BACK OFF, IT'S MINE {Oliver}

[SCOTT PARKER]

As he jokingly saluted the foreman sitting at the entrance to the junkyard, Scottie reflected on just how weird it was for someone to end up going to a dump so often that they developed a personal relationship with the man who kept an eye on the front gate. It was generally a rule of thumb tha if you had gotten to know the security guard for a junk lot so well that you no longer needed words to explain your intentions of going in and finding whatever it was that struck your eye in order to include it in some random sculpture, then you prooobably needed to slow down and perhaps.... make a few friends, or try to integrate into the social world a bit more.

Ah well, at the first sign of a shiny piece of sharp metal sticking out of the nearest pile of discombobulated stuff, Scott forgot all about the social abnormality that he was partaking in, and he rushed over to see exactly what the promising looking material was, he was disappointed to find that it was just a broken, bent up old fork that had found it's way to the edge of the pile where it caught the sunlight, like a siren in the midst of the labyrinthine junkyard, calling out to him, beckoning him to its side when in fact it was not useful to his art in the slightest.

No, what Scott REALLY needed was something older. Something unique. Something which could speak to a million different metaphors as needed. He needed something...meaningful...ish.

But what could it be.... Looking around, he didn't know where to begin digging. It was all just so much junk and there was so little time. His eyes scanned the immediate area, looking for something, ANYTHING to give him inspiration.

It was then that he saw it. A cog wheel. Just a common old cogwheel, hardly ever used these days. It was perfect, just sitting there in a glimmering beam of light, as though sent from heaven above. Wheels were perfect symbols for everything. Life. Karma! The everlasting twists of fate and destiny. It was perfect.

It must be his.

[OLIVER QUINN]

Of all the days that Oliver had ever gone waltzing around a junkyard (something he had undoubtedly done many times), today was by far his most unsuccessful day.

The wild-haired scientist had been perusing the mounds of trash and rubble for what felt like hours, searching for something, anything, that might make his spoon-propeller function correctly. Upon trying to activate it this morning, it had promptly spit out several bent spoons and then collapsed on itself, a mishap that Oliver spent several hours making up for in repairs. He thought the idea of creating a machine that flung spoons right into bowls could make him millions of dollars. Just think of all the use it would be in ice cream shops?

Mmm...ice cream. He could really go for some ice cream right now.

Tugging his tweed suitjacket a bit more firmly around his shoulders, he pushed up his glasses and continued to scout, trying to avoid the piles of more unsightly rubbish. There had to be something here...something...

And that was when he saw it.

A cog.

Oliver's brain immediately began to whirr. A cog. Of course! An extra cog! If he placed that cog between cogs 2A and 3F, it would decrease the pressure placed on the spoon launcher and therefore allow for a cleanly-propelled spoon! It was perfect! It had to be his!

Nearly stumbling over a pile of old car bumpers, Oliver lurched forward towards the cog and snatched it up in his nimble fingers, examining it. No...no, no, not too bad at all. Quite good condition for something found in so foul a place, most certainly! Not too rusted, just a little bit of cleaning up and it would be perfect. And just the right size! What a lucky find this had been!

He couldn't wait to get back to the laboratory.

[SCOTT PARKER]

Scott was practically giddy over the idea of all the symbolism that little beauty would bring to his work. People would stand in awe in the gallery his work would be shown in in the near future and remark on all the inner meanings of that simple yet perfectly, WONDROUSLY deep little piece. They would stand there and say "Oh, goodness gracious," (Gallery-goers were notorious for being of a more classy breed of people), " That Parker lad, he clearly knows what he's doing. Look how precisely he placed that cog there, as if he wanted to make it look like any old chap off the street could pick up a piece from their local mechanic's and think themselves an artist. No, he clearly knew what he was doing, as he used that piece to indicate that we are in fact living in an age ruled by technology and metal, but as it is rusted he is suggesting through his art that we must return to a more natural state, and that for all our human inventions, death is inevitable. It's quite admirable, really."

Scott found himself practically salivating at the thought of such grandeur and glory being attributed to his name. He made his way lazily over towards his precious little piece, as if in a dream. He felt like a Disney princess, finally meeting her true love. it was just as he was about to burst into a rousing rendition of "I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream," that he saw the enemy. Another guy, moseying his way over to SCOTT'S cogwheel.

This was simply not acceptable.

He had to get that wheel by any means necessary. Whether it through lying, or cheating, or outright hitting that guy over the head with an old car bumper and stealing it back while he was unconscious/dead (okay, maybe not that last bit) Scott WOULD have his ticket to fame and fortune back, at any cost.

He began sprinting at the guy, trying desperately to think up a good story on the spot. For some reason, though his mind housed a WONDROUS imagination and faculties capable of creating only the most beautiful sculptures, this whole making up a convincing reason to get that damned cogwheel back was surprisingly difficult.

"OH! Hey, thank GOD you found it!" Scott puffed, finally reaching the man. "God, I couldn't believe it when Nana... When Nana...When Nana threw out that old family heirloom!" Scott had stumbled a bit over his story, but he found that this was actually quite a good yarn and besides that bit where he found himself at a loss for words, he was quite certain it would be a convincing tale. "You see, gosh, it's been in my family for generations. It's all we have really, to remember..." He was trailing again, but he was certain he could pull it off. Somehow. Perhaps later on in the story he would be able to force himself to cry. That would drive off this idiot from his treasure, wouldn't it? "You see, it's really all we have left to remember Great, Great, GREAT Granddad Billy Jim." He paused a moment before adding, "The third." for good measure. He wanted to make sure this fake relative at least had a proper title.

Placing his palms on his heart, he gazed imploringly at the bastard junkyard diver, giving him the most agonizing stare he could stir up. "I'm sure you understand, sir. It's.... It's like part of the family to me. So...if you wouldn't mind just, handing it over. It belongs with me."

[OLIVER QUINN]

It was absolutely perfect. In pristine condition, aside from the rust...but that could be taken care of easily, he had all sorts of chemicals for removing rust in his workshop...oh, yes, yes, and it was JUST the perfect size, he could see it now! It would provide the perfect amount of space between the primary spoon ejaculator and the lower winding mechanism! Yes!

And then, just think, as soon as he had completed his wondrous machine, he could take it to the Inventor's Expo two weeks from now and showcase it to all of the other inventors in New York, and they would gawk at how functional and practical his machine was, how much time and energy it would save putting spoons into soups or ice creams at restaurants. And he would receive grants, and he could file for a patent, and he could sell his product for thousands, no, millions of dollars! He would become famous for his inventing prowess, just as he had always dreamed, and as soon as they recognized his talent, they could take into account his automatic wood-chopper and his battery-operated lint-duster and, and, and...!

He had to get back to the lab with this immediately.

"OH! Hey, thank GOD you found it!"

What the hell--

Oliver turned his attention to this newcomer, his brow furrowing as he held the cog close to his chest possessively.

"God, I couldn't believe it when Nana... When Nana...When Nana threw out that old family heirloom!" Oliver's eyes narrowed suspiciously as this stranger cog-stealer stumbled over his story. "You see, gosh, it's been in my family for generations. It's all we have really, to remember..."

Oliver raised both eyebrows.

"You see, it's really all we have left to remember Great, Great, GREAT Granddad Billy Jim. The third."

The inventor's eyebrows descended again. "That so."

"I'm sure you understand, sir. It's.... It's like part of the family to me. So...if you wouldn't mind just, handing it over. It belongs with me."

"And how on earth," Oliver began slowly, "could this rusty old cog possibly substitute as a family heirloom?" He frowned. "I don't know if I believe you. Usually family heirlooms are...are..." Shit. Aphasia. He was missing the words he needed to complete his sentence. "Um. You know. Something...valuable."

