Disclaimer:
This just in! A recent study shows that L. Emmist does not own Animorphs in character or concept. Mr. Emmist was unavailable for comment, but his press secretary, one Elmira Pickleworthy, informed our sources that, "Mr. Emmist was aware of this. His works are an expression of appreciation for all KA Applegate has done. He should not be construed as owning or believing to own these items, and he should definitely not be sued." Thus far, Ms. Applegate, the original authoress of the Animorphs books, has pressed no charges. Ms. Pickleworthy relates L. Emmist's reaction as "grateful." We have also been informed that L. Emmist does not own any of the other copyrighted or trademarked items he has mentioned in his works, and is not making any money off of them. Again, Ms. Pickleworthy emphasizes that Mr. Emmist would "prefer not to be sued."
Note:
You really should read "The Wheel," before beginning this. While "The Heretic" isn't a sequel as such, it is set shortly after "The Wheel," and so summarizes the plot - including major twists - of that story.
This story has a permanent "To Be Continued . . . " attached to the end of each chapter, until you see the words, "The End." After that, beg and plead as you might, the story has concluded. Before that, beg and plead as you might, the story goes on.
============
THE HERETIC
============
Chapter One:
"You are SO not in charge of me, Rachel!" Jordan screamed, hurling her shoe at my face.
Hi. I'm Rachel. Yeah, that Rachel. The one who turns into animals in order to fight alien slugs. The one dealing with a seriously irate little sister.
I caught the shoe, and dropped it. A couple years of battle will heighten your reflexes just a little. "Look, Jordan, calm down."
"No!" she shouted, climbing up onto the couch. She does that when we're arguing. Maybe it's to be taller than me. Maybe it's so she can escape when I lose my not-so-very-good-temper. "I can go if I want to!"
"Jordan, I'm telling you that it's a bad idea. That girl is trouble!"
Jordan sat down on the back of the couch, her arms folded and a deep scowl on her face. "Look, Big Sister," she said, squeezing every drop of sarcasm she could into the name, "I'm thirteen years old! I can make decisions about what to do and where to go by myself, without bodyguards watching everything I do! I'm *grown* *up*, don't you get that?"
Grown up. Right. My parents aren't even grown up. You don't grow up until you've lived the kind of life I have. Then you grow up way too fast.
For those who haven't been paying attention, Earth is under attack by Yeerks. My friends and I are the only ones who can stop them. We do this by morphing into any animal we touch. Big Mama Earth has provided quite an arsenal for us over the course of the war. According to the Andalites - supposedly the "good guys" of the universe - we shouldn't even have this ability. Well, we do. Boo-hoo. If the Andalites would hurry up and get here and kick the Yeerks off our planet, we wouldn't need to use their technology.
Right now, though, I wasn't involved with any dire mission. We had hurt the Yeerks badly by ruining this great plan to infest everybody who went through Driver's Ed. Well, I shouldn't say "we." More like, my friends. I was under control by one of those Yeerks I've been talking about. Couldn't move, couldn't blink on my own. Couldn't tell Tobias that it wasn't me talking to him, but someone, some*thing* that wanted to see him dead. Fortunately, Marco had been able to salvage the mission. I had gotten free, the Yeerks still thought we were Andalite bandits, and their new holographic projector was destroyed.
We also took out the town's main water tower in the process, but that really couldn't be helped. There was a citywide emergency declared, and water had been rationed and regulated for about three weeks. You couldn't take more than a two-minute shower. Couldn't brush your teeth without water. No cooking with water, where possibly avoidable. And you don't even want to hear about the toilet situation. We had all gotten pretty grungy over those three weeks.
It was because the water regulations had just been discontinued that Jordan and I were having this fight. Saint Patrick's day was on Wednesday, but there was a *serious* heat wave in town, for that time of year. It was upwards of eighty degrees out. One of the girls Jordan knew, Megan, was throwing a pool party. They were going to have waterfights, water-drinking contests, sprinkler-jumping contests . . . all the ways they could think of to waste the water they were now allowed to use again. Picture my friend Ax the Andalite, at Cinnabon. That's about the level of excitement we're talking here.
All of which would be good and fine, if it weren't Megan hosting the party.
See, I know Megan. I used to be friends with her, before my Yeerk-crushing days. For some reason, she befriended the troublemakers and rowdy crowd at our school. Not long after I started spending my weeknights ripping apart Hork-Bajir guards, she gained a reputation for being a party girl. Then she went a little further. Her image grew. Because people expected her to be worse, she acted with even less self-control, which, in turn, led to a worse reputation. The whole thing basically snowballed until Megan was one of the people that smart students Avoided. Yeah, with a capital A.
And she was throwing this party that Jordan was dying to go to. The way Megan was now, I was laying on the odds heavy that there would be hard drinks, hard drugs, and . . . well, it would probably be the kind of party Jordan really shouldn't attend. Yet, for some reason, she was dead set on the idea. I think it involved a boy who would be going, but I'm really not sure. The point was, no way on Earth was I going to let Jordan go.
