WARNING: Some minor PG-13 content in this chapter, for implied horror themes and drug use. NOT for shipping reasons.

It was the spring of 1971 when Oprah and O'Donahue got their first and only American case in Ironton, Ohio. It was also the first and only case that was way out of their league—in more ways than one.

"So is the problem with your TV or your son?" Oprah asked the woman, looking back and forth between her and the device in question.

"I honestly couldn't say!" the woman said in bewilderment. "Maybe both. I just hope little Robbie isn't wrong in the head!"

O'Donahue patted the woman on her arm. "Not to worry, ma'am. I'm sure he's fine. Now start from the beginning and tell us what's odd."

The woman took a deep breath. "Every weekday afternoon at four o'clock, my son asks me to turn on the TV and go to Channel 58. Now that channel has always been nothing but static, but my son will watch it for half an hour. And then he goes on and on about this program with some girl named Janice and her friends Pirate Percy and the Laughingstock. I don't know if there's something wrong with the TV, or if he needs his head fixed!"

"Hmm." Oprah glanced at her watch. "Well, it's almost four now. Why don't my partner and I stay and watch what happens, and we'll decide what to do after that."

The woman wrung her hands and nodded. "Okay."

At that moment, a little boy of about six clambered down the stairs and into the living room. "Mommy, mommy, turn on Candle Cove!" he said.

With a sigh, the woman switched on the TV and turned the dial until the display read 58, while her son plopped down on the floor in front of the TV. Sure enough, there was nothing but static. But then the white noise faded out and was replaced by calliope music. To the agents' astonishment, the words CANDLE COVE appeared on the screen, set to a background with a beach and a pirate ship off in the distance.

"Are you seeing this, ma'am?" O'Donahue managed, jaw dropped nearly to the floor.

"Seeing what?" the woman cried out. "There's nothing but static! Even my husband and sister agree with me!"

"Weird," Oprah murmured. "It's like only kids can see it. But it's definitely there, I'm watching it clear as day."

Then the first scream sounded.

All three kids watched in horror as the camera rapidly cut to all sorts of marionettes screaming, screaming and writhing in unbearable pain. One was a pirate with a contorted face, one had a mustache and huge teeth, and one was nothing but a skeleton with a patchwork top hat and cape that looked to be made of human skin. And all were screaming and gnashing their teeth. The calliope music that had sounded so friendly at the beginning played on with a now frightening intensity. Then a new sound was added to the cacophony—sobbing. A five-year-old girl appeared, wailing uncontrollably as if she'd been sitting through hours of this.

"Oh my God..." Oprah whispered, eyes glued to the screen and unable to tear them away. "This is...this is..."

"What?" the woman shouted. "What is it, what is it?!"

"Satanic," O'Donahue gulped. "That's what it is, it's satanic!"

That single word galvanized Oprah into action. In one swift moment she lunged forward and switched the TV off. Instantly the screaming stopped, and there was merciful silence.

Robbie began to cry.

Oprah was shaking and breathing heavily. "Ma'am...I don't know what that was, but I do know this: Odd Squad is not qualified to help you."

The woman stared at them. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It means we agents aren't trained to solve a case like this," O'Donahue explained. "We look for oddness, and what we just saw was, um, worse than odd."

"But we do know who is qualified for this sort of thing." Oprah reached behind her back and pulled out a business card. "This is the contact information for the Witches Council and the Winchester Family Business. One of these organizations may be able to help you. But in the meantime, don't ever let your son watch that show again."

The woman, hugging her crying son, took the card gratefully. "Thank you, Odd Squad. And don't worry, I won't!"

O'Donahue knelt down so he was face-to-face with Robbie. "There now, we turned it off. You don't have to see that show ever again, okay? Can you be a brave boy for your mommy?"

Robbie nodded through his tears. "Yes."

"Good job." He stood up. "Have a good day ma'am." And with that, both agents ducked into the tube entrance, inconveniently placed behind the television set. It would be nearly a year before either one of them watched anything on TV again without getting spooked.

* * * * *

Oprah didn't like the long hair.