[SCOTT PARKER]

Personally, Scott thought that he was putting on a wonderful show for his fellow junkyard diver. If he was the one hearing such a flawless story, he was SURE that he would have handed over that fucking cog in a heartbeat, his heart going out to the poor lost soul that spun such a wondrous yarn. He was just kind and thoughtful that way, unlike this cold and imperious bastard that held his ticket to glory with such a snooty look on his face. God, Scott wanted to punch him right then and there and run like a bat outta' hell with his prize, but no. He would take the high road. He was born witha certain level of decorum, and he wasn't about to abandon it in the hopes of gaining grandeur or glory. The Karma Gods noticed that kind of tomfoolery and they were always sure to fuck shit up for idiots that messed around with their rules.

Scott clenched his teeth together as the man simply nodded and murmured something which sounded doubtful and uppity. It was moments like these that really tested Scott's moral fiber and really put him to the test. The fact that the man seemed to have found flaws with his story (and to be honest, they WERE flaws. Scott should have known better than to pull the old "Family Heirloom" card on this one). He was a gonner if he didn't come up with an excuse quickly. Right now, he really wished that he could just abandon the entire thing and deck him. Wouldn't the Karma Gods understand? This guy was clearly too stupid to even be considered of equal human status. He should be allowed to act without impunity as far as someone who was having trouble piecing together a simple sentence was concerned. He clearly didn't DESERVE the beautiful piece of art that he was clinging to.

No. No. He had to resist. Moral Fiber. Higher Road. Golden Rule and all that jazz. He had to keep fighting the good fight. Keep the lie alive. Keep spinning the yarn and making sure this idiotic buffoon fell for it and handed over the cog before Scott succumbed to his violent compulsions and someone got hurt.

"Um, well, you see, Sir," Scott whimpered, a perfect picture of someone who had clearly lost something very dear to their heart. This was the perfect time for him to manage to tweak out a tear, and yet, annoyingly, he felt nothing welling up in his eyes. Clearly, his tear ducts wanted to play no part in his charade. Great Great Great Granddaddy Billy Joe, well, he was the man who invented the cogwheel. This was his very first model. As you can see, it's not exactly worth much to any other man with all it's rust and irregularities, but to me it's worth millions in sentimental value. I just.... I couldn't bear to part with it."

[OLIVER QUINN]

This guy was barking up the wrong tree. Oliver was ready to just clutch this precious discovery to his chest, turn tail, and run the hell out of this place. He didn't need to waste his time swapping family stories with a man who was clearly trying to lie his way into claiming that cogwheel. Well, Oliver wouldn't have it. Maybe he was foolish sometimes, but he definitely wasn't stupid. He'd graduated magna cum laude and he built rockets for a living. This guy was not getting past him that easily.

"Um, well, you see, Sir, Great Great Great Granddaddy Billy Joe, well, he was the man who invented the cogwheel. This was his very first model. As you can see, it's not exactly worth much to any other man with all it's rust and irregularities, but to me it's worth millions in sentimental value. I just.... I couldn't bear to part with it."

Well, wasn't that touching.

Oliver wasn't a coldhearted person. In fact, he was usually cheerful, friendly, and kind. But when it came to a liar so keen on securing something that Oliver was obviously more in need of than him, he was All-Business Quinn.

He raised one of his eyebrows and pushed up his glasses, taking a cautious step back from the lying man.

"Well," he began, and his tone was wary. "Is his name Billy Jim or Billy Joe? Because you used one of his...um." Shit. "You used one...word-used-to-implicate-a-specific-person when you began your story, but now you're using another." He frowned slightly. "Also, there's absolutely no way this great great great great grandfather of yours could have invented the cog wheel, seeing as gears - which is really the proper name for a device of this shape and size - were invented by Blaise Pascal, and his name is definitely not Billy Jim or Billy Joe."

He raised both his eyebrows and awaited a response, wondering if he should even bother wasting his time or if he should just make a run for it. He was starting to favor the latter option.

[SCOTT PARKER]

Scott could tell his credibility was waning. Honestly, how on Earth could Scott have managed to find the one person in the goddamn junkyard who seemed to have memorized the history of the cogwheel - oh, wait, gear. Gosh, who the hell was this pretentious prick, and why couldn't he just leave well enough alone and leave Scott to leave a happy camper with his prize? Instead they had to go through all this horrible awkwardness and pick and fight with each other like cats. This was very much going against the whole karma thing that Scott had planned to use that damned little circle of metal as a metaphor of.

