Archive of Our Own

The last thing Geese Howard remembered was the wind howling past his ears as he plummeted off the top of his Tower. Terry Bogard's shocked face fading into the night sky.

Then nothing.

Geese Howard had experienced many indignities in life.

But nothing compared to waking up on his back in red dirt while a cicada screamed directly into his ear like it had a personal vendetta.

Geese stood up, brushed nonexistent dust from his hakama and adjusted it with the dignity of a man who had not just died. "Where is this? Hmph no matter I've survived worse than death."

Just then a scream cut through the woods.

Geese turned to see two children one in a ham costume, being chased by a drunk mountain of a man with a knife,reeking of moonshine and bad decisions.

"Gotcha now, Finch brats!" Bob Ewell slurred, swinging wild.

The older boy shoved the girl behind him. "Run, Scout!"

Geese's lip curled. Pathetic. Traumatizing children? Only he was allowed to do that.

"Oi. Trash."

Bob turned. "Who the he—"

Geese flicked two fingers. A shimmering crescent of blue ki screamed across the clearing—and slammed into Bob like a freight train made of pure spite. The man flew twenty feet, crashed through a blackberry thicket, and landed in a heap that smelled faintly of regret and urine.

There was silence.

Then the little girl stared up at him with enormous eyes. "Mister… did you just shoot lightning out your hand?"

"Ki," Geese corrected, cracking his knuckles. "And you're welcome."

Scout Finch had seen many strange things in her young life.

Rabid dogs.

Courtroom drama.

Dill.

But she was fairly certain blond shirtless men appearing out of thin air ranked highly on that list.

Jem was still in a protective crouch, eyes wide. "You… you ain't from around here."

"Observant," Geese drawled, stepping over a root like it had personally offended him. "My name is Geese Howard. Emperor of South Town. Recently deceased. Currently… rebooting." He glanced around at the sleepy Southern night. "This dump got a name?"

"Maycomb, Alabama," Scout replied helpfully. "It's 1935. Our daddy just defended a colored man in court and everybody hates us now."

Geese's grin was slow, sharp, and terrifyingly delighted. "Racism, small-town politics, and a power vacuum? Children, I think I just found my new empire."

Bob Ewell groaned and started crawling out of the bushes, knife still clutched in one trembling fist. "I'll kill you all…"

Geese didn't even look. He snapped his fingers. A second Reppuken—smaller, meaner—punted Bob straight into a pine tree. The man stuck there for a few seconds, then slid down unconscious.

Jem swallowed. "You just… killed Mr. Ewell?"

"Stunned," Geese corrected. "Probably. If he dies, bonus. Now listen up, new minions."

He crouched to their level, "This town is ripe. Weak sheriff. Corrupt judge. One bleeding-heart lawyer standing in the way. I've toppled crime syndicates with less. But I need local guides. You two have guts. And clearly terrible adult supervision."

Scout's face lit up like Christmas. "You mean like… henchkids?"

"Elite lieutenants," Geese said, as if offended by the term. "I'll teach you how to stare down a mob until they wet themselves. In return, you help me seize the courthouse, the bank, and whatever passes for a casino in this backwater."

Jem looked torn between horror and the dawning realization that this was the coolest thing that had ever happened to him. "But… Atticus says justice—"

"Atticus," Geese interrupted, "is a man who believes in talking to his enemies. I believe in uppercutting them into next week. Different management styles."

Scout tugged Jem's sleeve. "C'mon, Jem. Daddy's always saying we gotta stand up for what's right. This guy just stood up for us with magic lightning. And he's got a cape. Sort of."

"It's a hakama," Geese muttered.

The three of them stood in the moonlit woods, two Depression-era kids and one very dead, very reborn crime lord, while Bob Ewell snored in a pile of leaves.

Geese cracked his neck. "First order of business: we march on the Finch house. I need a place to plan. Also, I require coffee, and perhaps a tailor who understands menacing."

Scout grinned so wide her missing tooth showed. "Mr. Howard?"

"Geese."

"Geese. Can we call the new empire… the Mockingbird Syndicate?"

Geese considered it. Then he threw his head back and laughed—the full, theatrical, Saturday-morning-cartoon villain laugh that echoed through the pines.

"Kid," he said, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder, "I like the way you think."

And somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted again.

It sounded a lot like it was saying, This town is doomed.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The Finch house sat quiet under the late-night moon, porch light burning like a single watchful eye. Scout and Jem led the way up the steps, shoes scuffing softly on the boards. Geese followed two paces behind, hands clasped behind his back, hakama somehow still immaculate despite the blackberry brambles and Bob Ewell's unconscious body left cooling in the woods.

Scout pushed the screen door open. "Atticus! We're home! And we brought… company."

Atticus Finch appeared in the hallway, still in his vest and tie from a long evening of reading case law by lamplight. He adjusted his glasses once. Twice. Then he simply stood there, taking in the situation: his bruised and exhilarated children, and the tall, shirtless blond man in red hakama pants who from his vibe looked like he'd just stepped out of a pulp magazine about international crime lords.

Geese didn't wait for an invitation. He strode past the children, straight into the parlor, and dropped into the best armchair like he'd paid property taxes on it.

"Coffee," he announced to the room at large. "Black, no sugar. no cream, no small talk about the weather."

Calpurnia appeared from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, sizing him up the way she sized up any stranger who tracked mud into her clean house.

Atticus raised a hand before she could speak. "Cal, if you would be so kind."

She gave Geese one long, unimpressed look, then disappeared back into the kitchen. The silence that followed was thick enough to spread on toast.

Atticus took the opposite chair, slow and deliberate. He studied Geese the way he studied a difficult witness, calm, unreadable, missing nothing. The sharp suit, The hair, The faint, lingering scent of ozone and expensive cologne and those eyes: cold blue ambition that had seen cities burn and come back for seconds.

Geese met the gaze without blinking. "You're the lawyer. Finch."

"Atticus Finch," the man corrected gently. "And you are?"

"Geese Howard." A pause, then the ghost of a smirk. "Formerly of South Town, Currently… between residences."

Atticus nodded once, as if that explained everything. He didn't ask how a man from "South Town" had ended up on his porch at one in the morning with his children. He didn't ask about the torn place on Jem's shirt or the faint bruise blooming on Scout's cheek. He simply waited.

