“They” say that every dog must have his day. “They” say that all good things must come to an end. “They” say that time heals all wounds.

Sparkleboy always thought the advice “they” gave was for other people. All that advice was based on “common” sense, for “common” people. Sparkleboy knew there was nothing “common” about him. For Sparkleboy, “common” sense didn’t apply.

When he snuck into a theatre to see Pirates of the Caribbean, he almost cheered out loud to hear Captain Jack Sparrow utter his lines about rules being more like “guidelines”. Sparkleboy wasn’t much for heroes, but this was one hero he could really get behind.

Rules, laws, common sense — he found he had far too much time to ponder these things in the House. There was only so much juggling he could do, and the warden got so annoyed when he broke or burned things with this sparkles, so that was no fun. He always looked forward to mealtimes, especially dinner, because dinner included dessert. The cook always had Jell-o available for dessert.

Thinking about it, he couldn’t help but admit there might one saying, one thing “they” said, that was so common it applied even to the very uncommon Sparkleboy: “There’s always room for Jell-o.”

In the dark, the snowflakes looked like stars, flying towards them and over the windshield. Blast found it hypnotic.

Behind him, Sparkleboy drummed his fingers on the window. “Boring!”

“Shut up, Sparkly.” Cannon sounded like he was trying to sleep. Glancing over his shoulder, Blast saw the mercenary’s metallic body sprawled across the middle seat. He had one arm draped across his eyes — which was weird, Blast thought, because eyelids like his should easily block out the light from passing cars.

Perhaps old habits die hard.

“Anyone want to play catch?” A glow started to form in Sparkleboy’s right hand.

“Put it away, Sparkleboy.” Ellison’s stern look in the rear view mirror matched his tone. Sparkleboy responded with a comic grimace, like he was being shushed by a sour old librarian. The glow dissipated, though, with just a hint of electric crackle.

Beside Sparkleboy in the back seat, Knockout reach out to tap Cannon on the forearm. Once. Twice. Three times. “Cannon.”

“Hm?”

“Next time we stop, we’re switching seats.”

“HANDS IN THE AIR! NOW!”

Considering that the cop was only six feet away from him, Sparkleboy thought he was yelling awfully loud.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah! Hey buddy, look, alright? I’m raising, I’m raising.”

Sparkleboy turned slowly, arms raised the bare minimum he thought he could get away with, palms barely above his head.

“Hey, that’s quite the weapon you’ve got there.”

Sparkleboy pointed with his chin, indicating the business-like mess of add-ons fitted to the barrel of the officer’s MP5.

“Hands a little higher, whitey.”

The rifle remained steady, aimed at Sparkleboy’s chest. He cocked his head slightly, studying it.

Underslung was the standard gas canister launcher, used for riot control, and also handy for evening the odds against lower-powered perps. On top squatted a portly laser sight — likely beefed up for actual burn, Sparkleboy figured. Twin tubes on the distal side looked like they might squirt or spray something, maybe adhesive, or containment foam. The thick black rod on the other side could be… well, could be anything, really.

It didn’t really matter, to Sparkleboy.

“What, these hands?”

He had his own handful of surprises.

Sparkleboy thought about the question. He hemmed and hawed dramatically, and thought some more. He ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in a thicket of blond grass. It didn’t matter how he thought about it, he didn’t like any of the answers.

“How about D: none of the above?”

His smile was wide, but showed little teeth.

Bolinski shook his head. He refused to let this character-disordered man-boy-in-white-tights get to him.

“Choose now, or I’ll choose for you.”

“Aww, Dad! You ruin all the fun!”

Bolinski had an idle thought that Sparkleboy’s pout was just as genuine as anything else about him. In other words, not at all.

Sparkleboy was riding high. Metric on the iPod, double shot of espresso in his veins, and a bright, sunshiney day with the wind in his hair — these were the kinds of things that amped him up to eleven. A smirk pulled at his mouth, and he let it go, creasing its way into a full smile at the thought of how others would consider Sparkleboy on overdrive to be too much of a good thing. There was no shortage of people who couldn’t even handle him at his normal levels.

Coming up on the playground, he double-quickstepped, and hopped up onto the climbers. Step, step, step, and he was on the top railing, staring down at the little children and their perturbed mommies, overprotective yuppie women in lululemon and Tom’s shoes who felt that grown men shouldn’t be playing in the same space as their precious children. He was setting a bad example, walking the railings like balance beams, instead of staying safely ensconced behind them on the platforms proper. Hah! He didn’t care.