Fandom High Alumni

Faced with the prospect of another semester not going to college and not much to do between now and the time he had to start planning next summer's soccer camp, Conner had decided to take advantage of the weather and the holiday to go road tripping. (Like he was going anywhere near the mall.) It was better than staying at home, anyway, with Eric and his parents there; Eric was laid up with a sprained ankle and Conner wasn't about to play nursemaid to a guy who looked just like him and had a penchant for whacking him in the head. (He refused to believe this time-honored childhood practice had a thing to do with other aspects of his personality, despite what Kira and Ethan liked to infer.)

Somewhere down the coast, a couple of hours out of Reefside but with a long way yet to get to Angel Grove, much less San Angeles (and he could still hear Doctor O wondering when they'd changed the name from Los to San), he pulled off the highway in the city of Briarwood and found his way down to the main street. He'd been thinking about walking around the park a little bit to stretch his legs, but that idea was quickly derailed by the sight of a music store across the street. Even if it was called the Rockporium. What kind of name was that?

( He didn't notice the motorcycle that pulled up to the curb . . . )

You'd think Conner would have made the connection. If he hadn't been getting nearly trampled, he might even have recognized one of the other shop employees. Or the fact that they all had the same phone that he'd totally seen before. Or the certain color scheme to their clothing.

But instead, as he stood there gaping, all that really stuck with him was:

"Did they all just disappear into a tree?"

[OOC: Who, me? Make fun of PR's skinflint wardrobe budget? Naaaaah. Open for calls if you like. I have been waiting for two weeks to post this.]

Conner had had a fun if handwavey due to headacheyness time hanging out and having pizza with Tori yesterday, but now he was back to the grind of working out all the details for this summer's soccer camp.

Frighteningly enough, he was enjoying the grind.

A distraction would have been welcome -- not from the work itself, but from being disturbed that he was enjoying it so much . . .

[OOC: Wee phone calls are totally welcome, yo. May be SP a bit for an hour or so, but . . . well, non-wee calls/visits are good too.]

There was a plasma TV tuned to ESPN2.

There was a Conner, sprawled facedown on the floor as the post-game show played. "Why, Greg Ryan? Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

There were Cyberspace patrons, carefully stepping over the prone figure on the ground . . . and totally not getting why he seemed to be whimpering a whole lot.

Yes, even in Reefside, home of the Wave, people tended to think soccer fans were weird. Or maybe it was just that they knew Conner McKnight was weird.

[OOC: I had to. It's my therapy. Open for phone calls if anyone wants to bother the traumatized boy, though. *g*]