Calpurnia returned with a chipped china cup on a saucer. Black coffee, steaming. She set it on the side table nearest Geese without a word, then retreated, but not far. She lingered in the doorway like a sentinel.

Geese took a sip. Perfect. He allowed himself one small, approving nod.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping to the register he used when closing hostile takeovers.

"I'm going to be brief, Mr. Finch. This town is a powder keg wrapped in hypocrisy and strung with piano wire. You've got a sheriff who couldn't find his own backside with both hands and a map. A judge who takes bribes in sweet tea and favors. A banker who'd foreclose on his own mother if the interest rate was right. And a populace that's one good rumor away from forming a lynch mob."

He gestured lazily toward Scout and Jem, who had perched on the sofa like students called to the principal's office.

"Your children just survived an attempt on their lives by a drunk with a knife and a grudge. I intervened. They now work for me."

Atticus's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind the glasses. Recognition? Calculation? He said nothing.

Geese continued. "Phase One: we build upward, literally, I need a tower. Tall, Imposing, Visible from every dirt road in Maycomb County, Geese Tower. Fifty stories if the zoning allows, thirty if we have to bribe someone, Steel frame, Black glass, My office on the top floor with a view of the entire miserable county I intend to own."

Scout's eyes went wide. "A tower? Like in the pictures of New York?"

"Better," Geese said. "No rent control. No unions. And one very large neon sign that says HOWARD CONNECTION in purple. Purple is intimidating."

Jem swallowed. "But… where do we get the money? And the steel? And… everything?"

Geese waved a hand. "Details, We start small. Protection rackets on the cotton gins, a little discreet blackmail on the county commissioners. I'll teach you children how to spot a weak spine from fifty paces and after that, the bank practically begs to lend us construction capital."

Atticus finally spoke. Quiet. Measured. "And what happens to the people who already live here, Mr. Howard? The ones who don't fit neatly into your… organization?"

Geese's smile was thin and sharp. "They adapt. Or they move. Or—" He let the word hang, then took another sip of coffee. "—they learn what happens when they stand in my way."

Atticus leaned back. "I've spent my life trying to teach these children that the world can be made better through reason. Through law, through simple human decency."

Geese chuckled, low and dark. "Admirable, Quaint, You're fighting with words in a world that respects fists. And ki blasts."

He set the empty cup down with a soft clink.

"I'm not asking permission, Finch, I'm informing you, your house is my temporary headquarters, your children are my lieutenants and tomorrow morning we begin surveying the empty lot behind the courthouse. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I take my business elsewhere."

He stood, straightening his coat with a flourish.

Atticus rose as well, they were almost the same height; the lawyer had to tilt his head only slightly to meet Geese's eyes.

For a long moment neither man spoke.

Then Atticus said, very softly, "I know who you are."

Geese's eyebrow lifted a fraction, "Do you?"

"Not your name," Atticus replied. "Not exactly, but I know the look of a man who's fallen a very long way… and landed on his feet anyway."

Geese studied him. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a short, genuine bark of amusement.

"You'll do," he said. "You'll do nicely as the public face, the respectable front, the man who tells the newspapers everything is perfectly legal."

Atticus didn't smile. "I won't help you destroy this town."

"You already live in a town that's destroying itself," Geese countered. "I'm just going to put my name on the deed."

He turned toward the door, pausing only to glance back at Scout and Jem.

"6AM sharp. Wear something you don't mind getting dirty. We start with shovels. Then we move to intimidation."

Scout saluted—half serious, half giddy. Jem just looked dazed.

Geese stepped out onto the porch. The night air was cool. Somewhere a mockingbird started its endless, mocking song.

Behind him, in the lit parlor, Atticus Finch remained standing exactly where he'd been, hands in his pockets, staring at the empty coffee cup.

Calpurnia appeared at his elbow.

"You gonna let him do this, Mr. Finch?"

Atticus exhaled slowly.

"I'm going to let him try," he said.

And in the darkness beyond the porch light, Geese Howard smiled to himself.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Six months. That's all it took.

The empty lot behind the courthouse once just weeds, broken bottles, and the occasional stray dog now stabbed sixty feet into the Alabama sky like a middle finger to every small-town ordinance ever written. Geese Tower wasn't fifty stories (the county engineer had nearly wept when Geese suggested dynamite for "foundation enhancement"), but sixty feet of black steel and smoked glass was plenty imposing for Maycomb. Purple neon letters glowed at the top: HOWARD CONNECTION — the "H" flickered just enough to make the sheriff twitch every time he strode past it.

Construction had been… efficient.

Geese taught Scout how to glare at suppliers until they dropped their prices. Jem learned to forge signatures on permits with the same careful precision Atticus used for legal briefs. Calpurnia quietly redirected half the county's gossip network into a surprisingly effective intelligence ring. And Atticus?

Atticus mostly watched from the porch with his coffee, saying very little. When the concrete trucks rolled in at dawn, he simply adjusted his glasses and went back inside to read. When the steel beams arrived by rail (courtesy of certain "donations" from Birmingham businessmen who suddenly remembered old favors owed to a man in strange clothes), he nodded once and returned to his garden.

Geese called it "plausible deniability." Scout called it "Atticus being Atticus."

Now, standing on the roof of his new tower at dusk, Geese surveyed his growing domain. Below, Maycomb looked smaller, softer, almost fragile. Streetlights flickered on like nervous fireflies. Somewhere a mockingbird sang its endless, mocking song.

"Reconnaissance," Geese muttered. "That's the next piece."

He turned to Scout and Jem, who had become disturbingly competent at standing at semi-attention whenever he addressed them.

"You two are good at being seen," he said. "I need someone who's good at not being seen."

Jem frowned. "Like… a spy?"

"Exactly like a spy. Quiet. Patient. Knows every back alley, every hedge, every attic window in this county."

Scout's eyes lit up. "Boo."

"Boo," Geese repeated, tasting the name. "The recluse. The ghost story. Perfect."

Jem shifted uncomfortably. "Folks say he's… dangerous. Crazy. Stabs scissors at people."

"People say a lot of things," Geese replied. "Most of them are idiots. I've met plenty of 'dangerous' men. Most of them fold the second you look them in the eye."

He cracked his knuckles. "We're going to recruit him. Tonight."

