It was like watching a movie. He could see and hear, but he had no control over the actions.
The chamber was familiar. Dark, cool, isolated. The rushed construction meant the walls weren’t fully patched up. All the necessary supports were built in, all the passageways were hollowed out, but the walls weren’t fully boarded over, and neither was the floor. Planks and covers supported his weight as he stepped, giving his footsteps a wooden thump to them as he moved. The electrical work was all done, but not all the fixtures were installed. The lights still hung exposed from the ceiling, off bundled wires, and cords.
It would have looked so much nicer if there had been more time to finish the work, but that time was long over. The insurgence was a failure. He still didn’t understand why. Things were different now, and not just culturally. It was one thing for humanity shift - that had been on the wind for a while, and it was only a matter of time before it hit. There were other reasons things didn’t go as planned, things that couldn’t be explained. There were things out there, coming up out of the ground, throwing wrenches into plans. It had been decades of fighting, all to amount to nothing.
All it took was one glance, and suddenly none of it meant anything.
Humanity was not alone on Earth.
One pair of back-lit eyes. Now the world felt so big and humanity felt so small. A veil of mystery was thrown over reality, and in that confusion, forces worked against him and his fellows, to stop them before they could take advantage of the disarming and seize power for themselves. Some arbiters of fate had intervened, and in their efforts to fight it, they were destroyed.
House Caduceus had been torn down before. This time it felt like there was no coming back.
The higher-ups insisted otherwise. They had a plan, they said, one that would require patience greater than any one human had. Being beaten by those... whatever they were, it was just one more setback. Though many had given up, those who remained were called upon to lend their loyalty to the cause. They had seen the shadows in the dark, the invisible strings upon which humanity dangled, and for that reason they and they alone had to be there to fight it when the time came. Recovery was going to be a long and slow process; their enemies had made sure of that. It was time to go into hibernation.
Garrison hadn’t known anything else in his life. From birth to middle-age, all he’d done was fight. From the moment he was old enough to pick up a rifle and wear the gear, he had gained a tremendous responsibility. He had no family; the barracks became his family. The people he stood shoulder to shoulder with were his new brothers and sisters. He had no attachment to anything most would consider normal and had no intention of changing that.
Of course, some... robot bastard, or something, had different plans. At the height of their campaign, Garrison watched as these mysterious beings beat down, cut down, and gunned down his brothers and sisters. When it was all said and done, there were only a dozen of them left. House Caduceus had lost the numbers it had spent so long cultivating, and as Garrison understood from what little he heard from the enemy... it was done to punish them for their hubris.
So when the call rang out, Garrison answered. What else was there to do? What else did he have?
He watched himself walk into the underground chamber with what remained of his fellow soldiers. A few scientists were there, manning consoles and checking the hardware of prominently displayed cryo-chambers. In that dirty, dug-out cavern, the cold frost spilling from the open tubes looked alien. It was something that Garrison was used to. Caduceus had that air about them. Anywhere they set up, technology met nature in stark contrast. He’d been taught that it was the superior way: that if mankind was ever going to dig itself out of the hole the Skin Plague threw them into, a complete mastery over the planet they lived on was absolute necessity.
Aside from the consoles and the tubes, everything was dark. The scientist that led him there had him and the other soldiers all stand in a line, giving them the run-down of what was going to happen.
“You’ll sleep here until we need you,” they said, “And when we wake you, it will be time to bring the fight to them again.”
At the time, Garrison didn’t understand what that meant. Watching himself then, he could look back in hindsight and know that he knew nothing. At the time, it just seemed right. Hop in a tube, take a long nap, and eventually wake up to pick up a rifle and fight again. It was all he was good for, after all, and he had nothing keeping him there after the last defeat.
The only thing he failed to take stock of was what would happen if you put a bunch of defeated soldiers with no morale left on ice. Even watching himself in that moment, he felt as naive as the day it happened. He watched himself climb into that tube, watched it close, and felt the cold shock. Then, nothing.
Then, the bullet opened.
Garrison’s eyelids fluttered as the light of the SensRep room poured into the opening. He glowered less in immediate frustration and more in surrender. He was done laying there, crammed into the cylinder. With a shaky hand, he reached up and gripped the edge of the now open bullet and used that grip to sit up.
His body didn’t move like it used to, not anymore. Prana sickness had rocked his body once, and what Epheral’s aprana hadn’t done to poison him, Epheral herself did by tearing him apart inside and out. His fur was patchy where she’d forcefully regenerated his limbs or split him open to grow new ones. His bones clicked and ground around the joints, still needing more work. Sometimes he tasted blood where there was none, and by then most of his organs had been replaced with synthetic replicas.
Of all the things he could have lost, he wondered why his memories had to go and survive the effort. That was why he’d been sentenced by law to undergo SensRep therapy, to scour around his mind, to get poked and prodded subconsciously, all so he could be “fixed.” It wasn’t mind control exactly, but not so removed from it that Garrison was comfortable with a bunch of white-coat pencil-pushers rooting around in his head. It dredged up things he would have rather kept buried.
But that was the point, he figured.
He’d lost his pride; he’d lost a great deal of his physical capability... but he hadn’t lost his stature. He rose from the bullet as a pair of doctors who had been observing him entered the room, and he noticed the way they instinctively shrunk away from him when he stood head and shoulders above them. Even if he were battered, patchy, and beaten, the strength apparent in his large arms could have crushed those skinny nerds with one hand.
Rather than do that, however, Garrison just rubbed his head and tried to shake out the stardust in his eyes. A trip to the bullet always screwed him up.
“That was a very productive session, Mr. Clarke,” One of the doctors said, “I believe we may have some new avenues to take in approaching your therapy.”
“Mm.” Garrison grunted. Speech hadn’t been taken from him by Epheral. Speaking to people just didn’t suit him anymore.
“That will be all for today,” The doctor said, “You can head home now.”
That was less of a suggestion and more of an order. The doctors weren’t exactly there just for the benefit of his health - they were part of his punishment for his part in House Caduceus’ attempt to exert its influence over the populace. Terrorism, in so many words. Back in his day, his crimes would have had him locked in a cell without a key, but it seemed the modern human was more benevolent. He was sick, they told him. He understood what they meant, but even then... he felt fine.
When he stepped out of the room, officers were waiting in the hall to meet him. Just like they had for weeks by then. Garrison only sighed in slight frustration as he held out his hands so they could cuff him. With him restrained, he and his four-officer entourage left Harbington General’s psych ward. Garrison was escorted to a police vehicle - a large truck - where he was guided to sit in the back with two neurod-armed officers, and the other two sat up front to drive him home. Likewise, he was escorted from the vehicle and to his dome-mandated living quarters when they arrived there.
House arrest was a hell of a thing. Garrison was every bit a prisoner. While most criminals in the modern era were given a pretty lax leash, his was pulled tight. That was because his crimes were above and beyond the very minor felonies that passed for “crimes” in that day and age. Even his punishment was a scathing reminder that the people he now found himself among were far, far different than himself.
His accommodations were downright cozy. He was provided more than just the most basic of amenities. He had a comfortable bed and a television to watch. He could take as many hot showers as he wanted. He’d been taken prisoner before, and he should have wished that every experience in captivity he had was as pleasant as what he lived in this moment. He should have, but somehow, he just found it alien and wrong. He wasn’t being ordered around and treated with disdain, rather... he was being treated gently, and every bit like the sick patient they claimed he was.
That just made him angry. He wasn’t sick. He knew that the entire landscape was different now, but that didn’t mean he was sick. He came from a different time, a different life. If he weren’t built and wired the way he was, he would have died back when that alien parasite took and ravaged his body. He owed a lot to being the way he was, and he wasn’t okay with being told he was ill because of it. He was the healthiest person in that city, even as gimped as he felt. If he was sick, they weren’t any better.
Still, he was the one in therapy and locked in at home. Right or wrong didn’t matter.
He came up with rituals so that he could have some sense of control over his life. When he was brought home and left on his own, he always took off his shirt and his boots and got himself a drink before sitting down and turning on the news. Alcohol would have made the news a bit less dry to him, but he didn’t even know when he’d be allowed to buy a stiff drink again. The doctors said that was a bad idea - if not for his heart, then for how he’d act when he was drunk.
He knew how to handle booze and knew his limits. Still... they were right to worry. A little.
And so, he sat, absorbing the local and world news like a sponge. As a man out of his era, Garrison knew nothing of the modern struggle. Inklings aside, there was a whole world of problems out there - population was down, labour was down, and the world outside the domes was lawless. There was a surprising number of stories coming out of the no-man’s land that was the Naturalist settlements. More than anything, however, there were news panels. Panel after panel after panel was televised where experts in their field would get together to debate theory, talk hypothetical, and to make predictions.
So much talking, and so few answers.
It was obvious with the introduction of the Inklings that the entire world was on the precipice of something so horrifying, so unknown, that the population just... talked around it. Garrison couldn’t connect with that. He came from a time of action and wore it on his body. Bits of fur were missing all over, and a broad threadlink patch over his chest covered the massive scarring wound left behind when Epheral... ejected herself from his body in gruesome fashion. He looked like that because he acted - because he, in a world of talkers, acted.
He’d been given a lot of time to think about those actions and their human cost. There was clearly an advantage to talking things out, coming up with plans, and taking things cautiously. The humans of his day did less of that than they should have - he, himself, had done less of that than he should have - but the humans of the modern day went too far in the other direction.
That’s how they came to rely on a bunch of kids with alien parasites to solve the big, life-threatening problems.
Sad. The whole state of it was just sad.
It wasn’t all without hope, though. Harbington and Locksmouth were getting their shit together. Self-defence weapons were made legal to have in one’s home - not the open-carry of old, but not for nothing. Non-lethal options were being made available to civilians, things like neurods and air guns, and that was better than being entirely unarmed. Other less-conventional weapons were on a stricter case-by-case basis, like the Baxter kid’s sword and shield. Everything required training and certification that were not prohibitively difficult to acquire.
Between super-powered aliens and a resurgence of self-defence, things were getting messy quick; but progress was progress. He could see it unfolding in real time on the news night after night. The Harbington arbitrators were working on creating an embassy of sorts for the Inklings, and publicity groups were constructing outreach programs to educate the citizenry on their new alien stowaways. Nothing concrete had been made, but the baby steps were better than nothing.
The push-back was real, though.
“What do we even know about these kids? More than you’d think!” Someone on the panel said, “Take Daxton Kemberge, for instance. Sources say he’s been the textbook definition of a problem child. Then you have Laila Lavinia, who has a long history of delinquency and run-ins with the police. The rumours surrounding Kenny Baxter are especially disturbing regarding the death of his mother.”
“And what about Quincey Abram? She was the first to get inked, after all.”
“She looks harmless, but she could be the most insidious of them all! After all, look at the people she’s surrounded herself with! As the old saying goes, you’re only as good as the company you keep.”
Ah yes, the downside of talking. The fact that every stupid opinion was “valid.” Garrison sipped his drink with a narrow glare at the screen. Talk like that was new. Back in his day, the pencil-necks on television wouldn’t have had the gall to talk about soldiers that way.
Just when Garrison began to believe that the sorry lot he was surrounded with had some hope of getting through this, someone always had to come along and ensure that little glimmer of optimism was properly crushed.
“Who knows what those things will do next?”
Fear, uncertainty.
“I don’t plan to stick around to find out, myself.”
Cowardice.
“Inklings aside, we have our own problems to deal with!”
Selfishness.
Those were familiar to Garrison. Those things were baked into the human being. You could gene-splice better body, but you couldn’t gene-splice a better person. They could transform humans into something completely different a million times over, and you’d still have selfish, fearful people. There would still be flaws. All that splicing, all those different breeds, and yet... everyone still came out a sheep, in the end.
That was why Garrison had his orders when he was thawed out. Everyone in that chamber had something they were directed to do if they were woken up. Unfortunately for Garrison, none of that had gone according to plan. Maybe if it had, things would be different. There was no use speculating on it though, not while he sat there under house arrest with a massive chest wound and a body that sometimes felt like tangled barbed wire.
Garrison had come out swinging and the world made its choice. He was still on the fence as to whether he accepted that choice, but the fact remained that in the end, those kids saved lives. Garrison didn’t like them, and didn’t even trust them, but even he knew they were getting a raw deal.
“I don’t envy you brats...” Garrison grumbled. “Just what will you do next, I wonder...?”
-=-
=BEEP BEEP BEEP… HEY! WAKE UP!=
Before Quincey could even roll over, she felt hands on her, shaking her awake. Soon, she opened her eyes to see her own visage staring back down at her. A duplicate of herself stood over her bed and it smiled when Quincey finally opened her eyes. For anyone else, this would have been a surrealist horror situation. For her, it was just another day.
“Come on, Quincey!” Her double declared, “Today’s the day!”
Quincey yawned and stretched out her arms and legs and then tossed the sheets off herself so she could rise to meet the day. Putting her feet on her new carpeted floor, she sat up in bed. Her duplicate stepped back and waited patiently for her to begin her morning routine.
Quincey began by dressing herself and brushing her hair. She put on her stickers, slipped into one of her plaid skirts, buttoned up a prim, white shirt, tucked a necktie under her vest, and put her socks on one foot at a time, just like anyone else. Once dressed, she turned to her clone. The duplicate was still naked and unkempt, but that was solved by a quick exchange of them merging back together and apart again. The clone reformed dressed and gussied up exactly as Quincey herself had been, in a fraction of the time.
Quincey’s new bedroom was taking more getting used to than her live-in alien twin. It had been decorated in a “vintage” styling, one where her bed’s frame was made of sturdy bars adorned in decorative lights wrapped around the high and cushioned headboard. The bedside table was a collection of wicker basket drawers set into a frame, and a corner accent made of faux red brick and mortar. Framed pictures decorated the walls in myriad collages of historical photographs and landscape pieces, many taken in black and white or painted on old canvas. Scenes of Neo-Victorian cities and early settlement Pathfinders helped the room feel rustic, while a pile of handicrafts and thank-you gifts piled on her desk brought things into the present.
Depictions of Quincey with a multi-hued, blobbish double of herself - the Inkling known as Duplex - made by young, adoring fans and grateful citizens told of a time where aliens were real, and humanity was becoming familiar with extra-terrestrial threats and super-powered beings. A time where Quincey, herself, was a hero.
The girl stepped to her window and threw it open, letting the bustle of the outdoors came flooding in with the outside air. It had almost been three weeks since Harbington, her home, had been attacked by a creature named Epheral, the self-proclaimed “Princess” of the Inklings. Harbington had taken severe damage in the early stages of the incident, and once Epheral was defeated, efforts into rebuilding began.
Fortunately, circumstances prior had left several construction and labour cooperatives without work, giving them numerous hands more than ready to begin. So many, in fact, that in only a week and some change, Quincey could look up and down the street from her third-story apartment and almost forget any attack had taken place. Construction was nearly complete on the new complexes and houses in the residential sector. Storefronts in the commercial sector were opening back up. It was going so well that Harbington’s agricultural industry had grown, taking on even more space than before and producing a greater number of Hanging Garden facilities dotting the city sky.
The buildings were redesigned, becoming utilitarian, adobe-like structures shaped mostly into capsule-like half-spheres. This made them far easier to build quickly. Landscapers transplanted new trees and greenery, and repaired and rebuilt the expansive series of irrigation-like waterways that flowed throughout the rural-looking dome that served to both water the massive crop fields and decorate the dome with in-ground canals and tall aqueducts.
Quincey couldn’t wait to see the beauty of it all when the Water Treatment was finally repaired. All the fountains, canals, and basins would be flowing with crystal-clear waters. On sunny days, rainbows would appear in the air where the aqueducts would pour into the waterways. It was just the thing to compliment the ivy-wrapped pillars and beautiful arrays of planted flowers and shrubbery. Dirt roads were dug into the grass for people to walk on, and the street lighting had been mostly reinstalled.
Rebuilding proceeded at a pace almost unprecedented in modern history. Harbington was set to be one of the fastest rebuilding efforts ever recorded. It was a relief that people learned from the initial alien invasion in Harbington’s sister-dome, Locksmouth. The people navigated the fallout with more grace and urgency. The shock of the unknown was dulled. Back in the beginning, people had been so confused; but they learned and adjusted.
When Harbington was fully repaired, there was no doubt that Locksmouth would be back in top shape as well. Quincey was personally pleased to see things going so well.
“The school should be rebuilt by tomorrow.” The girl’s Inkling clone, Duplex, said, “So then it’s back to classes, right?”
Quincey ducked back into the window and nodded. “I suppose so, yes,” She said, “So we’ll have to get as much done today as we can.”
“Of course,” The clone said, “And they should be by to pick us up very soon.”
“So early?” Quincey asked, “Well, alright… We better eat fast.”
Her duplicate self reflected her excitement over the prospects of the day, wearing it visibly on the outside in the form of a great big smile. “Let’s have a good day today, Quincey!”
The girls trounced down the hall and into the kitchen, which was small before Duplex had become a fourth member of the family. Now it was downright crowded. Quincey’s mother, Paula, was already seated at the table along with her husband and Quincey’s father, Walter. The two of them bid the girls good morning. “Come over and eat breakfast,” Paula said, “I just got done. French toast.”
“Oooohhh, French toast...” Quincey and Duplex took plates from the cupboard and seats at the table, picking apart the stack of eggy bread one piece at a time. Both of their stacks ended up rather significantly high, having beat out Walter’s appetite by two slices. They took turns adding syrup and sprinkling cinnamon sugar on top before digging in. Quincey’s parents looked on, both judging and surprised. The fact that Duplex, an alien creature who subsisted entirely off a symbiotic relationship with their daughter, was eating food at all... they had given up trying to understand it. Paula couldn’t argue with someone else telling her that her food was good, though.
“Well, um...” Paula looked between the two identical girls, furrowing her brow. “Which one of you is my daughter again?”
“Omph...!” Duplex perked up; her mouth full. She swallowed a massive mouthful of French toast and then concentrated. With a little exertion, her red necktie and matching plaid skirt shifted hue until they became blue. Walter had just poured her a glass of orange juice and slid it over to her for her to drink and clear her mouth. “I’m Duplex,” She said, “Sorry.”
Paula and Walter were still bewildered just watching the spectacle. “Right...” Walter said, “That’s still impressive! But still so, so confusing...”
Both Quincey and Duplex smiled. “Sorry...” They said in unison.
“Well, what are your plans for your last day of vacation?” Walter asked, putting a lilt on the question to make it clear that he knew as well as anyone else that the school being destroyed in an alien invasion wasn’t exactly what one might have called a “vacation.”
“We’re heading to the museum today,” Quincey explained.
“The museum?” Paula said, “I didn’t realize we were opening one.”
Quincey didn’t wait, shoving nearly an entire piece of bread into her mouth. “Not yet,” She explained with her mouth full, “The one underground. Between here and Locksmouth.”
“Ohh, that one!” Walter said, “Aw, I’d love to come with you sweet-pea, but I need to start getting back to work too. Though, I haven’t heard from the Fabricatory... So, I suppose it’ll be working from home for now.”
“Me too,” Paula said, “Now that the hospital is at least running, we can finally start catching up on prosthetic installation and calibrations, and who knows who might need more STOP work... Speaking of which, you might want to remind Daxton that he’s supposed to come and see me.”
Paula grinned flatly and stifled a laugh. “I’m sure he took enough blows to the head to shake something loose.”
Quincey smiled somewhat. “Uhm, well, if I can, I’ll let him know...” She then looked at Duplex. “But it’s alright, I have plenty of company.”
“Lots!” Duplex beamed.
“Though... It would have been nice if they were able to come too...” Quincey said, somewhat dejected.
Just then, the doorbell rang, sending a pleasant chime through the kitchen. Quincey and Duplex sat up straight at attention, knowing that it was time for them to leave. Paula had glanced away toward the door and returned her attention to her daughter quickly. “Sweetheart, don’t just...”
It was too late. Quincey and Duplex both wolfed down their food and chugged their drinks to finish them in mere seconds. It left them with syrupy faces that they washed off in the kitchen sink as they scampered to the front door. “We have to go now!” Quincey said, “Bye!”
“Have a good time, dear,” Walter said, “Be careful of all the dust down there! Take your allergy medicine!”
“Oh, shoot!” Quincey cursed. One of the girls ran down the hall to Quincey’s room and back quickly, presumably with the medicine in hand. “Okay! Love you!”
“Love you, sweetheart!” Her parents shouted back barely in time before the front door closed and Quincey was gone.
-=-
Following the announcement that the remaining agricultural facilities in Harbington would merge into a conglomerate, the Lavinia family’s Sweet Acres Farms became the Sweet Acres Agricultural Group. It had less of a ring to it, but the combined focus on the restoration of Harbington’s food stores and of Harbington’s exports would go more smoothly with more people on the same page. With this, Laila Lavinia, the Inkling hero herself, found herself elected by the public to be the “face” of the initiative. Alongside her superhero fame, she became the poster-girl for Harbington’s agriculture.
Laila’s sister, Valyrie, took it upon herself to fill the role of agent. With her sister’s newfound publicity, she insisted that Laila adopt something all superheroes had: a persona. Enlisting a local Inkling Fan Club, concepts were drawn up, and names were voted on. Laila became “Miss Sweet Acres,” mascot for Harbington’s agricultural exports, and the “Mistral Gale,” the Inkling-bound superhero with power over wind and air. A cartoon depiction of her wearing a cowboy hat, hair done up in twin braids, and dressed in an elaborate one-piece and cowgirl chaps, was put on all the packaging and containers of Harbington exports shipped out to all the domes.
The costume was more than just an illustration, however. A real-life copy of it was made for Laila to wear like a uniform, and wear it she did, even when she was meeting the heads of the Agricultural Group. Together they set up a road map to follow from the farm’s initialization to the operations of the indefinite future.
Much of what was being discussed went over Laila’s head. She was familiar with the technical operations of the facilities, but administration was outside her purview. She learned quickly that her ignorance was disallowed.
Needing all the help they could get, Laila’s father, Gunther, gave her an impromptu promotion to head of one of Sweet Acres’ Agriculture Facilities. She was put in charge of grains, and would oversee the production of wheat, barley, flours and so-on. She would take command over a significant number of labourers, and under her leadership they were to boost production well over what was once the sustainable cap, for the sake of making up for what was lost in Epheral’s attack.
Filled now with a sense of responsibility for her community, Laila accepted the job. Under her father’s guidance, she began training to learn all the in’s and out’s of running her own slice of the farm. Everything from running the numbers to managing her staff, her father set out to teach it all using hands-on experience. For two weeks, Laila found herself mostly sat behind a desk - something vastly different than what she was used to. With no school, though, she had been given plenty of time to acquaint herself.
The days behind that desk started to blend. Laila came into work, sat at the computer, and did everything she could to wrap up the administrative tasks as quickly as possible. She preferred to get out in the fields and work with a more hands-on approach.
On one such day, while she knew Quincey was off excavating, and Daxton and Kenny had free time, Laila was once again hard at work. Boring, boring work.
“Tarnation...” The girl muttered to herself, the reflection of a spreadsheet in her glossing eyes. She shook her head, forlorn, as she stared at the letters and numbers on the screen of her console.
“Eighty-thousand bushels o’ wheat... thousand-eight-ninety rye... dry beans... grain corn...”
The girl sat back in her chair and blinked her eyes. She’d been caught in a daze. “Gosh darnit, book-keepin’ is dull as dishwater.”
She knew how to check the temperatures, how to check the pH of the soils, the proper way to harvest, the ideal amount of water for the crops... and she was beginning to really miss it all. She’d been blissfully, woefully ignorant of what went on behind the scenes, and she was hitting it like a wall.
It wasn’t that it was particularly difficult. Laila’s intelligence was betrayed by her improper grammar and colourful colloquialisms. It simply lacked a level of engagement she never knew she craved so badly.
“Borin’, ain’t it? I tell ya what, we ain’t never had anythin’ like this when I was a soldier.”
Laila turned her head to eye a small, framed mirror on her desk. Her reflection had turned into the pale blue Inkling, Sylph, who smiled at her almost tauntingly. “’Course,” Sylph said, “When ya got a dictator empress basically injectin’ orders into your brain n’ jackin’ up your paranoia, computers ain’t really necessary. Is Earth always this dull?”
Laila shook her head and returned to her work. “Well, this is important,” She explained, “Gotta keep track of what we’re doin’ and put it up against what we’re hankerin’ for so I can keep things runnin’ smooth as butter. We got a lotta people to feed, n’ all this grain ain’t gonna grow itself.”
“True,” Sylph said, “I guess I can see that. Well, I feel outta place.”
“You’re an alien, you’re supposed to feel outta place.” Laila grinned, “Suck it up, buttercup. When I run this whole hat n’ pony show, we’re gonna be doin’ a lot of this.”
“The future looks so bright,” Sylph said, tersely. “Well I’m goin’ back to bed. Wake me up if the corn tries to kill us.”
Laila rolled her eyes as Sylph’s image faded from her reflection. That’s when she looked up to notice someone standing at the door of her office. “Oh,” She said, “Didn’t see ya there.”
The woman had the broad frame fitting her rhinoceros form and wore the forest-green jumpsuit of a farmhand. She had wavy blue hair and was obviously older than Laila by at least a decade. She gave Laila a very confused look as she stepped inside. “Am I... interrupting something??”
Laila squinted at her before she realized that the woman had seen her talking to Sylph... which meant she likely saw Laila talking to herself. “Oh! No, I’m just... workin’.”
“... Okay...” The woman stepped into Laila’s office slowly, “And... what are you wearing?”
Laila looked at herself. Yes, the open cleavage of a sky-blue one-piece body suit adorned with tassels along the shoulders, jacket sleeves, and white frill along the open cut made her breasts look like big, bouncy clouds. It did not, in fact, look very professional. She smiled back at the woman in amusement. “Oh, y’know, just... m’new uniform! Kind of a... y’know... outfit.”
“Costume,” The woman said, taking a moment to really take it in. She raised her eyebrows and exhaled, puffing her cheeks out. “Well that exasperates my concerns.”
Laila’s brow furrowed. “Beg pardon?”
“And you’re my boss?” The woman asked, “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Laila said, “Pretty nuts, right? Well, I’m kinda yer boss, yeah. I’m just managin’ grain production, m’still reportin’ to Da-- Uh, to, uh... Administrator... Lavinia.”
She took a moment to try and sort through how she felt about referring to her father that way. Soon, she shook her head and focused back on the task at hand: employee concerns. “Anyway, what can I do ya for, Miss...?”
The woman stepped up to Laila’s desk. She didn’t take a seat. “Larson, Talia Larson,” She said, “I want an immediate transfer to another sector.”
Talia was so blunt about the demand that it took Laila by surprise. She looked a little flabbergasted. “Oh,” Laila said, “A transfer. Okay, well... is there somethin’ the matter? Uh, what... exactly made ya wanna do that?”
Talia crossed her arms. “The fact that I don’t want to work for some sixteen-year-old kid?”
“Ah,” Laila said, “Well, Miss Larson, I actually--”
“Who dresses in weird costumes.”
Laila nodded. “Right, but--”
“Who’s an alien.”
Laila cleared her throat. “Okay, I’m not the alien, Sylph’s--”
“I’m sorry,” Talia cut her off, “But I’m not working for an Inkling. That’s all there is to it. Least of all some kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Laila pushed her chair back and had to take a moment to absorb what she was hearing. She looked puzzled. “Okay... Well, uh... first thing we gotta do is maybe talk about this just a smidgen, see if we can’t work through somethin’ to sort out these issues.”
Talia turned her head, flipping her hair away from her eyes. “The only reason you’re sitting there, and that you’re on the broadcasts, and that you’re some big-shot hero right now is because you’ve got some kind of alien parasite in you.” She said, “And I’m not okay with that. Okay? I don’t want to work for you.”
“Right,” Laila tried to take what she was hearing in stride, but she found herself standing up with her hands planted on her desk, looking down at the older woman. “Okay... Miss Larson. I gotta ask, o’course, because it’s a workplace thing... Y’do realize that there are other Inked folks on the staff? Ya’ll’re gonna be workin’ next to a whole bunch of ‘em. We got around a hundred or so folks Inked in Harbington. Odds are a majority of ‘em work here.”
Talia nodded, but said nothing. Laila shook her head as she fought to word her next question in a way she liked. “So, I gotta know,” She said, “Is this some... kinda... Inkling... racism thing...?”
“No.” Talia said, and said no more.
“No,” Laila repeated, “So... yer okay with Inked folks?”
Talia said nothing.
“But not... me,” Laila said, “That right? ... Are ya sure about that?”
The woman didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t want to work for you,” She repeated herself, “And I want a transfer.”
“Look--” Laila started.
Not satisfied with anything less than a yes or no answer, Talia launched into a tirade. “Are you going to give it to me or not?” She cut in, “Is there even any point in talking to you? Do you even know how to file for that? Why are you even a manager if you’re still in high school? Is Gunther losing his mind?”
Laila leaned back. She was blindsided. “Whoa.”
Talia collected herself. “... The only reason we’re even doing all this right now? The only reason we have so many new workers and so many insane quotas, is because of people like you. So, give me a transfer, so I don’t have to come to work every day and see you.”
Laila tightened her jaw. Was this lady serious? She goes out, with Sylph, gets her butt kicked, and ends up saving Harbington, and this was what she had to deal with? She had to take a good deal of time to keep herself from launching over the desk at her. Instead, Laila strode around the desk and stood before the woman at a proper, professional distance... but still made it a point to tower a whole head over her.
“I’ll give you yer transfer, n’ yes, I do know how to do it,” Laila said, “But listen here. Before all this? I was gonna be yer boss one way or the other, sooner or later. Inklin’ or no, there weren’t no changin’ that. I get that this is all insane, trust me. I didn’t reckon I’d be sittin’ behind this desk ‘til I was thirty, but sure as the tide, here I am. Now, I ain’t tryin’ to justify it, n’ I ain’t sayin’ yer wrong for havin’ doubts about me, because that’s fine. Doubt me all ya want. That’s fine.”
“But that’s where it stops, y’hear? With me.” Laila said, “In this farm, we all work together. ‘Specially what with all the mergin’ goin’ on. ‘Specially after everythin’ that happened. We work together now, Inked or not. Ya’ll can go to any other sector ya want, that’s fine, but if yer just gonna have this same problem over there? Then that’s gonna be an issue. I need ya’ll to promise me right now that if I put this through, ya’ll ain’t gonna drag this hate out on anyone else who you find out is Inked, okay?”
Talia listened, and picked out one thing to respond about. “Do you know who else is Inked around here?”
“Don’t matter,” Laila said, “I know people work here and do their darndest. That’s all that matters. So, you tell me that no matter who you’re workin’ with, you’re gonna do the same, and I’ll let ya go wherever ya please.”
Talia seemed to be studying Laila, as if she hadn’t expected the girl to come back at her with that kind of response. As if she expected something else entirely. She tapped her finger on her arm as if to consider it, which was strange since she was getting exactly what she asked for. The longer it took Talia to answer, the more a growing sense of frustration bubbled up in Laila.
“This ain’t too much to ask,” Laila said, “Same ol’ thing ya’ll’d be doin’ anyway.”
“Fine,” Talia said, “It’s not like I wanna give up my job.”
Laila wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but after a moment’s consideration, she conceded. “Good enough, I reckon,” She said, moving to sit back behind her desk, “Now... tell me where ya’ll’d prefer to be. I’ll send it along.”
She filled out the request and sent it away, feeling uncertainty looming the entire time. Over the weeks, she’d seen dissent among the people toward Inklings. She had always brushed it off as something understandable. Alien creatures who lived inside the bodies of other humans were a little unsettling on paper. Ultimately, however, these Inklings had saved the world more than once. Laila assumed people would get over it in time.
With something like this happening, she wasn’t so sure anymore.
Talia left her office, but the issue felt far from resolved. Laila sat back in her chair and stared at her console’s screen, but she couldn’t get back to her work. Another rapping at her door had her look up to see her father standing there in his work suit.
“Oh, dad,” Laila said, “C’mon in.”
Gunther stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Heard what happened just then,” He said, “Are you alright?”
“Me?” Laila was surprised at the question and had only then given it some thought. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Little yellin’ ain’t gonna bust my britches.”
Gunther took a seat across from Laila and sighed. “That’s the sixth transfer request we’ve had in two weeks, not to mention the folks just moving away.” He said, “People are running out of here as if it’s on fire.”
Taking the time to consider that, Laila raised an eyebrow. “Outta here? Or outta Harbington?” She asked.
Gunther exhaled a bitter laugh through his teeth. “Both, I guess.” A pregnant moment of silence fell over them before Gunther inhaled deeply to break it. “The openings in your department haven’t come down since the day we started operations again. I’m gonna see if I can convince people to hop over. At this rate, the outgoings are going to be disproportionate to the incoming, and we’ve got a workload to consider.”
“Well I ain’t doin’ anything wrong, am I?” Laila asked, “I don’t feel like I am. Maybe I could get this junk done faster, but with school starting up again soon, I might have trouble managin’ both.”
“You just let me worry about that, pumpkin,” Gunther said, “Your mother and I will pick up the slack until things get into a rhythm. As for this whole Inkling thing...”
He clicked his tongue as he thought on it. “It’s not just here,” He said, giving her a concerned look, “Know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” Laila nodded, “Reckon I’m startin’ to.”
-=-
Daxton wasn’t going to be caught off-guard again.
Sweat dripped off the boy’s chin and jaw as he drew his arm forward and down, leaning slightly into the motion, pulling a cable attached to slabs of solid weight. He did the same with the other arm after releasing and alternated between the two. The muscles in his arms, chest, and neck bulged with the effort. He panted heavily but powered through the burning fatigue he felt in his shoulders and abdomen to pull those weights just a few more times.
“Ninety-eight...! Ninety-nine...! A... hundred!” Reaching the end of his set, he let himself relax. The weights clanked down heavily on the machine and Daxton slouched to rest his tired hands on his knees. He watched his sweat drip down onto the mat in front of his feet and simply decompressed. He’d rest until his head stopped pounding.
While most people came back to Harbington and spent their time rebuilding their homes, Daxton had spent almost every day bulking up. For weeks he trained his body. Strength, cardio, legs, chest, arms, abdomen... what he lacked in focus he made up for in drive. The results were certainly starting to show. He was fit before, but the size of his muscles was noticeably more. People were starting to describe him as “jacked.”
It was the first time in his life that he’d taken his fitness so seriously. Before, it was just something he did - he ran, he exercised, he stayed healthy and strong. It wasn’t hard to be stronger than the average person with a little bit of work. Since fighting with Epheral, however, and promising Harbington that he would be there to fight for them, the idea of real training became a big deal. He wasn’t just fighting for a few set-upon people anymore. He was fighting for everyone.
Gone were the days where his enemies were just people - bullies at school, or other kids who stepped over the line. He was duking it out with serious threats now - monsters, aliens, destroyers that would swat him like a fly without so much as a second thought if he weren’t ready to meet them.
He needed to be stronger. He needed to train. He needed to know how to fight. When he wasn’t pumping weights, running, climbing, or cycling, he was practising his technique. Some still argued that he didn’t have anything resembling a fighting technique, but he respectfully disagreed. There was an art to throttling bad guys, most people just wouldn’t know it if it hit them upside the head.
In fact, it was about time he went to clock in some serious combat training.
If nothing else, all his training was good for the optics. As he moved toward the changing rooms, sucking down a water bottle to refresh his parched throat, people looked on and admired him like a celebrity. They swooned over his shirtless torso and the cling of his black shorts. It was more than him just being strong - he was an Inkling hero. On top of all his strength, he had the power to fire photon beams at range. He could use that same energy to power his blows, adding a dazzling, explosive impact to his strikes. He’d used that power to battle the enemies of Earth and was quite famous for it.
Harbington knew that Daxton Kemberge was a force to be reckoned with. Some had taken to calling him the “Golden Boy.”
That didn’t come without its detractors, though. Many believed him to be dangerous. Many saw his increase in strength as a pompous effort to exceed the average human in as many ways as possible, as if to boast how easy it could be. They knew nothing of his motivations, and yet it didn’t stop them from speculating. If he stood against them, they thought he couldn’t be stopped. For all intents and purposes, they were probably right.
None of that even accounted for Lumina, the Inkling who Daxton was bound with. Many Harbington residents lived in fear of the Inklings and were suspicious of them at best.
For the most part, Daxton could ignore them. He’d smother the resentment for them that would bubble up now and then, knowing that they simply did not know any better. He was to be the bigger person. He’d be on their side whether they liked it or not.
Then, there was something entirely unique to him... a foe that was his, and his alone.
Daxton had entered the changing room to gather his things. The room was empty, showers and all, leaving him in a peaceful quiet that he took time to appreciate.
He had showered and was getting ready to leave. He had barely brushed his fingertips against the lock on his locker before it suddenly burst open and from within it a young man sprung out and attempted to strike him. Daxton caught his assailant mid-flight and stumbled back in surprise. His attacker had practically climbed on top of him, feet planting on Daxton’s knees and body hunched over his.
“Ha! Got’chya!!” His attacker shouted, before Daxton spun him around by his hands and released him to send him flying into the lockers. He hit his back off them and collapsed onto the floor, but it didn’t take him long to spring up again. Daxton was dumbfounded and annoyed.
“Ret!” Daxton barked, glancing at his relatively narrow locker and gesturing to it disbelievingly, “How did you even get in there?!”
Jimmy Ret flashed Daxton a big grin and gestured to himself with his thumb against his chest. His prominent pompadour bobbed like a goofy horn. “I had help!” He said. As if waiting for that cue, another of the lockers burst open and a smaller boy stumbled out of it, nearly teetering to the floor before being able to barely right himself. Lincoln Mudd was panting, obviously having been cooped up in that locker for too long.
“Ah,” Daxton said, unimpressed, “And where’s the last--”
Ret punched his fist against one of the lockers and it opened. A collection of body parts tumbled out of it onto the floor, jelly-like, blue, some wrapped up in clothing. A jellyfish girl’s head tumbled out last and Ret caught it in his hand to hold it up. That was Abigail Condoleezza, and she stared at Daxton as if tremendously bored.
She spoke flatly, as if her dismemberment was no big deal. “’Sup.”
To be fair, Daxton didn’t even flinch either. He knew of her own Inkling powers by then. Most everyone did.
Abigail’s various body parts seemed to rattle and shift, and one by one they collected themselves. They gathered and assembled starting at her feet, building her legs, middle, chest and arms before Ret tossed her detached head back to her body, which caught it. She put her head back on and spun it around as if she had to screw it in place.
Ret then stole Daxton’s attention back by slamming his fists together. “You ready for your lesson, Kemberge?” He asked.
“I didn’t ask for one!” Daxton complained, but he took up a fighting stance regardless. He knew Ret wasn’t going to listen, and that there was no sense in trying to talk him out of it.
Ret’s smile only grew. “We can’t have you getting flabby, Golden Boy!” He jeered, “A hero’s gotta be ready for anything! These last couple weeks would have been so boring without me to liven them up, eh?”
Daxton scoffed, “You’re all charity, Ret.”
“Ain’t that right,” Ret said, shaking out his arms and stretching his neck. He then rushed forward in a snap, and Daxton was barely able to lean away from a sudden spinning kick. Ret’s pointed dancing shoe scuffed the locker just behind Daxton’s ear.
Ret withdrew as Daxton weaved aside to put distance between them. The rottweiler boy stared the corgi boy down with a malicious sort of glee. He was no doubt worked up over the idea of tussling with Daxton again.
“Let’s dance, Kemberge!” Ret barked.
Daxton growled in frustration but put up his fists anyway. Ret lunged forward, leaping up onto one of the benches to dart off and drop kick him. Daxton took it to his forearms, stepping in time with Ret to be in position when he landed to charge him. He threw a wild, angry punch that Ret less-than-gracefully tripped away from, the raw force of it breaking his stance. He flailed his arms in a windmill just to keep from falling onto his backside.
Daxton didn’t seem to be enjoying himself, but that seemed to delight and excite Ret even more. He pressed on, darting into Daxton, and throwing a coordinated series of strikes to keep him on the defensive. Flat jabs of his fingers and back-handed slaps kept Daxton on his toes, the two of them shuffling through the locker room as Ret kept piling it on. Daxton bat Ret’s strikes away and tried to grab his arm a couple of times, but Ret’s thinner limbs were as slippery as his goofy hair.
As Daxton backed gradually further into the room, he became aware of where Lincoln and Abigail were standing. Neither of them seemed to make moves to attack him, but they had positioned themselves to box Daxton in, and would impede him if he tried to get too far from Ret. Unfortunately for them, Daxton didn’t mind. He broke away from Ret to make a move toward Lincoln. The smaller boy froze like he was looking into the headlights of an oncoming peTra and scrunched up when Daxton’s hand lunged out toward him. He flinched and raised his arms in a desperate attempt to protect his face.
Daxton grabbed a fist full of the fly boy’s bodysuit instead. A moment of realization struck Lincoln just in time for him to screech as he was hauled off his feet as if he weighed nothing. His small, slender little body whipped through the air as he was swung like a cudgel, his legs flapping in the wind. His feet clipped Ret, slapping him off-balance before Daxton drove Lincoln forward like a boxing glove into Ret’s body. Pinning Lincoln to Ret by his chest, Daxton launched his other fist into Lincoln’s stomach.
Lincoln’s red mosaic eyes could hardly be more shot-open on the best of days, but they managed a fraction of an inch wider as Daxton forced all the air out of his lungs. Daxton released Lincoln to send the two boys tumbling over each other and onto the floor.
He then turned his attention to Abigail. She stared back at him un-phased, and only raised her brows a little along with her hands, displaying no intent to engage him. The too-long sleeves of her sweater flopped around as she took wide strafing steps to shuffle along the lockers away from him.
“Geeeah-hah!!” Ret was up before Daxton was ready, and he crashed an overhand running punch into Daxton’s face, knocking the spit out of the corgi and sending him reeling. Ret only just got his footing back to follow up with a one-two combination into each side of Daxton’s jaw, further rattling him. However, his power wasn’t enough to take Daxton down; instead, Daxton merely staggered, catching himself on the back step.
Daxton grabbed him by the collar of his open shirt. He gripped Ret’s head with the other and forced him into a new position. Then, with all his might, he shoved Ret down, slamming his tailbone off the corner of one of the benches. He let Ret go, who sprung up to his feet again on reflex, but the pain had shocked his pelvis and turned his legs into wobbly jelly. He feebly stepped forward to try and regain some sort of posture and was met with the sole of Daxton’s shoe as he kicked him square in the chin from below. Ret’s jaw snapped shut and the boy was tossed backward, landing harshly on the ground.
Ret didn’t get up. He lay still, and Daxton gave him a handful of seconds in case he was going to change his mind. Ret stayed down, so Daxton eased up.
With a groan, Ret propped himself up on his elbows, his head hanging like it had gained ten pounds. “Damn, Kemberge,” He wheezed, “And here I thought your new weight would slow you down.”
Daxton ignored him and moved back to his locker to gather his things. Ret and Lincoln struggled to their feet again and Ret laughed after catching his breath. “Shoulda figured you’d just hit harder when you got fatter,” He said.
Daxton cocked a brow as he grabbed his shirt. “What the hell are you talking about, Ret? This isn’t fat, it’s muscle.”
He yipped as he felt a pinch to his backside, spinning around in a flash to see Abigail pulling her hand away. “Your ass,” She said, “All the weight you lost? Straight to your rrrrrumpus.” She rolled the ‘R’, and barely cocked a smile.
Daxton’s expression screwed into a confused face. Self-consciously, he twisted around to try and look at his own backside. He spun in a couple of circles in a very canine manner. “... Really?” He asked, “Like... how much?”
“Like, really big a lot!” Lincoln confirmed, as tense as a coiled spring as always. “Like two... two succulent hams!!”
Daxton blushed. “You gotta be kidding me...” He groused, suddenly turning to Abigail, “Well touch it again, and you’ll lose that hand.”
Abigail responded by simply removing her hand and handing it over to him. The fingers on the detached limb made groping motions. Daxton shuffled back and tried not to look perturbed. He decided to instead impress upon Lincoln’s space, standing awfully close to the small boy and making a point to stick his chest out. Lincoln shrunk away fearfully.
“Scram. Now. Before I start making work for your dentists,” Daxton growled. He shot Abigail a look and added, “Even yours.”
Abigail reattached her hand and rolled her shoulders in a careless shrug. She skulked off and Ret collected Lincoln by throwing an arm around him and guiding him along. “Alright, Kemberge,” Ret said, “You just be ready for next time.”
Daxton watched as the three of them left, Ret displaying a distinct limp. His tailbone was undoubtedly bruised.
“... Riight. Next time.”
Daxton put his shirt back on, and just as he was pulling his coat on, his PET sang out in trumpeted fanfare. He withdrew it from the inside of his coat and answered it as he fussed with the sleeves. “Yo.”
The ever-annoyed face of Kenny Baxter appeared out of the screen in a projection. “Hey,” He said, “What’re you doing?”
“Just wrapping up at the fitness center,” Daxton said, “Why? What’s up?”
Kenny gave him an incredulous look. “Aren’t you, uh, forgetting something, you big dope?”
Daxton furrowed his brow. “Huh? What?” He asked, “Look, Jimmy just came by and I had to slug him, so like... I’m a little distracted. Cut me a little slack.”
“Your girlfriend is going on her dig today, you fuckin’ clod,” Kenny said.
Daxton snapped to attention. “Aw damnit,” He said, “That was today? Crap. