The Funambulist

Chapter 4: To The River

I. Am. So. Late.

Wow. I'm really sorry that it has taken me so long to update! School really caught up to me and I have been frantically working on numerous assignments etc. to stay on top of things (but I won't bore you with the details). For now, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter - it has been a challenge to write well, so i hope it payed off :) 

Dedicated to amy_ptx because we made a deal that if she were to purchase sliced peached, I would dedicate this chapter to her ((Also she's kind of super sweet and one of my best friends))

When Scott was little, he was very, very particular about who was allowed in his personal space. It wasn't that he hated people or anything, but he was incredibly selective of who he associated himself with; the other children were always a bit too rough, a bit too loud and rambunctious for his taste. Often, his parents would encourage him to go play with the other rowdy kids in the neighbourhood, likely out of fear that their son would become anti-social, but Scott wanted nothing to do with them and their odd, boyish antics.

He opted to stay at home and tinker with his dad's old scraps of machinery, and this obsession of his only grew as he aged. With his developed maturity, he began taking on more ambitious projects: tiny robots, weird electrical circuits. He allowed his heart to be sucked in the world of building and creating, for it gave him a fulfilling sense of purpose. That maybe, one day, he would grow up to invent a new, specialized rocket that could transport mankind to other dimensions. Or perhaps, he could invent machinery that could communicate with other entities on other planets – Scott was fond of aliens.

He was nine years old when he stumbled upon the first source of mystification for him, in the form of a small, very peculiar boy. Similar to any other tasteless Saturday afternoon, Scott found himself locked away in his room, hair messy, teeth gnawing at a pencil between his teeth as he toyed with the new robot prototype his dad had given him. It wasn't an easy piece of machinery to take apart – screwdrivers littered his workspace, balls of crumbled paper scattered across the room. Scott had been working for days on end, and he was getting tired very, very quickly.

Thwack!

Scott jumped in his seat. That sound most certainly didn't come from him. He figured it was probably one of the street boys again – Marcus, maybe; he was always playing basketball with his friends in his front yard.

Thwack! Thwack!

He remained very still, fingers curled underneath his chair. What on earth was that? It didn't sound like any basketball he had ever heard of. Ever so slowly, he crept to his bedroom window and peaked through the glass. He couldn't detect anyone playing games in the street like they always did – in fact, the space in the general vicinity of his home seemed void of other children. 

Thwack!

Scott tried to ignore it. He really did. But after all, he was nine years old, and his patience and attempt to repress his curiosity did not last for very long. He was soon racing down the stairs, hands balled into fists, as he ran out into the street in search for the source of the ruckus.

He caught sight of a small figure in the distance, around four houses down and across the street from him, and squinted his eyes in attempt to make out who it was. It wasn't often that he didn't recognize someone; Scott had the perfect lookout point to spy on other people from his bedroom. "Hey!" Slowly, he began to approach what appeared to be an odd metallic contraption, and caught the sight of a tiny boy sitting in the grass beside it, a large hammer in his hand. "What are you doing?"