The Radley place hadn't changed in decades: sagging porch, shutters nailed shut, yard gone feral. Moonlight made the whole thing look like a bad dream someone forgot to wake up from.

Geese walked up the cracked front path like he owned it. Scout and Jem trailed behind, half thrilled, half terrified.

Geese stopped at the bottom step and raised his voice just enough to carry.

"Arthur Radley."

Silence.

Then, from somewhere inside: the faintest creak of floorboards.

Geese didn't flinch. "I know you're listening, I also know you've been watching. Every night those kids walked past, you watched, when Ewell came for them, you were already moving. You left gifts in that tree for years, you're not crazy. You're observant and I respect observant."

A shadow shifted behind the shutter slats.

Geese continued, calm as a closing deal. "I built a tower in the middle of this town, I intend to own the rest of it, but empires need eyes everywhere, not just the obvious places the courthouse, the bank, the gossip parlors, the quiet places, the places people forget to look."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, flat package wrapped in brown paper.

"I brought you something."

He set it on the porch rail: a brand-new pair of high-quality binoculars, the kind bird-watchers and snipers both loved. German lenses, Leather case embossed with a small purple "H."

"Consider it a signing bonus," Geese said. "You watch. You report. Anything that moves against me—against us, I want to know before it breathes. In return, no one bothers you, ever, no kids throwing rocks, no drunks daring each other to knock. No one. My word on it."

The shutter cracked open an inch. Pale fingers appeared, trembling slightly, then steadied.

A soft voice unused, rusty came through the gap.

"…why me?"

Geese smiled, thin and certain.

"Because you've spent your whole life being invisible. And I need invisible more than I need another loudmouth with a gun."

The door opened slowly, painfully. Arthur "Boo" Radley stepped onto the porch.

Tall, thin, hair white as paper and his eyes huge and dark and startlingly clear. He looked like a man who'd been folded away and forgotten, but the way he held himself said he hadn't forgotten anything.

He stared at Geese for a long moment. Then at Scout and Jem.

Scout gave a small, awkward wave. "Hey, Boo."

Boo's gaze flicked back to Geese.

Geese extended a gloved hand.

Boo hesitated… then took it. His grip was surprisingly firm.

Geese nodded once.

"Welcome to the organization, Mr. Radley, your call sign is Shadow, you report directly to me, Scout will bring you coffee and sandwiches on Tuesdays and Jem will handle any equipment requests, no small talk required."

Boo gave the tiniest nod.

Geese turned to leave, coat flaring dramatically even though there wasn't any wind.

"First assignment," he called over his shoulder. "Find out who's been asking questions about the tower's steel shipments. Names, times motivations. I want a full report by dawn."

Boo vanished back inside without another word. The door clicked shut.

Scout whispered, "That was… kinda cool."

Jem just stared at the house like he'd never seen it before.

Geese kept walking.

"Cool," he echoed dryly, "is for amateurs, effective is what wins empires."

Behind them, in the upstairs window of the Radley place, a new pair of binoculars gleamed faintly in the moonlight already scanning the streets below.

Maycomb slept.

Geese Tower did not.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The next morning, 5:47 a.m., the sky was still the color of weak tea when a soft knock came at the side door of Geese Tower—the one nobody but the inner circle knew existed.

Scout answered it in her pajamas (flannel, too big, stolen from Jem's closet). She didn't scream, she just blinked once, stepped aside, and said, "Hey, Boo. Coffee's on."

Boo Radley slipped inside like smoke, No coat, just a threadbare cardigan that had probably been gray once. He carried nothing visible, no notebook, no envelope but his long fingers were curled protectively around something small and flat.

Geese was already at the long table that dominated the top-floor office. Maps of Maycomb County pinned to corkboards, red string connecting the courthouse to the bank to the cotton warehouse to the Ewells' shack and a half-empty pot of black coffee sat beside a single porcelain cup (the only one Calpurnia would allow upstairs).

He didn't look up. "Report."

Boo hesitated near the doorway, eyes flicking to Scout and Jem (who had appeared behind her, still half-asleep), then back to Geese. He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—and placed a single folded sheet of paper on the table. It was ordinary notebook paper, torn neatly along the edge. No creases. No smudges. The handwriting was small, precise, almost feminine in its careful loops.

Geese picked it up without comment. Read.

03:12 – Two men in a black Ford coupe (license 4-7-2-M) parked behind the feed store on Dexter Avenue. Driver: Hank Jefferson, county commissioner's nephew. Passenger: unknown, wore a fedora pulled low, smoked hand-rolled cigarettes. They spoke for seventeen minutes. Words overheard: "tower," "steel invoices," "Birmingham boys asking questions," "Finch knows more than he lets on."
03:29 – They drove east on the Old Sarum road. Did not return by 05:00.
04:41 – Sheriff Tate's deputy, Mr. Ewell's cousin (the one with the limp), walked past the tower twice. First pass: looked up at the neon sign for forty seconds without blinking. Second pass: stopped at the base, touched the steel frame like he was checking for weakness. Left at 04:49.
05:03 – Light in Atticus Finch's study window went off. He had been reading with the curtain half-open. Book appeared to be a law journal, but he kept glancing toward the tower.
Additional: Three mockingbirds in the live oak behind the Radley place changed song pattern at 04:15. Not their usual cycle. Possible agitation or signal.

Geese set the paper down and took a slow sip of coffee. The room was dead quiet except for the faint hum of the tower's generator far below.

"Seventeen minutes," Geese murmured. "Long enough to plan something stupid."

He looked at Boo for the first time since the man had entered.

"You heard them from how far?"

Boo's voice was barely above a whisper. "Across the street. In the shadows by the barber shop awning."

Geese's lip curled not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Very good."

He pushed the paper toward Scout. "Memorize it. Then burn it."

Scout nodded, already mouthing the license plate number.

Geese stood, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the sleeping town. Dawn was just starting to bleed pink along the horizon. Geese Tower's purple neon reflected faintly on the glass.

"Jefferson," he said. "The commissioner's nephew, that means the uncle's involved. Birmingham boys that's outside money. Probably the steel suppliers who think they're being shorted on kickbacks." He tapped a knuckle against the window. "And Atticus… still watching."

Jem shifted. "You think Atticus is gonna… do something?"

