One Last Look Chapter One, a charlie and the chocolate factory fanfic

Chapter One

By the time he had read the second word on the envelope, Augustus Gloop's heart had already stopped.

His first instinct was to throw the envelope across the room, but he doubted it would get very far. He considered the possibility of tearing the unopened letter in two, but a terrified curiosity stayed his hand. He did not dare to look at the letter for fright. He longed to read it, just once, before destroying it.

These two conflicting emotions, his hope and his fear; and the two golden letters that still sat in the top left corner of the envelope:

Willy Wonka

"Augustus, what is the matter?" His father, suddenly at Augustus' side, stooped down to retrieve the rest of the mail – the nineteen-year-old boy had dropped it all. Only after Mr. Gloop had gruffly flipped through the other envelopes did he turn back to Augustus. "What is it?"

Eyes wide, Augustus gave the envelope to his father. "It's… him."

Mr. Gloop read the envelope. Read it again. Looked up at his son, who was now trembling slightly.

Then Mrs. Gloop bustled in. "Dietrich, you need t—" Her voice broke off as soon as she realized Augustus was also in the room, and her hands darted behind her back. Augustus had seen enough, though. He could tell what she was holding by the flash of bright red and silver.

"What is it?" she asked, echoing her husband.

"Wonka wrote," he replied, and began to open the envelope.

Mrs. Gloop could not resist a gasp of delight, which caused the pit in Augustus' considerable stomach to double in size. "Really? And after all this time? I thought we were never going to hear from that man again!"

"I thought so, too," Augustus murmured. He did not add that it had also been his sincerest hope.

His father pulled out the letter, unfolded it, and read aloud. "Dear Augustus." He turned to his son. "Just for you, it seems. Read it."

He tried to press the fancy paper in Augustus' hands, but Augustus shrank back in revulsion. "I don't want to hear what it says!"

Mrs. Gloop reached out with her left hand (her right was still behind her back) and patted Augustus on the cheek. He hated that. "What harm can it do, my sweet? It's only a letter."

"But it's from…"

"I'll read it," Mr. Gloop said resignedly. "Dear Augustus.

"Greetings once again from Willy Wonka! It has been far too long since we last corresponded, so I can only pray that this letter finds you in the best of health & spirits. My reason for writing is simple: at twelve o'clock noon on the first day of August, you and those others who, five years ago, set foot inside the Chocolate Factory, will be invited there once more to spend a week with myself and Mr. Charlie Bucket, the current owner of the Factory. You need not bring your parents – I assure you that this visit will be entirely free of the tragic accidents which befell several of us five years ago. I simply desire an opportunity for us all to reunite for a short time, to see how everyone has changed. You will, of course, be provided with chambers that suit your preferences, and will be free to partake of all the candy at the Factory – Mr. Bucket insists. Please write back a.s.a.p. to confirm or deny that you will be able to visit. I look forward to hearing back from you, and remain

"Sincerely yours,

"W. Wonka"

Mr. Gloop cleared his throat and folded the letter back up.

Mrs. Gloop squealed. "Oh, my darling boy, you're going back to the Factory! How exciting! And you'll be able to meet all your old friends there too. Oh, this is simply wonderful!"

"Twelve o'clock noon, first day of August," his father repeated. "We shall have to get you a flight."

But Augustus, pale-faced, stared at them without a trace of excitement. "I'm not going back to that place."

"Of course you are, it was very hospitable of Mr. Wonka." His mother waved her left hand impatiently. "And we're going to need to buy you a new suit, the last three don't fit you anymore…"

"I'm not going back!" Augustus half-yelled, half-screamed. Startled, his mother dropped the red-and-silver item she had been carrying.

A half-eaten chocolate bar, with the name "BUCK—" written in large white letters on the partially-torn wrapping. Bucket's Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight. Or Bucket's Nutty Crunch Surprise, or—

Augustus didn't even need to scream. He whirled and ran from the room, tearing upstairs as fast as his chubby legs could take him. His father raced up after him.

When Mr. Gloop reached Augustus' bedroom, the boy was sprawled face-down on his bed, head buried in pillow. The butcher sat down next to the bed.

