SeretoninSays 06/01/2020 (Monday) 15:03:29 #48202192

CW: Institutional homophobia and transphobia, sex crimes, human experimentation
MK-ULTRA is the most infamous of the CIA's experimentation programs, but it's not the only one. Recently declassified CIA documents reference projects such as MKSMILODON, MKWALDO, and MKISOLDA, all of which are woefully incomplete— MKSMILODON got dismissed by the news as the CIA's 'X-Files Project', because any project that deals with trying to control the weather using 'human conduits' is going to be called that by anyone not in the know.
One thing that got largely overlooked by the news was something called MKWHITEOUT. By the late 60's, the MK Projects were starting to lose funding as the US Government became more concerned about the Space Race and how badly the Vietnam War was going, but one place that Nixon wanted to focus on was oppressing minorities— the entire reason he refused to legalize pot was because he wanted more excuses for African-Americans and hippies to be arrested, and when it came to the fledgling LGBT community, he was more than willing to turn a blind eye to the CIA using Pride as a testing ground for an atrocity.
May 1971. Stonewall had taken place less than two years before, and CIA Director Richard Helms gives the greenlight for MKWHITEOUT, a biological warfare initiative that was to use, and I quote, 'infectious mutagenic agents… to attempt to cure homosexual psychopathy for the good of the American people'.
Their so-called cure? A hybrid of botulism and something known as 'The Carpathian Agent'.

SeretoninSays 06/01/2020 (Monday) 15:12:42 #48202193

June 1972. San Francisco. Several things happen over the course of the week leading up to the city's first Official Pride parade on the 25th.
On the night of the 18th, Toad Hall, one of the city's oldest gay bars (featured in the 2008 biopic Milk) is broken into. Nothing is stolen, but the owners at the time are paranoid enough to dispose of all their booze after they find a Budweiser cap on a Miller bottle, clear evidence of tampering.
Early that same day, a so-called 'hair fairy' (an individual that might be considered transgender in the modern day) identified in a police report as 'Barry Dent' is arrested for public indecency. What transpired in the next three hours is unclear, but Dent was never seen again. Her cellmate is found clutching a knife with blood matching Dent's type on it, sans throat and left arm. Said cellmate's identity was not disclosed at the time, but the individual who came to collect their body is listed as "Mr. Brightton", now known to be a common CIA Cryptonym for 'cleaner' agents during the Nixon administration.
Starting on the 19th, three men hand out pamphlets advertising the Pride event around Castro. The pamphlets are printed on paper that has an odd texture with sharper creases. Several people get papercuts from touching them, and fall ill with strange symptoms.
The Stud, another famous gay bar is broken into on the 19th. The attempted vandal is fired upon by the owner and wounded— a black towncar picks them up a block away. SFPD does nothing about it, naturally.
The 20th brings reports of over sixty different incidents of apparent botulism poisoning from across the city, all among individuals who are considered 'queers', 'hair fairies', 'homos', whatever derogatory term you've heard, they used it to describe them. The police figured that a few dead f***ots was probably a good thing, and did nothing. Doctors who treated them managed to deliver antitoxin, and noted that several of them had quote 'abnormal hair growth patterns' that were not exhibited in 'normal human beings'. A commonality among them is that they all got drinks or knew someone who was at Wild Side West, which is— you guessed it —a gay bar, albeit one outside of Castro.
Needle marks are found on several of those admitted into hospitals across the city. At San Francisco General, a toxicology screen finds the same unknown drug in five different patients. One of the doctors there has a contact in the Swiss healthcare company Roche, who confirms that it is a drug they patented a decade earlier, not yet on the market. That drug is flunitrazepam, better known today as rohypnol.

SeretoninSays 06/01/2020 (Monday) 15:23:16 #48202196

On the 21st, the majority of the patients are discharged. That night, the SFPD is flooded with calls of wild animals being seen and heard throughout the city. They investigate one around Fisherman's Wharf, and find a metal lightpole bent in half, with scratch marks all the way around the top, as if whatever bent it over literally spun around it first.
The morning of the 22nd, a young woman known only today as 'Milly' finds one of the pamphlet men preparing for his day. She finds him coating the pamphlets with a brush covered in an unknown substance, and gathers a mob to chase him out of the district. He reportedly jumps into a black towncar bound for the north. This same man is seen again in the vicinity of the City Lights bookstore in the Red Light district— some people have speculated the existence of a CIA bolthole in this part of the city.
The night of the 22nd brings more calls of animal sightings. A few fortune tellers near Presidio Heights draw Hamsa sigils on their doors— charms meant to ward off evil creatures.
Gunshots are heard around the Castro district in the early hours of the 23rd of June. A wrecked towncar is found in an alley in the neighboring Mission District, upside-down and on fire. Locals claim ignorance, despite evidence of blood and torn clothing being found on the corner of 20th and Castro St.
In the end? Whatever malefactor was trying to sabotage San Fran's First Pride failed. The parade went on without a hitch, but not without weird things happening. Several people in the crowd reported seeing animalistic silhouettes on the buildings above the street, only to look again and see people just waving at the parade.

SeretoninSays 06/01/2020 (Monday) 15:29:51 #48202197

MKWHITEOUT was shuttered on July 4th, 1972. The majority of the documentation related to it was incinerated, but not all of it. Among the MKWHITEOUT team was a virologist from the Socialist Republic of Romania, and his files were the ones that were recently declassified. The rest of this comes from my great-aunt, who lived through a large part of this.
The Romanian's files state that the original intent of the project was to 'create a hyper-virulent botulism… spreadable only through fluid transmissions, ensuring minimal contact with the non-psychotic populous'. This is probably the reason behind the Carpathian Agent's inclusion in the hybridized bacterium, as it is stated to be 'only transmissible through the contact of fluids on exposed wet tissue'.
Testing didn't go as intended— the Carpathian Agent is a mutagen, and being infected with it results in physiological changes, among them being 'abnormal keratin growth'— hair and nails grow at super-fast rates, and from what I've read, the nails are strong enough to tear into aluminium. Other signs of it are 'dermal and muscular mutations', and 'spontaneous dental growth'. So, they changed tactics— instead of literally killing the gay community, they'd try to smear them to death.
Throughout late 1972 and early 1973, the San Francisco Examiner received several anonymous pieces of mail containing film rolls appearing to depict large, hairy creatures alongside of men and women who were known members of the LGBT community, seemingly taken without their knowledge or consent— in one of them, you can even see the camera is misaligned with the hole it's meant to stick through, and you can see the inside of the drywall. If you don't get the intent here, I'm not going to spell it out.
In 1983, a camera was discovered inside drywall while renovation work was being done on an apartment building in the Mission District, still containing an intact roll of film. The apartment it was found in housed one of the sixty-plus people who were admitted into the emergency room on June 20th, 1972. I've seen the photos for myself— they depict the tenant, a man named Raymond Murphy in his bed alongside his partner, Cecil MacFinn. The timer on the camera took a photo every fifteen seconds. Raymond appears to be in pain, and Cecil is holding him. About two minutes in, Raymond… changes. Cecil never lets go of him, and seems to be patting him on the back repeatedly. After about another minute, the change is complete, and the creature that used to be Raymond looms over his partner. Cecil is clearly afraid, his back up against the headboard of the bed. The creature bears down upon him, and his face is concealed from sight for the next three pictures.
When the creature pulls away from Cecil, the man is laughing, and his face is covered in what I can only describe as slobber as he pulls Raymond close to him once more.
Happy Pride, everyone. Stay safe out there.