Geese glanced back. "Your father's a man of principle. Principles are expensive. And slow. We move faster."

He turned fully to Boo.

"Shadow."

Boo straightened slightly.

"New standing orders," Geese continued. "Priority one: the Finch house. Every light, every shadow, every time Atticus picks up the telephone. Priority two: any car that slows near the tower. Priority three: anyone who mentions the name 'Howard' in a tone that isn't respectful."

Boo gave the smallest nod.

Geese reached into a drawer and pulled out a slim, black leather case. Inside: a compact shortwave radio, military-grade, tuned to a private frequency. He handed it over.

"Use this when you can't come in person. One click for 'safe.' Two for 'observe.' Three for 'immediate threat.' Four…" He paused. "Four means bring the kids and meet me on the roof. No questions."

Boo took the radio with both hands, like it was made of glass. His fingers brushed the purple "H" embossed on the case.

"One more thing," Geese added. "You eat. You sleep. You don't disappear on me. I don't lose assets to hunger or exhaustion."

Boo blinked—once, slowly—then nodded again.

Scout stepped forward, holding out a paper sack Calpurnia had packed the night before: ham biscuits, an apple, a thermos of sweet tea.

"For the watch," she said simply.

Boo took it. His eyes met hers for a fraction longer than usual. Something almost like gratitude flickered there, then vanished.

He turned to leave.

Geese's voice stopped him at the door.

"Shadow."

Boo paused.

"You did well. First report like that buys you a permanent place at the table. Don't forget it."

Boo didn't reply, he simply slipped out the side door and melted back into the gray morning light.

The door clicked shut.

Geese returned to the window, watching the first rays hit the tower's black glass.

"Jem," he said without turning. "Go wake Calpurnia. Tell her we need breakfast for five. Strong coffee. And tell her to make enough for one more plate."

Jem hesitated. "Who's the fifth?"

Geese's reflection in the glass showed the faintest smirk.

"Your father, he'll be here by eight, he read all night, he knows something's moving and he's too decent a man to let it happen without at least trying to talk me out of it."

Scout grinned, feral and bright. "Round two with Atticus?"

Geese didn't answer. He just watched the town wake up below him slow, ordinary and utterly unprepared.

Somewhere in the distance, a mockingbird started its song again.

It sounded a little less mocking this time.

Almost… watchful.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The afternoon sun slanted through the live oaks, turning the Finch porch into stripes of gold and shadow. Scout sat on the steps whittling a stick with Jem's pocketknife, while Jem leaned against the railing pretending to read a comic book he wasn't really reading. Inside, Atticus was at his desk, papers spread like a battlefield map, but his eyes kept drifting to the window.

A low rumble grew down the street a motorcycle engine, deep and deliberate, Scout's head snapped up first.

A man in a red ball cap, white t-shirt with a red sleeveless jacket over it, jeans, and fingerless gloves pulled up on a beat-up but lovingly maintained bike. He killed the engine, swung a leg over, and stood there for a moment, hands on hips, staring at the house like he was measuring it against some old memory.

Terry Bogard.

Scout dropped the knife. "Jem. Look."

Jem was already standing. "That's… that's the guy from the stories. The one who beat up Mr. Howard—Geese back in wherever-he-came-from."

Terry removed his cap, ran a hand through blond hair that hadn't changed much since South Town, and walked up the path. No swagger, just purpose, he stopped at the bottom step.

"Afternoon," he said, voice easy but edged. "Name's Terry Bogard. I'm lookin' for a man named Atticus Finch."

Atticus appeared in the doorway before Scout could answer. He adjusted his glasses, studied the newcomer the way he studied every stranger who came to his door with calm, thorough patience.

"Mr. Bogard," Atticus said. "I've been expecting someone like you. Won't you come in?"

Inside the parlor, Calpurnia brought iced tea without being asked. Terry took the glass but didn't drink. He sat on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, cap in his hands.

"I tracked him here," Terry said straight out. "Geese Howard. Fell off his tower in South Town it should've been the end. But then I ended up here and started hearin' whispers. A white-suited man buildin' an empire in some sleepy Alabama town. Tower goin' up overnight. Kids runnin' errands for him. A ghost in the shadows watchin' everything." He looked up. "That's Geese. And if he's alive, he's plannin' somethin' big. I came to finish what I started."

Atticus nodded slowly. "He's here, he saved my children from harm one night. In return, he's… enlisted them. Built his tower, recruited others, he speaks of owning Maycomb the way a man might speak of buying a suit."

Terry's fists tightened on the cap. "That's how he starts, Small then bigger and before you know it the whole town's his playground. I won't let that happen again."

Atticus set his own glass down. Very quietly.

"Mr. Bogard… Terry. There's something you need to know before you go after him."

Terry waited.

Atticus exhaled, the sound of a man who'd carried a secret longer than he wanted. "Geese Howard didn't just fall into this town by accident. And he's not the only one who crossed worlds or time, or whatever strange current brought him here."

He met Terry's eyes directly.

"I knew Jeff Bogard."

The room went still. Scout's mouth opened. Jem froze mid-breath.

Terry leaned forward. "What?"

"I knew him," Atticus repeated. "Not as 'Jeff Bogard,' perhaps. Not by that name. But I knew the man. The quiet strength. The way he carried himself like the world could break him, but he'd never let it show. The way he protected what was his, even when it cost everything."

Terry's voice dropped. "My father, Jeff was murdered. Geese killed him, right in front of me and Andy. I was ten, I saw it happen."

Atticus nodded. "I believe you, and I'm sorry for that pain. But the man you knew as Jeff… he didn't die that day, not completely."

Terry stared.

Atticus continued, soft but steady. "After the attack, after the body was taken away… there was confusion. Records muddled. A man who looked like him, walked like him, spoke like him turned up far from South Town. Different name. Different life. He found his way here, to Maycomb. Started over. Became a lawyer, a father, a widower raising two children alone."

Terry's cap slipped from his fingers to the floor.

Atticus Finch looked at him with the same gentle certainty he used when explaining hard truths to Scout and Jem.

"I am Jeff Bogard," he said. "Or… I was, the name changed, the face aged a little but the heart stayed the same. I left that life behind because staying meant more death, more revenge, more children growing up without fathers. I chose peace or tried to."

Scout whispered, "Daddy?"