"You're grown up?" I snorted. "Sure, right. That's why you threw a fit when Mom almost gave Mrs. Peekaboo to that Salvation Army guy."
"That was two weeks ago!"
"Oh, and what, you've grown up since then?" I was beginning to get really tired of this argument.
"Look," she grated, "I told Mom that I was going to a pool party on Friday. She said okay. The paperwork has all been filed, Rachel!"
"Then I'll just go and tell Mom a little bit about Megan, and maybe she'll reconsider." I didn't want to have to do that. There were things I knew about Megan I had sworn I would never tell anybody. To protect Jordan, I was willing to break that oath, but if I could get out of it . . .
"If you tell Mom about Megan, I'll tell her about the last twelve times you snuck out."
"If you tell her about that, I'll tell Marco you think he's cute."
"If you tell him, I'll tell Mom you've been cheating on those math tests."
"I haven't been cheating!" I protested.
She snorted. "You spend zero time studying, Rachel. Zip. You barely scramble through your homework every day. It's utterly impossible for you to get A's like you do without cheating."
Boy, was she observant. I'd have to be more careful about her. "I have a great memory," I said.
"Uh-huh."
"Listen," I sighed. "You really don't want to go to this party. Megan is bad news. You know that! Don't make me get ugly."
"You already *are* ugly," she sneered.
"Yeah, yeah," I grunted. "Bottom line? You are *not* going to go to this party."
"Bottom line?" she shot back, "I am."
The ringing phone interrupted our glaring contest. I ripped it off the hook, scowling. "Yeah?"
"Hey, Rachel! It's Jake. Some of us were thinking it might be fun to get together."
Great. Just what I needed. Some mission to complicate my already frustrating life.
"Today?" I asked.
"Whenever. We were thinking Wednesday. Just to hang out. Does your family have any plans for St. Patrick's Day?"
I couldn't tell if he was talking about a mission, or if he really meant what he said.
"No, we don't. Let me know the details." I punched the off button. During our conversation, Jordan had climbed down off the couch. She lifted her backpack to her shoulder with a smirk. I pointed at her menacingly, "You're not going."
"Sure, Rachel," she smiled. "Whatever you say." Then she turned and pounded up the stairs.
Something in her little brain had clicked, and she thought she had won the argument. That happens a lot, and it's the main reason I avoid fights with her. As far as she was concerned, all was settled and she was definitely going. Her plan was simple. Placate the rabid older sister until Friday night, then split.
Problem is, I'm one older sister who isn't that easily dismissed. And I'm one older sister who can turn into an elephant and end a party real fast.
This just in! A recent study shows that L. Emmist does not own Animorphs in character or concept. Mr. Emmist was unavailable for comment, but his press secretary, one Elmira Pickleworthy, informed our sources that, "Mr. Emmist was aware of this. His works are an expression of appreciation for all KA Applegate has done. He should not be construed as owning or believing to own these items, and he should definitely not be sued." Thus far, Ms. Applegate, the original authoress of the Animorphs books, has pressed no charges. Ms. Pickleworthy relates L. Emmist's reaction as "grateful." We have also been informed that L. Emmist does not own any of the other copyrighted or trademarked items he has mentioned in his works, and is not making any money off of them. Again, Ms. Pickleworthy emphasizes that Mr. Emmist would "prefer not to be sued."
Note:
You really should read "The Wheel," before beginning this. While "The Heretic" isn't a sequel as such, it is set shortly after "The Wheel," and so summarizes the plot - including major twists - of that story.
This story has a permanent "To Be Continued . . . " attached to the end of each chapter, until you see the words, "The End." After that, beg and plead as you might, the story has concluded. Before that, beg and plead as you might, the story goes on.
============
THE HERETIC
============
Chapter One:
"You are SO not in charge of me, Rachel!" Jordan screamed, hurling her shoe at my face.
Hi. I'm Rachel. Yeah, that Rachel. The one who turns into animals in order to fight alien slugs. The one dealing with a seriously irate little sister.
I caught the shoe, and dropped it. A couple years of battle will heighten your reflexes just a little. "Look, Jordan, calm down."
"No!" she shouted, climbing up onto the couch. She does that when we're arguing. Maybe it's to be taller than me. Maybe it's so she can escape when I lose my not-so-very-good-temper. "I can go if I want to!"
"Jordan, I'm telling you that it's a bad idea. That girl is trouble!"
Jordan sat down on the back of the couch, her arms folded and a deep scowl on her face. "Look, Big Sister," she said, squeezing every drop of sarcasm she could into the name, "I'm thirteen years old! I can make decisions about what to do and where to go by myself, without bodyguards watching everything I do! I'm *grown* *up*, don't you get that?"
Grown up. Right. My parents aren't even grown up. You don't grow up until you've lived the kind of life I have. Then you grow up way too fast.
For those who haven't been paying attention, Earth is under attack by Yeerks. My friends and I are the only ones who can stop them. We do this by morphing into any animal we touch. Big Mama Earth has provided quite an arsenal for us over the course of the war. According to the Andalites - supposedly the "good guys" of the universe - we shouldn't even have this ability. Well, we do. Boo-hoo. If the Andalites would hurry up and get here and kick the Yeerks off our planet, we wouldn't need to use their technology.