I see you standing there.
You brace your arm against a tree as snow piles upon your shoulders. You can't be older than twenty, clad in an orange jumpsuit and a dark gray raincoat. Your tiny body shivers as you trudge through the snow. After five steps or so, your foot gets caught on something and you fall to the ground. The impact leaves you with a deep cut on your leg, but your face betrays nothing, not even a single twitch of pain. Each droplet of blood which hits the ground twists my insides a little.
You get up and wipe away the dirt and ice that clings to your raincoat as if you didn't even think about it. The wind tousles your brown head of hair as you look around. Fog floods through the forest, and waving your arms does little to clear it. You peer further into the low-hanging clouds. Are you looking for me? I fiddle with the question in my mind as you slowly turn and begin walking away. I follow at the distance so that I may see your form while you remain unaware of mine. Ice leeches on my back, sucking out blood through my skin and turning red as a result.
I can handle it. Even as my hands pulse with pain from hoisting my body above the twigs and leaves which would betray my presence, I continue. The sight of your face is enough to drive me through the suffocating cold. The face which I helped to grow and mold and give to the world — the face of my child.
But now you flee, fearing that your life is only minutes away from ending. Where is this monster that chases you? I haven't seen one yet. I stay low to the ground, carefully avoiding your gaze as you stumble your way up a small hill. You pull yourself over a fallen log using bright pink hands, uttering an obscenity. I shudder, shaking off the thick layer of snow that accumulated on my red skin. You don't seem to notice.
I crawl around to the side of the hill through a thick grouping of trees which pricks off tiny bits of my skin as I slide past their bark. I bite my tongue, pulling myself over the top. Before me is a large outcrop of silver rock which folds inwards, forming half of a metallic-colored hemisphere. You're huddled inside, shivering in the dark. I cling to the side and shut my eyes, letting a barrage of frozen raindrops and pebbles strike my body. I withstand the pain for your safety, child.
My breaths are short and labored as to not disturb you. I force my heart to pump more blood through my body so that I give off more heat to warm your cold body. Then I hear the rapid, staccato thuds of tears striking stone. I peer in through the cracks and watch you bury your face into your hands. Each tear sinks into my heart like a knife. Why are you sad? What frightens you? I search my surroundings, my face growing pale, seeking that which terrifies you.
The sky is empty, the fields are clear. The silence is only offset by the sound of your croaking voice. My search grows more frantic. I raise myself higher and higher as clouds of snow cover my face and chest in white, desperate to catch the slightest twitch of movement. Figments of my imagination manifest themselves into the reality around me: the leaves grow bug-like legs and skitter around, the logs open to reveal maws full of jagged teeth, the trees hide bloodshot eyes. I try to slap my mind out of its delusion; it feels like punching a concrete wall with my bare fist.
There is nobody for kilometers that can harm you. I repeat the sentence in my mind over and over again. There are no monsters here. And if there is a beast which has avoided my gaze until this point, I am here to serve as your manic protector, ready to tear it to pieces. You cry louder, like a dying sheep surrounded by wolves. I lower myself back down to the cracks as a bitter realization seeps into my mind.
Is it me? Am I the reason you stand terrified in the cold? My grip tightens on the wall and my teeth sink further into my flesh to stop myself from weeping. Millions of thoughts float around in my brain, telling me to speak or whisper or fucking scream at you, but I don't. I let my voice die for now. The infinitely tall tower of emotion in my mind that teeters on the edge of collapse settles, and I let my anger leak into the wind as you talk to yourself.
“God, kill me. Please fucking end me. If you can see me here and now, take my life. I'll be fine if I go to Hell, just bring me anywhere else but here. Goddammit. Please, God, please just hear me for once in your stupid fucking life,” you say into your hands.
I scream. The pain and anger and frustration shoots out of me like spikes towards you, overflowing my vocal cords. Rocks turn into dust in my hands as I decimate your fortress. You pray for death? You would rather die out here alone in the cold than take one look at me?
Then that's just what you'll get.
I crawl over the remains as you bolt away. You trip and tumble down the other side of the hill that overlooks a circular field where the snow is light enough to where you could run comfortably. Your raincoat flies from your arms as you fall to your almost certain death.
Red tears fall from my eyes, partially blinding me as I advance. I know I kept saying that my love for you is greater than any pain you can inflict upon me, but that wasn't meant to be taken as a challenge. This test of yours only fuels the stupid, deranged side of me that wants to do something I know I'll regret later. I yell these words to you, but my throat closes with emotion, only letting incoherent shrieks and howls through.
Falling to the bottom of the hill, you crack your head open against a hard patch of ice, spraying blood out onto the snow. You cover your wound and continue running, screaming for help. You want help? You would have died already if it weren't for me, you ungrateful bitch. I roar for the umpteenth time — blood begins to shoot out from my throat — before rearing back and diving into the earth. The dirt splits like water, and I dig through the hard earth which cracks my fingernails. The sound of your footsteps guides me, and my anger and frustration motivate my arms to dig faster.
My back protrudes out of the earth as I swim towards you. My exposed skin bristles at the sudden influx of cold, like someone took a freezing rod to it, thawed it, and then refroze it again all in a few moments. You ask again for somebody to save you or kill me. The now blood-red ice that clings to my skin dislodges, forming two long trails on either side of me as I surge towards you. I dig faster and faster, barreling past you on your left. Your legs hit the ground faster, desperately trying to get ahead of me.
I suddenly veer right, blocking off your path with a mountain of ice. I circle around to the hole that marks where I dug into the ground initially, forming a massive ring around you. There's nowhere else to go but back to me. I emerge from the ground, and see you scanning the wall for any possible paths through. There are none. You drop to your hands and knees for a better look, careful not to touch the ice. I walk towards you, my steps slow and deliberate. You wanted a monster? Oh, I'll show you a monster.
My body reveals itself to you. My arms, the dozens and dozens of limbs which tightly hug my serpent-like frame, unfurl to carry me to you. Hundreds of hands create claw marks in the ice as I am pushed up towards the sky. I am above you now, my arms acting as the fleshy bars of your prison cell. Spots dot my underbelly, leading your vision towards my head, a large mass of pink flesh which extends out of my mouth like a tongue. Slowly, strips of flesh detach themselves from me with a large suction sound. They're eyes. Many, many eyes surrounded by puffy mounds of skin and bones that are attached to my skin with long red tendrils. My vision splits into twelve different spots as the tendrils encircle you.
You weep louder. Oh, I'm sorry, do you not like your wish? I'm giving you exactly what you ask for, yet you blame me when you realize that you can't handle it. I extend two sets of hands out to you, and you scream in protest. A grin composed of misguided fury and death grows on my face. You look down at the ice for a while, in deep thought. You take one last look at my body, extend your hand out, and try to slam it down onto an icicle. The last of your rebellions ends as the rest of them did, for my arms are too fast.
I catch you in my grasp. Your whines and sniveling grunts excite me, but I don't know why. I'm scared. You pound on my fist, screaming that I'm a monster, that you're not my child, that you would be better off if you had snapped your neck on the hill. I hold you to my chest, ignoring your comments. I will not cry, not in front of you. I will withstand your attacks. I will still love you.
“Somebody please help! Please, God, don't let this thing hurt me. Someone just fucking kill it,” you say.
And I still love you.
"Fuck you! Get your hands off of me you…” you say.
And… I still love you.
“Well? What are you waiting for, you fucking… Kill me! That's what you always wanted to do. How long have you been waiting, just watching me from the shadows? You sick fucking coward,” you say.
And I still…
“Wait, I… I can't… St—”
And I…
And…
And then there is nothing left of you to love. All you are is a lifeless piece of meat and bones in my hands. I crush you in my palm, pushing your face and arms and legs into the pulpy mess of red that is your skeleton. There are no death throes. I rear back and scream to the sky: my child has died and I am the murderer! Please kill me, whoever is out there. Slay the beast — the monster that felt nothing when they took the life of their own child. Please, anyone.
My grief is only interrupted by a small, hard object which moves through my throat. I cough violently as pain shoots through my body. Instantly, I know what the object is. My vision shakes, and my consciousness wavers. I lay on the ice next to your broken figure. The color fades from my body as I slowly regurgitate the object into my maw. One by one, my eyes lose strength and fall to the ground.
I pull you closer to me, carefully extending my heart out with my teeth. I consume your body, which mixes with my heart and turns into a frozen sculpture of flesh. Long strings of viscera coagulate and spool into my stomach as I feel my life returning to me. You feel so warm, so happy. I weep, but I'm not sure whether it's due to sadness or joy.
I look up at the empty sky and icy forests. Everything has an aura of loneliness about it. I suppose if someone was looking upon me now, they would think the exact same thing. Well, I'll let them think that thought. None of them can hurt me; I only feel through my child, and my child only feels through me. I slither back across the field, beginning the long and rough journey home.


« Act I - Scene I | Demasqed | Act I - Scene III »

Act I - Scene II

A large conference room, centered by a table with five chairs, two on either side and one facing the audience. Various members of site personnel slowly enter from upstage right. They each begin to look for their seats, which are in the following order clockwise, starting with downstage right: Crystal-INE, Henry Ozid, Michael Handler, Evelyn Ledd, Chandler Wentworth.

NARRATOR
As the conference room doors swung open, a group of misfits and ne'er-do-wells filed in, sighing heavily as they surveyed the other members of their new coalition.
MICHAEL
(sighing)
Can somebody go feed the Narrator Hornets?
CHANDLER
I've got it.

Chandler turns, not yet having sat down, and exits the room. The rest of the members find their seats and sit.

MICHAEL
Alright, so, welcome everyone to the new-
NARRATOR
Chandler looked through the cabinets, but he could not find the delicious mixture of berries and assorted nuts that the Hornets so desperately craved. Perhaps someone had placed them in the shelf two over from where he was looking. Or perhaps not.
MICHAEL
Sorry, anyways, to the new Foundation Public Management Team, at least provisionally. We're all still recovering from our shock, following the-
NARRATOR
Chandler, having successfully located the Hornet food, scooped a heaping portion into a pail, to bring to the Hornets' chamber. However, he turned back, for he was not carrying enough food… he turned back, for he was not carrying enough food… he turned back… Chandler, looking at the ceiling with an unamused expression, turned back, for he was not carrying enough food. He angrily reopened the container, and proceeded to dump an ungodly amount of delicious berries and assorted nuts into his pail. Satisfied with the collection, he turned once more, and headed for the Hornets' chamber.
MICHAEL
I'm just going to wait until this is done.

The group sits silently for a number of seconds.

NARRATOR
Chandler entered the room with a forceful push of the doors, slamming them as he continued. Did his anger stem from general workplace annoyance, or was it something more… sinister? Was Chandler hiding a terrible secret? No, he was not, decided the hornets, as Chandler spread the mixed berries and assorted nuts onto the floor of the chamber.

The group sits silently for a number of seconds, after which, Chandler enters, looking annoyed, and takes his seat without a word.

MICHAEL
Alright, perfect. NOW we can begin. So, as you all know, we've been called together as a sort of… task force, to make sure that we can transition into functionality under public watch. The recent events involving North Korea were devastating, and it wouldn't have been possible for us to sit idly by without stepping in to help, which is why we were unable to hide the Foundation any longer.
HENRY
If I may jump in, Michael, I think we'd all benefit from just calling this what it is.
MICHAEL
Which is…?
HENRY
We're the new PR department.
MICHAEL
I mean… yes, we have similar responsibilities to a PR department, but-
CHANDLER
We can't let labels define who we are. We need a name… a team name! A cool one, too.
MICHAEL
Now hold on a minute Chandler-
EVELYN
Ooh, that's a very fun idea!

The group begins getting excited, talking over Michael, who looks more and more defeated with every sentence.

HENRY
I love coming up with names… what about… SCPPRT? It stands for SCP PR Team!
CHANDLER
Oh, that's not bad…
CRYSTAL-INE
Naming ourselves "The Public Relations Committee" would be the most concise way of representing our function.
CHANDLER
Ugh, you're such a robot.
CRYSTAL-INE
That is… accurate.
MICHAEL
Could you guys just listen to me for a secon-
EVELYN
What about the Snuggle Puppies!
HENRY
That's too childish, I feel
EVELYN
Okay… how about Shuffle Puppies?
CHANDLER
Shuffle Puppies… I can get behind that
HENRY
Yeah I don't mind that either.
CRYSTAL-INE
Shuffle Puppies is a… cute name. I approve.
MICHAEL
Now, wait, we can't call ourselves the "Shuffle Puppies"
CHANDLER
All in favor of calling ourselves the "Shuffle Puppies?"

All but Michael raise their hands.

CHANDLER
The motion passes. Great work, Shuffle Puppies.
MICHAEL
(shouting)
Guys!

The group stops and stares, in shock, at Michael.

MICHAEL
(losing it)
We need to focus here. It's very important that we start making actual plans, here! A public statement or a press conference or something… anything!

The group is silent, glancing back and forth without anyone opening their mouths.