She kept dropping hints that he should cut it. "It looks so fruit with our new uniforms!" "Get real, what boy would wear long hair with a suit?" "We're government agents, not countercultural hippies!" Or her favorite, giving him a pair of scissors for his birthday. "Guess what they're for?" she asked in a singsong voice.

But every time, O'Donahue would roll his eyes and whip out his new favorite pair of red-framed sunglasses—and that new catchphrase he knew she hated:

"Like, get with the Times, New Roman." And he'd put on his sunglasses and saunter off, leaving behind a snarling partner.

Once, O'Donahue somewhat jokingly accused her of turning into Olga. Though meant innocently, the remark hit home, and Oprah kept her mouth shut after that. And over the next couple years, she grudgingly grew to like it. There was one time she caught herself imagining what it would be like to twirl her fingers in that long, dark hair, slowly and tenderly. Disturbed, she quickly ran to the break room for a juice box and soon forgot her daydream.

O'Donahue went out quite often, of course. In their downtime at work, he'd tell her all about the places he'd been, the "groovy shag wags" he'd ridden in, and all the cool people he'd met. Especially the girls. Oprah bristled whenever he mentioned some new Sheila, though she didn't really know why.

Or, more accurately, wouldn't admit to herself why.

She tried to pass it off as an age thing. "O'Donahue, those girls are older than you now. Don't you see? We've been on the gig long enough that we're getting younger. I've gone from ten to almost seven, and you've gone from eleven to nine."

O'Donahue raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't matter. They're not over a century old. They're still stuck in the crib with their parents."

Oprah sighed. It was all bravado, the way he was talking, and they both knew it. Still, her partner's nightlife made her nervous on more than one occasion.

And not just her. One afternoon in '76, Ms. O called them up to her office, and it wasn't for oddness. Oprah knew things were serious right from the start when their boss didn't tell him to tuck in his shirt like she always did. "Agent O'Donahue," she began, reaching for a jellybean, "I understand you've been hanging out with an, er, interesting crowd lately."

Oprah shot her partner a look that said, I told you so.

"But before I go on, there's a bit of protocol I need to take care of first." Ms. O turned to Oprah. "What is the official Odd Squad motto?"

"E weirdibus bizarreum, strangeus non normalur," Oprah recited.

Ms. O turned to O'Donahue. "And what is the official Odd Squad promise?"

"All kids are equal, and all kids belong," he recited.

"Which is why I don't want to discuss this, but I think it's gone on long enough now. Assistants, close the door and leave us!"

Ms. O's two assistants scrambled out the glass doors and shut them behind them.

"Good, now we're alone." Ms. O grabbed another jellybean and leaned forward over her desk. "Agent O'Donahue, do you know what substance abuse is? And I'm not talking about Oprah's juice boxes or my jellybeans."

O'Donahue gave her a bemused smile. "Of course I do. You don't think I'm, like, a burnout, do you?"

"No, of course not! Otherwise I'd have kicked you off the squad immediately, and I know you know better than that." Ms. O gathered her long, sleek black hair in one hand and tossed it behind her. "But I am worried about the company you've been keeping, when you're not at work." Holding up a hand before O'Donahue could protest, she went on. "I realize I'm not supposed to know about what my agents do after working hours. I also realize this is part of your thirty-year improvement project, which I am thankful to your partner for taking care of. However, I want to remind you that you are one of my oldest and longest-serving agents. So...be careful, will you?"

"It's casual, Ms. O," he said with a smirk. "I can take care of myself."

One week later, Oprah got the phonecall.

* * * * *

One hour later from that, O'Donahue got slapped across the face.

"WHAT IN ODD'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?!" Oprah screamed in outrage. "YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! ! !"

Rubbing a hand along his cheek and wincing, O'Donahue managed to reply, "Close the shades, will ya? We're in a hospital waiting room and people are staring—"

This earned him a slap on the other cheek. He tried again to reason with her. "Look, how was I s'posed to know the driver had been trippy with the unicorn tears?"

