Oscar opened his mouth to speak, but only a long, agonized howl came out. He tried to curl himself into a ball, but that just made whatever the bullet had torn inside his belly and guts open a tiny crack wider.

White-hot pain exploded behind his eyelids, flooding his brain. He caught the smell of something bitter and burning that smelled like overdone pork.

“Do you require assistance?” the automaton asked for the second time. Oscar nodded, but it was probably lost to it, as he shuddered against the thick carpeting of Cornell’s house, his unitard soaking in his own blood. It poured out of him all black, turning the fabric midnight blue.

Oscar flicked through the menus, the options swimming in and out of view, the interface swimming in and out of focus. Finally, he navigated to the IT HURTSHURTSHURTS submenu and chose the HELP ME option. Shaking from pure agony, he found the GO BACK option and dialed his body back to its saved state, when he had worn the suit. There was another, interminably long moment of pure pain and then Oscar was back on his feet, his suit as clean as the moment he’d worn it, his body restored. He screamed in shock as his brain tried to shift back into gear even as it reeled from the gunshot trauma, then winced as he felt his split lip open up again, sending a trickle of blood flowing down his chest.

“I see that your issue has been resolved,” the automaton said, matter-of-factly, even as Oscar poked and patted at himself, searching for a tear on his suit where the entry wound would be. There was nothing; even the stains had gone, though his pool of black blood still stained the carpet.

“Yeah, thanks,” Oscar said, flicking through the menus before finally finding the NEAT RAY and removing the stain with a single zap “where’s Cornell?”

The automaton said nothing, as Oscar looked up into the room, where a half dozen cats had rushed in and were hard at work pestering each other, while a couple kittens waltzed across the mahogany desk, pawing at the baubles on it.

“No,” Oscar moaned, as he focused his vision across the carpet, on the desk, inside the cabinet, before finding the tiny severed length of tail “no-no-no. I didn’t mean to…I was only…”

Oscar ran into the room, pushing the cats aside, kneeling down on the carpet. He pawed, frantically at the shaggy hairs, searching under the desk and cabinet. He moaned, tugging at his hair, and then:

“Who’s there? Cornell, I swear to God if you brought another one of your little buddies over again I’m gonna freak!” the babysitter’s voice came from the living room, the Mesmer field having dissipated. Oscar stared at the automaton, which barely seemed to notice. Finally, he leaped through the wall, pashing across the brick and insulation, before launching himself up into the area, above the clouds. Oscar hovered there, numbly for a while, his body whipped by the chill winds, before the automaton’s called to him:

“Near freezing temperatures detected. Recommend enabling your normalization shield.”

Oscar nodded, sucking at his stuffy nose, before the field turned on, making his body toasty again, impervious to the whipping winds.

“I k…I killed him. Cornell,” Oscar finally said. The automaton stared, silently “those cats, they…”

“He was evil. Now he is destroyed,” the automaton said.

“I didn’t want him dead! I was just going to scare him! Like Niles! I was going to bring him back…” Oscar said.

“Stardust’s research into shapeshifting has proven that restoration can prove catastrophic to most individuals,” the automaton said, “never mind a pubescent.”

“I only did it for a few hours!”

“Then bodily functions may be restored. His mental capacity may be irreparably damaged at this point. Even if brain death is avoided, his faculties would be severely diminished.”

Oscar stared at the automaton in silence, before it added:

“If you are worried about a possible trail of evidence, I would recommend incineration instead.”

Oscar screamed. Air rushed into his mouth and down his throat, choking down the sound of his voice. He turned and turned over the vast white cloudy plains under the moon. The automaton stood by, silent until he had screamed himself hoarse, then finally said:

“I want out.”

“You still have 13 days left in your trial period,” the automaton said.

“I don’t care, you stupid machine! I don’t want this! Not this suit, not this belt, not these powers. I don’t want anything to do with goddamn Stardust, do you understand me?” Oscar screamed. The automaton staying perfectly still, gears turning in his head, then said:

“You still have 13 days left in your trial period. If you are certain, please verify your selection,”

“I said, I want-” Oscar began, then was cut off by the sound of white-hot shards of metal pinging against the automaton’s chassis. Its head rattled in place, its body jittering in a shower of sparks before it was thrown off balance, tumbling down under the clouds. Something dark and huge whooshed in front of Oscar’s face, moving so fast that the air exploded as it rushed in to fill the gap behind it. When he finally leveled himself in mid-air, Oscar saw the thing turn, its rigid metal wings twisting as it pivoted in midair, its jet engines whining as it turned. He saw its tip, decorated with the bone-white of a stylized skull that marked it as a member of the Ghost’s Squadron, and immediately let himself drop like a stone beneath the cloud cover. Just in time, the jet let loose another burst of tracer rounds that tore through the air above him and Oscar formed a tubular spacial that took him home in the blink of an eye.