Atticus reached out, rested a hand on her shoulder. "I never told you because… how could I? You were born here. This is your world, I wanted you to have one without towers and ki blasts and men who fall from buildings and get back up."

Terry stood slowly. His voice cracked the first time he spoke.

"You're tellin' me… you're my dad?"

Atticus—Jeff gave the smallest, saddest smile. "Adoptive. But yes. I raised you and Andy when no one else would. I taught you to stand up straight. To fight fair. To look after the little guy. And then… I left you to finish what I couldn't."

Terry's eyes were wet, but he didn't wipe them. "Why didn't you come back? After Geese… after everything?"

"Because coming back would've pulled you and Andy right back into the cycle. I thought if I disappeared, if Jeff Bogard stayed dead that Geese would move on, You'd move on. But he didn't and now he's here, in my new home, threatening my new family."

"So," Terry started, voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm usually reserved for people who've been betrayed by gravity one too many times, "you're my long-lost dad. Cool. Super cool. Really loving the plot twist where instead of me training to avenge you, you were busy here perfecting your 'disappointed dad' stare and growing heirloom tomatoes."

Atticus—Jeff—didn't even flinch. He just took a slow, deliberate sip of tea like he was auditioning for Most Unbothered Man in Alabama.

"Tomatoes don't back-talk," he said mildly. "Unlike certain blond-haired hotheads who show up unannounced and immediately start monologuing about uppercuts."

Atticus set his glass down with the precision of a man filing a restraining order. "Terry. Son. Whatever name we're using today. Geese has turned my quiet little courthouse square into his personal evil lair cosplay. He's got my children running errands like they're in a low-budget mafia movie. He recruited the town ghost for reconnaissance. And now you roll up looking like you just lost a bet with a motorcycle magazine."

Terry smirked, all teeth and zero chill. "Yeah well, maybe if you'd sent a postcard instead of faking your funeral, I wouldn't have spent fifteen years burn-knuckling my daddy issues into every bar fight from South Town to Seattle."

Atticus raised one eyebrow so high it nearly achieved orbit. "I left to keep you alive. You're welcome. Also, your form was sloppy in '92, that Power Geyser had more flair than follow-through."

Terry's jaw dropped. "You watched my fights? From Alabama? Through what, cross-dimensional carrier pigeon highlight reels?"

"I subscribe to several underground fighting newsletters," Atticus said, deadpan. "They have surprisingly good photography."

Scout wheezed. "Daddy reads something other than law books. Confirmed."

Jem just buried his face in his hands. "We're all gonna die. But at least it'll be hilarious."

Terry paced the length of the porch like a caged tiger in dad sneakers. "Alright, fine. New plan. I punch Geese in his smug face until he cries uncle, you stand there looking disappointed until he spontaneously combusts from shame,the kids throw biscuits at his goons and Boo Radley snipes with binoculars and existential dread. We win. Credits roll. Somebody cue the mockingbird for ironic closure."

Atticus stood up, brushing imaginary lint off his vest like he was about to deliver closing arguments to God Himself.

"Or," he countered, voice velvet over steel, "we do it my way: we drown him in paperwork so suffocating he'll beg for a quick Burn Knuckle just to feel something again. We hit him with zoning board complaints, historical district injunctions, noise ordinances about that godforsaken purple neon, and one very pointed letter from the garden club about 'invasive architectural hubris disrupting the migratory patterns of local songbirds.'"

Terry stared at him for a full five seconds.

Then he barked a laugh so loud it startled a cardinal out of the oak.

"You're gonna bureaucracy the Emperor of South Town into an existential crisis? That's… that's diabolical. I'm almost proud."

Atticus gave the tiniest shrug. "Evil empires fall fastest when they trip over red tape. It's physics. Look it up."

Scout hopped off the railing, eyes glittering with unholy glee. "Can I be the one to deliver the cease-and-desist? In person? While wearing my nicest overalls and my meanest squint?"

Jem sighed. "I'll bring the legal pads. And maybe a first-aid kit. For when Geese realizes he's being defeated by carbon copies and font size 12."

Terry clapped Atticus on the shoulder hard enough to make a normal man stagger, but Atticus just absorbed it like a particularly stoic brick wall.

"Alright, old man. You talk. I'll hit. The kids provide moral support and/or comic relief. Let's go ruin Geese Howard's day so bad he starts questioning his entire villain origin story."

Atticus smiled—small, sharp, and dangerously polite.

"Welcome home, son."

From the top of Geese Tower, the man himself watched the porch through high-powered lenses, ponytail practically vibrating with rage.

He clicked his tongue.

"Bogard family therapy session. How quaint."

He turned to the empty office.

"Shadow," he said into the radio. "Double surveillance on the Finch house. And tell the children to prepare for… aggressive expansion."

Somewhere below, Boo Radley clicked the radio twice.

Then, after a thoughtful pause, clicked it a third time.

Just in case.

The mockingbird in the live oak let out a single, incredulous chirp.

It sounded suspiciously like it was placing bets.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One crisp Tuesday evening, the purple neon on Geese Tower flashed like a migraine in LED form. A loudspeaker crackled to life—Geese's voice, dripping with theatrical menace and way too much reverb.

"Attention, you pathetic Maycomb peasants! I, Geese Howard, Emperor of Maycomb and current landlord of your sad little zip code, hereby declare the FIRST ANNUAL KING OF FIGHTERS TOURNAMENT! Winner gets… whatever. Bragging rights. A slightly less terrible parking spot. My eternal respect—which, let's be honest, is worth more than your entire economy. Sign-ups at the tower lobby. No refunds. No crying. Be there or be Atemi Nage'ed."

Scout, hearing the announcement from the porch steps, snorted so hard her journal almost fell in the azaleas. "He's literally just hosting a county fair but with more ego."

Jem groaned. "Do we have to enter?"

Atticus—Jeff—didn't even look up from his tomato plants. "We enter. We win. Then we file the noise complaint for 'excessive villain monologuing.'"

Terry, oiling his bike in the driveway, grinned like a man who'd been waiting his whole life for this nonsense. "Finally. I can punch Geese in the face again."

The tournament was held in the courthouse square because of course it was. Geese had erected a rickety ring made of repurposed cotton-bale ropes and "borrowed" bleachers. The competitors? A who's-who of Maycomb's least qualified.

