Canon Hub » What a Wonderful World Hub / Those Twisted Pines Hub » Take It Away, My Darling » Disconnect

Chapter I.XIII

I do not know who you are that reads this. To list those who I feel might eventually set eyes on these pages would become strangely exclusionary to those that actually do that are inevitably not listed here, and so I will refrain. For the moment, and in general, I am writing for myself, so this I will consider a note to myself.
Sometimes, in writing, I have found myself decidedly erring on the side of dramatization. I give people dialogue that was never relayed to me, outline characters that I know not even an outline of. I am thus fictionalizing my life. But sometimes, to exaggerate, to relay my half-informed conjectures, is to be completely and utterly disrespectful, and so though I know that there are more dramatic, and perhaps more entertaining, ways to start a chapter, I feel the need to here be plain and honest:
Mom died of cancer on my 35th birthday, January 1st, 2013.
She died at home, myself in the other room. I still beat myself up for not having been explicitly at her side, but I had sat next to her bed, which we took pains to put by the glass door looking out on her garden so she could admire the plants in her last days, for hours on end the entire previous week. Once it was clear that she would not make it to the end of the month, we decided together to stay home instead of in a hospital, for it was more important to have a few less days with all her homely amenities than it was to have a few more days in a sterile, white room, all the while plagued by the beeping of machines and greeted only with bad news and bland food.
And one morning, it was very clear to me, that, since Mom could no longer speak, and her eyes refused to remain open, and her breathing was becoming ever slower, it became clear to me that she was going to die; that what was said was said; that no more conversations were forthcoming; that she had already effectively slipped from my grip sometime during the night, though her lucidity had been in and out for the past three evenings; that the best course of action was to be at her bedside, hold her hand, and count the hours, while in the garden bugs would pick at flowers and beyond the fence a neighbor's barbecue was being as rowdy as was their right.
But I had once gotten up to get water, because my throat was parched, and when I returned from the kitchen, I strained to hear her thin and vaporous breath, but no sound came from those lips. I stared, dumbly, at her malnourished body, ravaged as it was by the disease, so small under the blankets. I breathed, I blinked. My jaw was so tense it hurt, my head throbbed violently. And, lacking the necessary gumption to bring to mind a course of action better fitted to the situation, lifted the glass of water to my lips and drank.

* * * * *

Mom's funeral was a humble event. Much like her wedding, it was sparsely attended, as was her wish, by only those closest of friends and companions she had; she had many times talked about wanting a tight-knit sweater more than a wardrobe of less fitting things. And so the meeting room at her veterinary clinic was appropriated.
Each member of that mournful, solemn party belongs to a story of their own, but to honor them and their connection to my mom I will chronicle their names in order: Tom Archer; Jai Gallup; Shika Ikeda; Ciara McCarthy; Austin McCloud; Barbara Offam; Amanda Tillerson; Faith Wallace; Tim Wilson; and myself.
After a speech I wrote regarding my mom's passing and positive influence on my life, a number of us read poems, some original, in honor of Mom's own aptitude for poetry. I myself read off a number of what I deemed to be her best, from collections that I have been meaning to try to get published. I firmly believe my mom can be a successful poet, and if she wasn't going to be able to do it in life, then perhaps she can, like many artists, flourish postmortem. But I digress. The point is that it was a very lovely and all around positive experience (in those few ways in which it could be), and while Mom's ashes sat in the middle of the table, adorned with flowers and stuffed animals, we talked as if she was someone we could still go meet. Spoke only highly of her, if sometimes we allowed ourselves to poke fun, as good friends do, at people's quirks and habits. Whatever jest there was, it was not mean, but in celebration of all the little things that made Mom Mom.
For example, the way she would cross her legs, rest an elbow on her knee, rest her head on her hand, and lean far forwards whenever she was getting really invested in listening or watching something; or how she couldn't bring herself to stay mad, even when she was fuming just moments ago; or how, the veterinarians present informed me, every pet she operated on would leave the clinic with a new nickname. The list continues.
But since no conversation, no matter how dear, can last forever, we all began to depart, as friends. Hands were shaken, though hugs happened more often, and all participants slowly left, one after the other, to head home for dinner and for rest. That was, until it was only myself left in that cramped office space with Tim, whom, for his time here, had seemed perhaps disproportionately affected. Had he not had a lowered head from the moment he came in? Had he not clutched at his chest, hand over his heart, at irregular intervals, breathing deeply as to calm himself? I don't think I had ever seen Tim less like himself. He was entirely without his smile, which he wore whether real or fake, and though such was expected, he did not join in on the more lighthearted conversation once minds had turned from grieving what was lost to celebrating what was had, a social atmosphere from which Tim's yarn-knitting mind drew its richest substance. For three hours, not a change had been seen within him.
And now, alone in this room, he had also failed to rise from his seat, neck still bent, hand still raised to his breast, breathing as if breathing was the only thing to do. I wondered for a moment if he knew I was still there, but I did not have to wonder long.
"Hey," he said, head still facing the table. "I wanted to say I'm really sorry."
A cold, wet shiver passed over my body from my feet to my head.
"We haven't seen each other in years. How long has it been? Half a decade? We've video called, sure, but we haven't seen each other. Just one state border away, and we haven't seen each other."
A well, untold fathoms deep, yielded its first bucket of emotions, and its viscous water was poured over me so that I stood there solid and stiff
"I've been so busy, I guess I thought there would always be time for me to visit again," he said. His voice was hoarse, his hair was unkempt. His pale skin told me that his habit of hiking had most certainly been kicked, or else he was suffering some sort of traumatic physical pain in that very moment. "I thought there were always tomorrows, and I'd never been wrong about that before, so… I just thought I could visit. Some other time."
A silence endured. I made my way around the table, and sat next to him, so that I could at least see the hints of his eyes.
"Just thought I'd drive down, when I had time, you know."
I placed a hand of mine over a hand of his, a form of comfort so simple I felt that to abstain would be an egregious disrespect, and rubbed those rough and calloused grooves between the tendons of his fingers. At this, though not without a delay, he looked up, and into my face. At our eyes meeting, the hand over his heart clutched harder, and I saw his jaw pull back under the strain. He required a response, and so I gave him one.
"You don't know what you have until it's gone," I said. A platitude so bare I might as well not have said it. Sometimes the simple truths are powerful. But this one, at this moment, wasn't. And I only hoped he didn't notice.
He nodded, and rubbed his dry eyes.
"Will you be here?"
He blinked twice. "Sorry?"
"To help look through Mom's things. Sort out what's important from what isn't."
He swallowed, and returned to his table-gazing. "No," he said.
"Okay," I replied.
And without a proper goodbye, Tim stood, turned, and left. Tim, who was not Tim, but some ghost inhabiting Tim's body, a completely different side of the coin. In some respects, I pitied him. In some respects, I accepted his apology. But a larger portion of my brain devoted itself to the necessity of that apology, and how brief it truly was. And yet other portions debated the validity of turning the day of Audrey Fuch's funeral into a day about your own self-worth. And most of all, I doubted — all the while knowing fully well that such doubts conflicted directly with so obvious as the effect on Tim was — at the sincerity of such an apology, for truly, could he be so sorry now, the same man who knew that Audrey laid on her deathbed, only her daughter for consistent company, a woman for whom each new week was an uncertain gain, a miracle, a victory made Pyrrhic for every new day came with new pain, the only promised release a giving up of the soul, the loss of everything you loved, in an instant gone from sight, you from theirs, leaving the scarred battlefield behind but the cells of your brain, like indigenous tribes, genocided and discarded, nevermore to share their cultures, their practices, their wisdoms, their loves, their passions, their insights? All this, the world of this, at your fingertips — you, who could be another calming voice, you, who once partook in passion with the passing, you, who loved and left her, could not return, not even for her final moments, not even for her death?
And you're sorry?
Before I knew it, I had grabbed a chair from its backrest, and brought its full weight down upon floor, the sound so ruckus that I startled myself out of this spiral, and came to my senses. I was alone, in the room, with Mom, or what was left of her. And now was not the time to be angry or resentful. So, having stood at some point without my realizing it, I sat back down, and collected myself.
Except that it hadn't happened at all. The chairs were still just as they had been, the corner of the room unmolested by overturned and now slightly-bent metal. It was just that the image had occurred in my head as something I could do, and now I pulled my hand back from its ruminating reach, extended as it was toward the chair to my right, and placed it firmly in my lap, covered by my other hand: as if I couldn't trust my right hand, but I could trust my left hand to dissuade it.

* * * * *

It was spring, and I had ordered a pizza all to myself, in a sort of mimicry of a work party. I was fully aware that there were those I could call to help me excavate my mom's house but I didn't want to. It was going to be a personal experience and I wanted to have my personal experience alone.
The house had remained untouched for several months, maybe four, during which time I still worked online and occupied the guest room, each day waking up and momentarily forgetting that I had to make breakfast for myself as there was no one else in the house to make it. Well, this morning, I had finally made myself venture into Mom's room, and I found that inside was an open Chinese takeout container so full of mold that it looked like a grassy knoll more than anything. It was so repulsive, and so central in the room, that I for a moment could not focus on anything else, and my emotional daze was replaced with an intense desire to clean and organize.
Doing a cursory dusting and vacuuming of the house felt good. Much like my shower I had taken when first arriving here in San Diego, it was an act that I knew, in the back of my head, was a sign of recovery. Depressed people don't often get up to clean. Was I getting better? I hadn't felt like it, no. But in the same way that you can make yourself feel happier by wearing a fake smile which gradually turns real, I thought that maybe performing functionality would get me into a better mood instead of a better mood making me finally functional.
With this power behind me, I set to a job I had been putting off since the beginning of the new year: going through Mom's belongings. I had to eventually leave the house anyways — even though it belonged to me legally I found no special connection to it — when I went back to New York, and to truly leave it behind I had to sell it, and to sell it it had to be empty. So I got a mountain of empty cardboard boxes; masking tape; markers of several colors to help organization; scissors; box cutters; and on a whim, a beefy bluetooth speaker. Once I got home, I turned on A Farewell to Kings by Rush, a favorite of mine that came out the year before I was born. The elegantly plucked acoustic guitar greeted my ears through the speaker as I put it down on the living room table, where I estimated it would reach the majority of the house.
The flowing finger-picking soothed me, and to it I closed my eyes, and centered. For the full minute of its existence, soon joined by some instrument I had never named but always imagined to be something akin to the xylophone, I just sat and listened, and prepared myself mentally for the task at hand.
Then, the electric guitar, drums, and bass came in, and I opened my eyes. Alright, I thought, go time. I turned the speaker to a deafening volume, and grabbed a slice of pizza. Geddy Lee came in on the vocals, and soon his voice could likely be heard by two houses in every direction, but I didn't truly care.
First, the kitchen.
For someone who lived alone, there was enough for a whole family to withhold from doing dishes for a solid three days. Pots of so many different sizes, pans of various widths, two can openers, nut crackers, garlic mincers, a blender and a food mixer (I have never fully understood the difference)… at least twenty forks, twenty spoons, and twenty butter knives, and speaking of knives, a good ten — both serrated and not, thin and thick, long and short — were stuck on a magnetic rack above the stove. There were a million rags and dishtowels, silky napkins, four different tablecloths (one for each season)… there was dish soap and drain cleaner that I decided were the type of thing I would do better to keep for myself, and so tossed in the "to New York" box.
Then it was to the dining room, where I found a hidden stash of fine china that made me wonder if she ever intended to host a Thanksgiving. The lounge room had a piano that made me wonder if I yearned to have one in my apartment back in New York (it was a rather small piano). I decided that it would be too much of a hassle, and if I wanted a piano I could just get one myself.
I sorted books in her library from ones I wanted to keep and ones I didn't much care about, tossing about five of the hundred or more novels into my "to New York" box. On reflection, I realized that I was very interested in knowing the type of stuff she read, so I made a list of books she had in case I ever wanted to pick one up at a later date. Then, into a "books" box they went.
I glanced at the garden, but decided weed whacking would be a task for another day. I took a quick run through the bathroom to grab toiletries and toss them in my personal box, both mine and what was sanitary to grab of Mom's. And then, up the stairs I went.
I entered Mom's room, which I had not seen since I pulled the moldy takeout from it. We had now passed through two Rush albums, and were beginning the song Subdivisions, which I nodded to, chuckling that I was indeed living in the raked-against suburbia detailed in the song.
My mom's room was deep red, sometimes erring on the side of purple, with its own bookshelf, which I treated like the one downstairs. I found her basket of stuffies which I sorted through, keeping two for myself and boxing the rest. I kept her journals and diaries, which to this day I have only scoured for poems she had never shared, opting to skip over her personal thoughts and feelings as they were private to her and should remain so. At some point I made it to her wardrobe, and was faced with the issue of deciding whether or not to keep any of it. Her clothes could fit me, but would that be honoring the dead, or would it be disgraceful? Would I be able to wear them without recollecting? Would it be bad to have clothes that I wore specifically to recollect? I decided to keep two dresses I felt were signature of Mom, but only to have them, and not to wear them. It was as I was pulling them out of her closet that I found something of particular interest to me.
Behind the clothes, there were some records, and I couldn't care less what they were, because one in particular caught my attention. I reached to the fourth from the front, and pulled it out. Mother Earth's Plantasia, by Mort Garson.
At once, I forgot what I was doing, and rushed down to the meager storage area next to the bathroom under the stairs, where I had seen the record player that I grew up with.
I dashed to my phone, turned off Rush — sorry Geddy — and almost tripped on my way back to the record player, which I then plugged in, put the record on, and got going. The needle began to trace the vinyl, and out came those sweet, synthesized notes. As soon as the whistle came in, I covered with goosebumps.
Mom had put this on when I was little, especially when we were cleaning the house but often when she was studying too. It came out two years before I was born: a fully synthesized album about plants no less. The timbre, so abrasive to Tim's ears, was what I grew to love. And at the time, holding no special significance, I had completely forgotten about it until just now. Almost 20 years I had lived since last even giving this album thought, but that was precisely what made its effect on me so powerful.
Time stopped. I was my young self again. Mom was tall; my friends and I played pretend, and had water gun fights; the city was infinite; the bay even moreso; and every time I came home, Mom would sit and read her textbook, catching up on her studies. And the soundtrack to it all was this album. My day of work stopped there.

* * * * *

"Your birthday is coming up!"
"Mhmm," I said, stirring a boiling pot of noodles.
"Not to mention Christmas. So, since I won't be able to wish you happy birthday or Merry Christmas in person, happy birthday! And Merry Christmas! Oh, and a happy New Year from New York!"
"Thank you, and to you too!"
"So, what's the weather like down there?"
"There's really only one season."
"Haha, that's what I've heard. Do you like it?"
"Like it?"
"Uh, yeah, do you like it?"
I looked out the window for a second, at the garden I had continued to let overgrow, which by all means should have been at least frosted by this time of year, December being what it is in the northern hemisphere.
"I don't know. I like warm weather. Grew up with it and all. Seasons actually exist in New York, but they just divide the year into when I can and can't go to the beach. Though I guess I didn't go to the beach all that much anyways."
"Uh-huh. Well, I'll tell you, this is a friendly call, but it's more than just a friendly friendly call, it's also a concerned friendly call." He paused to allow me to speak, but I didn't. "I really didn't want to bring it up, but, you've been gone for a year."
"I've been gone for more than a year."
"No, I know, I mean, you've been gone for a year since…"
"Ah."
"I'm so sorry. I just — Felix, I really thought we were hitting it off, and now I have to ask, are you ever coming back?"
I nearly choked on my own saliva. "Hitting it off?"
"Sorry to be so forward."
I contemplated for a second. "Duncan, I never meant to flirt with you."
His end was silent for a moment or two. "Okay."
"Sorry if I came off that way? Nothing against you, you're a nice guy, sincerely, but —"
"You don't swing that way?"
"No, I…" I was so taken aback, three to four trains of thought came and went. "I… don't." I lied for the same reason that I didn't correct his calling me "Felix". Tilting my head back, I strained my shoulder to keep the phone at my ear while I shook water out of the pasta.
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"That's not the vibe I got at all."
"Sorry?"
I poured the spaghetti back into the pot.
"I guess I would have found out."
"If we started interacting outside of work, yes."
"Which we didn't."
"No, which is another reason I'm surprised you thought we were 'hitting it off'."
"I was going to ask about it, but then you left all of a sudden. It took me a lot of asking people to figure out what had happened — I didn't want to call you because I didn't want to seem… uhh…"
"Clingy? Obsessive?"
"En— yeah. That. I'd still like to be friends! Look, seriously, sex was not my main goal. I just thought you're, you know, a nice guy, and… yeah. So, are you coming back?"
"Am I coming back?"
"Yeah."
I stirred in tomato sauce I had bought from the grocery store. "Umm, the plan has always been to come back."
"But is that the plan now? I mean, what are you doing in San Diego?"
I grabbed a bowl out of the cupboard, and started scooping spaghetti into it. "What am I doing here?"
"Uhh, yeah, what are you doing there."
I sat down at the table, fork in hand, and started twisting a bite onto my utensil. I took a deep breath, and looked around. The house was very empty now. Or, well, it was full of something other than before — boxes. Book boxes, china boxes, gardening boxes, tool boxes, and all other sorts of miscellaneous boxes. The walls were barren, the floors were barren, but the whole place was covered in strewn-about boxes. Some were still sealed with tape, but many had been broken into. For example, the plate I was eating off of I had to take out of one of the kitchen boxes. The fork, too, had been in a separate box which also had to be opened — not to mention the pot I cooked out of and the pasta fork I stirred and served it with.
"Are you there, Felix?"
"I don't know."
"Huh?"
"I guess I'm still figuring out what I'm doing in San Diego."
Duncan started speaking again, but I wasn't listening. My eyes had drifted, and they settled on the jar. The one thing I hadn't ever put in a box. Mom's ashes stood at the other end of the table, as if she took up her own spot — her own chair, her own plate, her own meal. Like she was waiting for me to serve her — but maybe it was a different question. A different request. She was wondering why she was still here. Why her ashes had yet to be spread out into the bay. I started asking myself the very same question.

* * * * *

I paid, got out of the taxi, and pulled a jacket over myself. It was finally one of those days that was even slightly cold, and asked for an extra layer. It certainly wasn't a day to head to the beach, but that was alright. I wasn't planning on going anyways, and I liked being able to wear something cozy, which was not a thought I expected to have, as I had always pictured myself as a summer kind of woman. But here, in front of Cotton Soft Veterinary Clinic, I found myself somewhat enjoying the cold. A deep breath, and I was ready to enter.
The door swung shut behind me, and I took in the lobby. It was spacious; aromatic with the scent of animals (mostly dogs, but was a strong concoction of everything); full of people, with all the sights and sounds associated with owners trying to keep their rowdy pets in check; softly colored; graced by a wall covered in pictures of dearly departed companions; and surprisingly clean. Seeing that one of the receptionists was open, I walked up.
"Hi, I'm Fae Wilson, daughter of Audrey Fuchs, who worked here."
"Ohh, hi, I knew your mom, she was a lovely person."
"Yes, yes she was. Uh, I'm here to ask for Edna."
"Edna?"
"Yes, she was a coworker of my mom's so I thought she must be here."
"Nobody works here named Edna."
I gave her a look. "Nobody? Edna, Edna Wilson. Older woman."
"Ohh, Edna Wilson, sorry, I forgot. She must have been your grandma!"
"Must have been?"
"Yes, she passed away almost ten years ago."
I blinked a few times. "She did?"
"Yes, although I don't remember what of. I started working here after that, you see. All I heard were the stories. She was really well liked here."
I tried to do quick mental math for how old she must have been. She had Tim somewhat late for her first child — at least for her generation — at thirty. Tim had me when he was twenty-one to my memory. I was thirty-six, plus twenty-one was fifty-seven, plus thirty was eighty-seven. She must have died in her seventies.
"I guess… she was aging, wasn't she."
"But she had a young soul! Well, so I've heard."
I stood for a second, and then regained my senses. "Alright, thank you."
The receptionist waved as I left the building and onto the street. I guess Mom never mentioned Edna, though I have no clue why it wouldn't have come up. From neither Tim nor Audrey? One, her coworker, the other, his mom? That made no sense to me. Did they not want to upset me? I wasn't particularly attached to my grandparents, I hadn't known them very much even if I had met them a couple times. Did it not upset them? She was a mentor to Mom, and literally a parent to Tim. I was a little stunned on the street.
The only other family relation I might have still had in San Diego was Elliot, my grandpa. Looking up Wilson Taxidermy came up with nothing, so I concluded that he must have retired. I only went to my grandparents' house a couple times when I was young, and those memories were not enough to go off of so I could find it. My other most obvious option was to message Tim.
Tim. I shuddered with the image of my inbox. By the titles of his emails it seemed like Tim assumed I wasn't responding to him because of a prolonged period of mourning. That might have been part of it. But that was not the whole of it. To send an email would either be to lie or to explain. And, knowing myself, I would feel obliged to read each weekly email before addressing him. I didn't want to. For many reasons. There was another way.
I reentered the clinic, walked up to the very same receptionist, and spouted: "Do you still have her address?"

* * * * *

"Oh, Edna died of the flu."
"Really?"
I held the mint tea Elliot had made me close to my mouth to guard against the unnatural cold that permeated his house.
"Yes. Old folks like us can die of the flu. I know it must seem ridiculous, when you get it once or twice as a child and it doesn't do much but cause you some unfortunate visits to the restroom, but once you're old… well, things are different."
"I'd heard that people died of the flu, but I always assumed it was people without access to medicine."
"It's all sorts."
"Huh."
"And you never heard?"
"No, I never did."
Elliot, on his wide cushioned chair opposite me, took a long drink of his earl grey. When he was finished: "I find that really strange."
"You have no explanation?"
"No. Tim was the first to know, of course. He visited and attended the funeral. We had some catching up to do. I guess whether or not he told you never explicitly came up, but you came up, as part of catching up with the son is catching up with the grandchildren, and I think it was implied that you were told. Fuzzy memory, though. Not the type of conversation you remember each and every detail of, you know."
"Do… do you know how it affected my mom?"
"Oh, yes. She was at the funeral, too."
"Oh."
"A lot of the Cotton Soft people were. She was really well-liked at the clinic. One of those silent hard-workers — I'll be first to admit that Edna did not win people over with her natural charm. She won them over because she took each and every possible job she could, filled in for people without asking favors, and was at every turn acting at a hundred and ten percent. She wasn't abrasive either, no… I loved her, didn't I? But she was a quiet kind of soul. And she quietly got herself into everyone's business, and everyone quietly discovered that it wasn't such a bad thing."
I sipped my tea and waited for him to continue, but he didn't. "I wish I knew her better."
"You know her in your own way. A part of her went from Tim to you. You have Grandma-blood."
I took a deep breath. "I guess so."
"No need to guess." He smiled warmly at me, and drank.
"Did you talk to my mom?"
"Oh, yes. She gave a very passionate speech. Associated her success in her veterinary career with Edna's fervent mentorship. It was very touching. I think Edna thought of your mom much like a daughter; the very same type of doting and attention. Audrey felt like family. I was very much endeared to her, but I think Edna was more."
"Mhmm," I responded, and sipped.
"So why are you here?"
"Mmm?" I swallowed. "Am I not supposed to be interested in my grandparents?"
"No, no. That's perfectly normal. It's just that you're coming now, and not before. We've cohabited San Diego for years now. Why the sudden interest?"
I cast my eyes down into the tea and stirred it idly with a small spoon. "Well, that's a difficult question."
"I'm a patient man with nothing to do but wait. Take the time you need."
I used my moment in the living room of his small, one-floor house to contemplate my own motivations. As I drank my mint tea, I felt its warm honeyed fluid track down my throat, pass by my heart, and then disappear past my sternum into that place which I could never feel: the innermost workings of my being. Lungs, stomach, intestines, muscles. I am a machine and I only control the extremities. There are forces at work which guide me, and I sometimes do not take enough heed of them to temper them correctly.
"I guess…" I started. "I've come here as one in a series of decisions that I don't feel… have come from me. They've come from me, sorry, but they are…" Elliot remained silent and attentive. "They're not… may I start over?"
"Of course."
"Since Mom died, I have been doing only my essentials. I have been keeping up with my work, I have been buying groceries, sometimes I clean the house… I eat three meals a day, drink a lot of water, relieve myself when I need to, but that's all. I fulfill my basic needs: I eat, drink, sleep, maintain the shelter over my head, and gain money to secure the previously mentioned requirements, and… that leaves me with a lot of free time. And I don't know what to do with it."
"Mmm."
"But that doesn't mean I don't do anything. I do a lot of things. But they're… unplanned. I feel adrift. Like I'm a slave to my impulses. So one day I'll find myself in a shop looking at jewelry I don't plan on buying; or another I am driving down the highway in a random direction for hours, and then turning back. Sometimes I spend all of my day at home, but sometimes I don't go home, and I'll wind up in a hotel somewhere. And I don't… fully understand my own behavior. Am I self destructing? No. I'm financially stable — I can afford all these strange whims, but I don't like them. And I can't find their source, most of the time. They come from within me, that's what I was talking about. But they don't feel like me."
"And visiting Cotton Soft was…?"
"Another one of my… impulses. Today, I just knew that was where I was going."
"Mhmm." There was a long pause as we both sipped our tea. "Could I ask a question?"
"Please."
"Do you have any friends in San Diego?"
I placed my empty mug on the coffee table in front of me. "No, I don't."
"Hmm. I can't account for your usual rut, but, I can tell you, I think I know why you came to the clinic."
"Oh?"
"You're seeking out connection to your mom."
"Oh, well," I looked down again. "Yes. Yes I was."
"You must have remembered that Edna was a friend of your mother's, and wanted to… fulfill the connection through proxy. If you couldn't be with Audrey, you could be with Audrey's mentor. Not to mention she is your grandma. Do you… talk to Tim much?"
I shook my head. "No. I don't."
"I thought not. He's told me you've been out of reach recently."
I met his eyes. "I think I have."
"Mmm. You're feeling parent-less."
"I am?"
Elliot nodded in a sagely sort of way. "Tim is not filling the role you need because he is far away, but you can't leave San Diego to visit him because you haven't let go of your mom." That wasn't it, but it was close enough to the truth that I just nodded. "You sought Edna, a maternal figure, but she too is now unavailable. The next best thing is a paternal figure. And you've located one, I think."
He gave me a sad smile, telling me he had ended on a question. I thought on it. Was this all true? Why else would I have fought so hard to be here? I had old friends in San Diego I could have worked to reconnect with, but I came here. The only discernible difference is family relation, right? I sighed.
"I think so too."
His smile turned genuine. "Alright. Then I am here to do what you need me to. Would you mind if I made a comparison that might be seen as rude?"
"I don't think so."
"Alright. Ghosts linger in the land of the living due to some unfinished business. They are aimless, and yet in their wanderings are unerringly tied to one spot. Audrey died in that house, but Audrey does not haunt it. You do."
My face twisted into a frown. "I see what you mean."
"Let me be the priest, then, and exorcise you. What hasn't been done?"
I rubbed the cylindrical handle of the teaspoon inbetween my middle finger and my thumb, twisting the shovel-end in the air like a drill, and looked out the window. From Elliot's house, the ocean was plainly in view. It was not so close, no, but the horizon was brilliantly blue, just like the sky simply continued into the sea, and then came to greet the shore. I spied a flock of seagulls, there, before they disappeared behind a building, presumably to beach themselves.
"I haven't spread Mom's ashes in the bay yet."
Elliot nodded. "Our course seems clear, then."

* * * * *

Mom scattered to the waves beneath the pier on the second of February, 2014. It was a mild day, as most days are in San Diego. There were people on the beach, cavorting as was their right, and playing in the water. Boats peppered the ocean, dogs barked every once in a while. Life continued. And it was among such life that death could be accepted.
The ashes bore no resemblance to Mom. I wondered why I had kept them in the first place. To what was I holding on to? The carbon my mom once had, a count of all that one element within her? Was that all she was to me? No. And in no jar could she, or should she, be contained. So I emptied that ash into the sea, as was her wish — not because I thought her soul might finally be at peace, it had been at peace long before she passed, but because through the action another might be put to rest, a heart placed back in its chest, regulated, becalmed by the action.
The relief was so quick upon me that I felt drowsy. I turned around, and walked to Elliot, who had stood a small distance away, to hug him. His rough, wrinkled skin was still warm with life, his frailty made him no less a human being, and so to him I hung, and silently shared in that experience of letting go. It was clear no words needed to be said. I thanked him with a kiss on the head, and departed.
On the passenger seat sat my "to New York" box, which had two brothers in the backseat. The rest of her belongings I would begin to auction off on eBay, or else hold a yardsale for when next I made home somewhere. And that, truly, was the question.
To go back to New York would have been normalcy. I would, once there, revert to Felix, perform masculinity, possibly regain my title of controller (if they did not suspect me of being the type to leave so lengthily again), and have financial stability, if not prosperity. But the former concerned me more than the latter enticed me. For all its depressive aura, I had lived nearly six years with the freedom to be myself, and the thought of moving back was repulsive. How I lived like that in the first place confounded me. Was money so important, that I sacrificed my identity to have it?
But I could not stay in San Diego, because Grandpa was right. Audrey had long since moved on. I needed to do the same; on those beaches I could feel warm sun but it would always be under the cool breeze of my memory. Where to, then?
"You should go visit him sometime."
My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. Tim. There were words I needed to have with him, weren't there?
I put the car into drive and set my sights for Oregon.

« The Supervisors | Stories My Dad Told Me | Fae Goes to the Shelter »


Rated R for RIDICULOUS VIOLENCE, VEHICULAR CARNAGE and KILLER GOOSE.

"These displays look fan-tastic, Dave."
"Uh, it's Mark, actually."
"Oh, of course," the customer said, his gaze still fixed on the wall of brightly-colored screens. Cartoons danced on the reflective surface of his wraparound sunglasses. "You're a natural mark. Man with an optimal eye for detail, am I right?"
"Absolutely, sir. That's why I've got one of these at home, myself. Fifty-inch 4K smart TV. Dynamic range is absolutely stun-"
"So why can't you see what this hall of high-def splendor is missing, Jimbo? This gallery here, this is like the steak without the sauce. It's the razzle with no dazzle. Feel me?"
The clerk fidgeted with his nametag. "I'm… not sure? Can I help you find something?"
"No, my man," the heavyset man replied, uncrossing his arms and turning to face Mark for the first time. Despite his grin, the guy looked uncomfortable — his forehead was damp, and his blue dress shirt was dark with sweat. "I've already found what I'm looking for. It's a real-deal action powerhouse, star of tomorrow's feature presentation… today. But don't take my word for it! Engorge your membranes on this atrocity, broheim."
Whereupon the customer crouched, launched himself into a series of backwards handsprings, twisted in midair and spin-kicked some poor unsuspecting soul at the end of the aisle, knocking their head off in a shower of blood.

By the time the screaming started, off on the opposite end of the mall, he had just barely finished disabling the air bags. Damn. The assassin discarded the screwdriver and socket wrench, then retrieved the shotgun from the backseat of the SUV and tossed the sling over his shoulder. Ready up, time to go. He slid a cloned key into the ignition, put one feathered hand on the shifter, and —
"Freeze, mister!"
Seriously? He glanced out the window at the pallid, shaking rent-a-cop, who had materialized with peashooter in hand at precisely the wrong time. "Look, man," he said, "just stay out of my way. I'm working."
"What the hell are you? What's going on? Are you stealing this car?!"
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
"I… but… how…?" The pistol wavered. "Birds can't drive!"
He flipped off the guard with one wing and stomped on the gas.

"Oh Jesus, oh fuck-"
Mark sprinted towards the checkout as fast as his legs would carry him, shrill shrieks and meaty splatters echoing in his ears. He took a sharp turn around a rack of Blu-Rays, wiped out, and recovered gracelessly, stumbling to his feet just in time to see the killer take a flying leap off one of the shelves and elbow-drop the cashier. Crunch.
"That's right, folks!" the guy shouted. He flipped over backwards, kicking the sales counter in half, then moonwalked through the resulting gap and pointed directly at Mark. "With nine easy payments of $999.99, your studio can cut out the mediocre middlemen! Say goodbye to stunt choreographers, liability waivers or expensive post-production! We're talking one hundred percent practical effects! Real terror, gen-u-ine guts and most visceral gristle!"
He reached back, then lashed out with one bloody hand, flinging gobs of wet flesh into Mark's face from five meters away. The clerk screeched, cringed, and started searching through his pockets for some kind of weapon. All he found was his cell phone. Panicked, Mark flung it at the heavyset man, who snagged it out of the air, turned on the selfie cam, and swivelled around so they were both in the frame.
"W-why are you doing this?"
"This is what I was made for, Billy Bob! Thanks to those juicy oysters at Optimark Synthetic Personnel Solutions1, I'm the American id made manifest. I'm a lean, mean, Nielsen machine, the sickest slice you've ever seen!" He lobbed the phone into the air, put both hands on his hips, threw his head back and swallowed the falling device. Then he laughed heartily. "Disgust and arouse your audiences today… with Murderer™!"
At which point an SUV smashed through the storefront.

There are certain guidelines for engaging humanoid threat entities. Speed, surprise, violence of action — these tactics are reliable against baseline goons, Blues, Greens, and even certain cyborgs2, because they're subject to human foibles and frailties. They get overconfident. They let their guard down. Then you blow them up or shoot them in the head. Simple.
Dealing with full-on robots and androids can be more complicated. They emulate human eccentricities, and some of their programming is predictable, but they're not subject to the same physical limitations. They can be built with stronger frames, tougher muscles or faster reflexes. Maybe their CPU isn't in their cranium at all! GOC operatives like Agent Pocket Ukelele3 have to be prepared for such eventualities. If you're deployed to deal with a threat like KTE-6684-Velveteen-Typhon, right when it's escalating from "pop-up murder" to "marketing massacre", you need more than good timing; you need to hit them with overwhelming force.
Which brings us back to this two-ton, four-wheel-drive SUV, brought into the mall many months ago to serve as grand prize in a giveaway contest.

The stolen vehicle barreled down the aisle, struck Murderer™ head-on, and — bump-bump — dragged it under the wheels. The assassin slammed on the brakes — rrrk-crunch-bump — and came to a gradual halt with the mangled body pinned beneath the rear axle. Then he popped the driver's door, stepped out, and swept the shotgun around in one smooth motion. Buck scanned past a store employee — "Mark", who had blood all over his face — then pivoted round to draw a bead on the machine, which was struggling to shift the wheel crushing its torso. The fake skin of its nose and forehead had been scraped off in the collision, yet somehow, Murderer™'s mirrored shades were pristine.
"Bodacious entrance, dude," it declared, voice straining with synthesized effort. "But ultra rude to interrupt my sales pi-"
Buck blasted it in the face. He pumped the shotgun, circled a few steps to the right, blew off the robot's arm at the shoulder, and put two more magnum slugs into center mass for good measure. Then he turned to the civilian and pointed at the shattered remains of the door. "Get out of here."
"Holy shit," Mark blurted. "Thanks, talking duck."
"Point of order: I am a goose." The assassin plucked an incendiary grenade from his vest. "Now move away from the vehicle before-"
"Freeze, you maniac!"
Son of a bitch. The rent-a-cop had followed Buck from the display area, and he was still honed on the wrong threat. The assassin glanced at the dismembered Murderer™. Pretty sure it's toast, but I need to fry it anyway. He looked back at the guard, who he'd been generous enough to warn, then considered the .357 holstered on his belt. Could solve this problem so easily. Buck's wing twitched.
"I said don't move!" Guy looked like he was about to shit his pants, if he hadn't already.
"Wait!" Mark protested, raising his palms to the sky. "Don't — don't hurt him! This goose saved my life! I don't know what's going on, but… he's here to help!"
The guard shifted his aim from bird-man to Mark and back again. He was confused, frightened, and way out of his depth, but it looked like he might calm down — up until a second robot entered the store in three quick jumps. This Murderer™ looked exactly like the first, except it was wearing an orange shirt instead of blue, and had aviators instead of wraparounds. It grabbed the rent-a-cop by the shoulders, kneed him in the spine and flattened him like a folding chair. Fortunately, Buck had the presence of mind to dodge left, so when Murderer™ lifted the guard's twisted body and lobbed it at the gibbering, cowering civilian, the goose wasn't caught up in the resulting haze of pink shrapnel. Damn shame about Mark, though. I was just starting to like him.
"For a limited time only, Optimark Synthetic Personnel Solutions4 is proud to present: Double Murderer™! Order in the next ninety seconds, and we'll throw in a second unit for half the price!"
Well, this was unexpected. PHYSICS Assessment Teams hadn't anticipated a second threat in the area. Time to improvise. "Wow!" Buck exclaimed. "Half the price, you say?"
"Yeah, bro! But only if you affix your appendages and dial O for Optimark in the next ninety seconds!"
"What a deal! Here, hold this, I'll get my phone." Buck pulled the pin on the incendiary grenade and underhanded it at the machine. When Murderer™ plucked the bomb out of the air and moved to crush it between both hands, the goose raised his shotgun, drew a bead on that narrow red cylinder, and —
THOOM!
— nothing left but a hybrid poly-steel spinal column, a pair of teetering legs, and a circle of flames.
Contract signed, sealed, and delivered… at 50% off.

This clash between DolphinSlugchugger's Alto Clef Jr. and CadaverCommander's Murderer™ has been brought to you by March 2020's Underread & Underrated prompt, in partnership with Optimark Synthetic Personnel Solutions.5

Footnotes
1. A subsidiary of Optimark Industrial.
2. Oh, Nathan. You precious little corn muffin.
3. Buckchamp McFuckmeup, also known as Alto Clef Jr., or "that one goose who can hold a gun".
4. A subsidiary of Optimark Industrial.
5. A subsidiary of Optimark Industrial.


After so many anniversaries, it got harder and harder to do something new and exciting. And John knew that Bailey wouldn't mind if they threw on The Princess Bride for the fifteenth time or talked the night away. But he wanted to make this anniversary special.
"We should be in Vermont by now," Bailey said. They'd been driving for at least two hours, leaving behind the skyscrapers and packed streets of Manhattan. Now they entered the part of the state no one talks about — where there were more trees than people.
"We're almost there. I think it's only another thirty minutes."
Bailey looked unconvinced. "You know, with each minute it takes to get there, my expectations for this place only go up."
"Aren't you excited?"
"I'm curious, but I don't mind the Impossible Burgers and Steaks as much as you do." John knew this going in. This year he realized he was being more selfish than in the past. But the anniversary was something for both of them to enjoy, right?
"But they are different," John replied. "Like, they almost taste like the real thing but… I don't know. It's just not the same."
"Yeah… yeah you're right."
"It's been thirty years. I just want to remember the taste of meat."

Foreword: The following is a transcription from a video titled "EXPOSED!" posted to YouTube. This video was flagged by Foundation Webcrawlers for containing possibly anomalous behavior, and put up for review.

<Begin Video Log>
The camera focuses on a dirt road; no cars are in view. In the distance, the outline of buildings are visible through a grey fog.
The cameraman approaches the buildings. Details become visible. One is a small house with a driveway; behind it are a vast array of warehouses.
A light appears from one of the warehouses. The cameraman stops moving. The light moves out toward the road. The cameraman runs into a field next to the road, laying in the wet grass. They start to breathe heavily.
The light draws closer.
It belongs to a semi-trailer truck. On the side of the truck are the words "Williamson Farms"; it includes an illustration of a farmer driving a tractor.
The truck continues past the cameraman.
After a few minutes, the cameraman stands and continues walking toward the buildings.

The only way up to the restaurant was this lonely dirt road surrounded by trees. John really had entered the middle of nowhere, New York. It'd been years since they'd driven this far away from NYC. The city had pretty much everything. Out here there was darkness between the trees, a low whistling of wind, and a full moon out in the sky. Out here, it was wild.
John caught a new shape out of the corner of his eye. And then another. He slowed down, just so he could get a better look. They were trucks and SUVs, probably on their last miles. Some had dents in the doors, others completely missing their bumpers. Broken headlights gazed at John's recently serviced Lexus, remembering the good days. Bailey could imagine the belching of the mufflers and the screeching of the worn down brake pads. They were zombies of cars.
As John and Bailey neared the restaurant, the cars began to evolve. The license plates weren't rusted over. The window cracks disappeared. They got shinier. And sleeker. About a hundred feet out they passed by a cherry red Ferrari parked in a puddle of mud.
"This is the place?" Bailey asked. She knew the answer, but wanted to hear John say it. He was petrified. He didn't know what he expected, but this didn't look like anniversary-material.
"It… should be."
John pulled off the road and parked next to a Tesla. They eyed a man who stood in front of the restaurant, whistling and waiting to open the door for guests. The two sat the in car for a moment before getting out together. They drove all this way after all. They should at least try the food. Bailey held her dress up a little, just to make sure it didn't fall into the dirt. The couple approached the greeter. He wore a vest, and a button-up shirt. His pants were big for his waist, and his face was only half-shaved. The man flashed them a smile with a few missing teeth.
"Welcome to Pete's!" he announced as he held the door. John and Bailey nodded politely, and avoided making eye contact.

The camera man approaches the farm house. Light shines through the front windows. Loud, indiscernible speech can be heard coming from the house.
The camera is aimed inside.
A group of men ranging from their early thirties to their late fifties sit around a dinner table. They appear to be drinking beer and playing cards. They holler and shout as one of the men, wearing a ten gallon hat, gathers a pot of approximately two hundred dollars.
BANG
The camera is rapidly brought back around the corner. The house falls silent.
Unknown Voice 1: Jesus fuckin' Christ Paul, what you shootin' at?
Unknown Voice 2: Saw somethin' in the window.
Unknown Voice 1: Ain't nuttin' out there.
Unknown Voice 2: I said I saw somethin'. I know what I saw.
Unknown Voice 1: And I know you're drunk. Now put that damn thing away before you blow your own head off!
The camera man begins moving away from the house. In the brief silence before the men erupt into their gambling game again, there is a low moaning noise coming from the warehouses.

Inside, the restaurant smelled of lavender. The lighting was romantically dim, and the tables were each fit with tablecloths and wine glasses. Men and women wearing fancy suits and dresses spoke in that quiet voice that fills upscale establishments. The voice used to talk about secrets kept by the absurdly wealthy. After all, this was the crowd who would try to keep their weekend tickets to Hamilton confidential. John could tell why his boss recommended the place.
John approached the hostess, who appeared more concerned with scratching the small of her grubby back than dealing with new customers.
"Umm… a table for two please?" John asked. The hostess blinked.
"Just the two o' ya?"
"Yes, for two."
She studied her podium for a full thirty seconds before grabbing two menus, "Foller me."
John and Bailey were seated at a table right in the middle of the restaurant. The couple stared at each other for a moment. Each looking for signals that everything was ok. Bailey was used to getting this look from John. Normally she was the one dragging him out of the condo on some sort of adventure. It's why she appreciated his attempts each year to pull out a new experience for her. Bailey brought him to multi-colored world of New York City clubs, to the peaceful vista atop Pike's Peak. He'd shoot her that look of "are you sure?". And normally, she was.
John was not used to getting the same look from Bailey.
John unfolded his napkin and set aside his bread plate. Bailey swallowed and followed suit.

The cameraman walks toward one of the warehouses.
The moaning grows louder, with low bellows periodically piercing through the noise.
Approximately five meters away from the door, the camera shakes and a gagging sound is heard.
After a moment, the cameraman resumes approaching the warehouse.
The door to the warehouse is closed, and secured with a padlock.
The moaning is grows even louder.
The cameraman places the camera on the ground. All that can be seen is the cameraman's leather boots.

Conversation did not come easily for John and Bailey while they waited for their food. They grew less nervous after their second glass of wine, but they spent more time looking over their shoulders and keeping an eye on the staff.
Eventually, a man whose belly spilled out between the bottom buttons of this sweaty dress shirt arrived with two plates. His face was unshaved and his smile was littered with yellow and black teeth. He placed the two dishes in front of Bailey and John.
Immediately, they forgot about the waiter. They forgot about the restaurant. They forgot about the two hour drive. There was only the smell. The smell of fat and grease and blood. The smell of cooked innards. The smell of meat.

The padlock falls next to the ground. The cameraman picks up the camera, and slowly opens the door. It makes a creaking sound, that is barely heard over the wails from inside.
He enters the warehouse and turns on a flashlight.
On the left is a herd of cattle, fenced into a pen, shoulder to shoulder. There is no room for the animals to move. They are all facing away from the other side of the warehouse, and their noses are plugged.
On the right side of the warehouse is a pile of harvested cows. All of their fat, muscle and tendons have been removed from their bodies, leaving just skin, bone, and head. There is wriggling in the pile. The harvested cow heads wail and moan. The louder vocalizations appear to emanate from underneath the pile.
After lingering on the harvested cows for thirty seconds, the screen cuts to black. A title appears with the words "No More Cow Sleeves. Dissolve Williamson Farms.".
<End Video Log>

"Two ribeye steaks, medium, made from one-hundred percent real beef. Bone-app-a-tite," the waiter announced.
John and Bailey devoured their meals.


close

Info

X

NAME OF TALE The Vault of Lost Children

Tsukiko ached. The pain was singular and cold, a feeling centered in her head and spreading out, down her gullet, down her limbs and veins. Her arteries froze, gradually. It felt like five millenia of frost stabbing, seizing, slicing.
"Tsu. Tsu, wake up."
Eternity was not so long. You never got used to it, but you learnt how to manage it. First a whole span of ninety years where she couldn't articulate what she was. Then the dark years, the charnal-house of pain and ecstasy, burning and realisations. Then -
"We have to go, Tsu. Come on."
She was dimly aware that there was a man calling her. He was well-dressed. He was charming and polite and everything else she hated. She didn't want to move towards him. She loathed the very idea of moving towards him.
She got up, slowly, and blinked. Where were they now? She wasn't sure any more. Neither was her companion. He was too different, he said, from when he'd set the Vault up, so it only partly recognised his thoughts. He could see the paths, but they were unclear and confused, full of false starts and uncertainties.
The world came back into focus. They were in a meat freezer, shivering and cold. The room seemed to strech forever, far larger than they could hope to make out.
"Is this what you do with your servants when you're done with them?"
"No. This is what I thought punishment looked like."
"Why does it keep stretching?"
"Because that's how I remember it."
They split up without speaking. Outside, it had probably only been a few seconds, but inside it had been years. They had gradually stripped themselves off like wire, until only the raw metal remained, all outrage and complexities sloughed off. There were two things left to do: find the file, and get out.
The hunks of pig flesh repelled her. She missed the taste of tea. Eight or nine months ago, they'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in a tea shop. It was one of Tsukiko's memories. She'd forgotten about that place, a little shack she used to go to before the war. When she'd returned from the front, she'd tried to find it again but there was just rubble. Fire-bombing.
The detail was entirely correct. The counter was made of the same wood and the owner had the same grumpy sort of kindness. She sat opposite the Duke, and they'd rested a while. The tea was green and steaming; it wasn't real, but it was the memory of the tea she'd drunk there, the best tea she'd ever had. The place seemed to shimmer like gold, but outside it was all storm clouds. Clearly, her memory had no sense of subtlety or taste.
That was one room. There were others, each combing through her mind to bring up pertinent details. She'd learnt that Mehmed was stronger than he looked. She'd learnt that Mary was a liar, hiding many pasts in nestled fragments. She learnt that -
"Here." The Duke's voice rang back and through, echoing from frozen walls. She began to push her way through the meat as it turned into bushes, trees, hedges, and they were standing in a garden. It was like something from a Watteau painting: English, stinking of Romanticism, with a standardised unconventionality woven through the paths. The sky was grey, because the sky was always grey in these gardens. It was made for hidden places and unbidden thoughts.
At first she had hated the Duke. She'd run from him, treated him with open hostility, got lost deeper in the mud. He ran after her, and dragged her out. She ran again. It was a game of antagonistic banter and crossed paths and the sinking shift of nightmares.
The world was suspended here, though, which gave one time to think. Tsu was old but still liked to have moments to herself. The Duke did too. They gradually came to understand one another. It was like they'd been floating on the water, waiting for revelations from outside. But the thing that really let them understand themselves was the stripping of all around them, being squeezed through the gullet of some hostile creature so that only the core of them remained and all the trappings of history dissolved.
She moved into the clearing and there it was. The work of untold time standing before them. A tiny disc, set in a small plastic casing, in the centre of the pond. The Duke was smiling.
"You found it."
"You did, mostly. I just held the map."
It was a stupid, soppy, encouraging line that Tsukiko didn't need, but she was grateful for it anyway. It reminded her that the Duke was still the same recovering aristocrat that she'd known for all these years. It was comforting to know that some things remained the same in a place where everything changed.
"How do we get back?"
"Take it and you'll see."
She moved forward and waded through the waters. Her hands began to feel sensations again, real ones. It was almost like electricity.
"Will I remember any of this?"
"Yes, but it'll be like - "
" - like a dream. Yes. Predictably."
She stopped. "What will you do?"
He shrugged. "This wasn't just for you."
She nodded, because she understood him. When all abstractions and double meanings and everything else is stripped away, when all your double selves and prejudices and base types were wrecked, then there was just your burning heart left over. They had both been stripped down, reduced to cherry pits, the oozing flesh turned to so much blood.
"I will go back to my Duchy, and I will destroy it. I know what it is to endure a nightmare now. I don't know how long I'll last, but I'll last long enough. The revolution will come to Celestria and spread across the night."
"How do you know the Administrator had your best interests in mind? How do you know what she wants?"
"I don't. But she's almost as old as you. For someone with her history to end up head of the very people who tortured her - she isn't just there to slavishly represent their interests. She has her own plans.
"She said the human race must hunger for its death."
"That's not the same as saying they must die."
She nodded, and waded forwards. The water was almost up to her head, but she could just stretch out her hands and grab it. The second she did so, the floor dropped away and she was falling, falling, falling.
She looked up and the Duke was there, waving to her from the top of the pool. She waved back. She didn't know what he was thinking.

Tsukiko quietly closed the doors behind her. The party was still going, but it seemed less like a whirl now. The gold was static, the people chatting normally.
A lot had happened in the last seven minutes.
She sighed, smoothing the lines of her dress. She looked around for her compatriots and waved. Mehmed hurried over; Mary took her time. She held up the disc with a grin.
"You got it!" Mehmed's hushed whisper was hardly necessary; several people looked around at the excitement in his voice. Mary whacked him on the arm with her fan.
Tsukiko just grinned, and pointed to the text on the disc.

ANTIMEMETICS RECORDS UNDER M. WHEELER UP TO 2009
SECTION 59: DR. HISAKAWA/"THE EXISTENTIAL MAW OF DESPAIR NATIONAL PARK"

Mehmed groaned. "You have to be kidding me."
Tsukiko just grinned wider. "Set a course, helmsman. It looks like we're heading home…"

A Gullet, Made of the Flesh of a Swan

End of Death

Section 59


TW: Suicide and Suicidal Ideation Present Throughout

So, remind me again, Elliot, why are we here?
It's good inspiration.
Well, this is the fourth time this week you've walled yourself in here.
A small price to pay.
I'm concerned about you.
There's no reason you should be.
Elliot…
Lana, I'm fine.
…
What have you even been doing in here?
Research.
Research?
Mhm.
How?
Well, come here… Oh come on, just lay down, I don't bite.
That's debatable.
Heh… alright… what are you doing?
Just watching you.
I'm not the interesting thing here.
Elliot, we're in an empty room, what else is there?
The paintings.
What?
Lookup.
Holy shit…
They're not that impressive.
They're amazing.
Eh.
Were these here the entire time?
Yes, you didn't notice?
Well, no, I was too busy making sure you're not doing something stupid.
Mmmm…
… So remind me again, why can't you do this at home?
I need a dark place to create an illusion.
Well, I can cover up the studio windows.
Why would you do that?
Well, I want you to be comfy.
It's comfy here.
I have a hard time believing that.
I dunno, something about this asbestos-filled junk pile really just kicks my mind into gear, ya feel?
Elliot.
Yes?
You realize that asbestos can harm your lungs right?
I'm not an idiot Lana… I just don't care.
What? Why?
Well, like here let me just show you.
…
Elliot.
Yes.
That's the Mona Lisa.
It is… is there something wrong with that?
What does this have to do with you slowly killing yourself?
You'll see.
…
Elliot, seriously I'm getting sick of your shit. What do these paintings have to do with you?
Well, they're all famous. They're classics. They'll be remembered for generations to come! They're priceless gems that could never be replaced.
Your life is too.
…
It is Elliot.
Eh.
…
So why do this anyway? Why stare at these paintings for hours in this scummy old place? You can go to a museum, you could look them up, you coul-
Sh, sh, sh, I could. I could do all of that, but, I don't know if it would quite match me and my methods.
Oh yes, because getting lung cancer is better than sitting in a museum and taking a photo of a painting.
It could be.
What?!
Well, like, look around you, at all of these paintings and tell me what makes them famous.
Elliot.
What?
You're not serious, right?
About?
Oh my god… dying doesn't make your work famous.
Arguable.
Elliot! Oh my god, there's tons of living artists all over who are known worldwide.
Yes, but their work isn't priceless. They can always produce another piece, but Rembrandt can't create another portrait.
Elliot… times have changed.
Really, how would they have changed?
There's the Internet now.
Lana, look at me. The Internet has a lot of fads, a lot of passing trends and with those trends go us artists.
You're looking at this backwards.
I'd say the same to you.
You won't become famous because of your death.
My pieces will be priceless though.
No, they won't.
They will.
Elliot, seriously, stop.
…
…
Lana. Have I ever told you about my paintings from New Orleans?
I didn't even know you've went.
Well, I went years ago, I was a kid with my dad and we had just bought three paintings. One of jazz players, one of the French Quarters, and another of a graveyard. Now we couldn't take these through the airport, so we had to ship them.
Shipping sucks.
Really does, so we got them appraised. The lady kept on telling us about our terrible investments-
She sounds shitty.
-and didn't stop until she reached the jazz players. She stopped and gawked at us before telling us about how this makes up for everything and blah, blah, blah. She went off on a rant about how he was dying and how she doesn't think he'd make it through the hurricane season.
Was she wrong?
No. I sold the piece for triple it's price.
Elliot…
Yes.
You don't have to be dead to be famous.
No, but it sure does help.
…
Elliot. What is that?
What?
Those canvases?
Failed attempts at fame.
What do… oh my god… Elliot…
I know, they look like tasteless recreation of a Pollock.
Elliot.
Yes?
You need help.
I'm fine.
…
Lana, why are you still here?
I'm concerned about you.
There's no reason to be.
…
Elliot.
Yes.
What were you doing in Indiana?
I was seeing my uncle.
Really?
Yes.
Elliot…
Yes?
Seriously, tell me.
I'm being serious.
Elliot.
…
…
… I was buying explosives… you can get a fourth a stick over there…
Oh.
…
Lana. Are you mad at me?
I'm just concerned.
…
…
Lana, are you going to leave?
Not without you.
…
…
You have to eat soon.
So do you.
…
…
Lana, what are you doing over there?
Just looking.
Looking for what?
Nothing, I'm just looking.
…
…
Lana.
Yes.
Can you just leave?
No.
…
…
Lana?
Not leaving.
…
…
…
Don't you care about me?
I'm not leaving you to die.
You wouldn't be leaving me.
I would.
…
…
…
Lana?
Yes?
Who have you been texting?
My mother, she's concerned about me.
Oh.
…
…
…
You're a fucking bitch.
What?
You fucking lied!
What? Hey! Dude chill!
You fucking called me in! Didn't you?
Elliot chill.
You fucking called me in!
Elliot, chill. Deep breaths.
Don't tell me what to do!
Elliot.
Don't fucking touch me.
…
Fuck you.
You're being a child.
I'm not going in.
You really don't have a choice.
I do.
… you aren't.
Watch me… Get your grubby fucking hands off of me!
No!
Fucking bitch!
…
Lana?
…
Lana?
…
Oh fuck… Lana?


« La Rue Macabre »

A woman in a dark blue traveling cloak sat alone in the bar, apparently oblivious to the time passing around her. Unmoving and seemingly unbreathing, she blended into the bustling scenery of The Never'n Not as though she was carved from the same piece of driftwood as the bar top. Though the cloak was pulled tight around her, onlookers couldn't help but notice the swirling electric blue runes and symbols covering her. From the mug held tightly in her hands, they almost seemed to draw one's eye up her arms, across her collarbones and ending in a blue band running from her forehead to her chin across her left eye.
"Gon' orda anyting else, Daywalla?" asked the barkeep, pausing from cleaning a mug with a very dingy rag.
"Depends. Do you have ouzo? Or really, anything that isn't watery beer or made from potatoes?"
"Depens. Ya alway so picky?"
The woman loosened her grip on her mug. "Sorry. I just… I found out somebody close to me had passed on."
"My condolences." The barkeep raised an eyebrow. "If ya lookin' fa someting ta drink that's more… filling for someun like yourself, might I suggest payin' a visit to the Darkwater Lodge?"
The woman smiled, revealing a long, sharp canine. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."
Standing, she slid an ancient gold coin across the bar.

This… This is wrong. Thought the woman as she walked away from the Darkwater Lodge's gates. Tilting the styrofoam cup towards her, she could just see the corner of the IV bag poking underneath the lid. Why would you serve it in a styrofoam cup? Enu Duvernay had recommended she drink it there, but she'd had reservations. Most Karcists she'd known had an unhealthy fascination with what they called, "Night Walkers" or "Blood Striders," and she had long since learned not to trust anyone who's first instinct was to call you a blood strider.
"Come see Steely Dan's House of Greek Artifacts, Roman Trinkets, and Homeopathic Medicines! Untold wonders lie behind those doors! Relics from Ages Forgotten!" The voice of the young crier cut through her thoughts and the bustle of the market. The woman turned to see a boy of no more than ten, standing on a box and waving flyers like a paperboy in turn of the century Manhatten. Crossing the thoroughfare, she looked him over.
"Mornin' mum. Would you like a ticket?"
"I'm not sure. What's in the house?"
"Jus bout everyting'. Is like Ripley's Believe It or Not."
She laughed. "I met Ripley once. Trust me, that's not a nice thing to say about your boss."
"Jus followin' my script." shrugged the boy. "It's two streets over. Can't miss it."
"Well. I'll tell them you sent me."

With its second level jutting out over the street far further than most building codes would have allowed, the woman had no trouble finding her destination. Surrounded by a disorganized mess of semi burnt out bulbs, the only sign simply read;

Stele Dan's
House of Wonders

Pushing through the mahogany door, she walked into the gift shop just as a tour was finishing up. Voice somewhat muffled by a helmet and wearing scraps of armor from across the centuries, the guide dipped into a deep bow and gestured towards the gift shop.
"I must thank you so much for your patronage. I hope you had an amazing time, and the next time you find your curiosity piqued, you know where to find me. Enjoy your time in La Rue Macabre."
The woman leaned on the table as the group shuffled out. Still oblivious to her entrance, the guide stared at the swinging door.
"Not a damn thing. Didn't even look around. Fuck me." He started to pull off his helmet, a hoplite helmet from one of Greece's innumerable wars. "Next tours in fifteen, no, make that twenty minutes, I've gotta get a bite to…" He stared at the woman, mouth open.
"By the Styx, how the fuck are you still alive, Arabel?"
"Come on, Damocles. That's no way to treat an old friend."

After he'd shut down the museum, Damocles ushered Arabel into a room off to the side.
"A curious… occupation to have, Damocles."
Damocles opened up a cupboard. "Actually, I changed it. To Dan."
"Danocles?"
He laughed. "No. Just Dan. I had to blend in. And I got really sick of people asking 'like the fable?' and whatnot. What did you think of the sign?"
Arabel crossed her legs. "I've been alive for three thousand years and it's one of the worst jokes I've ever heard. I hate it as much as I did your wordplay."
Dan turned to look at her. "So you would have… Pict something different?"
"I am perfectly capable of killing you."
"I'm aware. That's what makes it fun." Dan ignited the stove with a snap and put a kettle on. "So what brings you to La Rue Macabre?"
"Ares."
"And since you're here and not sprinting west, I'm guessing you already…"
Arabel nodded. "One of those Bayou Boys told me what I needed to know."
Dan wore a melancholy smile. "Perhaps it's for the best. This world is no place for old warriors. It's not more civilized, by any means. Just more wrong in ways we could never have fixed."
There was silence for a few minutes before Dan spoke again.
"But what I want to know is how you survived. Last time I saw you, you were holding off the Mad God of War by yourself so everyone else could evacuate the towns and villages… And I felt you die. You were a stellar warrior mage, but just a novice channeler."
Arabel showed him her elongated canines. "Carmilla."
"That's just like fucking vampyres, ruining a heroic death with the curse of undeath." He paused. "No offense."
"None taken. It's not as bad as you think."
"Drinking human blood out of… is that a styrofoam coffee cup? Well, that isn't my idea of a good life."
"I get by. Carmilla runs every blood bank in Europe, so it's not like we're out there killing people."
The kettle whistled and Dan stood up. "I'll sleep easier knowing my long lost friend isn't murdering people in back alleys."
"I've not known you to be one to sleep. Especially with a collection this large to manage."
Dan shrugged. "It started out small. Just trophies and oddities."
"And then it blossomed into what I can only imagine is a health and safety hazard to rival all others?"
"Hey, I've got about a square mile of footage in here. All organized and archived."
"Dear Gods, no wonder nobody bought anything. They had to walk… Well, however long a square mile is in metric."
Dan counted on his fingers and cocked his head at Arabel. "I'm gonna say… maybe twoish square kilometers? I should know this, I was in France when they made the metric system."
"Really? Me too."
Dan smirked and stood as the kettle began to whistle. "I imagine that the thought of necks spurting blood would be hard to resist. What with all the," he made a chopping motion with his hand, "going on."
"Ass. The Court was sending as much food as they could to help the people. I wanted to help and Carmilla wanted to secure an ally with whoever came out on top."
"It's nice to hear that death hasn't cured you of your idealism. But as I was saying, most of the building is my personal collection and library."
"How did you get all this stuff? You never seemed materialistic back in the day." asked Arabel.
"Well, after the day we thought you died, everyone just kind of drifted apart. I guess it's just my way of hanging on to the memories. As for the sheer volume, I followed the seat of power. Athens, Rome, Spain, the British Empire, and now here."
"Just keeping up a collection or?"
"Believe it or not, but I actually am responsible for a good chunk of the surviving Greek and Roman tales. I mean, I didn't write them, but I remembered them and put them places for other people to find."
Arabel chuckled. "Heroic Dan. Keeping the flame of knowledge lit through the Dark Ages… I'm guessing you left us all out on purpose."
Dan didn't respond for a moment. "I… I actually censored somethings. Or kept others. A misattribution here, a name change there."
"I don't blame you."
Dan turned around, holding two mugs of tea. Placing one in front of Arabel, he settled back into his chair. Arabel raised her mug.
"To Absent Friends."
"And the Roads We Walk to Find Them."


Canon Hub » What a Wonderful World Hub / Those Twisted Pines Hub » Take It Away, My Darling » The Supervisors

Chapter I.XII

The first days had a lot of conversation about the diagnosis. About what she needed to do, how much it was going to cost. All these horrible, stupid things you need to worry about when all that you wanted to do was lay in bed, sedentary, until the whole thing magically resolved itself. But life never works like that. And cancer requires action. So we talked. We talked about the chemotherapy. We talked about what was actually happening within her body. We talked about how it might spread. We filled our heads with all the worst possible scenarios, and hoped for all the best ones.
I went with her to doctor's appointments, the specifics thereof I no longer remember. We talked about treatments. We talked about what she could and could not do. We talked about likelihoods.
On the worst days, how long she had left came up.
But I was, in a queasy-uneasy way, enjoying myself. There were several reasons why what should have been a downright awful time in my life is now looked back upon with bittersweet fondness. First and most easily relayed: I was reconnecting with my mom. It was under the most desperate of circumstances, but there were times where the disease eating Mom from the inside out somehow managed to disappear into thin air. We did things that Mom always wanted to do: we traveled, primarily. To Hawaii, to Venice, to Greenland to see the Northern Lights, and the list goes on (though not so much further). We went each day to eat out at a new restaurant in San Diego, set within our minds the goal of experiencing every flavor available in the bay. A lot of it was Mexican. This is not a complaint.
And in San Diego, I was finally free. I wore what I wanted, presented how I wished, and told people my real name. To every stranger, I was Faeowynn, and so I could finally fully be Faeowynn to myself. One half of my closet collected quite a lot of dust and I liked it that way.
My company was ahead of the curve and had discovered how to employ me online, so I worked from home. I lost my position of controller because I was not there in person, and so became just another accountant, but they asked me several times to come back, so I felt that when I inevitably did I would be in good shape (though I tried not to think of the "inevitable"). Every day I woke up to tend to my work emails.
And speaking of emails, Tim had switched over to using them. Once he had wrangled the system, he found that he much preferred their instantaneous nature. Our email chains from this time have a marked sense of familiarity and comfort to them that our previous letters lacked. I entered a sort of honeymoon period regarding my dad. After his visit and our embrace, I felt a deeper connection to him, and suddenly things that had previously grated against me began to be seen as little, humorous quirks. Not all, I should say, but some. I even lightened up at his wanting to pretend his animals were magic. I treated it as an extended metaphor for how he saw the woodsy world around him, and from that framework, I learned to appreciate just how much my dad loved his job.
This grace period lasted a few years. But we should start them off from his perspective.

* * * * *

A light April rain sprinkled down from the gray-blue sky above, poking and patting the top of his truck as he sat, parked in the driveway of his own home. He breathed deeply, and rolled down his window. He stuck his left arm out into the rain, and let the meager volume of drops collect on his sleeve and hand. He felt as water pooled in his palm, and then eventually spilled out the side, in droplets just big enough to trace the contours of his wrist. He pulled back his sleeve to let his whole arm cool slowly in the rain, at one with his home again.
Tim opened the glovebox with his right hand and pulled out a small container. After struggling to open the container one-handed, he retrieved a half-finished cigar. Placing it on his lap, he fumbled for a lighter in the same glovebox, and came back empty-handed. Tim sighed, and closed his eyes. His arm was becoming wet, like he had stuck it into a bank of fog. He listened to the slow but regular hits on his roof, and took yet more deep breaths. In, out. In, out. In, and then out. He continued like this until he heard the door to his house open and shut.
"Honey," Alice's voice called, "why are you just sitting in the car."
Tim ignored her for the few moments he could get away with, and answered back: "I'm recuperating!"
He heard Alice approach the car and come around to his left. There was a moment in which both allowed silence. Tim would have let it go on as long as was allowed. But Alice didn't allow it.
She pulled down his sleeve, and then held his hand. "I get it. I'm really sorry to do this to you. But Anders needs you."
Tim opened his eyes, and turned towards Alice. "Anders? What's going on with my boy?"
"They have a big thing. Up at the Shelter. Came up while you were gone, no one wanted to bother you so you didn't hear about it. I think Andie could explain it better."
Tim sighed and gripped Alice's hand tighter. "Okay. I'll head up."
Alice just nodded, and let the moment stand. They both were getting wet in the rain, but neither cared. Alice's green and pink floral-patterned dress began to sag from an accumulation of water. Tim's left sleeve was gradually turning from damp to soaked. And the minutes passed by.
"Tim," Alice breathed, "are you smoking?"
Tim looked down at the cigar in his lap.
"Oh," he remarked. "No. Yes. Just this one, I got it for my birthday two years ago due to a miscommunication."
Alice nodded.
"Just the one?"
Tim swallowed. "It was three. Just the one anymore." He met Alice's eyes. "Felt like the occasion."
Alice nodded again. "Just the one."
Tim tried on a smile. "I have no secret stash anywhere, I promise you."
"Alright," she said. "But not in front of the boys, please."
Tim chuckled. "Alright. Agreed."
He pulled her in close, and through the window of the car they kissed.
"Sounds like I have business to attend to," Tim said upon release.
"That you do. How does hot chocolate and a fire tonight sound?"
"Perfect. Love you, honey."
"Love you too."
Tim rolled up the window, closed the lid on the cigar box and placed it back, turned on the vehicle, and backed out of the driveway.

* * * * *

"A polar bear."
"Yes."
Anders sat down next to Tim in his office, minty greens and chocolate browns making up the walls and furniture. Strewn across the desk were images of polar bears — both in general and the one in question — as well as notes on sightings, maps of Clackamas County with pins where it would likely go for food, notes on how to catch it, a synopsis of the meeting held in Tim's absence in which it was decided that it could not be allowed to live in the wild, several options for its accommodations when at the shelter, what would likely need to happen to best care for it… the whole works. Through and through.
"Wow," Tim leafed through a pile of merely possible and likely elaborations on what it actually did. "You guys were really proactive!"
"We try to be," Anders smirked. "But basically we're currently in the 'how to move forward' phase. The bear looks intimidating. Freezes things it walks by. Threat to the local ecosystem, but is going to require some extensive facilities here at the Shelter. We can't rightly take it in until we have the apparatus we need, but can we leave him out in the wild? He's either going to be a threat to us here in the Shelter, or to the rivers he frequents and any random hikers that might come across him. We're split right down the middle on whether we need to contain him now or later. We've all been waiting on your voice. So now that you're here… mind setting us at ease?"
Tim took a deep breath, glancing over all the papers. "This is a lot to take in at a moment's notice," he observed. He pulled closer their ecology report, paging to the subtitle Recorded Impact. He consumed the contents. Then, he turned to Likely Impact. "Mmm," he hummed. He poked a forefinger onto the page. "Population's fragile as-is."
"From the pufferfish last year, yes."
"Mmm," he hummed again, and scooted the paper away from him. "What enclosure number are we on? Thirty?"
"We're working on thirty-five through forty."
"Oh my…" Tim placed a hand on his forehead and leaned back in his chair.
"Dad?"
"One second." He stared at the off-white ceiling, and breathed in deep once more. Maybe just a couple more deep breaths would finally bring about that centered, collected feeling he was looking for, and allow him to tackle the problem with a familiar gusto.
"I'm surprised you showed up to work at all today. I thought you were going to stay home."
"Your mom sent me."
"Of course she did. She's being a worry-wart. I wouldn't worry about it, Dad. If you need rest and relaxation, then that's what you need. If she doesn't get that then you can tell her that I said it. Alright?"
Tim slumped back down into his chair, and huffed. "The Shelter's just getting so big."
Anders nodded in agreement. There was a pause.
Tim clapped his hands together unexpectedly. "Alright! We have the space, we have the funds, we're going to go catch him. We'll house him in an enclosure alone until we can figure out how to deal with him. Biggest issue will be getting close to the guy. Think you can get Robin to wrangle a few new volunteers? Say, tomorrow or the next day? Sooner the better, I think we have this in the bag."
"Y-you do?"
"Of course I do! Since when have we not? In just over a decade of operation, I can not think of a single major screw-up."
"That's dangerous thinking, Dad."
"And if we don't deal with it, who else will?"
Anders considered. "I honestly have no idea. We've always dealt with things."
"Exact-a-ly! It's our responsibility, and waiting will just increase the damage it does, when we can reduce damage — if hassle ourselves just a little — by having it here as soon as possible. Agreed?"
"More or less."
Tim clapped his hands together again. "Alright! So, what will we need to catch it?"

* * * * *

If you'll excuse me, I feel that our newest characters might be introduced best by a shift in perspective. Everyone already knows how the Polar Bear went. But it took me a decade to get the story from the other side. Assuming my potential readers have had a similar experience, I think it might be most appropriate to give a new dimension to the story instead of simply regurgitating what everyone already knows. So.
A black sedan rode through the forest, consistently five miles over the speed limit, making headway through the shaded greenery of the Oregon woods. The highway rushed underfoot, their passage as ominously silent as it was sure.
A blonde woman in a rushed purple dress sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. She tapped her foot on the ground, found herself snapping her right thumb and middle finger to some unheard rhythm, and blinked more than appropriate.
"Coming in hot," a Seanan McDowell pointed out from the backseat. "Or, cold." He snickered, but no one else did. Not the time for humor, it seemed. "Sorry, just the way I cope. I'll shut it."
"It's alright," Sophia said. She counted triplets in her head, seeing if she couldn't intersperse them with quintuplets. Three beats and five beats in the same span of time. Never having had music as more than a cursory interest, the challenge could occupy her the whole way there. Which wasn't terribly far, actually. And that was beginning to worry her. "Have we passed the Nexus-17 boundary yet?"
"By strict definitions, Nexus-17 is the entirety of Clackamas County, but, ah, no. If you're talking about the center of activity, we still have a ways."
"Remind me if I have anything to be worried about?" Sophia kicked herself for asking the third time. She was a woman of the books. It had honestly surprised her when Director Holman picked her out of the meeting room to visit Boring. Hell, she could count on one hand all the times she'd been in Portland on official business, and a very sizable portion of her job was writing about Portland. She could probably give a history on any given building. She'd just have to be told its address first.
All of a sudden, the trees parted and countryside greeted them. Fields and farms as far as the eye could see (before the treeline blocked it). Sophia felt a subtle uptick in her heart rate. They passed a sign that read: "Welcome to BORING, OREGON". Soon, then. It was going to be very, very soon.
"Where's the lion's share of the damage?" Sophia asked.
"Going to be somewhat in a line from town hall to the Wilson's Wildlife Solutions HQ," the agent behind the wheel explained. "Detonation occurred just east of the base, took out some enclosures. That's where we'll have to dispose of some anomalous animal bodies, and where we might find pieces left over of the bear."
"Is that really a main priority?"
"Nothing this volatile has ever occurred in the entirety of Nexus-17's documented history," Seanan pointed out from the backseat. "We didn't think it was capable of churning out something this powerful. It's possible this anomaly isn't related to the nexus at all, but it follows all current patterns despite its power, so I'd say that's unlikely. The more information we can get, the better. Maybe back in a lab some numbers could bring something to light."
"Mhmm," Sophia returned.
Suddenly, they seemed to pass some incorporeal threshold. The temperature dropped like a sandbag. The agent turned the heat on just in time for Sophia to resist the urge to curl up into a ball. Frost pasted itself onto the tips of grasses and crops they passed, and patterns of ice crawled up the windows of houses.
"Jesus," Seanan whispered to himself.
"Not the worst I've seen," the agent chuckled.
"Mmm," is all Sophia said.
The streets were eerily empty; no doubt an evacuation of some kind took place once the feds stepped onto the scene. As the sedan approached the center of town — or more like it, where the town began at all — a fog began to impede their vision.
"There was really enough humidity in the air to create a fog this thick through condensation?" Sophia asked.
"The town has been rather humid since they got that toad, if you recall. But I think that one died in the blast — Kai informed me just now that their aquatic sector is the one that took the biggest hit."
Sophia winced. "Makes sense."
They passed through the fog like a plane entering a cloud. Their speed decreased drastically to account for the visibility, and so Sophia got to take a long look at the town. What little she could see said that the town was a small, concentrated community. The buildings were dusted with a placeless snow, so that Sophia felt as though they had just dramatically increased in elevation. Everywhere, lights were out. Businesses closed. Few cars remained, and those that did were invariably governmental. The fog, the abandonment, the quasi-military vehicles… Sophia was intrusively reminded of the start to some cheesy horror film.
They made a few turns, passed by some buildings that seemed to have suffered direct damages, a burst fire hydrant covered in ice gracing the corner of one street, and were then stopped by a blockade.
A group of men, dressed in deep blue and black uniforms with small glimmers of gold in trims and badges, turned to look at the new arrival. The sedan came to a halt, and two of the officers approached the vehicle. The agent rolled down the window.
"Good day," the officer opened.
"Good day," the agent replied. "We're with the Foundation."
"You are, are you?"
Everyone in the car was already fishing for badges, patches, and miscellaneous identifiers. First, the agent flashed a Site-64 on-site agent registry. Then, Sophia and Seanan passed up keycards on lanyards that they had stashed within their bags. The officer inspected them, then returned them.
"And what business do you have?"
"Have you not gotten the order? Director Holman called forwards, got in contact with your superiors. We're here to visit Wilson's Wildlife Solutions on a diplomatic mission and we have express permission to do so from Assistant Director Avery Mandrake, acting in the Executive Director's stead due to a conflicting emergency, the details of which were denied us."
The officer looked at Sophia with a disbelieving frown. "Stay right here and let me check in."
He and his silent compatriot returned to the larger group, and began to engage in an unheard discussion.
"They're stalling for time," Seanan muttered.
"They are?"
"Of course. Josh, Kai, and Agent Boldary are already on-scene, and they would have had to pass either through this checkpoint or another one. They're stalling you because you are going to take Mr. Wilson away."
"Is there any way to call them out on this?"
"Not in the short term. They're going to feign confusion until they get the go-ahead that whoever's interviewing Tim Wilson has what they came for. If we push we'll be put on bad negotiating terms with them, which are paramount right now and they know that. They have the diplomatic upperhand."
"Damn it." Sophia began snapping again. This time with both hands, creating a Latin swung rhythm. Somewhere in her head, The Girl from Ipanema began to play.
In due time, the officer came back. "Alright, we need a code confirmation."
The officer brought out a small leather-bound book, an exact replica of which was produced by all members of the car. The fed pointed first at the agent.
"Big."
The agent flipped several pages. "Ignoble."
The officer checked a box, and then pointed at Sophia. "Arguable."
Sophia paged through impatiently, passing over the desired chapter several times. "Blaspheme."
Another check. "You in the back," he said, "pointedly."
"Is that the code?"
"Pointedly is the code."
Sophia felt like she was losing her mind, as more and more seconds turned into minutes. Seanan leafed through for longer than felt reasonable, and then finally said: "Mortar."
The officer checked a final box. "Alright, you're free to pass through." He waved to his group, who then pulled a car back to let them through. Words of professional thanks were muttered throughout the car, and then they passed through.
Soon, they arrived at the HQ.
The officer had failed to give them an identifying word, as was custom, so they had to pass through two layers of arduous code-giving to make it to the front doors. The building was a mixture of minty- and forest-greens, though in the penetrative fog they came out to a dull gray shade of their former intent. Waiting at the front doors were Agent Boldary and Josh Higginbottom.
"Agent Reddy, Dr. Turner, Mr. McDowell…" Boldary greeted them each.
"Fill me in, Higginbottom."
The Boring Historian rubbed his temples for a moment. "Tim was just finished being interrogated in his office. Feds are covering the premises like ants on cake left out at a picnic. They're going to clear out as soon as we have enough presence to tell them to do so, but no sooner. They're being… unyielding. And I assume we won't be getting any amount of backup for another… eight hours, estimated."
"And where is Kai?"
"Mr. Boskovich is sitting down with some employees and trying to assess what can be done about any escaped animals."
"I'm certain he's enjoying this whole series of events on some level." Sophia pursed her lips.
"Mmm." Josh determined to remain mum.
Sophia sighed. "Mr. Higginbottom, lead me to Wilson's office. Reddy, come with me. McDowell, try coming up with a plan on how we're going to mitigate damages here. I don't know specifics, just, anything. Find and rope Kai into it too. We all suffer when he's allowed to be a loose cannon." They nodded. "Oh, and Boldary, stand around and look as imposing as possible. Maybe get some employees to see you around the others. We're trying to make an impression."
Boldary smirked. "Can do."
Sophia looked to Josh, who turned around and opened the glass doors into the HQ. Just like he said, officers were everywhere, taking pictures of everything, documenting up and down, talking to puffy-eyed employees, generally roughing up the place. It was a mess. And Sophia only wished that it were Foundation agents doing it instead of them.
She strode down a long hallway, covered on each side by offices either in the process of being ransacked or in the state of having been ransacked already. Josh led her down two turns, and they came face to face with a gruff looking man standing in front of the door to the labelled office of a Tim Wilson.
"Sophia Turner, Director of Containment at —"
"Yeah, yeah," he said, and simply stepped aside.
"Thank you Higginbottom. Stay here. Reddy, with me."
Sophia pushed through, and opened the door.
A man, short but only just, with a beard that was just below grizzly and a sunhat that didn't fit the occasion at all, looked up from his slouched position behind a now barren and desolate desk.
"What more do you want?" he croaked.
Sophia sat down in the chair opposite. "We're not who you've been speaking to before."
The man wheezed. "You look very, very similar."
"Let's say the notice was short." She took note that Mr. Wilson was eyeing Reddy behind her, eye level suggesting the gun hanging at his hip was of particular interest. "We're here to take you away."
"T-take me away?"
"Not for more than a few days, hopefully less than one if all goes well. You and three trusted employees of your choice. But we have to leave as soon as possible."
"Take me where? Why?"
"You aren't at liberty to know those things." Also, Sophia didn't know the answer to that second question yet. "Let's just say we want to talk."
"Are you with the government?"
"You're not at liberty to know."
"Then how did you get past the FBI?"
"You're not at liberty to know."
"Who are you?"
Sophia replied with a tight and humorless smile. "You're not at liberty to know."

« Audrey Fuchs | Stories My Dad Told Me | Disconnect »