"You've got to go back," he said, as gently as he could muster.

"But the chocolate…" was the muffled reply.

"There's nothing dangerous about chocolate."

"It'll be everywhere…"

"It's not going to do you a bit of harm."

Augustus half-looked up, eyes watery. "You weren't there."

His father looked at him.

"You weren't there when I fell into the river."

His father laid a hand on his arm.

"Being in that pipe… it hurt so much… I felt like my bones were being snapped…" He began to sniffle. "And all that chocolate everywhere… I almost d-died… I would have, if M-Mother and that little man hadn't f-found me in time…"

"Don't cry," Mr. Gloop said. Augustus did.

Mr. Gloop watched his nineteen-year-old son, whom he had been raising to be a true man, sob into the pillow. Without knowing what else to say, he muttered, "I promise you it'll be different this time. I promise you."

-------

It had taken a lot of getting used to. But now, her humble bed felt more comfortable than those silk pillows and down blankets back home.

She turned on her side, and the bed creaked. For the first couple of weeks she had hated that sound; then, she'd come to like it. Everything was so different here, so much more… well, simple, and spare, and old and dusty and unkempt– but so much more spirited, too, than any of her mansions back in England. There was a pure aura of contentment around the farm, a satisfaction with modest living, instead of the vile greed that hung over the estates at home.

The people contributed a lot to that aura of contentment. Uncle Zeno and Aunt Elaine (really her second cousins, once removed) and their three children simply radiated happiness: their life of tending the fields and raising the animals brought them only joy. Joy without riches – that was the puzzle. Only when she had begun to live that life as well had she finally understood it.

And she had been living that life full-time. Much to her initial chagrin, her Aunt and Uncle expected her to help tend the fields and raise the animals as well. How horrified she had been at first! And how ghastly she had been, those first few months! She had to smile guiltily just remembering it. She'd put up a fight, oh yes. She'd kicked and screamed as if she was a child of twelve again. And throughout it all, her Aunt and Uncle had been so kind and patient. They'd known what her life was like before this. They'd borne her tantrums with a smile, and each time they'd gently asked her if she'd like to be sent home.

Each time, she'd said no.

She turned over onto her back again, and stared up at the ceiling. She remembered last September, when her father had announced his plans to send her to stay with her distant relatives in Tennessee for a year. That had been the worst tantrum of all. She had—

Her thoughts were cut off by the appearance of a pigeon flying toward her window. Even though its form was rendered dark by the setting sun behind it, she could see that it was holding an envelope in its beak.

A carrier pigeon?

The bird perched on her windowsill and dropped the envelope onto the floor, then stood there expectantly. Not knowing what to do, she patted it lightly on the head, but it stayed there. She thought for a moment, took a pound sterling from off the shelf, and offered it to the pigeon. It nipped the coin from her fingers and flew off.

She looked at the envelope. How exciting! A visit from a real carrier pigeon, and a well-trained one at that. She wondered about whom the sender had been, but as soon as she read the envelope, her puzzlement was dispelled.

Willy Wonka

"Willy Wonka?" she said aloud. "That can't—"

A heartbeat later she was ripping the envelope open.

Dear Veruca,

Greetings once again from Willy Wonka! It has been far too long since we last corresponded, so I can only pray that this letter finds you in the best of health & spirits. My reason for writing is simple: at twelve o'clock noon on the first day of August, you and those others who, five years ago, set foot inside the Chocolate Factory, will be invited there once more to spend a week with myself and Mr. Charlie Bucket, the current owner of the Factory. You need not bring your parents – I assure you that this visit will be entirely free of the tragic accidents which befell several of us five years ago. I simply desire an opportunity for us all to reunite for a short time, to see how everyone has changed. You will, of course, be provided with chambers that suit your preferences, and will be free to partake of all the candy at the Factory – Mr. Bucket insists. Please write back a.s.a.p. to confirm or deny that you will be able to visit. I look forward to hearing back from you, and remain

Sincerely yours,

W. Wonka

She read the letter again. Invited there once more. An opportunity to see how everyone has changed.

Well. That was that, wasn't it? She was going.