Oscar tore the suit and belt off him and threw it out of his bedroom window, before crawling under the sheets. He lay there, eyes wide open, and tried to think of Cornell and the cats and Niles, with his branches full of pecking birds and biting beetles.

Somewhere far away, there was the long, thunderous roar of the Ghost jet, dopplering into the distance as it went for its second sweep.

***

The automaton lay silent inside the pile of rubble it had created as it fell through the roof of the dilapidated apartment building, scattering a swarm of rats in the process. It ran a diagnostic on itself, assessing the damage that the burst had done to it.

When the report came back, declaring it (mostly) functional, the automaton slowly levitated back on its feet, then reached its fingers out to pinch the jagged shards of metal that had blossomed into the back of its skull shut. Running its self-repair protocols, it patched up the holes along its body. With that completed, it finally ran its fingers across the rim of the hole where the tracer round had entered through the decal of its right eye, welding it shut before replacing the paint job.

Forming another tubular spacial around itself, the automaton began to fly toward Oscar’s house, then paused, as something in its brain misfired. An unexpected notion came to its mind and the automaton allowed it to expand into an idea, then a plan of action. When it was finally done, the automaton drew up an image from its memory:

Three boys, holding Oscar down.

The ring leader is the only one still intact. A catalyst.

Sending out a search pulse, the automaton located the boy, tucked under its covers as he pretended to sleep, then flew towards it, draped in an invisibility field.

***

Momma was already gone to work by the time he woke up. Oscar thought about getting up, going back to school, but then he thought of the night before and seeing Cassius, so he didn’t.

He tried reading through his issue of Fantomah, but he closed and put it away, as Fantomah turned a criminal captive into a pillar of salt. Oscar shuddered for a moment, wondering if she left him with enough of his brain to understand what had happened to him.

The school bus came, its horn honked, then it went. Sunlight crept slowly across the window, casting superhero sticker shadows on the floor. Oscar felt hungry but didn’t get up. He closed his eyes and thought of Cornell and Niles. He wondered if anyone was watering him, then slowly got up, put on his clothes, and started to walk toward the park.

It didn’t take long to find Niles. He was the biggest, most fruited, busiest tree in the park. Birds were pecking at his fruit and insects were moving across his bark. A family of squirrels had made a nest in his trunk’s hollow. No people, though. His red bike was gone.

“Of course,” Oscar said, realizing he’d never bothered to secure it with a chain. He tried shooing away the birds, wiped and slapped at the ants and the ladybugs and the flies that buzzed all around. He kicked at the hollow, upsetting the squirrels, who bit him when he reached inside to pull them out.

“Damn it,” Oscar said, as he tossed rocks against the hollow until the squirrels were finally overwhelmed and ran, their nuts stuffed in their cheeks. He raised his hands up, ready to shout in triumph…

…and Niles’ eyes looked back at him, from the wrinkles in the tree trunk.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…the squirrels…” Oscar said. Niles simply moved the part of the tree trunk that was his lips and made a noise. It took Oscar a while before he realized that it was trying to speak. He held his breath and leaned in, trying to make out meaning from the moans “what?”

“Feesh muhm,” Niles said, then again “feesh muhm, feesh muhm.”

Again and again, the noise came, until the sound clicked into place, forming words:

Fix me, fix me, fix me.

“I can’t,” Oscar said, his voice barely over a whisper, “they said…said it was gonna mess up your brain.”

There was a moment of pause, Nile’s eyes blinking tears away using tree-bark eyelids and then:

“Keel muhm.”

“I can’t, I’m so sorry, I can’t…”

The Niles-tree made a noise; a deep, rumbling sound that came from inside. It shook all over, oranges falling from its branches. It screamed through its mouthful of moss, eyes staring down at Oscar, his back already turned and running away, already swarmed again with birds and insects and a new family of squirrels that nested in its trunk.

Oscar didn’t lock himself up in his room when he got home. He didn’t turn on the TV or try the radio. He simply stared at his hands, then at the sun crawling across the window, feeling numb all over. Finally, he closed his eyes and thought of the automaton and Niles and the suit and Cornell and Cassius and how he wished he could take that day away.

Could the suit do it? Could it take him back? What was a little time travel to someone like Stardust after all?

Oscar smiled, his eyes still closed, and said:

“I can make it better. If I can go back. All I gotta do is go back in time and-”

“Time travel is prohibited,” the automaton’s voice came from behind him. Oscar’s eyes shot open, just in time to see the automaton hovering behind him, Cassius by his side. There was something wrapped around his hand and forearm: a row of glowing rings that hummed evilly. Cassius punched the air behind him…

And the entire side of Oscar’s house exploded outward into a shower of splinters and shattered baubles and powdered brick.