Round One: Sheriff Tate vs. Atticus Finch.
Tate showed up with his revolver. Atticus showed up with a polite smile and a copy of the Alabama penal code.
Tate fired once (into the air, because he was still a decent shot at nothing). Atticus stepped aside, adjusted his glasses, and said, "Sheriff, that's a Class C misdemeanor for reckless discharge within town limits. Also, you're telegraphing every move like you're sending a telegram to your ex-wife."
One calm shoulder throw later, Tate was eating dirt and muttering about "damn lawyers and their damn rules."

Round Two: Terry Bogard vs. Bob Ewell (he wanted his runback with Geese).
Bob swung a rusty knife like he was trying to carve a Thanksgiving turkey in a hurricane. Terry yawned, sidestepped, and Power Charged him into next Sunday.
"Buddy," Terry drawled as the man flew, "Ukee has better form than that."

The quarterfinals were even worse. Miss Maudie Atkinson tried to "fight" with garden shears and Southern hospitality, Terry simply wished her a good day and she went home . Jem won by default when his opponent,Mr. Link Deas tripped over his own shoelaces and surrendered on principle. Scout beat three grown men by quoting the entire Declaration of Independence at them until they begged for mercy.

By the semifinals, the only ones left standing were Atticus and Terry. The crowd was half cheering, half hiding behind their programs, because this was now the most exciting thing to happen in Maycomb since the 1923 possum incident.

The finals. Ring cleared. Sunset painting the sky dramatic pink because even the weather was in on the bit.

Atticus rolled up his sleeves with lawyerly precision. Terry cracked his knuckles, baseball cap tilted at a cocky angle.

"Ready to get schooled by your old man, kid?" Atticus asked, voice pure snark.

Terry smirked. "Ready to get dropkicked by the son you abandoned for tomatoes, Pops?"

They circled each other. The crowd held its breath.

Then Geese Howard descended on a oversized platform elevator like a budget Broadway villain, white suit gleaming, jacket whipping in the nonexistent wind.

"Enough!" he bellowed, cape (he'd added one for drama) flapping. "You two think you can claim MY tournament? Pathetic! I built this empire! I recruited the ghost! I taught your children how to glare menacingly! Now you dare face each other? No. You will face ME. A two-on-one duel—at the top of Geese Tower! Where the view is spectacular and your defeat will be legendary!"

When the three men reached the top, Atticus sighed the longest, most exhausted sigh in Alabama history. "Mr. Howard, we have a signed bracket. You can't just—"

"Silence, Finch-Bogard!" Geese cut him off, already monologuing at full volume. "You think your little family reunion changes anything? I fell from my tower twice! I built another! I turned this backwater into my personal chessboard! Your precious 'justice' is nothing compared to my vision! My power! My—"

He was still going. Hands gesticulating, eyes blazing, suit doing interpretive dance.

Terry and Atticus looked at each other.

Terry raised one eyebrow. "On three?"

Atticus nodded once, polite as ever. "One."

"Two," Terry said.

"Three," they said together.

Two perfectly synchronized dropkicks,Terry's converse sneakers and Atticus's surprisingly athletic lawyer loafer slammed into Geese's chest at the exact same instant.

Geese's monologue cut off mid-sentence with a very undignified "—my glorious immaculate su—"

He sailed off the edge of the tower like a very expensive, very surprised lawn dart.

The fall was short. The impact was shorter.

Maycomb watched.

Geese Howard fell with astonishing speed.

No Reppuken.

No counter.

No dignity.

Just gravity performing a perfect game.

Miss Stephanie Crawford fainted instantly and Sheriff Tate removed his hat "…Well I'll be damned."
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Three days after Geese Howard's third (and final) dramatic exit from his tower, the purple neon sign atop the building flickered one last time, spelled out OUT OF ORDER in a sad little stutter, and died for good. The whole town showed up to gawk like it was the county fair's grand finale. Sheriff Tate was taking statements nobody needed. Miss Maudie baked three pies which she claimed was for "the occasion." Calpurnia muttered something about "finally getting her kitchen back from all these dramatic white men."

Atticus—still refusing to let anyone call him Jeff in public stood on the steps of the courthouse with a thick manila envelope he'd "found" in Geese's top-floor desk. (Translation: Boo had slipped it under the Finch door at 3 a.m. with a single radio click that somehow conveyed "here, deal with this nonsense.")

"Turns out," Atticus announced in that quiet, deadly-polite lawyer voice, "Mr. Howard left a will. Handwritten. On the back of a zoning permit. Dated the day before the tournament. It's… legally binding enough for Maycomb."

Terry, leaning against his motorcycle with arms crossed, snorted. "Lemme guess. 'I, Geese Howard, being of sound mind and evil disposition, leave everything to—'"

"—Arthur 'Boo' Radley," Atticus finished, holding up the paper like Exhibit A in the world's weirdest probate case. "Sole beneficiary. Geese Tower, all contents, the black glass, the generator, the leftover rare steaks in the refrigerator, everything."

The crowd went dead silent for half a second, then exploded into the kind of gossip that would fuel Maycomb for the next fifty years.

Scout, sitting on the hood of the car with her journal open, cackled. "Boo gets the evil skyscraper? That's the most Boo thing that's ever happened."

Jem just shook his head. "He's gonna turn the top floor into a bird-watching platform and never come down again, watch."

Boo himself was nowhere to be seen, classic, but the binoculars glinted once from the Radley porch, and the radio in Atticus's pocket clicked once. Message received: Mine, Thanks.

Atticus wasn't done. He pulled out a second envelope—this one fat, official, and smelling faintly of purple ink and evil.

"The tournament had a prize purse," he continued. "Ten thousand dollars in cash. Geese kept it in a briefcase labeled 'For the Victor Or Whoever Annoys Me Least.' Since the finals ended in… an unscheduled dropkick, the money defaults to the next clause in the will."

He looked straight at Helen Robinson, who was standing quietly at the edge of the crowd in her faded Sunday dress, holding her youngest's hand.

"Helen," Atticus said, voice softening the way it only did for people who'd already been through enough, "This is yours, every cent, no strings, no repayment. Call it restitution from a man who never understood what real power looked like."