"Well you know, Billy Joe, Billy Jim, they were just nicknames! What, did you never call YOUR aunts and uncles anything other than their birth names? If so, I pity you, I truly do, and the heartless family you came from." Scott was so beyond aiming for credibility at this point. He could only hope that if he kept this idiot talking for long enough he would be able to come up with yet another foolproof plan to get that little gear away from him and make a break for it to the junkyard entrance.

"And what, did you expect my great freat uncle's small little nephews and nieces to be able to pronounce "Blaise" while they were still learning how to talk? no sir, they couldn't, so my great great uncle had the brilliant idea to let them call him Billy Joe, or Billy Jim, whichever came more naturally to them, and well, sir, the name seemed to just stick. It was the darnedest thing in the world but it did." Scott's eyes were glued to that samned little wheel. Oh yes, it would be his. Soon. VERY soon. He just needed to.... wrap this up somehow.

"Now, really, do I need to sit here and explain my entire family tree to you, or are you going to give me that gear? I'll have you know I'm on a rather tight schedule and, well, frankly, I don't have time for this."

[OLIVER QUINN]

Oliver was quickly losing any interest he had in this man. A minute ago, he'd been sort of kind of a little bit intrigued, but now he was just bored. Didn't this young man even know how to lie? Surely, Oliver didn't lie himself, but he could tell a good lie from a bad most of the time. He wasn't gullible.

Okay...he wasn't THAT gullible.

Anyway, the point was that he was getting annoyed with the continuity flaws inherent in this story. He just wanted to go home and finish working on his invention already.

"Well you know, Billy Joe, Billy Jim, they were just nicknames! What, did you never call YOUR aunts and uncles anything other than their birth names? If so, I pity you, I truly do, and the heartless family you came from."

"I had an uncle Howard that we all called Howie," Oliver mused, but he still seemed rather skeptical. "And my, um..." Oh, damn. What was the word he'd used...? Of course his aphasia liked to get in his way when he was trying NOT to make a complete fool out of himself to this...bumbling stranger. Whoever he was. Oliver didn't really care. He just wanted to get out of here.

"My...nuclear...unit...was not heartless," he concluded at last with a decisive nod. That was close enough to what he meant. "You know, the...thingy...wordyoujustused. That." Okay, now he did sound stupid. His confidence waned after just a moment and he slapped his hand over his face with a little groan.

"And what, did you expect my great freat uncle's small little nephews and nieces to be able to pronounce "Blaise" while they were still learning how to talk? no sir, they couldn't, so my great great uncle had the brilliant idea to let them call him Billy Joe, or Billy Jim, whichever came more naturally to them, and well, sir, the name seemed to just stick. It was the darnedest thing in the world but it did."

Oliver snorted. "Well, that is nice and all, and a very sweet story, but Blaise Pascal died in the 17th century, and I'm fairly certain that even a great great uncle doesn't go back that many generations. Besides that, I don't think a Frenchman and serious mathematician like Pascal would go by a name like 'Billy Jim.'" He raised both his eyebrows, drawing the hand away from his face. This was getting really old, really fast.

"Now, really, do I need to sit here and explain my entire family tree to you, or are you going to give me that gear? I'll have you know I'm on a rather tight schedule and, well, frankly, I don't have time for this."

Oliver sighed. That was enough.

"Alright," he said, straightening up a little bit and trying to look serious and skeptical. "Listen. Your story has more holes in it than a silicated iron meteorite. I think you might get farther with me if you tell me the truth about why you want this thing. Being honest usually improves your chances of success. Unless you're a...oh, what are they called...artist...ah...well, you get the idea." He looked up at the young man expectantly and blinked.

[SCOTT PARKER]

Scott was beginning to get the sinking suspicion that the person he was arguing with was not entirely... all there. His mental facilities were not working at full capacity. He was challenged as far as intelligence was concerned. When God made him, he ran out of brains just as he was halfway done and decided to just not bother opening up another bag. BASICALLY what Scott was saying was, this guy seemed to be outstandingly stupid.

Now, not to have his point misconstrued, he was certain that ANYONE who would have tried to get between Scott and that gear would have to be inconceivably idiotic. It was obvious that Scott and the cogwheel were made for each other. The Fates had clearly created the two of them to be together, to lead each other to fame and glory. The fact that this incredible moron couldn't see that and INSISTED upon trying to separate them, well, that by itself classified him as stupid. But Scott was talking about stupidity at a finer, deeper level. Watching him stand there, FLOUNDERING for words as if his brain was short circuiting right in front of him, well, it was quite pathetic to be honest. Add to that hopeless sense of word-floundering the fact that the man then appeared to simply make things up about meteorite or whatever and it made for a particularly heartbreaking display of idiocy. Scott would have felt sorry for this man for having to walk through life confused and at a loss for understanding nearly everything that happened to him. It truly must have been a difficult life this strange, crazy man led.

But Scott could care the fuck less about any potential sob stories this man had to offer. He had something that Scott wanted, and Scott wasn't leaving without it in hand, and no man, be he stupid or brilliant, was going to stop that.

"Listen, bub, I'm going to level with you, and I'm going to make this as clear as possible so you have a chance to understand it." Scott glared at him, hand held out expectantly for the gear which the man would most CERTAINLY hand over by the end of Scott's explanation. "As a matter of fact, I am an artist, and I'm going to need that gear in order to make my masterpiece particularly masterful and piece-y. Now, I have to congratulate you, because for all intents and purposes you did pick it up first, but if you don't hand it over I will most likely have to mug you, or follow you home and do something perfectly disastrous. Understand? Or should I go over that again a bit slower for you." Of course, Scott had no intention of actually committing to such violence, but he figured it both spiced up his argument and hopefully stuck fear into this imbecile.

[OLIVER QUINN]

Oliver had to admit that he was under absolutely no impression that this kid knew what he was talking about. But, of course, he supposed scroungers like this one would do anything to get their prize. Then again...he was really no better, so he shouldn't be judging...or was he better? He did have a purpose. But then, he could make money with that purpose, so that wasn't really much better, no matter what this man wanted to do with the gear...

Still, his machine was for the betterment of mankind. A spoon-launcher! What could possibly be more beneficial to the human race?!

He could tell the young man was getting irritated, but, being eccentric as he was, it didn't seem to bother him. His eyes remained calm, and he dipped his head to the side as the young man spoke.

"Listen, bub, I'm going to level with you, and I'm going to make this as clear as possible so you have a chance to understand it. As a matter of fact, I am an artist, and I'm going to need that gear in order to make my masterpiece particularly masterful and piece-y. Now, I have to congratulate you, because for all intents and purposes you did pick it up first, but if you don't hand it over I will most likely have to mug you, or follow you home and do something perfectly disastrous. Understand? Or should I go over that again a bit slower for you."

Oliver brightened immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting up in a smile.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" he exclaimed. "What a worthwhile endeavor! Well, I suppose so, anyway. I was never really much of an artist, never really understood it. I'm a straightforward person. Art galleries scare me silly. I just invent things, and that takes a certain skill, but..." He examined the gear, committing its size and shape to memory. Of course he could relinquish this one little gear to an artist. It wasn't like it was the last gear on earth.

Placing it in Scott's hand, he smiled brightly. "There. Though I may not be good at it, I have an appreciation for anyone in a field that requires technical skill. Use that well." He bowed to Scott with a little flourish and started digging through the nearest pile of rubbish as if he had completely forgotten the other man was there.