"Because you're an Odd Squad agent, genius!" Oprah yelled back, her voice sounding a little more choked up this time. "You are trained to recognize anything strange, weird, and especially odd! And that definitely includes the symptoms of DUIOUT!"

He sighed. "Look, Oprah, I—"

And that's when it dawned on him.

All this time.

All this time.

When she offered to take him to a Charlie Chaplin film after he embarrassed himself at the Square Dance Night.

When she confronted him about his past with Olga and helped him work through it.

When she left the dance at the Club 24 in a foul temper after meeting those three girls.

When she let him go through his wild phase, even though she didn't totally approve.

All those times he had imagined taking her places...showing off his modern airs to impress her...watching her twirl in a skirt...playing with her hair...holding her in his embrace.

All those times he had imagined her imagining the same things in reverse.

They were true. All of them. For both him and her.

O'Donahue watched a single tear escape her eyelashes and run down her cheek before she angrily brushed it away. In over one hundred years, he couldn't recall ever seeing her cry.

God, her eyelashes are pretty when they're wet.

All this time.

All this time they'd seen each other only as partners.

And, more recently, forced themselves to see each other only as partners.

And yet...

Well, now I have to admit it, don't I?

"Oprah, I—I'm fine. I can't say the same about everyone who was in that van when it crashed—" he jerked his head in the direction of the ER "—but as for me, I survived and I am fine." With some difficulty he stood up from the stiff hospital armchair. "And I won't go out anymore if you don't want me to."

Oprah said not a word, but gazed up at him. Stepped closer until he felt her breathing. Avoided glancing at the bruises on his hands and knees, through his white shirt. Took his trembling hands in hers. Traced the long gash on his forehead with her thumb.

"I started taking karate for protection," she whispered. "To defend myself while fighting off any odd villains." She leaned in closer. Another tear fell, this time she let it be, and it dripped onto the front of his shirt. "But why can't I use it to protect my own partner?"

O'Donahue had no answer to that. So he wrapped his arms around her instead. She did the same, hiding her face in his chest. Oprah, who'd never liked hugging. O'Donahue, who'd wanted to hug her for so long.

And in that moment, the truth came out of hiding, and they both knew.

* * * * *

Despite having no critical injuries, Ms. O still insisted that O'Donahue take a full week off.

That left Oprah temporarily partnerless. To keep her busy, Ms. O had her do random assignments for her. One time she led a group of agents-in-training around Odd Squad Headquarters. Another time she graded two assistants on their performance for the day. Twice she was told to read and take notes over the Odd Squad Rulebook and the O Manual. And once she was even asked to answer the phone while Ms. O went on a brief business trip.

Mentally Oprah groaned at the pointlessness of these mundane tasks. After all, she'd been a full agent for over a century now, she'd done much more advanced work than this! Nevertheless she did it without any outward complaint—although a few times channeled her frustration at the recruits she was supposed to be leading on a tour.

Little did she know how much Ms. O was observing her.

* * * * *

On May 25 of 1977, the biggest pop culture phenomenon of all time struck the world.

That same day, O'Donahue didn't show up to work.

Coincidence? Oprah didn't think so.

At one point during the morning, her desk phone rang. "What's the buzz, O'D?" she answered, knowing very well who it was. "Lemme guess, you called in 'sick' today?"

"That's right, doll," came the reply. There was an odd buzzing noise in the background on the other end of the connection.

"Just how early did you get up to wait in line?" she asked, holding the phone with her shoulder as she searched for a case file.

He laughed. "Oh, I'm not in line yet. I decided to stop by the barbershop on the way."

"The what?" Now it was Oprah's turn to laugh. "O'Donahue, are you actually getting a haircut?"

"You could say that." More buzzing noises, which were now obviously those of an electric razor. "It's not for you, though. I'm only stylin' after Harrison Ford's character."

"Ha ha. That doesn't include the outfit, does it?"

"Right on!"

"Oh, no." Oprah sighed. "I don't see why you're so psyched about this. It's just another yagalistic sci-fi flick. Everyone'll forget about it by next year."

"Are you serious? This is gonna be the biggest thing of the summer! Maybe even the decade! Just you wait and see, Oprah. There's never been anything like it before!"

"Does that mean I have to come watch it with you?"

"Well...it is a better deal for me to buy two tickets instead of one. And I thought you were wanting a date night—"

"Shh! Not so loud!" she cut him off. "We're just partners, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, baby doll. Whatever you say."

Oprah could picture him winking, and she stifled a giggle. "Okay fine, I'll go. Better that than giving the extra ticket to any old foxy airhead, right?" There was a short chuckle on the other end, and she knew that he got the joke. "Alright, check you later tonight, O'D." Hanging up, she found the fifty-year-old file on the Patternista kidnapping case and ran to deliver it to Ms. O.

And that was how O'Donahue talked Oprah into seeing Star Wars with him on opening night. Sure enough, they were both so impressed that they stayed in the theater and watched it a second time. When they went to see The Empire Strikes Back three years later (which this time, apart from one jibe comparing Master Yoda to Kermit the Frog, she took the release of very seriously), he even convinced her to wear a white dress and pin her hair up in two side buns like Princess Leia. Combined with his Han Solo look, they made the cutest couple in the movie theater.

* * * * *

Three more years went by.

In the early spring of 1983, Ms. O—Olesya—had a decision to make. It was almost time for her to retire. She'd been Ms. O for nearly sixty years now, and an Odd Squad agent for almost seventy years before that, and she was tired. With exception to Agents Oprah and O'Donahue, almost all of her old friends had left: Osage had retired the year Olesya was promoted, Obed not long after that; Ocelot and Oxley had been transferred to another squad during World War II; Orscheln quit her job after the war to work as a grownup forensic scientist; O'Sullivan had retired back in the sixties; and her own partner Agent Ogden had left during the Great Depression for reasons still unknown. Only Olmstead was left, and she too was planning to retire and appoint a new Head of Security soon anyhow. There was nothing much left in Odd Squad for Olesya, and for years now she had wanted more time to spend with her pet goldfish.

Just one problem remained: who her successor would be.

The obvious choice was Agent Oprah. For several years now, Olesya had secretly been watching her, and it was clear she had all the right qualities. Back when she was first promoted, Old Missie had even told Olesya so.

"Had you not come along, I might have promoted Oprah instead," Old Missie had admitted. "But even then, I wouldn't have wanted to separate her and O'Donahue. They're too good together as partners."

Which meant it was now up to Olesya to do that very thing.

She sighed and shook her head, her recently-permed hair bouncing as she did so. The problem wasn't the qualifications, of course. Over the past several years, she had secretly tested Oprah on her abilities to run an Odd Squad office, and Oprah had obliviously passed with flying colors. The final exam would be a test of loyalty in the form of a pretend case based on Olesya's own experience from decades before—which reminded her, she needed to talk to O'Donahue about that and let him in on her plan. And which brought up what the real problem was: what was going to happen to Agent O'Donahue when his partner was promoted?

He could potentially move into the Events & Support Department with Obfusco, just as Ogden had done. But something told Olesya he wouldn't like that very much. She could assign him a new partner, but that would be weird since Oprah wouldn't be transferring to another squad. The other possibility was that he could stay Oprah's partner, but shift into more of an adviser-to-the-boss role. Dr. Ozzington had done that for both Old Missie and Olesya herself until his retirement a decade ago, so it wasn't impossible to do.

Of course, it all depended on what O'Donahue himself wanted to do.

Getting up from her desk, Olesya headed for the stool outside her office overlooking headquarters. "AGENT O'DONAHUE! IN MY OFFICE! LIKE, NOW!" she called.

No time like the present to find out.

A/N The odd case that Oprah and O'Donahue investigated at the beginning of this chapter is based on the famous and entirely fictional Candle Cove creepypasta. Look it up sometime, it's a fascinating story and one of my favorites!

Another fun fact: Agent Olmstead, my OC from "Patterns of the Past" mentioned here who will make an appearance in the next chapter, is based on a girl at my school with the same last name.