Helen stared at the envelope like it might bite her. Then she looked at Atticus, at Terry, at the tower that no longer loomed like a threat.

"I… I don't know what to say."

Terry grinned, baseball cap tilted back. "You don't have to, just use it to get that roof fixed and send the kids to school. Geese would hate that it actually helped somebody. That's the best revenge."

Scout hopped off the car and marched straight over, holding out her journal like it was a contract.

"Also, Mrs. Robinson? If you ever need someone to write a strongly worded letter to the bank, I'm your girl. I learned from the best." She jerked a thumb at her father and her new karate brother.

Helen laughed—soft, real, the first real laugh anyone had heard from her in months—and took the envelope.

Later that evening, the tower's new owner made his first executive decision.

Boo Radley, still in the threadbare cardigan stood on the roof at sunset, he'd left the neon off. Instead, he'd hung a single plain white sheet from the parapet with three words painted in careful, shaky letters:

BIRD SANCTUARY
NO MONOLOGUING

Below, in the Finch yard, Terry was teaching Scout how to throw a proper Power Wave at a row of tomatoes (they exploded spectacularly). Atticus watched from the porch, arms crossed, smiling the small, dangerous smile of a man who'd outlived his own death twice and still had perfect paperwork.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The roof of the ex-evil tower (now tastefully rebranded RADLEY BIRD SANCTUARY – NO MONOLOGUING, NO REFUNDS) was doing its best impression of a peaceful Alabama sunset. Boo Radley stood at the edge in his cardigan, tossing sunflower seeds to a gang of mockingbirds who had clearly formed a union and were demanding better snacks. Down in the Finch yard: Atticus (still pretending "Jeff" was a phase), Jem trying to look cool, Calpurnia with her arms folded like she was one more interdimensional visitor away from quitting, and Scout vibrating with pre-teen chaos energy.

Terry Bogard sat on his motorcycle at the curb, engine purring like it missed Pao Pao Cafe's special cuisine, His baseball cap sat crooked for the last time.

"Welp," he announced, voice thick with fake-nonchalant dude-bro energy, "Portal's opening in thirty seconds. Rock's probably eaten all the Jambalaya again, gotta go home and punch some newcomers in the face."

"Take care of yourself, Terry." Atticus said giving him a small smile

Terry smirked.

"…You too, old man."

Terry then looked at Scout, who was doing the world's worst job of pretending she wasn't about to ugly-cry into her overalls. "Kid… you were the best tiny henchperson a dead crime lord could ask for. Don't let anyone ruin your vibe."

He yanked off his cap, spun it around his index finger and tossed it straight at her.

Scout snatched it mid-air, put it on her head and grinned like she'd just won the lottery and a lifetime supply of sarcasm. "I'm sleeping in this thing, bathing in it, marrying it. Tell South Town I said hi and also that their ponytails are basic."

Terry gave a two-finger salute. "Power Wave the tomatoes extra hard for me. Make 'em explode like Geese's ego."

The air tore open behind him with a swirl of purple ki and the faint smell of dock water, Terry revved the bike, yelled "Later, folks!" and drove straight through like it was just another Tuesday commute.

It was then closed,the portal was gone, Terry was gone. One single tumbleweed of awkward silence rolled by.

Then out of nowhere a full 40-person gospel choir in spotless white robes materialized on the roof like they'd been hiding in the dimensional rafters the whole time. They opened their mouths and launched straight into song:

"Keep on Calling! Keep on Calling!
Wow wow wow, only for you, my darling!
Keep on Calling! Keep on Calling!
Ride this wind till I'm next to you!"

The harmonies were stupidly perfect. One soprano even had a tiny "Fatal Fury" pin on her robe. Boo blinked once, then clicked his radio in what was clearly the Boo equivalent of "y'all good?" but then tilted his head like "huh, not bad."

Scout's jaw hit the dirt. "Where did the choir even COME from?! Did Geese install a 'dramatic exit music' button before he died?!"

Jem shrugged so hard his shoulders nearly detached. "Multiverse budget cuts. They probably got lost on the way to a play or somethin."

Atticus took a slow sip of coffee. "At least they're on key. The last interdimensional choir we had was off-pitch and tried to sell us insurance."

Calpurnia muttered, "If one of them tracks dirt on my porch I swear on every tomato in this county I will find a way to Raging Storm a choir."

The choir hit the soaring chorus, voices swelling like they were personally roasting Geese's entire life story, when the roof door creaked open like a bad horror movie on discount.

Mrs. Dubose hobbled out in her lace shawl, looking twenty years younger, skin glowing like she'd been mainlining fountain-of-youth tea, she brandished her cane like a scepter.

"Surprise, you Yankee-loving degenerates!" she cackled in full Southern-villain glory. "That Jin scroll of immortality Geese kept in his office drawer? I swiped it months ago! Been chugging immortality tea like it was sweet tea with extra spite! Thought I'd watch this ridiculous finale from the cheap seats and—"

She took one dramatic step backward for emphasis.

Missed the edge by a mile.

Pinwheeled like a very angry, very immortal lawn chair.

Screamed a very un-ladylike "OH SWEET BABY JESUS AND ALL HIS TOMATOES,"OH SHI—"

and plummeted exactly like Geese 3.0.

The crunch was chef's-kiss perfect. Neck snapped like fresh crackling bread. Dead. Again. Extra crispy.

The choir didn't miss a single beat. They just kept belting:

""Keep on Calling! Keep on Calling!
Wow wow wow how can it be you and me?!"
Legends never die, even when the mean old lady's gone…"

Everyone in the yard looked up, then at each other, then back at the fresh Mrs. Dubose-shaped dent in the lawn.

Atticus exhaled the longest, most exhausted sigh in recorded history. "Well. That happened. Again."

Jem shrugged like his shoulders were on vacation. "Jin scroll covered wrinkles but not basic gravity. Rookie mistake."

Scout adjusted Terry's cap. "She looked real spry for three whole seconds. New personal record."

Calpurnia didn't even blink. "Serves her right for stealing from dead villains. Now hush the choir's doing the key change and I'm trying to enjoy it."

Boo tossed another handful of seeds to the birds. The mockingbirds immediately started harmonizing like they'd been paid union scale.

