Author's Notes:

This chapter was pre-read by Ragga_Muffin. Thanks so much, man!

Also: in this chapter, I decided to go a different route and explore another aspect of Day By Day, Moment By Moment: the character of Nostradamus "No" Clue. Artifex Frost may be our protagonist, but side characters should be treated just as importantly.

I'd also like to apologize for the large gap between this chapter and the previous one. Due to personal struggles, I was unable to stay true to my schedule.

But enough of that. Enjoy this chapter.

No Clue hated autumn.

No, wait; “hate” was much too strong of a word. Perhaps “dislike would do.” No, that wouldn’t work; it was far too weak. Strong dislike? That was two words, but it seemed to work.

No Clue shook his head. Was he really trying to figure out which word to use in his thoughts? It didn’t matter in the long-run. It made no sense to try and pinpoint the best word for the job.

Yet as his pencil scratched against his algebra paper, all he could think about was that word. It was so harsh, yet held a truth to it, and it disturbed him greatly. His pencil’s movements stopped, and he had to place the tool down beside the paper just to take a breath and attempt to clear his thoughts.

He failed, but he did catch the whiff of an approaching garbage truck. It was Sunday; garbage day. Getting up and out of his seat, he glanced out the window. The garbage bin was outside, and the truck approached. He let out a terse breath as it stopped, picked up the bin, dumped its contents inside, and then drove off.

He shook his head. He was getting distracted more easily than he should have. In another life, in another school, as another person, he might have thought it had to deal with his name.

Sorry; scratch that. My nickname.

No Clue was not, as his nickname suggested, without a clue. The Clue family was just that; a family of people who all were part of a larger road. Their names were the steps one took on the way to glory. They were the shakers and breakers of the world, the guides and light-bringers, path-showers and destiny-molders. Which was why he himself was named after the person who was supposed to predict the most important and incoming events in human history.

While he had no powers to speak of, No Clue had long been bred with the idea that to carve one’s own path, one had to be smart. It was almost a family motto, shown in the numerous books that did not gather dust on the shelves of his home. In his parents’ room, he remembered, were the college diplomas for each, from high-prospecting and difficult colleges. “Someday,” his father would often say to him when he was younger, “you’ll have to hang your own certificate on your own wall.”

Clue thought on this as he reentered his room. The path set before him was one his parents had walked, and their parents had walked, and their parents had walked; it made no sense to stray from it. He would go to college. He would care about his education. He would try to make a difference, in his own way—the Clue way, if there ever was such a way.

He shook his head. That was enough retrospection for the day. Now he had to focus back on his work.

Let’s see… given the equations 3x + 5y = 30 and y = 9x + 18, solve for x and y respectively. That should be easy. It’s not like I’ll be wrong. And even if I am, then I’m wrong.

No Clue blinked. He shouldn’t doubt himself; this was an easy algebraic problem. Maybe if I just push that thought away—

“But what if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’m wrong.”

“It sounds to me that you don’t really care!”

Angry? I was angry. I was so angry… why was I so angry? No! I can’t be thinking about that now. I have to focus on this homework—

“Huh? What’s this? A… letter? From Pinkie Pie? Oh, right. She was one of the girls I sat with on my first day, thanks to Rainbow. Hmm… ‘Dear No Clue, come by Sugarcube Corner this Saturday for a special event!’ Sounds fun. Maybe I’ll go.”

No Clue gripped his pencil a little tighter. “C’mon, solve the problem, solve the problem—”

“Nostradamus?”

“Mom, I told you. That’s too long of a name; just call me No Clue.”

“Fine, No Clue. Anyway, there’s a bakery coming up on our left called Sugarcube Corner. Do you want to stop and get something to eat?”

“… No.”

“Are you sure? I think I recognize some of your friends—”

“Mom—”

“What about that rainbow-haired girl you like?”

“It’s only been a week, mom. I haven’t really made any friends yet. Just keep driving.”

Furiously, No Clue scribbled down a random answer. He broke his pencil’s tip. He stared at it, then—eerily—placed the pencil down, as if unfazed by the shard of lead that was now absent. He took a deep breath.

When he blew it out, the paper flew up and landed at the far end of his desk. He stared at it; then looked away. He got up. The last question had been answered; he didn’t care if he was right or wrong.

It had been three days since then. Three days since he had disagreed with Artifex. One day, if he thought to count what was said on Saturday. It wasn’t even that big of a disagreement; just on the actions of the other boy.

It made no sense to continually think upon it. So why was he?

Why couldn’t he shake those words he said? Why couldn’t he simply forget about the argument? Why did he refuse to go to Sugarcube Corner, even though he had an invitation?

Running a pale-yellow hand through his light-blue hair, No Clue walked over to the window and closed it. Perhaps it was just the effect of the outside world creeping inwards. If he blocked it off, then maybe he wouldn’t have to think about it.

After doing so, No Clue turned and walked out of his room, heading downstairs.

Sunday’s sunlight peeked through the simply-stained glass windows of his front door, landing upon the wooden steps. His body cast a dark shadow as he walked through the beams, unfazed by the brightness. A light hissing and a rich aroma drew him to the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, once he saw the vanilla-skinned woman standing over a boiling pot of water.

“Oh, hello, No Clue, dear,” she said, looking over and smiling. “Have you finished your homework?”

“Most of it, anyway. I took a break..”

“That’s good. Well, lunch is almost ready. Could you please set the table?”

“Sure thing, Mom. By the way, where’s Dad?”