She went downstairs to the family room, where she found Uncle Zeno, Aunt Elaine and their eldest son Jack. They all looked up as she entered and smiled. She returned the smile for a moment, but her face grew solemn as she spoke.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I'm going to have to end my stay a month early."

Uncle Zeno's face fell, too. "Really? Do your parents want you back for something?"

"It's not my parents," Veruca said, handing him the letter.

He read it. His eyebrows rose. He passed it to Aunt Elaine. She read it. Her eyes twinkled. She passed it to Jack. He read it. He rubbed his eyes and read it again. He passed it back to Veruca.

"Well well well," Uncle Zeno said, leaning back in his seat. "Going back to the Factory, eh?"

"Yes, and in only a few days' time. I shall need to contact my parents and schedule a flight to the Factory immediately."

"Go ahead, darling," said Aunt Elaine, who added under her breath as Veruca crossed the room and entered the kitchen, "Going already? Such a shame, a nice girl like her…"

The seventeen-year-old placed an overseas call to her parents and waited for it to go through. After several moments, she was rewarded with the sound of her father's voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Daddy, it's me."

"Veruca! How are you, my sweet? I'm so sorry I haven't been able to reply to your last letter. It's been very hectic at the factory – business is booming – and I haven't had much time to think about other things.…"

"Yes, yes," Veruca said, and then, feeling that she had sounded flippant, she added, "It's quite all right, Daddy. I'll be coming home in about two weeks anyway."

"Not a month? Why not?"

"I've just received an invitation to return to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory from August first to August seventh. I need a plane to take me there as soon as possible."

"Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory?" Mr. Salt sounded astonished. "You're returning? Why, of course you'll have a plane ticket. I'll see to that immediately."

"Thank you, Daddy."

"It's just…"

"What?"

"You'll be there alone, I presume?"

"Yes."

There was a small pause on the other end. "Stay safe, Veruca. I don't want anything bad to happen to you. If what occurred last time occurred again…"

Veruca sighed, a little less patiently than she would have liked. "Daddy, all that happened was that we fell into a rubbish heap."

"But we could have been roasted alive!"

"The incinerator was broken, Daddy, look – nothing awful is going to happen. I'm going to be perfectly safe, and I'm going to enjoy myself. All right?"

Another pause. "Yes… yes, dear, you're right. I'll go tell your mother. Unless you'd rather talk to her yourself?"

"I'm afraid I need to start packing. I'd like to talk to Mum, but you know how she can be on the phone."

"Yes. Well. I'll be going then. I'll call you tomorrow when I secure the flight."

"Thank you."

One final pause, and—

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Click.

-----

"Oh my God. Honey, come here." Mrs. Beauregarde dabbed her finger in the face paint and applied it to Violet's chin. "I missed a spot."

"It was fine when I looked in the mirror! How big was this spot?"

"A centimeter across, maybe."

Violet pulled away from her mother, an irritated look on her face. "Mom, nobody is going to notice."

She didn't call her "Mother" anymore; that transition had occurred some time ago. Perhaps some children, by the time they'd reached her age, would be addressing their parents more formally than before. For Violet, however, it had gone the opposite way.

Everything had gone the opposite way.

"Of course they're going to notice, most girls don't have little patches of bright blue on their skin!"

"Perceptive. It's too bad not everyone in the world is as observant as you. We'd all be better off."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"Go ahead."

"Which is lucky for you."

"I know."

"And you still need to put on your gloves."

"Mom, I know!"

Violet stormed into her bedroom and took the peach-colored latex gloves off of the table next to her bed. Mrs. Beauregarde followed.

"Violet." Though her voice was as calm as she could muster, she still sounded aggressive. "First of all, you're fifteen years old and I'm your mother. For the next three years, you're still under my roof and you're still my primary concern. I only want what's best for you. Can't you see that?"

Then why could they never agree on anything? Almost every conversation they'd had in the past five years had been a power struggle, a rapid-fire exchange of attacks, with each temper pushing off the other one to rise even higher. The rift between them had grown more quickly and violently than the blue color of Violet's skin had developed, that day at the Factory.

There was a tiny silence, intruded upon only by the sound of Violet chewing her gum.

