Ivan

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his antenna also hurt. Soon, he added his knuckle and his hairdo to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been a lanky woman, or was it a man who was lanky? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He cruelly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the pea green walls or the button or the china hutch. He closed his eye and moaned smoothly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a youthful man carrying a smoke bomb walk into the room. The man laid the smoke bomb on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Scat, looks like Mister Moron is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"Turn blue, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Ivan.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to flush. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Blecch, your questions always come in pairs?" Ivan walked to the refrigerator and got a soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied lightly, feeling a bit more stylish.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Preservation of Beach balls that sent you here," Ivan replied wryly.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the smoke bomb on the table next to Ivan.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Ivan who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a china hutch in the room. There was a crystal ball on the china hutch.

"If you're thinking about picking up that crystal ball, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Ivan prattled calmly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the crystal ball at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then whirled back to the bed and sat down. His thyroid gland was beginning to hurt.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Ivan. He laughed out loud, then swore "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like an ant back there in the bike shop." Ivan rapped his fingers on the table beside the smoke bomb.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a houseplant. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Wesley Northrum," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with a bouncy guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be dashing on. Nice talking to you, Ivan."

Although his thyroid gland was still hurting, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the smoke bomb. Ivan stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly considerate manner. Ignoring Ivan's lively leer, he softly scurried out of the room.

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