“He’s out back. Tending to his garden.”

No Clue nodded. He then went to the cupboard and began taking out the necessary plates and cups. Walking past his mother, he headed towards the dining room.

As he moved past the door leading to their backyard, he saw his father bent over, an iron hoe in his hand. The older man wiped his brow with a faded-yellow arm, and then pushed aside the mop of light-amethyst hair. Then, he was gone behind the frame of the door, replaced by the dining room’s wall.

It was bright. The unveiled window let in a huge amount of sunlight that cascaded across the six, lovely, copper-yellow seats. A lone vase, porcelain-white, was at the center of the table. It was empty; No Clue’s father must have taken the flower out some time ago.

Next to a large bureau filled with ornate cups and glasses were several other paintings. They depicted country landscapes and wide, open fields, filled with nothing but amber grain and an endless, blue sky. These were Clue’s mother’s favorite paintings. She had gone the whole drive from their old home to here gently cradling them in her arms. Her knowledge in interior design solidified her aesthetic sense. His father, while not much of an art lover himself, knew a good canvas when he saw one.

The young, faded-yellow-skinned boy couldn’t say he shared the sentiment, but at the very least he understood the idea. As his eyes skimmed the paintings, his hands placed the dishes down in front of three of the chairs. Then he put down three napkins.

He moved away a little, now leaning gently against one of the walls. He looked outside and squinted.

“Antsy, dear?” he heard his mom ask. The smell of whatever she was cooking was just as close as her voice. “Maybe you should go out.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” he said, glancing back at her.

She hummed, setting the pot down, a steady stream of smoke rising from it. “Are you sure, son?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” He wasn’t sure why he repeated himself, or why the first “yeah” sounded more addressed to himself than to his mom.

She walked away. No Clue heard the back door open. “Honey!” she called. “Lunch is ready!”

Hickory “Honey” Clue stood up, and looked back with an eager smile. “Oh, great! Is it my favorite?”

“Honey, all of my food is your favorite,” she said, light laughter carried on her voice.

With a quick patter of feet, followed by some light stomping on a wool carpet, Mr. Clue finally entered the home. He smelled of outdoors, but not in a bad way. To No Clue, his father smelled much like fresh-cut grass when he was out gardening, with a hint of just-as-fresh-rain thrown into the mix.

No Clue turned around, and saw his mother dance away, a mildly disgusted look on her face. Hickory had tried to provide a thank-you kiss. She pointed to the sink. “Not yet, mister. You better at least wash up, first!”

He nodded, his smile never waning. “As you wish!”

Rushing water ensued, as did splashing, and then quick drying. Finally, Mr. Clue was finished. He gave a quick peck on his wife’s cheek (she giggled lightly), then stepped into the dining room and ruffled No Clue’s hair. “Done with your homework, champ?”

“Yep,” he said. “It wasn’t too hard.”

“That’s good to hear. A little difficulty now and then hasn’t hurt anyone.” Hickory looked back to his wife. “Right, Sweets?”

Sweets Clue nodded, and then said, “Well, difficulty has made me want to hurt someone.”

“Ah, adversity. The punch of life. Alongside variety, which is its spice.”

Hickory was always fond of strange, but somehow still genuinely wise sayings. No Clue tolerated them; but his mother showered them with corny adoration. The way that the two could bounce off one another lifted his spirits. It surprised him to no end how seemingly storybook his parents’ love was.

“What’re ya smiling for, son?” Hickory suddenly asked.

“It’s nothing, Dad,” he said, as that same smile began to slide off. “Now, come on, let’s eat.”

Lunch was… lunch, for lack of a better term. Despite his mother’s work, No Clue found he barely registered the differences in spice and sweetness in the dish. He doubted that it had been bad; and judging by the pleased look on his skinny father, it had seemed that the food had been absolutely delectable.

He put on a satisfied smile to mask his strange indifference. It was an act that his parents bought. His stomach filled—though neither with pleasant fullness nor unpleasant emptiness—he offered to wash the dishes while his mother and father took some time to relax.

It was ritualistic, now that No Clue thought about it. His father took care of the outside of the house, as well as the finances behind it; and his mother took care of the interior (as was fitting), both of the house and of the rest of the family. Each of them had a specific role, a specific responsibility.

He had not found his yet, but he did not doubt that he would find it eventually. Clue family’s honor. A pleasant promise, and an equally pleasant mantra.

But as the water ran itself across the dishes, as the soap grew white bubbles along the edges, and as No Clue’s hands became soggy and messy, his mind returned to less pleasant things. The voices of his parents faded away; in his mind, they were replaced with his own, and that of the other boy’s.

Why had he been so angry?

No, wait; which he was he talking about? He, he? Or the other boy, he?

More importantly, why is this always in the back of my mind? And why does thinking about it make me feel so… so… mixed?

He put the last dish away—he was a quick cleaner—then filled in the dish detergent and soap and closed the dishwasher. He pressed a few buttons, and then heard the machine start its cycle.

Somewhere—likely the living room—he heard his mother and father laugh. Something was on the television. Something entertaining. Something distracting.

Maybe I should join them.

He frowned, and then sighed inwardly. No, I shouldn’t. I’ve still homework to do.

No Clue walked away, and headed back up the stairs to his room. He sat down at his desk, and pulled out his folder of problems, and opened it. Grabbing his pencil, he prepared to write.

But the sheet was already completed. And the strange voices from himself and from the boy returned in stride.