"We warned you that they were a tad rambunctious."
Two adults in their early 40's, dressed for an expensive and glamorous night on the town, stood in a foyer, the last point of entry that was reminiscent of a reenactment of the Normandy landing.
Among the debris, including the partially-disassembled remains of a microwave, an electric fan missing its motor and only one blade, cardboard tubes, various nails and screwdrivers and..
"What IS that pile behind you? Why is your hair dusty? Where are our children?" the woman asked of the babysitter. What she got in response was a very quiet, almost subvocal 'f__k you lady', followed by a loud throat-clearing, a halo of wood dust drifting off of her blond hair.
"That..pile...is the remains of approximately 160 #2
pencils. Your..children..found them, or bought them, or stole them, SOMEHOW they acquired them, then proceeded to strip the graphite out of them with knives. Or a pencil sharpener without the casing. I don't know for certain how. Wasn't in the room."
She sneezed suddenly. "As for my hair, they got some of the shavings up on the ceiling. Again don't know how." She seemed calm. Too calm, actually, like someone who'd come out the other side of scared or angry and now swam deep beneath the surface of tranquility. Of course, fury hid in those depths too.
The father, a tall and imposingly built man only just barely beginning to go to seed, stepped forward, or rather forward and to the left around the small goop-filled hole in the floor. "You weren't in the room? And where exactly were you then, instead of watching our children?" There was the edge of anger creeping into the consonants of his words, making them come out hard and short, and his right hand was clenching and unclenching rythymically.
The babysitter lacked any and all care or concern regarding said signs of anger. She just shrugged and started brushing dust off of her t-shirt. "Well, they'd managed to get a hold of a taser..presumably yours ma'am," she added, glancing at the mother, "and used it on me. I'm not precisely clear on the chain of events from there, but I came to my senses in one of your many closets, wrapped in a lot of duct tape."
She held up three empty cardboard rings, a torn flap of tape hanging off each one. "Three, actually. I counted. After the hour and a half of struggling to get free, of course." Her voice, while lacking most inflection, still easily had enough stinging accusation in it to wound.
The father opened his mouth to say something; perhaps condemnation, probably disbelief, perhaps even apology, when all three heard a couple childish voices cry out from the basement.
"We have achieved plasma formation!" said a young girl.
"AWESOME! Hit the switch Mary! BOOM FOR THE BOOM GOD!"
Every light dimmed, a few even broke, and the house rattled. There was a smell of smoke, then high-pitched laughter. Both parents dove past the babysitter and towards the basement door; she just stood there, continuing to brush dust off of herself.
"Never again. I don't care how much they pay, girl, never ever babysit for the brats of mad scientists."