MICHAEL
Oh come on, somebody say something…
HENRY
I… I think a press conference could be good.
MICHAEL
Okay, yes good, good Henry. Please expand on that.
HENRY
Well… press conferences are a… good way to let us control the narrative. Make sure we're one step ahead of the media… I guess.
MICHAEL
Yes, oh, yes such a good point. Anybody else want to weigh in?
CHANDLER
Well… the public wants answers about the North Korea incident, right? Do we have those answers to give?
EVELYN
Not really, unfortunately. I talked to Jazz a few times about it, since she was a big player in its conception, but she didn't reveal much.
CHANDLER
I was just on the project as a helping hand, but it seemed like Jazz was the one doing most of the engineering work. I don't think it's out of the question that she either thinks it's her fault, or it actually is.
EVELYN
She was pretty devastated when she heard about what happened. Haven't seen her all day, actually. I hope she's alright.
CHANDLER
Interesting…
MICHAEL
This is good, these are good ideas. Uhh… tell you all what, I'll talk to Laura about holding a press conference next Monday… how does that sound?

Each member of the group responds silently, nodding or mumbling approval.

MICHAEL
Perfect. Meeting adjourned, I guess.

Everyone gets up and heads for the door.

EVELYN
Great work, Shuffle Puppies!
MICHAEL
Okay we're going to have to talk about that name at some point.
End Scene

« Act I - Scene I | Demasqed | Act I - Scene III »


On the eve of the twentieth of Martch, Arnven fell.
The battle across the Heilas between the three hundred Omega Guard and the animal force numbering a thousand had lasted for countless hours, with many dead on both sides. The strong river currents had provided an advantage to the defenders on the other side, impeding the enemy army while the Omega Guard accosted them with loosed arrows and throwing spears.
But, in the end, it was not enough.
The defenders who chose to stand were overwhelmed and killed.
The hundred-or-so guardsmen who chose to flee ran back to the city in the hope of escaping with their families, many of whom were gathered at the city's surviving shrines to pray prior to the outbreak of the battle. Though it was in vain for many- especially those who had chosen to gather at the Rivershrine- still more were able to quickly escape, taking their worldly possessions with them. Only the Shrine of Brightshome, sitting at the Hill of the Holy Amulet, still stood, being defended by a token force of a hundred Templars of Jack till the bitter end.
With the opposing forces broken, routed, and fleeing, the enemy army of heathen animals did what victorious armies did- they looted, they killed, they burned. Wolves were roaming the streets, breaking into homes and slaughtering all those who chose to hide within them. Pigeons carrying torches dropped them on dry wooden walls and thatch roofs, setting them alight in moments. Chaos reigned in Arnven, and it seemed to all that it had finally been lost.
This bloody carnage is the scene that the young sorceress Sigurrós and the monk Jaelen were met with upon their exit from the Bloody Boar inn- and one that both were hellbent on stopping.
But when a most holy city has been desecrated and burnt, with many of its people slaughtered- what is there for them to stop?

Night had fallen upon the City of Shrines, yet the scorching fires had made the world bright as day.
Jaelen could smell the stench of blood in the air, accompanied by the omnipresent smell of burning wood and thatch. Screams echoed in the early morning air, followed by the savage roars of cruel beasts.
He had never seen such carnage before.
Jaelen turned to the young woman at his side, her eyes transfixed by the destruction wrought.
“Sigurrós-“ he began.
Her trembling voice came out first.
“I know what I must do.” She said, her fists clenched tight. Her eyes didn't turn from the scene in front of her. “You know what you must do, too.”
Jaelen could feel himself shaking with fear, but her words seemed to cause him to tremble a little less.
She turned to him, her eyes meeting his. He could tell that she was just as terrified and horrified as he was, but the ironclad drive in his eyes gave him pause.
He looked at his student, his companion for a hundred and fifty days, and his heart began to beat a little slower.
“I do.” He answered, his chest lighter with new resolve.
Gathering his robes about him, Jaelen looked in the direction of the Hill of the Amulet, where the breathtaking Shrine of Brightshome stood strong and defiant amongst the overwhelming plumes of smoke.
If there is any hope for the city, Jaelen thought, it lies with the Templars of Jack.
His destination set, Jaelen took a deep breath-
And ran.
Behind him, Sigurrós was long gone.

Unlike the rest of the city, the Spirit Quarter was miraculously untouched by the invading animals. Being the oldest and most important section of the city, the homes within it were constructed of ancient grey stone, and so were impervious to the ravages of fire that had so easily taken the more feebly-constructed structures in the rest of Arnven. No homes burnt here- and for that Jaelen was glad.
The Hill of the Holy Amulet was impossibly close now- and would soon be there in just a few minutes more- but his legs had already begun to hurt immensely. He had never run this far or this fast before in his life, and he could feel his limbs fatigue with each step that he took towards the shrine.
But the lives in the balance kept him going, his steps and pace impetuous and determined.
In the distance, he could hear the far-off explosions and sudden bursts of wind, as well as the pained cries and shrieks of dying wolf packs.
Sigurrós has definitely started, Jaelen thought as he staggered towards the shrine. Their numbers will be thinned, and when we have to face them it will almost be on equal footing.
Exhausted now beyond anything he could endure, Jaelen felt his knees crumple, sending him falling to the ground.
He could taste soil in his mouth, mingled with ash. His legs cramped now with every miniscule movement, and his arms refused to work no matter how much he willed them to go.
Jaelen lay on the ground for a few minutes, though to him it had felt like an eternity had passed. When his limbs began to work again, he started to summon the strength to sit up, but the sudden sound of horse hooves stopped him in his path.
He heard the sound of heavy metal greaves hit the soft ground, and felt relief as the good stranger lifted him to his feet.
To his surprise, when he turned up his head to look at his savior, he was met with the face of one of the Lord Bright's Templars.
“How has the city treated you, brother?” The Templar's voice was kind. “An untethered scion of the Foundation is a rare sight in Arnven, and no doubt have I that the bloody heathens have not made your journey here easy.”
“I…” Jaelen said, gasping for air. “I have come for the Horn of the Dragon.”

Everywhere Sigurrós went, death seemed to greet her.
The parts of the city closest to the Heilas were the first and hardest hit. The streets carried nothing but the blood and bodies of the slaughtered smallfolk, and most of the houses had already been burnt to the ground. The animals were mostly absent from that part of the city, too, aside from a few wolves and a lion that were certainly killed by the fleeing guardsmen.
The Rivershrine which had once dominated the area close to the banks was left ruined, though its stone foundations still remained. It was the first place that Sigurrós had made sure to go, for the halls were still slick with the blood of those she had slaughtered. Though she had no time to spare, she took a few moments to ask the Lord Bright to give paradise to those faithful servants that she had killed, her heart heavy with guilt and sorrow.
It seemed that not a single sign of life remained among the ruins, and so she moved on.
The Agathan Quarter was the next place that she went to, and it was here that many of the animals still roved. Packs of them lurked at every corner, and she was hard-pressed to dispatch them while she walked.
Having once been the affluent part of the city where merchants from all over came, went, and plied their trade, gold in the Agathan Quarter was not hard to come by. Seth had told her before that it was in the Agathan that the animals would hit hardest, and warned her to stay away from there when the heathens came. “No matter how much they try to hide it,” he once told her, “the animals will go to where the gold is.”
At least that much wasn't a lie, Sigurrós thought. And to think that he had once set me on the path to destroy the Foundation. She had thought much of Seth while Jaelen taught her at the inn, and as the mysteries of the world were revealed to her, her feelings towards him grew ever bitter.
When she arrived at the ruins of the Shrine of Saint Rights at the top of Agatha's Hill, she came to face again the destruction and slaughter that she had wrought, and that bitterness soon quickly gave in to guilt mixed with anger. She swore, at the base of the Shrine's scorched pillars, to avenge her own wrongdoings. She swore, underneath the shrine's ruined painted ceiling, to make amends for the dead.
And she swore, as she began to fly away from the ruins, to kill Seth.
But nothing else remained for her in the Agathan Quarter besides the ghosts of guilt and the quickly retreating footsteps of terrified animals, and so she moved on.
The third of the city's four quarters, the Altostown was the most impoverished before the heathens arrived. When the fiends descended and wreaked havoc on the city, it was the place that saw the most slaughter. She had already smelled the stench of blood from far away, and was sickened to find what remained of those who had lived there.
Unlike the other quarters, who had seen the ravaging wrought by packs of wolves and herds of deer, the Altostown had only felt the cruel jaws of bears, lions, and tigers. As the section of the city that housed the most folk, the terrified people of the Altostown had attracted the attention of the cruelest elements of the descending heathen army, coming to slaughter all those who they deemed unworthy of living.
When they came, every street of the Altostown was strewn with the blood, bones, limbs, and guts of the slaughtered. Not a single stone of the quarter was spared the spilling of blood and the rending of flesh, and all who remained were killed along with their kin.
When Sigurrós descended, the feasting animals made no sign that they had noticed her. Each of the hundreds of predators that had descended on the Altostown were indulging in the flesh of the faithful dead, and the air was full of the sounds of animals devouring their kills with glee.
Shock overcame Sigurrós as she watched the slaughter taking place before her eyes, and she felt sickened to her stomach. All pretenses of killing those who were responsible were washed away as the witch fell to her feet and threw up on the wet ground.
Only then did the surrounding animals seem to notice her, slowly plodding towards the girl with bloodied claws and teeth. Their sensitive snouts had sensed the prospect of an easy meal, as their maws drew open in preparation for the new course of their savage feast.
Then, suddenly, Sigurrós screamed.
From her, a wall of fire sprung into existence, burning all of the killers around her with a savage relish that matched their own. Half of the Altostown burst into flames in an instant, reducing all within them to nothing but ash and smoke.
Within a few moments, the blood-splattered houses were reduced to smoking ruins, and almost all of the savage animals that had come to indulge in the slaughter were vaporized in the blink of an eye.
Her arms buckled under her, and as she felt her face hit the soil, Sigurrós began to cry.
She knew not how long she stayed on the sodden ground, but when she came back to her senses, she noticed a tall figure standing over her.
Seth's corpselike face greeted her, his only remaining eye bloodshot as his ruined jaw opened and his broken voice came tumbling out.
“What…” he said, his voice hoarse, “What have you done?”

