. "Perhaps you could tell us what happened in 1066?" He sounded smug, proud to be calling her on not paying attention.

For just a second she panicked. That date was important. She remembered it from her attempt at studying the other day; it was on the list, one of those dates for which she had neglected to write down an explanation.

"Norman conquest," she said, pulling the answer from the professor's head, too distracted to care about the morality or hypocrisy of it. "William the Bastard of Normandy became William the Conqueror when he defeated the English King Harold at the Battle of Hastings." She spoke the words without emotion; she had none to spare on him.

I like this. I don't know if there's any official word on whether the TP could read the minds of Saps, but I needed this scene. They cannot have those powers and always use them for the right reason.

Also, it breaks up the brooding.

"Ummm . . . thank you," she heard the professor answer. He turned back to the board and started to write, the chalk squealing on each down stroke. "Historical accounts tell us that King William spoke Norman French. When he moved to England, he brought all of his French speaking friends with him and, out of them, created the new nobility of England. . . ."

Adam had suggested a mind-merge. He knew how she felt about her powers, and about the Ship. Yet of all the possible options, that was what he decided was needed. Perhaps it was. While she had been off trying to live her quiet life, he'd been left to lead the Tomorrow People alone. It had changed him, but she couldn't bring herself to believe that Adam would make any decisions without at least attempting to take the thoughts and feelings of the others into account. If he said mind-merge, it was because he believed it was the best option. The only option?

As much as she hated to admit it, she didn't seem to be getting much of a choice about her involvement. The part of her that knew that her years of solitude were a temporary reprieve, knew also that the time of reprieve was at an end.

Once she had promised to return to the island, to Adam. She had said the words without understanding what she was leaving or what she would be returning to. Still, she had meant them.

It seemed as if someone were making sure she kept that promise, for real this time.

"That was *tight*," a voice announced in her ear.

Lisa started. Her pen careened across the page, leaving a black ink trail.

"You put him right down. He thought he gonna make an example of you. You made *him* the example." Each word had the initial syllable emphasized.

Ahh, Isaac. You're just so insecure that you've become a poseur.

"Isaac," she breathed. For some reason she had been expecting Adam. "Hi. You made it to class."

Isaac jumped over the row of seats and threw himself down into the seat next to Lisa. He was wearing a ratty gray sweatshirt, the sleeves torn off, over a forest green long-underwear shirt. It looked like he'd dressed in a hurry. Around his neck were a pair of headphones from which came the same driving beat Lisa had heard earlier.

"Yeah, I made it. Last week and all. Gotta put in an appearance some time." Isaac reached down to the walkman hooked on his belt and shut off the music. "Let's get gone; nothing here worth stickin' around for."

"But the class--" Lisa started to say, then stopped and looked around. The class was over. The blackboard was wiped clean and everyone was gone, including the Professor.

"Sucked. Yeah, I know." Isaac finished for her. "What say we get outta here?" He stood up and held out his hand to her.

Lisa closed her notebook, shoved it into her bookbag, then took the offered hand. She kept hold of it while they negotiated down the narrow aisle, up the stairs and out the door into a day that threatened at Springtime. The air was warm enough that she didn't need to zip her jackets; Isaac wasn't even wearing a jacket. Passing students walked with a bounce in their steps that hadn't been present for weeks.

Lisa's wearing more than one jacket? When did that happen?

"So," he asked, "What's the plan? We've got a whole evening in front of us. No more classes. I refuse to study anymore today. Gotta have a brain break."

"Actually," she answered, "We don't. I have to catch up with someone."

"You have something better to do than hang out with me?" Isaac looked at her in disbelief. "I thought candles, hot chocolate, marshmallows, a rented movie we have no intention of watching . . ."

"I wish I could," she responded. "It sounds so warm and cozy." She sidled a little closer to him and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "It's just that I've got other plans."

"But you ain't gonna tell me what they are?" Isaac sounded offended.

"There's not much to tell," she said with a shrug.

Isaac removed his arm. "Why don't you tell me anyway," he suggested. "Who're you going out with? Where are you going? How long is it going to take? Maybe we can get together later tonight?"

They stopped walking and Lisa turned to face him. "What's with all the questions? Don't you trust me?" They were standing in a small courtyard around which the main buildings of the campus sprawled. The grass was dead; the defrosting ground squelched under their feet. Two guys, both with their heads covered by red bandanas, walked by hand in hand.

"The world's a big, bad place," Isaac said. "I like to know what my girl is up to. Gotta know she's safe."

She narrowed her eyes. "You sound like my mother. Why does everyone act like I'm about to jump off a cliff and they have to step in and save me? I'm not a lemming. And I'm *not* perpetually on the verge of running off and doing something stupid."
Hang out with the TP long enough, Lisa, and you will be.

"Tell me the truth, Lisa. You seein' someone else?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "If we're going to stay together, you need to start trusting me. You also need to realize that I had a life before you, and I still have one that you're not always going to be part of." With a shake of her head she started walking away. "When you figure out how to deal with that, give me a call."

She didn't look back to see what, if any, expression he had.

End chapter 5, originally called Syncope--the loss of a sound or feature from a word for no particular reason.