"Second, I can't miss a single molecule when I'm putting on your face paint. And I can't allow you to forget the gloves. What if you walked outside one day with blue hands? You can't tell me people wouldn't notice that."

Violet pulled the gloves on, in what she realized halfway through was less an action of defiance and more one of agreement. The color matched her skin well enough that, if you only caught a brief glimpse of the gloves, you might think they were her actual hands. She couldn't tell which she hated more: the feeling of having them on, or the feeling of her hands whenever she pulled them off after school.

"That's better," Mrs. Beauregarde said, and they hugged; again, more aggressively than most mothers and daughters. Violet could tell that she hadn't nearly redeemed herself in her mom's eyes, but for the time being this was enough.

"Now then—" Mrs. Beauregarde's voice broke off as soon as the doorbell rang. Never one to keep a guest waiting, she bolted downstairs, Violet tagging half-heartedly behind.

Mrs. Beauregarde swung the door open, wearing her usual psychotic smile. "Hello!" she cried to an empty porch.

Violet peered out the door. "Who was it?"

"I don't… oh!"

Her mom pointed at the doormat, where an envelope serenely sat.

Violet picked it up and read it, but her face fell as she began to speak. "It's from... him."

Willy Wonka

She began to open the envelope.

"Willy Wonka?" Mrs. Beauregarde asked. "Why would he… read it, Vi."

Violet took the chewing gum out of her mouth, put it behind her ear, and read:

"Dear Violet,

"Sincerely yours,

"W. Wonka"

Before doing anything else, Violet put the gum back in her mouth. Always did her best thinking while chewing.

This had certainly given her a lot to think about. On the one hand, she had lost the game Willy Wonka had set up five years ago. She had lost the factory – that was the important thing, not that she had turned blue. She felt a slight tightness in her stomach as she thought about what it would be like to walk back up the steps of the building where she, Violet Beauregarde, had lost a challenge for the first time. It was not an enticing possibility.

On the other hand, changing color had completely undermined Violet's athletic life. Face paint and peach-colored gloves were tolerable for normal life, but how could she execute record-setting laps at the swimming pool wearing face paint and peach-colored gloves? How could she play soccer or study martial arts or race in marathons? Violet didn't mind – she'd have carried on with her life blue if given the chance – but her mom wouldn't allow it. That had been what had confined Violet to this daily disguise: her mom's decision, her mom's will.

What kind of a champion would do all that because her mom said so?

It was because of this that Violet felt tempted by the offer. If she could win back the first thing she had ever lost to someone else – Willy Wonka's favor – she could redeem her title as a true champion. Who would care if her mom wouldn't let her play sports? She'd take home the prize anyway.

"Well, I'll go pack."

"No, you won't," Mrs. Beauregarde said, stretching out an arm to block Violet from re-entering the house. "You're not going."

"Of course I am."

Mrs. Beauregarde's eyebrows rose. A warning sign. "You're not going back to the place where you ate a defective piece of candy and turned into a blueberry. Are you kidding? How do you think you'll look when you come out this time? What makes you so sure you will come out this time?"

"Mom. He said there weren't going to be any tragic accidents."

"You don't get to plan accidents," she hissed. "That's what makes them accidents."

Violet sighed.

"Fine. If I die, you get to say 'I told you so'. Happy?"

Before Mrs. Beauregarde could respond, Violet turned around, flipped over backwards into a perfect bridge position, and scuttled underneath her mom's arm and up the stairs.

-----

What do you do with a boy who's a winner at everything he can't do and a loser at everything he can?

Mike Teavee had had two beds for the past five years. Taking up the entire northern wall of his bedroom, they acted as a twelve-and-a-half-foot-long supermattress. His parents had had to give him the second one as soon as they'd realized that the first one didn't even afford enough room for his torso anymore, let alone his legs. Mike's dad had huffed and puffed and before long, the guest bedroom had been converted to a trophy room and Mike could sleep comfortably again.

The situation had grown better over time, though. Why, by now Mike's feet didn't even stretch a quarter of the way across the second bed. In the months and years following the day at the Chocolate Factory, Mike's body had shrunk, very slowly. He'd stopped shrinking about half a year ago, and he was now just over six and a half feet tall.