A tense air suffused the atmosphere in the Shrine of the Brightshome as Jaelen stood before the hundred assembled Templars. His rescuer, a tall armored woman standing nearly six feet tall named Galahania, addressed them beside him.
“The Horn of the Dragon may be our final chance at saving the city.” Galahania said, her voice strong and commanding. “They will be called from far and wide, drawing them into the entrance of the Shrine. Then we shall wait, with spear and shield at the ready, while they crash against us like waves against the steadfast-“
“What you are saying is ludicrous!” A templar opposite them roared. “There are more than seven hundred of them out there. Our battle-fellows stand with the strength of one century- think about that!”
He brought his fist crashing down against a nearby wooden table, the sound reverberating across the hollow interior of the shrine.
“One hundred Templars against the whole Great Heathen Army! You may compare us to waiting rocks on the beach, but water is an eternal enemy. Even stones will soon be ground into sand, and even the most hardened Templars cannot hope to stand against a thousand heathens!”
This drew a few nods and murmurs from some of the battle-fellows, though many of the other Templars stood watching and silent.
Galahania delivered her rebuttal. “Melbrecht, you have not seen what I and many of the horsemen have seen. The fiends are busy roving around the city, taking what they want and killing who they can. They are disorganized, exhausted, bloodied. A fight here on the steps of the Shrine will eliminate their advantage of numbers, and wholly destroy the threat of the animals to the city.“
The man named Melbrecht sounded his objection once again. “Our duty, Galahania, is not to the city, but to the shrine! We are Templars, the waiting fists of Lord Bright, the guardians of his holy ground. We care not for the wellbeing of the smallfolk, but for the sanctity of our most holy shrine! We house precious texts, ancient Procedures, the powerful weapons of the ancients, and yes, relics of sanctity.”
He pointed up to the highest part of the shrine's roof, where a horn was stored in a small pocket of ancient glass.
“The Horn of the Dragon, the Horn of Saint Alto, has been left undisturbed for more than half a thousand years! It dates back all the way to the slaying of the Great Dragon by Saint Alto during the time of the Great Breach, and to do anything to disturb it is sacrilege!”
Galahania turned to open her mouth once again, but to her surprise it was the young Jaelen who spoke first.
“Do you dare speak of sacrilege?” The monk said, his voice lowered to a guttural growl. “Think of the burnt down Rivershrine, the slaughtered priests in the Shrine of Saint Rights, the relics lost in the Parish of Clef, and the massacred laity all over the city. What they have done to our people and our holy places are more sacrilegious than any faithful scion of the Foundation can ever manage!
“This horn is a way to bring all of that to a halt, to bring all of this-“ he gestured to the open door behind him. “-to a stop. War has come to our city, to our lands, and it is our duty to our Lord in His Amulet to turn them back! Do you want the burning of our shrines and the wholesale slaughter of our brothers in faith to go unanswered? Do you want our city to be burnt down till there is nothing left? Blow the horn, I say! Bright wills it! Bright wills it!”
Then, as if the Spirit of Bright descended down upon the assembled mass of Templars, each took up the ancient cant in a heartbeat.
“BRIGHT WILLS IT!” they shouted as they donned their sacred armor and drew their spears.
“BRIGHT WILLS IT!” they shouted as they took the Horn of the Great Dragon from its sacred place.
“Bright wills it,” said Jaelen as he blew Saint Alto's Horn, flooding the morning air with the mournful sound of a dragon's roar.
All around the city, from the untouched Spirit Quarter to the remains of the half-destroyed Altostown, animals heard the cry and answered with their own. Wolves, tigers, bears, raccoons, pigeons and rats all took up the cry, breaking the dead silence of the city with the remorseful cries of the damned.
Then, as if Bright himself commanded them, every single one of the invading heathens stomped, ran, and flew towards the Shrine on top of the Amulet's Hill, heeding the call of the long-dead Great Dragon.
The Battle of the Horn has just begun.

“He's done it,” Sigurrós said with an exhausted smile as the deep roar filled the morning. “He's done it.”
A horrified expression came over Seth's mutilated face as he realized just what the sound was. “No,” He said, disbelief coloring his features. “No, no, no, NO!”
He turned to the prone Sigurrós, forcing her to her feet. “Did you tell them to blow the dragon's skull? Did you?”
The beaten girl answered with a smile. “It was never my idea. It was his.”
“Who?” The corpse-man shouted, raising his broken fist in the air. He brought it crashing down on Sigurrós' face, beating her as he spoke. “The monk? The one I told you to be careful around? The one I told you never to believe?”
Sigurrós pushed him far away with a single word, sending him to a nearby wall with an audible crack.
“What he speaks, heathen, is true! Lord Bright watches over us all, and so do His saints! Jaelen has showed me the truth behind the world, the truth behind everything!”
She said each word with certainty and conviction, punctuating every sentence with a shout. Anger filled her every word, intermingled with the fear and guilt that were now being brought to the fore in full force.
“He has kept me safe, he has given me life, he has given me purpose! You are not worthy to speak his name, you are not worthy to even breathe the same air he does. You are nothing compared to him, Seth. Nothing.”
Silence filled the void between them as Seth's crumpled form remained unmoving. A cold breeze blew through the morning air, sending ash flying in all directions.
Then, slowly, Seth rose, facing Sigurrós as he shakily brought himself to his feet. She could hear the man wheezing as he fought for every breath, fending off unconsciousness as he drew himself up to meet her.
“If… only…” he said between stolen breaths, “you… could… hear yourself now.”
His one bloodshot eye met hers as he continued to speak through his shattered jaw, each word interrupted with a wheeze.
“I saved you from them.” He said, staggering forward. “They had you bound by their words, and I saved you from them.
“I was the one who kept you safe, who kept you warm, who taught you all that you knew.
“I was the one who taught you to write, to read, to speak.
“Every minute of my existence was… and is… agonizing. I craved, and crave, death. Before you left me, you told me that you would find a way to heal me, to save me.
“The next time I saw you, you were an ancient woman who remembered nothing but a single word.
“I tried to save you from that…” he drew a long, deep breath. “I tried to save you. But you remembered nothing about me. You remembered nothing about how we escaped, how I taught you as you grew, or how you ended up this way."
“When I woke you up… whispered those words in your ears, your eyes showed warmth, some sort of recognition… but not from the girl that I raised. Not the woman I loved and cared for like she was my own daughter.”
Then Seth chuckled- a broken and pitiful laugh.
“Once, you called me father.”
His eye met hers once again, filling with a misplaced warmth as he remembered the girl that he once loved.
Then, they retreated, never to return.
“Now, you call me heathen. Murderer."
“You are no daughter of mine-“
His bony pointer finger drew up to her face, trembling yet sure in its accusation.
“And I am no father of yours.”'
He took one more step towards her, but his leg gave under him with a snap, causing him to fall to the bloodstained ground.
Then, summoning the last of his strength, he drew his head up to meet his dead eye with hers once more.
“I've craved death for thousands of years. I chased it. I wanted it. When I was imprisoned in that tomb, I wanted it so much more than ever before."
“You gave me the will to live, so long ago, when you first told me that one single word."
Sigurrós took a step forward, crouching down on tired knees to touch the scarred face of the broken man before her.
“Kill me now, witch.” He said, poisoning the air with his very words. “Kill me now and grant me mercy. This is the least you could ever do.”
At the crack of dawn, Sigurrós began to summon magic from her fingers, then laid her hand on the head of the man who she once called her father.
Then, with a single word, she gave him the death that he had craved for so long.
It was a few minutes later when Sigurrós realized that she was crying.

The battle lasted for seven hours, exhausting every single one of the Templars as the five hundred remaining animals in the city crashed upon their shields and fell with a single thrust of their spear.
Many of them were wounded, some of them dead, but every single one of them knew of their duty to Bright and the Saints above, and so they held with all their might.
When the sun rose high into the morning sky, barely thirty of the one hundred templars were left alive in the shrine.
Melbrecht, the dissenter, had given brave account of himself- though he had been gravely injured in the fighting, and was on the edge of death.
Galahania, the noble hero, had held the shield positions of three men after the two Templars on her opposite sides fell. In time, however, she was pulled down by a large bear and killed.
Many others had been mauled badly by the attacking animals, with some suffering from broken bones or ribs. Others lost fingers, hands, or even arms to the maws and claws of the heathen invaders.
Those who were well enough to walk began aiding their fellow Templars, stripping off their armor without a word to administer healing water to their injured brothers and sisters.
They had had their last stand, saving their Shrine and their city. Though the cost was steep, it was something that they had all been ready to pay, from the newly-anointed battle-fellows to the most hardened Templars.
Jaelen, meanwhile, only wished that his plan hadn't gotten so many killed.
He was lucky enough to come out of the battle missing only a few fingers, and had chosen to stay with the Templars and help with aiding the fellows that could be saved. His work with his fellow monks had prepared him especially for this purpose, and he was instrumental in the work of helping those who needed it.
But as he worked, his thoughts only dwelled on the fate of Sigurrós. Did she find Seth? He thought. Is she alright? Have they harmed her? Is she dead? Is she-
“Jaelen.” A familiar voice said.
He looked up- and there she was, whole and safe.
“Sigurrós!” He shouted, springing to his feet and enveloping her in his arms. “Oh Saints, Oh thank Bright… you're safe.”
Tears welled up in his eyes and he embraced her even tighter. “I thought you'd died… I was thinking about you the entire time.”
“I killed him,” came her answer, crying into his shoulder. “He said I once called him father, that… that…”
“Shhh…” He said, looking into her eyes. “You're safe now. You are.”
Her voice went down to nothing more than a whisper. “I didn't want to kill him, I didn't want to, but I did.”
“It isn't your fault.” Jaelen whispered as she held her. “It isn't your fault.”
“It never was.”

