I had Wyatt on the brain when I wrote this. ^.^ I'm not quite sure where it's going, only that I love writing in Wyatt's dark witty perspective, and his situation is just too interesting to ignore. If you're new to Wyatt, that means you haven't read my other story, Don't Panic. However, this story will stand alone, so you don't have to rush off and read Don't Panic (although you should, because Wyatt's character is pretty stressed in it, too).

I hope you guys like this! I know a lot of you were big Wyatt fans, like me, and were sad to see him go. This is super short, just because I'm introducing him and getting the ball rolling on my end - the plot end - but the future chapters should be the usual - 1500-2000 words. M'kay, so let me know what you think! Any title suggestions are welcome, since I'm definitely considering changing the title of this.

Much Love,

-me

WHEN THE DUST SETTLES

Wyatt's Story

Chapter One:

Writer's Block

Talk about writer's block.

All the time, I hear the twerps down in the Arts and Humanities division griping and moaning about having writer's block but they don't really know what that feels like, do they now? They're having a hard time penning great novels, works of art, the kind of writer's block that is completely understandable.

Me?

I'm sitting in the dining area of McDonalds, my fingers gripping my pen so tight that my knuckles are white. The application is on the tabletop in front of me which, by the way, is speckled with crumbs and salt. I think to myself that, in the event that I begin to work at McDonalds, the tabletops will at least be cleaner.

Dropping out of college because my ex-boyfriend is a douche probably wasn't the best idea, but God, I really needed to get out of that toxic sludge. When you get to the point that you're trying to heal the relationship with sex, and sex alone, it's time to put a fork in it.

Cameron University accepted me, for the Spring semester, but the remainder of the fall stretched before me. Jobless, homeless, and educationless, I found that my broken path led all the way to the chilly porch of the golden arches. Yep, that's right. Wyatt Dubois, upcoming engineer and overall mastermind, is applying for a job at McDonalds.

And thus, the writer's block. In a few sentences, describe your work ethic. Who knew that the application for McDonalds would require a fucking essay? I went into the math/science sector of the universe because I hated writing. And what is work ethic, anyway? I scribble down some shit about being nice to my peers and obeying my elders. I don't even know what I'm writing – just filling the space.

Would you consider yourself a follower or a leader?

What is this, a fucking e-harmony profile? I write leader, because that's what they want to hear, when I reality I'd rather shoot myself than consider myself anyone's leader. Then I consider Theo, my estranged best friend, and how I presumably led him to the dark side – AKA, into the loving arms of homosexuality. I shake my head, thinking that I don't want to take credit for his sexual preference (or anyone's, for that matter) and I try to focus on the task at hand.

Name? Easy. Wyatt Dubois. Age? 23. Ethnicity (why the fuck do they need to know that? I should put Eskimo). Caucasian. Work history. Physics tutor and I used to mow lawns, as a kid. Phone number? None. Home address? None. By the time the application is complete, I feel like the biggest fucking loser on the face of the earth. Shoulders slumped, I take the application to the man in the funny hat, situated behind the counter, and he glances blandly at me before stuffing the paper into a box.

"Have a nice day," he says, as if his soul has been ripped out.

"Same to you," I grumble and leave the building.

My car is still in the shop. It blew up on me, on the drive to the college town of Cameron, and left me a victim to the local buses. Theo offered up his car, but I refused it. Now, standing in the snow, I really fucking regret it.

"You look like my nephew," a sweet old lady with a cane says, as she sits beside me on the bus stop. "Except his hair is a lot longer." She wrinkled her nose. "And he smokes that crack."

I snort and laugh, and, when I'm about to apologize for laughing at her family's misfortune, I see that she's offering me a crooked smile, too. Her eyes seem yellow, around her brown irises, and her face is like a wrinkled up rag. She looks Asian – maybe Korean.

"I told that guy over there that I could get you to smile. He bet me I couldn't."

"I guess you win the bet then," I laugh, shivering against a particularly chilling gust of November wind. "Wait," I say, peering around the bus stop. There is no one around except me and the old lady beside me. "What man did you bet against?"

"That one over there, dear. The tall, skinny one." She points her crooked finger just to the left of us, right at a telephone pole. That's when I realize that this old lady is completely insane.

"Ah," I say, nodding. "I see."

She peers at me with this foggy sort of look in her eyes and then smiles, flashing two uneven rows of yellowed teeth. "Hello, there, my dear. You look a lot like my nephew!"

"Sweet Jesus," I huff, and stare at the cars as they fly by. "Does your nephew smoke crack, by any chance?"

She looks appalled. "How did you know?"