Later, under the porch light, Scout scribbled the final entry while the song washed over Maycomb like the world's most ridiculous send-off:
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dear Journal,

My brother Terry peaced out. Gave me his cap. I'm never taking it off even when I'm 80 and yelling at clouds about taxes. The choir just spawned, full gospel backup for a motorcycle exit. Mrs. Dubose showed up immortal for exactly three glamorous seconds, bragged like she invented spite, then ate pavement harder than Geese. We all shrugged, Song kept going and Boo's up there feeding birds like it's a normal Tuesday.

Maycomb's back to boring, Helen's kids are in school, the tower's a bird hotel with excellent view. Daddy and the tomatoes are thriving, Calpurnia threatened to Raging Storm the choir if they tracked mud on the porch. I've got a red and white cap and enough material for a book nobody will publish because "dimensional dropkicks aren't historically accurate."

Also the choir's still here. They're really into the "Wow wow wow" part.

—Scout Finch
(Ex-henchkid, professional cap owner, official chronicler of neck-snaps, spontaneous musical numbers and "Why does this keep happening?")

P.S. Keep on calling Geese preferably from six feet under and Mrs. Dubose try not to fall off the afterlife's roof.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She snapped the journal shut.

The choir hit the final "How can it be you and me?" held it until the stars probably filed a noise complaint, then vanished in a puff of sparkles and awkward reverb.

Silence. Real silence. Finally.

Boo clicked his radio from the roof: Good night, suckers.

Scout looked up at the sky, Terry's cap low over her eyes, and whispered, "See ya bro"

Somewhere far away, a motorcycle engine probably revved once in answer.

And in the live oak, one mockingbird sang the last two bars of "Calling" perfectly in key… then immediately started cackling like it had just heard the funniest joke in two dimensions.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
One year later, the black glass tower formerly known as Geese Tower had been fully repainted white and turned into the Hakkyokuseiken Dojo & Bird Sanctuary. Boo Radley still lived on the top floor, feeding mockingbirds and occasionally clicking his radio at tourists who got too loud. The purple neon was replaced with a tasteful sign that read: ATTICUS FINCH, HEAD INSTRUCTOR – NO MONOLOGUING ALLOWED.

Atticus (still refusing to answer to "Jeff" in public) had opened the school the week after Terry left. His first students? The newly orphaned Ewell kids. Turns out Bob Ewell, after waking up from his dirt nap with a Power Charge hangover, had stood up, tripped over his own knife, and fallen right on it. Coroner's report: "Death by extreme clumsiness and moonshine." The kids Burris, the twins, and the rest suddenly had no parents and a lot of free time. Atticus enrolled them on the spot.

"Every child deserves a chance," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Even the ones who used to eat paste and throw rocks."

Scout immediately volunteered to be "assistant instructor." Translation: she used the Ewell kids as living training dummies. Burris was her favorite target.

"Hold still, Burris!" she'd yell, red cap (Terry's) pulled low. "This is for every time you called me a girl!"

"BURN KNUCKLE" Burris flew into the bird feeders and the mockingbirds cheered.

Jem, always one step behind, would sigh and help the kid up. "You're the best in Alabama, Scout, stop enjoying it so much."

Because yeah. Scout Finch had become the strongest fighter in the entire state. Nicknamed the Hungry Wolf of Maycomb after she single-handedly Power-Geysered three grown men at the county fair for trying to cheat at the ring-toss. Jem was permanently second place. He didn't mind. Much.

The King of Fighters tournament became an annual Maycomb tradition. Every summer the courthouse square turned into a fighting ring again. Sheriff Tate sold tickets. Calpurnia ran the concession stand (extra biscuits for winners). Boo judged from the roof with binoculars. The Ewells even started winning junior brackets turns out Hakkyokuseiken discipline did wonders for kids whose hair used to be full of lice.

And then came Christmas.

Francis Hancock showed up at the Finch house in his little bow tie, looking exactly as smug and punchable as he always had. He was visiting with Aunt Alexandra for the holidays, still full of opinions about "proper Southern girls."

Scout opened the door in her red cap, overalls, and a brand-new gi with a little wolf patch on the shoulder.

Francis sneered. "Well if it isn't the little tomboy who—"

Scout tilted her head, all innocence. "Are you okay?"

Francis blinked. "What?"

She smiled sweetly. "You look like you need some fresh air."

Then she hit him with a perfect Power Geyser right in the chest, point-blank, on the front porch. Francis shot straight up like a firework, bow tie spinning, and landed in the azaleas with a very satisfying splat.

Atticus, watching from the doorway with his coffee, didn't even flinch. "Scout. We talked about using the porch for demonstrations."

"Sorry, Daddy. He started it."

Jem just facepalmed. "She's gonna be the death of me. Or at least the azaleas."

Burris Ewell (now sporting a black eye and a surprising amount of self-respect) poked his head out from behind Jem and muttered, "Worth it. she's got range."

Inside, the choir from last year's dimensional send-off randomly reappeared in the living room, belted one quick chorus of "Keep on Calling," tossed a handful of glitter, and vanished again. Nobody questioned it anymore.

Scout pulled out her journal one last time and wrote:
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Dear Journal (I swear this is the last one),

Daddy runs a dojo now. The Ewell kids are actually kinda okay when they're head isn't full of lice. Burris still screams like a girl when I hit him with a Burn Knuckle so he's my favorite. The King of Fighters is bigger every year, last summer we had a guy from Montgomery who lasted six whole seconds against me.

I'm the Hungry Wolf of Maycomb. Jem's forever second and he's coping with snacks. Francis showed up for Christmas and got Power Geysered into the bushes. He's fine. Probably. The azaleas aren't.

Terry's cap still fits, the tower's full of birds, Boo's happy, Helen's kids are thriving and Calpurnia says if another villain shows up she's retiring to Florida.

Maycomb's weird now. But it's our weird.

—Scout Finch
Hungry Wolf of Maycomb, official porch defender, future state champion

P.S. Merry Christmas. Don't start none, won't be none.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
She closed the journal, looked out at the snow-dusted bird sanctuary tower, and grinned under Terry's red cap.

Somewhere far away, a motorcycle revved once in another dimension.

In the live oak, a mockingbird sang the opening notes of "Calling."

Perfectly in key.

And in the azaleas, Francis Hancock groaned.

Scout waved at him cheerfully.

"Merry Christmas, cousin!"