And so did Arnven rise once again, free from the claws of the fiends that sought to destroy it. Their leader, the corpse-man named Seth, had disappeared before the Battle of the Horn, leaving the animals that had assaulted the Shrine leaderless and disorganized. When the valiant last stand of the Templars of Jack came to an end, only thirty of their number survived. In time, they would come to reform the Order, heading the forces of the City of Shrines under a new name- The Order of the Horn.
It would be days before the nobles, smallfolk and freemen of Arnven would find it safe to return to the city- but in place of the ruins that they expected to see, they found a city more glorious than it had before. Sigurrós, then only seventeen years of age, had single-handedly restored the city in the aftermath of the battle, starting from the burnt-out husks of the River Quarter all the way to the ruined Altostown.
It seemed that hope had returned to the City of Shrines, as people began to rebuild the lives that they had lost. Merchants once again plied their trade in the Agathan Quarter, selling the wares that they had escaped with and salvaging what they could of their former lives. The nobles returned to their old lives in the Spirit Quarter, gathering in and around the Brightshome to thank the Lord and the Saints for their salvation. What was left of the peasants in the Altostown and the freemen in the River Quarter once again populated the streets, though in smaller numbers than they had been before.
As life began to return to normal, it was Sigurrós that led the remaining people of Arnven to a new beginning, restoring the shrines that had been destroyed and leaving them more grandiose and breathtaking than ever before. She was seen as a savior, a divine sorceress, a leader- and with the old Tribunal of the Shrines that had once led the city in tatters, she bravely took the reins of leadership as the High Priestess of Arnven, with her dear companion and teacher, brother Jaelen, by her side.
Had this been any other way, we would have finished our story there- with Arnven slowly rebuilding towards a new beginning.
Yet reality is crueler than fantasy, as most would agree. Only a year and a half after the Fall of Arnven and the subsequent Battle of the Horn, a great fire was seen in the northeast, tearing through the lands of the animals and purging them all. The Foundation had finally destroyed their enemies, and with the rumors that one of the Council of Thirteen was leading an army to Arnven, it seemed as if the City of Shrines' reprieve would soon be cut short.
Asser Clef, now Doctor Cardinal of the Holy Foundation and the new Thirteenth vicar of Bright, had received the letter of Brother Jaelen.
And he was coming to kill the Witch.

The Arnven Chronicles
« The Tutelage of a Brother | The Horn Blows Into the Morning | The Siege Looms Heavy (Part One) »


Chapter II.I

"I think that, to a lot of us, he was more than just a friend, or an acquaintance. From what I have seen and experienced, it is clear to me that my dad was so deeply involved with the lives of so many people, that to take him out of the picture would be violating some piece of their own identity. Seeing his smiling face come into work every day, or come home from work every day, was like a shot of espresso for so many of us. He was also an idol for our community. We can only hope that in his absence, we will carry his spirit, and it will be as though he never left. May the vacuum where he once was pull us together, closer than we have ever been. I believe that is exactly how he would have wanted his life to go. From all of us here, goodbye, Tim. Rest well. Lord knows you need it."
There was a chuckle. For some, it was genuine. For others, it was forced. For even more, none comes at all. That there was a chuckle at all gave me some sense of peace, though. I stepped down from the podium, descended the wooden steps, and walked down the aisle maybe eight rows. I sidled past my brother, Anders, and once I was seated, Alex's hand reached for mine and we interlocked our fingers. The gesture was automatic. I almost didn't even notice it.
Byron Bird replaced me at the podium, and pulled the microphone a little downwards.
"Does anyone else have words for Tim?" The crowd was silent. "I believe it is time to finally let go. Tim, may our love accompany you into whatever happens next."
He stepped down and made his way to a crank, which he then slowly turned. The rope it was attached to began to lower the suspended wicker casket into the ground. Some sobs were let out. For the sake of their privacy, I didn't look to see who they were. Somberly, and mostly silently, Tim Wilson was lowered into his grave, his final resting place to forever be shaded by redwoods and covered by pine needles.
Byron Bird picked up a guitar propped up next to the stage, sat on the steps, and began to play something bittersweet. For a few moments, nobody moved, but it was at some point clear that the ceremony, the Western ritual of death, had concluded.
Whenever they were ready, people began to stand, and a murmur arrived like the hum of an electric car. To my left, Anders closed his eyes, and took one deep breath. He then stood up, and exited the aisle. Alex and I soon followed after. The three of us slowly shuffled along with the crowd, our steps carrying us only a few inches at a time while the eldest and most mournful of us oozed like poured molasses all along the line. It took minutes for us to finally exit the rows of white fold-out chairs, and be free among the rough dirt and towering bars of red bark.
Alex leaned in, near to my ear.
"I'm going to go talk with Hagi."
"Alright, if I don't see you I'll assume you went back to the car."
We kissed, briefly, like feathers passing over each other, and then he let go of my hand and weaved his way through the ambling crowd in search of Hagi. To the right of the rows of chairs was a line of picnic tables, on which was an assortment of homemade pastries, soups, meats, salads, chocolates, fruit bowls, pastas, casseroles, cookies, brownies, and everything else under the sun. From the traditional to the eccentric, it was all just as edible as it was decorative. I circled the tables to get to the opposite side, where the only thing I felt I could keep down — a slow-cooked mac and cheese — drew me towards it.
Eating didn't sound very appealing, no. But it was something to do.
"Hey," someone with an old, phlegmy voice said behind me, "you gave a really great speech just now."
I forgot to respond for a moment as I scooped aromatic cheddar onto my paper plate. "Thank you."
"What you said about the vacuum, that really struck a chord with me. I've been undergoing something of a spiritual awakening recently, and it's really enlightened me to just how much time I've spent meandering from place to place, you know? Basically half my life has been finding myself, and I'm not even sure I'm there yet, but I'm getting there."
The final scoop of macaroni plopped down onto my plate, and I stepped to the side to let the next in line come up.
"I spent a lot of time worrying about what people thought about me, like uhh, like I was always putting on this front, right? And when all you are is the front, well, that's all you are. And so I discovered, right, that I was totally being this front to, to myself, right? So I feel like very recently I've sort of… woken up, is one way to put it."
I replied with an "mhmm", eyes downcast towards a salad I was sluggishly transferring to my plate.
"And just now, I'm really discovering who I've been this whole time. Who I am, when I'm not trying to put on a face for people. Especially a face for myself, you know? I bet you know. Maybe that was insensitive. Sorry to bring it up."
I barely registered him as I painted my lettuce with a salad dressing, the label of which I hadn't bothered to read.
"But I think it's, like, some kind of divine sign, right? Not that I really believe in divinity, but that's not a necessary conversation right now. I just mean… when I got that letter, inviting me to the funeral of Tim, right, I was like, 'Tim Wilson? He's dead?' Tim, I probably would attribute Tim with my first step towards finding me, right…"
I looked up, and there I saw Robin. My baby half-brother, sitting with his back against a tree, right next to where, at this very moment, dirt was being shoveled onto Tim's celestial bed. He stared at the process. I could see, even from this distance, the uncontrollable orange of his beard and mustache, contrasting as it did with the mature cocoa-brown of his hair. I'd never seen him grow it out before. I knew he hated it. He hated how he'd have to dye it to get one flush color.
"I mean, we got off on the wrong foot, sure, but after that, well, that was the first time I'd ever even had the right foot, you know? Right? So, I heard he was dead, and I thought, 'Tim Wilson? He's dead?' And I knew I had to come, I had to drop everything I was doing and show up. Hadn't heard from him, or about him for that matter, since I moved out New Jersey to help with Grandpa."
Robin wanted the big beard, the mountain man beard, just like Tim had. It was his dream from the beginning. When he was little, he got excited that his hair was transitioning from orange to brown, closer and closer to Tim's color and texture. For some years, he had the dream that he'd one day get the same, scraggly mess. But hormones hit, and a look in the mirror…
"Anyways, I think you're right. This vacuum, I think it's gonna bring us together. We haven't really lost Tim. He was just a teacher, and we all graduated, you know? Now we gotta take his energy, and bring it out into the world, right?"
Not only was the hair coming in the wrong color, but it was pencil thin. Nothing scraggly. From this distance, I spotted the single orange dot of a goatee. Alice told him that it was a look carried from the men in her family. Anders looked so much like Tim already, Alice was proud to be getting some true Özdemir blood back in the mix. Of course, Robin religiously started shaving after that. Well, until then.
"It was nice talking with you. Keep writing good speeches, Fae. I hope to see you around."
The mention of my name brought me back to reality. I turned to see a man, maybe Tim's age, walking away through the crowd, a pair of yellow jeans and a red button up shirt that stood out so starkly with the black standards that I could follow him all the way until he was obscured by a dip in the hill.
"Thanks," I said, a little too late. "I hope to see you too."
I took my plate with me to the nearest chair I could find, and just sat down. It was difficult, that was certain. Very difficult to process everything. Tim was dead.
That posed some problems, of course. That meant that Anders, Robin, and Alice were all going to be working at half steam. I really wondered how my step-mom was going to handle the library. It was so hard to tell if people were recovering or not. Each of us kept to ourselves, for the most part. I was of course especially distant, living in the shed. We didn't even technically sleep in the same house.
Robin sat and stared into the filling hole. No, we really didn't all sleep in the same house. We never would. Ever again. Someone will always be sleeping in the hole. There would always be the unfilled spot in the queen sized bed. The right side where no one slept anymore. The armchair in the living room that wouldn't have the slumbering snowman any longer. But there was Robin. Sitting, back against a redwood tree, with the orange mustache and the cocoa-brown hair. I wondered if he would ever look up, ever make eye contact with me. Sometimes, people can just tell when they're being watched. Sometimes, there's just that intuitive connection, when each are aware of the other at all times. A telepathic wavelength that each had grabbed onto.
Robin only continued to stare into the hole.
Someone sat down next to me.
"Are you doing alright, Faeowynn?" It was a gentle alto voice. I turned, and recognized Ingrid Esau, the newest captain of the Castaways. Realizing I was talking with a Supervisor, I plastered on the politest smile I could.
"I'm holding up." Never had the best relationship with my dad, anyways, I finished in my head. But I wasn't going to say that to a Supervisor.
"I'm glad to hear it, but don't be afraid to take some time off."
"Can't really afford time off, can we?"
"It's a rare luxury to be sure." Time passed. "I was meaning to ask if you're going to make it to the meeting this next Sunday."
My eyes passed over their shoulder, and saw that Robin was no longer alone. Someone tall and covered in a dark purple dress was kneeling next to him. They were drawing his attention, somehow breaking through that mold and tearing him away from the grave.
"Ms. Wilson?"
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
"Your attendance would be greatly appreciated."
I saw Robin give the towering woman that same polite smile that I had given Captain Esau.
I replied: "Is now really the time to talk about this?"
Ingrid straightened her back and took a deep, pitying breath. No words were spoken. I thought that the purple woman might have reached into an unseen pocket and pulled out a small violet box, motioning for Robin to take it from her.
"I mean," I started to fill the silence, "all I handle are finances. I can be filled in on any decisions later. I don't have to be there."
"You and I both know that's not true." My eyes finally turned to her, trying to discern whether or not that was a threat of some sort, but once I beheld her sullen look, her tired stare, and her buzz cut that was becoming less than buzzed…
"What's not true?"
"You've picked up almost half of your dad's previous duties. You were in the process of that even before he died. You're integral. What are they calling you? Chief Financial Officer?"
My smile was almost genuine. "I don't think CFO applies unless you have stockholders."
Ingrid's smile back was almost genuine, too. "You do have stockholders. They're called the Supervisors."
"Mhmm."
"You're not required to be there, but the bigger presence that Wilson's Wildlife Solutions has, the more sway you will have in decision making, and the more important your individual positions, the more important your words. You're a very bright woman. Your opinions are wanted at the meeting. Albert Westrin, Laura Irvin, and your brothers are already confirmed to be there."
"You talked to them first?"
"They responded to their emails."
I stared down into my plate. "Ah."
"Please consider showing up. I'm on your side, you know."
Once again, the corners of my lips folded up almost on their own. "I know."
She smiled that concerned, unhappy smile, stood up, and left.
My stare returned to Robin. He was once again alone. So close was he to his previous position and demeanor, I thought that the tall purple woman must have gone right through him, like a hawk's wings cut through air. I wondered why his sitting there drew my attention so magnetically. Without answers, I started to become uncomfortable with my own steadfast gaze. I turned it away and down towards my plate. The macaroni glistened with grease, the salad with dew. They looked impeccable, sitting there on my lap. I almost wanted to eat them. But then, I realized, I hadn't brought a fork with me.
The tenor tones of Alex's voice nearby brought me to attention. I turned around to see him saying his goodbyes to Hagi, whose bright smile seemed completely at odds with the situation. She spun around to walk towards the food, and Alex continued in a straight line towards me. I stood up, and walked to meet him.
"When are you thinking of leaving?" he asked.
"Sooner rather than later."
"Alright. I'm thinking we could go now. Get something to drink maybe. Coffee sounds great right now."
I plastered on the politest smile I could. "Sounds good."