Six and a half feet of eighteen-year-old boy sitting on the edge of the bed and staring off into space, absent-mindedly pressing buttons on his Game Boy Color.

The Game Boy Color was all his parents had left him. It had taken a couple months, but eventually they'd gathered all the backbone between them and "confiscated" all Mike's other game consoles – which meant giving them away. The GameCube, the Xbox, the Sega Dreamcast, the Nintendo DS, the PlayStation 3, the Game Boy Advance… gone. The only reason Mike's mom and dad had even left him the GBC was because he'd bought it himself, with his own allowance money, ten years ago.

But he hadn't bought any of the games himself. The GBC Mike was fiddling with contained no cartridge.

It was just a habit, now.

And of course, his folks had enacted television bans, too. Everything was off-limits except for educational programs. Discovery Channel, the History Channel, the news. Yawn.

So that's why they'd used the space from the guest bedroom to make a trophy room. Mr. Teavee had been all excited that his own son was going to become a sports star. Basketball, the long jump, track running… his newfound height gave Mike a major edge in sports like these. Or at least, that's what everyone had been expecting.

The trophy room was empty, too.

Mike glanced out through the blinds. The mailman had pulled up and was dumping today's junk into the Teavee mailbox. Except one letter. The mailman looked at the envelope for a moment and raised his eyebrows before pushing it in with the rest.

Something different? Mike was almost interested, and that was saying something.

But before he got up, he could already see that his mom had gone outside to get the mail. When she hauled everything out, she too looked surprised. In fact, she shoved the rest of the mail back in for a moment and opened the envelope then and there.

She read for a few seconds, then rushed inside immediately, forgetting about the rest of the mail.

Mike could hear her shout "Ernest, Mike just got a letter from Willy Wonka!"

"What?" Mr. Teavee had expressed Mike's feelings exactly.

An instant later, both his parents burst in. "Mike, Willy Wonka wrote to you!" cried his mom, thrusting the letter and envelope into Mike's hands.

Mike didn't believe them until he saw the golden letters in the top corner of the envelope:

Willy Wonka

He unfolded the letter at once.

"He wrote to you!" his mom added.

"What's it say, son?"

Mike scanned the letter. "Greetings once again from blah blah blah… blah blah blah blah… yadda yadda yadda… blah blah blah first day of – oh."

"What is it?"

"I just got invited back to the Factory."

"Really?" His mom was delighted. "When?"

"First day next month. Noon. I'm staying for a week."

"That's great," his dad said a little wearily. Predictable. The old man never took well to excitement. "We'd better start packing."

"Nah, looks like I'm the only one going."

"What?"

"See?" Mike held out the paper for his folks to read. "You two aren't invited. Guess he didn't like you as much, Pop."

"Mike!" his mom gasped. "That's a horrible thing to say."

Mike shrugged and went back to reading.

"All the candy we want… blah blah blah… that's it."

He looked at them.

"Well?"

Mr. and Mrs. Teavee looked at each other, then back up at him.

"Son…" His dad sighed. "If you're going back to that factory, you need to improve your attitude."

They said those last six words to him about six times a day these days. Mike leaned back against the wall and repeated his traditional reply in a dull drone.

"Why-what-ever-can-you-mean."

"You've been so apathetic lately. You've done nothing but sit around the house, and your teachers aren't happy about the effort you seem to be putting forth in class."

"I-already-know-everything-they're-telling-me."

"That's no excuse. You could at least participate."

"I-submit-that-I-could-not."

Another sigh.

"Why can't we get you interested in anything that's good for you?"

"You-try-growing-a-few-extra-feet-and-see-how-that-affects-your-social-life-Pop."

Now his mom jumped in. "We tried working around the height, Mike! We tried to make you an athlete! You can't blame us."

"Course-I-can't-it's-all-my-fault-that-I-crashed-and-burned-at-sports."

"Don't say that, son."

"Whatever."

"Honey, I think he should go to the Factory. Maybe it's what he needs. Maybe it'll be exciting."

"I-doubt-it."

"I guess so… it'd be better than nothing, anyway."