Right now, though, I wasn't involved with any dire mission. We had hurt the Yeerks badly by ruining this great plan to infest everybody who went through Driver's Ed. Well, I shouldn't say "we." More like, my friends. I was under control by one of those Yeerks I've been talking about. Couldn't move, couldn't blink on my own. Couldn't tell Tobias that it wasn't me talking to him, but someone, some*thing* that wanted to see him dead. Fortunately, Marco had been able to salvage the mission. I had gotten free, the Yeerks still thought we were Andalite bandits, and their new holographic projector was destroyed.
We also took out the town's main water tower in the process, but that really couldn't be helped. There was a citywide emergency declared, and water had been rationed and regulated for about three weeks. You couldn't take more than a two-minute shower. Couldn't brush your teeth without water. No cooking with water, where possibly avoidable. And you don't even want to hear about the toilet situation. We had all gotten pretty grungy over those three weeks.
It was because the water regulations had just been discontinued that Jordan and I were having this fight. Saint Patrick's day was on Wednesday, but there was a *serious* heat wave in town, for that time of year. It was upwards of eighty degrees out. One of the girls Jordan knew, Megan, was throwing a pool party. They were going to have waterfights, water-drinking contests, sprinkler-jumping contests . . . all the ways they could think of to waste the water they were now allowed to use again. Picture my friend Ax the Andalite, at Cinnabon. That's about the level of excitement we're talking here.
All of which would be good and fine, if it weren't Megan hosting the party.
See, I know Megan. I used to be friends with her, before my Yeerk-crushing days. For some reason, she befriended the troublemakers and rowdy crowd at our school. Not long after I started spending my weeknights ripping apart Hork-Bajir guards, she gained a reputation for being a party girl. Then she went a little further. Her image grew. Because people expected her to be worse, she acted with even less self-control, which, in turn, led to a worse reputation. The whole thing basically snowballed until Megan was one of the people that smart students Avoided. Yeah, with a capital A.
And she was throwing this party that Jordan was dying to go to. The way Megan was now, I was laying on the odds heavy that there would be hard drinks, hard drugs, and . . . well, it would probably be the kind of party Jordan really shouldn't attend. Yet, for some reason, she was dead set on the idea. I think it involved a boy who would be going, but I'm really not sure. The point was, no way on Earth was I going to let Jordan go.
"You're grown up?" I snorted. "Sure, right. That's why you threw a fit when Mom almost gave Mrs. Peekaboo to that Salvation Army guy."
"That was two weeks ago!"
"Oh, and what, you've grown up since then?" I was beginning to get really tired of this argument.
"Look," she grated, "I told Mom that I was going to a pool party on Friday. She said okay. The paperwork has all been filed, Rachel!"
"Then I'll just go and tell Mom a little bit about Megan, and maybe she'll reconsider." I didn't want to have to do that. There were things I knew about Megan I had sworn I would never tell anybody. To protect Jordan, I was willing to break that oath, but if I could get out of it . . .
"If you tell Mom about Megan, I'll tell her about the last twelve times you snuck out."
"If you tell her about that, I'll tell Marco you think he's cute."
"If you tell him, I'll tell Mom you've been cheating on those math tests."
"I haven't been cheating!" I protested.
She snorted. "You spend zero time studying, Rachel. Zip. You barely scramble through your homework every day. It's utterly impossible for you to get A's like you do without cheating."
Boy, was she observant. I'd have to be more careful about her. "I have a great memory," I said.
"Uh-huh."
"Listen," I sighed. "You really don't want to go to this party. Megan is bad news. You know that! Don't make me get ugly."
"You already *are* ugly," she sneered.
"Yeah, yeah," I grunted. "Bottom line? You are *not* going to go to this party."
"Bottom line?" she shot back, "I am."
The ringing phone interrupted our glaring contest. I ripped it off the hook, scowling. "Yeah?"
"Hey, Rachel! It's Jake. Some of us were thinking it might be fun to get together."
Great. Just what I needed. Some mission to complicate my already frustrating life.
"Today?" I asked.
"Whenever. We were thinking Wednesday. Just to hang out. Does your family have any plans for St. Patrick's Day?"
I couldn't tell if he was talking about a mission, or if he really meant what he said.
"No, we don't. Let me know the details." I punched the off button. During our conversation, Jordan had climbed down off the couch. She lifted her backpack to her shoulder with a smirk. I pointed at her menacingly, "You're not going."
"Sure, Rachel," she smiled. "Whatever you say." Then she turned and pounded up the stairs.
Something in her little brain had clicked, and she thought she had won the argument. That happens a lot, and it's the main reason I avoid fights with her. As far as she was concerned, all was settled and she was definitely going. Her plan was simple. Placate the rabid older sister until Friday night, then split.
Problem is, I'm one older sister who isn't that easily dismissed. And I'm one older sister who can turn into an elephant and end a party real fast.