[SCOTT PARKER]

Scott was sure this would be a perfect chapter in his yet to be written auto-biography about the troubles he'd gone through as an artist attempting to make it big. It would be a wonder of an auto-biography, explaining the trials and tribulations he'd experienced in an attempt to sculpt the perfect piece, and how he'd worked so hard just to be ignored for other, more abstract artists. He figured that this book would sell much more once Scott had finally been discovered as an artist, and once his work was appreciated and beloved by all the art critics of the city. Until then he was just trying to pick up pieces here and there, mentally bookmarking them for later use.

The weird conversation with this freak in the junkyard would make a perfect anecdote in a chapter about all the shit he'd gone through to get supplies for his first famous sculpture. Everyone would laugh at this hilarity of the surreal discussion, and find it just too funny that Scott had attempted to sell himself as the descendant of some inventor. It would be a nice pick-me-up after a chapter on Scott's parents. He just KNEW that it would make for a nice, well-respected section of his future work.

"There. Though I may not be good at it, I have an appreciation for anyone in a field that requires technical skill. Use that well."

Scott perked up instantly upon feeling the metal pressed into his hands. There! Now that wasn't so hard, was it? This had actually turned out to be a delightful experience!

"Oh, hey, thanks man! Like, yo're actually a pretty cool guy, y'know? I didn't actually think you were gonna give that up without a fight!" Scott nodded and grinned like an idiot. Shit! This whole artist thing would get him more places than he thought! He should whip that one out a bit more often. Maybe it would illicit a wow factor in other people too!

"On behalf of the entire art community, I thank you for your brave and selfless act!" Scott vociferated, despite the fact that the man appeared to be squirreling away off through a different pile of trash. Scott was intrigued. He needed to continue this conversation so he could at least attribute a name to the mysterious crazy person that had given him the central piece for his most famous work!

"Say, uh, what's your name, anyway? I mean, you're clearly a man on a mission here. Any reason for that?" Scott leaned over, trying to get noticed by the mysterious man.

[OLIVER QUINN]

There, now, that was dealt with. That cog was a perfect shape, but regardless, he was sure he could find something else that would permit the trajectory to line up correctly. He was loath to spend any money if he didn't have to, seeing as junkyards were so full of buried treasure, but if he had to go buy the properly sized gear, he supposed he could suck it up and do so. After all, this man he had just been arguing with was an artist, and artists had much more specific needs than inventors. Everyone knew that.

He hummed to himself as he dug through a pile of scrap metal. He always wore gloves when he went to the junkyard, just to make sure he didn't catch himself on a rusty nail -- seeing as he didn't remember when he'd last had his tetanus shot. Oh, dear, that was troubling, he should probably get that...but he didn't like shots, not one bit. Hm.

Oh, was the stranger still talking?

"Oh, hey, thanks man! Like, yo're actually a pretty cool guy, y'know? I didn't actually think you were gonna give that up without a fight!"

"Well," Oliver said, picking up a round piece of rusted iron and then throwing it carelessly aside, "your needs are a lot more specific than mine. I'm looking for just size and shape, whereas your criteria are undoubtedly far more extensive." His tone was a little bit distracted, and he paused to heft an old car bumper out of the way. Hmmm...car bumpers. He was sure he could use that for something sometime, but it was a bit big to carry home with him today. He had come looking for cogs, not car bumpers.

"On behalf of the entire art community, I thank you for your brave and selfless act!"

Seemed a bit theatrical. It was just a cog.

"Oh, um, you're welcome," Oliver replied, plopping rather unceremoniously onto an old oil can as he sorted through another pile of scraps. He supposed most people would find it a bit unusual that he was so focused on the task at hand and not on the man thanking him and complimenting him, but that was just the way Oliver was. When it came to his inventing, his level of focus was amazingly high.

"Say, uh, what's your name, anyway? I mean, you're clearly a man on a mission here. Any reason for that?"

The young man was leaning into his line of sight now. Did he need something else?

Oliver looked up at him, an old car wheel in his hands. "I'm an inventor," he said, smiling one of his quirky and innocent smiles. "I make things. Well. Not things. Inventions. That's what inventors do, after all." Well, that had certainly sounded...eloquent. Nevermind. He looked back down at the car wheel and turned it over. "My name is Oliver."