"That's right."

One more sigh.

"Well, son, pack your things. Only a couple of days."

They closed the door behind them.

Mike looked down at the letter in his long, spidery fingers. After a moment, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.

"Stupid chocolate."

He reached out, grabbed the backpack that was lying four feet away, and began to pull all the schoolbooks out.

Pohatu: Wow, is the first chapter done already? Well, sirs and/or ma'ams, hello very much, and let's hope you just enjoyed Chapter One of a brand spanking new CATCF fanfic entitled "One Last Look"!

Random Passerby: Gee, Pohatu, I just don't know. What exactly IS a fanfic?

Pohatu: A fanfic? Oh, why, it's a story that you made up involving characters that you didn't make up!

Random Passerby slapping hand to cheek: My dear sir, I believe that is plagiarism!

Pohatu: You silly goose, of course it's not plagiarism... is it?

Random Passerby: Ha! You admit it!

Pohatu: No, I don't! It's just... Well, how about this: I'll give you a disclaimer!

Random Passerby: No thanks! I'm already subscribed!

Pohatu: A disclaimer is when you say something like oh say "It is absolutely not the case that any of these characters could possibly have come straight from the imagination of anyone OTHER than Roald Dahl, and because Roald Dahl does not happen to be myself, I certainly would not want anyone to go walking down the street under the impression that I and not he (Roald Dahl) had concocted the characters which Roald Dahl, not I, made up and which you are about to read about in a story that is not at all canon (which is to say, the story is not in keeping with the original vision of the person who made up these characters, who is in fact Roald Dahl) and is in actuality just me, Pohatu, not Roald Dahl, ranting about hormone-crazed teenagers and depressed chocolatiers, neither of which was my invention just so you know!"

Random Passerby: No thanks! I'm already subscribed!

Pohatu: I hate you.

Random Passerby: If you didn't, I wouldn't have kept my name private!

Pohatu: Good point, my friend! Do you have any other questions about the definition of "fanfic", such as "Why would anyone write fanfic instead of creating their own characters and putting them in a world of their own, which obviously allows a lot more room for creativity and also doesn't make you look like a cheapskate who thrives off the imagination of others?"

Random Passerby: Ho-ho, you took the words right out of my mouth!

Pohatu: Well, good question! It turns out that fanfic is a perfect starting point for people who are just beginning to experiment with writing real stories! Without having to develop characters of their own, it leaves them free to focus on plot!

Random Passerby: I am going to accept that answer and not point out that you, Pohatu, are not new to writing and therefore your own reasoning does not apply to you!

Pohatu: Thank you! It wouldn't make sense if you did anyway, since you are a mere random passerby and have no way of knowing how much experience I may or may not have!

Random Passerby: Yes!

Pohatu: Additionally, some people just cannot resist writing CharlieVeruca fiction.

Random Passerby: Do you, personally, feel that they were meant to be, Pohatu?

Pohatu: Perhaps! But I would say that those people are clearly missing the big picture. The VERY big picture!

Random Passerby: I will pretend to simply accept that ambiguous answer and continue reading even though I am already drawing dozens of conclusions as to what you mean!

Pohatu: Good! Speaking of "continue reading", don't you think this conversation has gone on long enough?

Random Passerby: Wait! I have one more question about fanfic!

Pohatu: Go on!

Random Passerby: Some books that were written about thirty years ago have been adapted into movies TWICE since then! And the book, the first movie, and the second movie tend to disagree on the little details an awful awful lot! Don't you think you should specify which version of the story your fanfic is drawing upon, Pohatu?

Pohatu: I believe I should! Well, this mostly takes after the 2005 movie version of CATCF, although certain details have been interchanged with those from the book or 1971 movie as I have seen fit!

Random Passerby: Wonderful!

Pohatu: So that is all! Hopefully the next chapter will be posted in three or four days.

Random Passerby: That long? Pohatu, I just don't think I'm patient enough for that.

Pohatu: Well, think again, sir!

Random Passerby: Okay!

Pohatu: ...

Random Passerby: I am still not patient enough!

Pohatu: Then why don't you play with this ball of string in the meantime?

Random Passerby: STRING!