It was Sunday.
That meant there was a meeting.
That day, I woke up, I checked the date, and I wished with all my might I could stay in bed. Anders, who believed the best alarm clock was good food, had already apparently stopped in and left me a hot bowl of spaghetti, but it was across the room. I would have to get up to get it.
Damn you, I thought to myself, for working for my best interests.
For the first time since Tim's funeral, I properly dressed and maintained myself. Hair was combed, a shower was taken, teeth were brushed for the full two minutes, and a dress was picked out to look, above all, professional. Not tight and showy, not frilly and puffy. Slick. Simple. Green, which I just felt was the most appropriate color. I pinned my hair back, taking some inspiration from Alice's acorn-bun, and winced slightly. Anything that wasn't showing off my long hair made me feel a bit boyish. However, and a little smirk crossed my face at the thought, I could deal with a bit of boyishness. That I was a woman was already obvious to everyone — and, most importantly, everyone included me.
With a modicum more confidence than I expected, I walked out of the shed and into the main house, where Anders was putting some kind of soup in thermoses.
"Hey, brother."
"Hi Fae," he smiled at me.
"This is the third day I've found you cooking."
"I think I'm picking it up. It's a ritual when you think about it."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. You've got instructions, and ingredients, just like candles and incantations. If you really lose yourself in it, it's got all the parts to make up something… somnolent. Keeps my mind in the now."
"You sound like your mom."
Anders gave me a glance and a huff of amusement, and then turned back to the thermoses with funnels on them. I trusted my brother not to spill, but a pot that wide being used to pour made me antsy. I tried not to think about it.
"It's broccoli cheddar," he said, "we didn't have much in the house but I remembered having something like this one time so I looked up a recipe and here we are. Thought it would be nice to share after the meeting — it will be around dinnertime, anyways."
"That's very nice. Thank you."
Footsteps from the walls told us that the youngest sibling was coming down. Sure enough, Robin turned the corner, mouth slightly pushed up his face like he just smelled something mildly unpleasant.
"Hey, whatcha makin'?"
"Broccoli cheddar soup."
"Sweet."
"You look sharp, Robin."
I wasn't going to say anything, but he did. It looked like he must have shaved his facial hair just this morning, and donned his avocado-green suit and tie. His hair was trimmed, he looked like he'd gotten a good night's sleep, and his skin was smooth from a fresh showering. He'd also put on some pine-scented deodorant, though its strength made me wonder if he was confusing a meeting for a date.
"Thanks. You gonna put anything on or are you going in your jammies?"
Anders, in his polo and dress pants, gave a genuine chuckle. "I hadn't dressed yet."
"I can tell." Robin glanced at me, but said nothing. "So, nothin' 'bout my posture, bro? Am I standing correct? Ready to present?"
Anders turned while closing the third and final thermos. "Yeah, man, looks good!"
"Alright. I think I'm ready."
"Have all your talking points in order?"
"Not on notecards like you probably did."
Anders chuckled again. Robin smirked. Robin glanced at me again, but said nothing. Then he turned around and headed for the lounge. "I'll be playin' Doom till it's time to go."
"Sit up straight to keep your suit tidy."
"I will!"
Anders turned to look at me, and I looked back.
"He knows me better," he said at a much lower volume, "it's been tough."
I nodded, and made a noncommittal hand gesture like I was waving away what he just said. A sign to communicate something like: Not a concern; to be honest, I didn't even notice.

I pulled into the parking lot of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. Not much had changed since my first ever visit; the parking lot was still much bigger than any dirt parking lot should be, furnished with avocado streetlights. The building itself acted as a shield to a casual observer. From the front, you couldn't tell that the whole thing was U-shaped, and in the nook of that U was where all of the mystical, magical animals were kept, just outside of the public eye. Not that any eyes here in Boring were considered "public", in the large scale of things.
I parked right next to Robin's purple Chevy that the brothers had driven up in together, vacated as it was, and sat in the car for a little bit, trying to get into the right headspace for the meeting. We're all on the same side, I kept trying to convince myself, we're all looking for the Shelter's best interest.
Tim was dead. That posed some problems, of course. So far, in his absence, each "department" (as loosely organized as they were) had been largely in charge of themselves. No new animals were caught. No new enclosures designed. We had downsized. For the past month or so, all we were doing was taking care of the animals we already had. Even ones scheduled to be released had been pushed back. No progress was being made. No fundraisers were being held. The Shelter was stagnant. Stagnation was not sustainable. We are all on the same side, I told myself, we are all just trying to get through.
There was a knock on my window.
Just a little bit startled, I turned to see that someone was leaning down to look in the window of my car. On first glance, I read them as a woman wearing a dark purple dress, a mourning veil, and a pair of contrasting yellow gloves. If it wasn't a strange sight already, it dawned on me that they were leaning down… to look into the window of a truck.
Underneath their veil, I saw a pleading smile. More than caught off guard, I turned my car on without starting the engine and rolled the window down.
"Hello?"
The smile turned to a genuine, mature kind of grin. One that reminded me of how my mom would smile when I was a little kid, and had to have something simple explained to me for the first time. Briefly, and without my knowing it, I let down all my defenses, and entirely ignored the strange approach of this towering woman.
"Hello, Faeowynn."
The warm tones of her voice thinly masked a storied life so thick that when its hints reached my ears I twitched. The first word that came to mind wasn't old, but ancient, in strictly the historic sense; like I was the child being told how the apple trees came to be by the village elder, I could not picture anything to do except to sit and listen.
"I'm sorry to have missed you at the funeral," she continued, her every breath carrying a down blanket and draping it over my shoulders, "but you left before I had finished talking with your brothers. I have been meaning to contact you, but the usual paths are not so private. I'm sure you must know why."
I nodded, hanging onto each word for dear life, and at the same time wondering why exactly I was doing so.
"So I'm here to give my condolences. Sorry again to keep you before a big meeting. I just wanted to tell you that things are going to be okay, and that life goes on. Oh, and to get to know a bit about you, of course." She chuckled, but it came out like the buzz of a hummingbird siphoning nectar from a massive conical flower. "I've heard a lot about you."
I tried to bring up thoughts, sentences, responses, but in her presence I almost felt like I shouldn't say them. Like I was being understood on some deeper level that occluded the need for words.
"Your dad told me that you like white chocolate. So, here," she was suddenly holding a box that seemed to apparate from nowhere, "take this."
It was a purple box with golden-yellow trim. I was reminded of something instantaneously, but was so overwhelmed that I couldn't figure out what it was.
"I hope to see you soon. And please, if you could talk about me only when you're out in nature. Somewhere quiet and secluded, if you catch my meaning."
I nodded before processing the oddities riddled within the request.
"Goodbye, Faeowynn. Have a nice meeting."
As she stood to her full height, I felt like I was four. It didn't seem ridiculous that she was so tall because all adults were tall. So were counters and chairs and tables. She began to walk away, and the spell began to dissipate. Suddenly, I was Faeowynn again. The woman. The grown-up. The CFO of WWS.
"Wait," I managed to sputter out. The woman half turned back to me, and I hoped that through the mourning veil eye contact was being made. "Who are you?"
Her mature grin returned, and she only said: "A friend of your dad's." She lifted her veil, and revealed two eyes that hit like a train. They were perfectly circular — not almond, not held open wider than usual, but genuine, circular eyes. They couldn't be called eyeballs either, seeing as they laid flat against her face, somewhere between piscine and doodled. Just white, and then a blue-gray iris, and then a pupil that was as black and warm as cat fur. She winked, pulled the veil back down, and then disappeared somehow. It wasn't clear to me where she had gone — she didn't slip behind a tree, she didn't sink into the ground. She didn't puff into smoke. She didn't go out in a flash. She was just suddenly gone.
I felt as if I had just gotten out of bed. The comfort of the warm pillow against my cheek had vanished. The blankets around my shoulders were cast aside. My walls were back up, my defenses rearmed. I blinked several times, and creased my brow. Why had I let that happen? Why didn't I ask more questions?
Why didn't I ask more questions. I suddenly remembered being on the boat on the water, Dad explaining why he was going to leave Mom and I. To go to Oregon. Where the trees are. Where the city isn't. I remembered that I hadn't asked enough questions. That I accepted too quickly. That there was a lot of growing up to do.
I shook myself. No. That wasn't where I needed to be.
I looked at the box in my hands. Now I knew what it reminded me of. It was exactly like the box Anders found tucked away in the pantry, the hot white chocolate that he made for me the day I got back from writing. I wondered. Could it really be?
I pulled the lid off, and sure enough, inside was a stash of white chocolate truffles. They looked, and smelled, and, I soon discovered, tasted exactly like those I had been stashing for years. It was perfect timing. I only had a few left. Those chocolates that were just below saccharine, at the very limit of what was still acceptably sweet. And it made them perfect.
I limited myself to one, and was about to close the box, when I noticed something. Taped to the bottom of the lid, the ceiling of the box, was a letter. It had a yellow envelope and on it was penned in curly purple cursive: Open Me at your Earliest Convenience. I reached for it, but…
I closed the box, stuffed it in the glove compartment, and exited the car. The meeting was soon to start. I couldn't afford to be late.

The room was like many others in the Wilson's Wildlife Solutions headquarters, if a bit more sparse than all the rest. There were no cabinets, no desks, no ornaments. It was a utilitarian rectangle with a hardwood floor and mint green walls. A long oval table took the role of the centerpiece, and along its sides were tens of ergonomic chairs. It had two entrances from the hallway, and when I stepped through the leftmost one, I was greeted by a plethora of powerful faces.
The left end of the table was familiar. My half-brothers, Anders and Robin, sat opposite each other, Anders on the closer side and Robin on the farther. To Robin's right, Albert Westrin, affectionately referred to as Old Al, had knitted his fingers together and placed both hands on the table in front of him, leaning forward in expectation. To Albert's right was Laura Irvin, the forefront of everything aquatic that happened at the Shelter. I took the seat right of Laura (on Ander's left) when we made eye contact and she motioned me over. Once I sat down, I looked to the far end of the table, to those I had to fight not to categorize as "the competition".
First were the three I recognized best: Captain Ingrid Esau, Director Sophia Turner, and Site Director Edgar Holman. Esau tried to make eye contact and flash me a smile, but I pretended I didn't notice it. My eyes focused more closely on Turner and Holman. Turner, mostly.
When she saw me come in the door, she turned expectantly towards Holman, whose eyes silently followed me until I had sat down. I pretended not to notice. Just like how I pretended not to see that it was four minutes after the meeting was supposed to officially start. On a better day, I might have apologized. It had been a while since I had one of my better days.
Holman cleared his throat, and mumbling stopped abruptly.
"Good afternoon everyone." He emphasized afternoon as if we were bordering on the evening. "Now that we're all here, the meeting can begin in earnest."
Holman looked like the next United States president. I had never seen him wear anything except a full suit and tie, dress shoes and thin black glasses. He was all business, top to bottom — which was, by my estimation, maybe five foot eight inches. Absolutely average height. He made up for it with his presence. Site Director Edgar Holman lived up to his name. I'd noticed that my heartrate jumped up some beats per second any time I saw him. He had never been anything but reasonable, but there was something in his eyes and dyed black hair that reminded you that the Supervisors had a downplayed name. Supervision was maybe number three on their priority list, and even though Holman had ensured us that there were people higher up than he was, I never saw them. In the world of Wilson's Wildlife, Holman was at the absolute top of the pyramid. Even higher than Tim Wilson in most ways.
He continued. "Our weekly meeting, starts, as always, with a report of…"
The meeting made up for the many missed meetings of the previous weeks. They hadn't stopped completely, but attendance had been intimately thin. In fact, Anders and Old Al were just about the only regular attendants. Anders handled everything financial in my absence. Old Al filled them in on the maintenance (and, to a lesser extent, the wellbeing) of the animals.
"Down by the Boring Lava Field, we have heard reports of an albatross with about twice the wingspan of anything recorded before. Unfortunately, it also seems like it may be inserting itself into the local history, as evidenced by…"
Tim may have achieved his ever-wanted look of mountain man before he passed, but Albert had perfected it. He reminded me heavily of John Muir; an old, tall, fit figure, for whom only the color of his hair and some wrinkles around the eyes gave way to the secret of his age. Much like how huge thugs are given nicknames like Pinkie to contrast with their imposing, intimidating stature, the "old" in Old Albert's name was an outright lie.
"…in conclusion, though we hope to one day be able to accommodate all animals, we think this one may be too much for us to handle."
"I see," Ms. Turner responded, inspecting the original town charter for the mention of an albatross being hailed as the town's symbol, "if it also inserts itself into the memories of those that see it, it's possible that we are dealing with…"
Sophia Turner was blonde and beautiful in that middling sort of way. Attractive on such a level that the attractiveness wasn't worth speaking of; that run-of-the-mill baseline look that everyone with a modicum of good genetics has. It was only remarkable because it hadn't changed at all in years. Based on Tim's accounts, and my own firsthand experience, she couldn't have been younger than 60, and yet there she was. Unchanged. Unaged. Eternal. She wore a cottony black dress and had the largest stack of files and papers in front of her out of anyone at the table. A pen in her left hand was tapped against a file. Tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap-tap. It made no noise, but I saw.
Always, before and after meetings, Turner would be counting some unheard beat. Not elegantly. Not portraying any deep understanding, or hinting at some unseen mastery. I was certain she thought no one ever noticed. But I noticed.
"…which, as an aside, might make it something to transport somewhere other than Site-64. If you could," she tapped the man to her right and handed him some note she had written during the conversation with Albert, "assess who might be best suited to take the bird, and remind me to write up a URA for it."
Sophia liked to stick close to someone whose name I had never picked up, but recognized as "The Scribe". Whenever he wasn't talking (he had a wonderful economy with words) he was rocking, ever so slowly and ever so subtly, back and forth. His calming crib-like motion was completely at odds with the machine-guns that were his fingers. I had learned somewhere that court reporters use shorthand to keep up with the speed of conversation. I genuinely believe that this man didn't. In his most mythical moments, he had even taken breaks to look something up and bring it to the meeting, then returning to his transcription without missing a beat. How could he, while still keeping up with conversation? Was there some magic transpiring? Whoever he was, he had been on my very short list of people-I-know-but-haven't-talked-to-but-desperately-want-to-talk-to for years.
The Scribe nodded and stuffed the note into his pocket, and, like with every meeting, I felt like I missed something particularly important.
The meeting continued in such a fashion. Most of us were silent. I spoke up only when money was involved. Anders made some comments about fundraisers. Holman directed the conversation and brought up new talking points whenever the previous ones lulled. Mostly, the discussion bounced back and forth between Albert and Turner, for obvious reasons. Nothing had happened for weeks.
Eventually, Holman found the right time to address the elephant in the room.
"Tim's passing has posed some issues." My ears pricked up as if I was hearing something I didn't already know. "It appears that the previous founder and head of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions did not create any contingencies in the event of his untimely death, which has put Wilson's Wildlife into stasis. Today, we hope to collaborate on the appointing of a successor to Tim Wilson's legacy."
The room tensed. Eyes passed between eyes like window-shoppers passed between novelty dresses. Throats were cleared. Ties were straightened. Glasses were adjusted. Pens were twisted. Even the Scribe's tapping went silent.
"I imagine," Holman continued, "that you have come prepared with a suggestion for who might take the reigns?"
"With all due respect," Laura uncharacteristically spoke up, "with our infrastructure in freefall, we haven't had much communication beyond bare necessities."
"Understandable." He didn't sound like he understood.
Laura swallowed. She was a truly odd looking woman. For an organization that so celebrated the outdoors, Laura was of course sometimes excluded, as lupus more or less kept her indoors. She was consequently pale, fragile, and a little slow moving. Much like Tim, she couldn't exert herself much, though unlike Tim, she didn't try to push it. She was especially fascinated with deep-sea marine life which made her position at the Shelter somewhat amusing. But, then again, Boring was somehow host to just about every animal under the sun — and, conveniently for Laura, that included some that technically weren't.
"S-still," Laura regained her composure, "I think that there are obvious candidates. For one, anybody who isn't at this meeting is likely not integral enough to the organization to be considered."
There were grunts of agreement. She seemed to ease up, her shoulders lowering on her frame. She proceeded.
"Westrin and I have been in close contact, and we know that neither of us want to take the helm. Al says it would begin to conflict with the time he spends on his family's farm, and I want to stay close to the surface in terms of the aquatic enclosures. Sorry to speak for you, Al."
He put up his hands and shook his head once.
"In any case, that leaves the Wilsons."
Robin smiled, but turned to try and hide it. Anders and I didn't noticeably change. At least, I hoped not. If I had put in any thought, I would have expected this, but I hadn't been doing much thinking lately.
"If I may," cut in Old Al, "I would like to first address that the most important quality of a leader is willingness. If any one of you," Al looked at each of us siblings in turn, "would like to step up, you would get priority. Or, at least, that's my vote."
"That sounds reasonable," Holman chimed in.
Robin, sitting across from me, looked straight at Anders. I turned to my right, and for a moment I saw Tim in his face. The roundness of it, the brown eyes, the brown hair. For a second, I was looking into the face of the San Diego diver, but then it was gone. Robin was right. Anders was the natural successor to Tim.
Anders saw both of us looking expectantly at him. He took a deep breath, scooted his chair slightly forward, and leaned in as if into some invisible mic:
"I think the best thing to do is to look at this objectively. I can not speak for Robin or Faeowynn, but I know that I am willing to step into his shoes if and only if everyone agrees that I am the best for the job. I suspect I am not."
"Who do you suspect is?" Said a voice with the exact consistency of curdled milk.
To Holman's left there sat another man whose name I had never picked up; to be clear, a man whose real name I had never picked up. It was obvious enough to anyone that Dr. Yana was an alias. Why? Because Yana was inscrutable in the most literal sense of the word. His face was exactly like the patrolman's from what felt like so long ago — while you didn't get such unease from looking at it in the moment, you would later be completely unable to recall a single detail. Did he have long hair or short hair? What color were his eyes? Was his nose wide or thin? Did he have a discernible ethnicity? These are the questions that one may ask oneself hours after leaving his presence. Once you noticed it the first time, you never forgot, and so from that point on he was not Dr. Yana in my brain, but was instead flowered into Anonymous Yana, commonly called Anon for short.
Anders looked at Anon and responded: "Both my brother and my sister. They have qualities I lack. Robin, for one, might work the hardest out of anyone in the entire organization. He has been on the recovery team for maybe four out of every five animals we shelter, and he regularly fills in for anyone having a sick day. He rivaled even my dad himself for amount of time spent on the premises. I don't think there's anyone else more dedicated to Wilson's Wildlife Solutions."
Robin looked very pleased with himself, but said nothing.
Captain Esau raised her hand just slightly. "I second this recommendation."
Turner looked at her like she had no idea what she was talking about, but the glare was so hidden behind the facade of professionalism that I was even surprised at myself for having caught it.
"What about Faeowynn?" Anon prodded.
"Simple," Anders responded, "she's the most booksmart woman I know."
There was the smallest of pauses before "booksmart", which made me uneasy, but I didn't peg Anders for a liar. It was my turn to smile, ever so slightly, ever so modestly.
"Are either of you willing to step up?"
"I am on the same page as Anders," Robin said, surging with confidence and glancing at Captain Esau every couple seconds or so, "I think we should consider everything first." His speech was cleaner, more enunciated than it was at home. Sharp. Presentable.
"Let me be transparent, then." Holman flicked through a file. "A conference between the board of directors at Site-64 yielded a suggestion of our own. Seeing as you are caught between three candidates, it is our suggestion that Faeowynn Wilson take Tim Wilson's place as the head of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions."
A needle began slowly poking at the soft exterior of my heart. Holman made eye contact with me, but the suggestion did not come with a warm gaze. He was still completely business. This is not because I like you, his eyes read, left to right, I have different reasons.
"For what reasons?" Laura chimed in.
"Many," Turner responded in Holman's stead. "We believe that Ms. Wilson is practical and efficient. She has more than excelled at handling the finances of this organization, and has experience leading teams and organizing groups." I do? I asked myself. Then I remembered my old job in New York. It felt like it was from a different reality entirely. Next I asked myself: They know about that? To which the answer was: Of course they do.
Turner flipped through her files until she found the paper she wanted, and continued while reading from it.
"Since her taking the position of Chief Financial Officer" — for the millionth time, I wondered if that was really an accurate title for my job — "Wilson's Wildlife Solutions has increased its revenue by roughly 60%, which has then been spent on improved enclosures, better benefits for its employees, and greater publicity, which in turn has led to bigger turnout for fundraisers and an increase in both local and anonymous donors. Of note is that all the duties that Ms. Wilson now handles were duties handled exclusively by Tim Wilson before she arrived. Over the course of her seven years at Wilson's Wildlife, Ms. Wilson co-opted many more of Tim Wilson's responsibilities, including but not limited to: most record-keeping, database organization, writing checks for employees, keeping tabs on people's hours and sick days, assessing whether Wilson's Wildlife needed to hire or not and for what positions…"
The list felt like it just kept going. At first, I had to wonder. Did I really do all that? Were those all my responsibilities? But as I traced it in my head, the answer came up very clear. Yes. I did all of that. Suddenly, I had a new perspective on my position in the Shelter. I was an amoeba, slowly enveloping and digesting Tim's position. Did I really spend so much time at the Shelter? Yes. Did I really oversee so many different aspects of the company? Yes, yes I did. Chief Financial Officer felt less and less applicable as the list continued. By the end, it felt like finance wasn't my main occupation, but instead a third or less of my total power.
I looked around at everyone who was just as surprised as I was — and who had more right to be than I did. Albert was beginning to smile. You couldn't see his mouth from under his beard, but a wide grin showed in his cheeks and his eyes. I wondered why he was so happy, and then wondered why I wondered that. Was there something wrong with me being so cut out for the job? Why was I surprised he enjoyed my commitment?
Laura's expression remained unchanged except for raised eyebrows. Anders, to my right, looked just as contemplative as he had before. Captain Esau mimicked Laura, and briefly made eye contact with me.
Esau's change of approval did not lose itself on Robin.
"…searching for new properties when appropriate, reviewing critter profiles for mistakes or missing information, and more."
Sophia Turner took her eyes off the paper and looked around at the table.
"To be frank," Anon cut in, "when you look at what Ms. Wilson was responsible for, you begin to question how much Tim Wilson was doing at all."
Holman glared daggers into Anon's eyes, and the needle increased its pressure against my heart.
"Tim Wilson and Faeowynn Wilson shared many of these responsibilities," Turner responded, "but there were very few things for which Mr. Wilson was the sole source. Upon review, the Site-64 Board of Directors concluded that Ms. Wilson has unrivaled dedication to Wilson's Wildlife and an impressive work ethic, not to mention the proficiency with which she carries out her duties. It is our sincerest opinion that Faeowynn Wilson is the most fit for the position as head of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions."
The room was silent for a moment. What response was appropriate? The way Turner had delivered the ideas, it was like a coronation speech. It felt inappropriate to object. Especially in my case. What was I supposed to say? Was gratitude in order? I didn't like feeling in competition with my brothers. Did anyone else have as well-articulated a case for anyone else? Why did I not feel pride in all of this?
The needle felt like it was just about to pierce straight through.
Albert straightened up, cleared his throat, and said: "You've successfully swayed me. I think Fae would be perfect for the job."
Captain Esau winced. "I'd like to change my vote as well."
"Are we voting so soon?" Holman asked.
"I have nothing more to say," Laura offered.
"Ditto," Anon's acidic drawl corroded through the air.
"Hold on, hold on," Robin scooted his chair in, and took a deep breath, "I-I fail to see how Anders has done any less for the Shelter."
The room remained politely silent. Robin cleared his throat.
"He very modestly suggested his siblings, but he's underselling himself, I mean, Anders has practically been preparing to take over Dad's job. On days when Dad was sick, Anders basically took over his responsibilities wholesale. Not piece by piece like Faeowynn, but really, all of it, for as long as Dad was out. It's also important, from every leader, to have charisma to them — I, I mean, Fae is smart, she's practical, she's efficient, sure, you're right, but is she a leader? Dad was a leader. Dad was the type of person who creates a community, not just a team. He makes it feel like a family. Not, not everything is about numbers, you know. You can't qu-quantify Dad's impact on the type of people he attracted to this organization, or the happiness that people got just from his energy being around. Hell, for that reason, I'd nominate Old Al here, but if it's going to be one of, of us, then it should be Anders."
"With all due respect," Anders responded, "I don't feel particularly charismatic."
"You don't?"
Anders sighed. "Not like a leader. I'm an introvert, not an extrovert."
"What are you saying? You're… it's… you've got this zen, man. It's not Dad's Santa Clause, jolly fat guy energy, no, but, you've got your own… I couldn't imagine a better brother, it's — you've got his face, for Christ's sake!"
"Robin Wilson, if you could please calm down —"
I don't know of a single time when "please calm down" actually did anything, but apparently Turner thought it would accomplish something. It didn't.
"And this isn't to mention seniority. Did Fae grow up around the unusual? The magic of Boring? The Supervisors? Whose had more experience here? I'll tell you who, it's me 'n' Anders. We've been here for over thirty years. Fae arrived less than ten ago. You can't be serious, thinking she knows more about this organization than me and Anders do."
Something in me winced every time Robin said "me and Anders" instead of "Anders and I".
"On the contrary," it had been a while since I heard Anders sound irritated, "Faeowynn has been in businesses much larger than ours and handled organization on a much broader scale. Whether or not your business is in insurance or magic animals doesn't change the basis of the job. The ground level is different, but the managerial position is almost exactly the same."
"What are you doing, bro?" Robin stood up. "You're just going to roll over 'n' let this happen?"
Anders stood up in turn. "Let what happen?"
"He's our dad!"
The needle drew blood.
Anders put a hand on my shoulder. "Yes. He is."
"And you." Robin looked directly at me, now. "You're not gonna say anythin', are you."
I opened my mouth to speak, and then realized I had no idea what to say. Robin took this as confirmation, and took his eyes from mine to Anders', and then from Anders' to Holman's.
"I'll excuse myself."
Holman made a gesture that read: go right ahead.
Robin walked out of the room, so slowly and calmly that you might imagine he was taking a bathroom break. As soon as the door closed behind him, his steps became louder and faster down the hall, until at some point you could hear nothing. Robin was gone. The meeting went from ten to nine.
Anders sat back down. "My apologies."
"I understand," Holman empathized. But did he actually? I could never tell. "Let's return to the task at hand. Ms. Wilson, this suggestion would be futile if you were not prepared to take the position. Do you offer yourself as a candidate for Head of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions, and thereby accept all associated duties and responsibilities until either your resignation or passing, assuming we vote in your favor?"
I couldn't help but put a hand over my chest. "I do."
"All in favor of Faeowynn Wilson taking Tim Wilson's place as Head of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions?"
Holman raised his own hand, demonstrating the method by which the vote was held. All but Laura and Anon raised their hands. That was seven of nine.
"That sounds conclusive. It is unfortunate how unorthodox this election has been. Faeowynn Wilson, I look forward to collaborating with you on the future of Wilson's Wildlife Solutions. I imagine our relationship will be just as fruitful as when your father held your place before you. Our next meeting will cover a standard process by which to pass on the title of Wilson's Wildlife's Head, at which point Faeowynn will be officiated into the position by means of a paper of our collaborative design. Any further topics before we adjourn this meeting?"
No one spoke up. A few shook their heads.
"Good." Holman stood up. "I hope to see you all next week."
The Scribe closed his computer, and everyone began to stand. Anders whispered: "I'm going to go catch up with Robin. Sorry." He left before anyone else, and I had to wonder where to go. For the moment, I was a statue. I stood in place just behind the chair in which I had been seated. What now? What do I do now?
I didn't have time to answer that question before I felt a slap on the back. Old Al beamed at me. "I think you're going to do great."
I smiled back at him. Slightly. Modestly. "I'm sure I will."
The hand over my chest clenched into a fist. At that moment, the needle had pushed straight through.

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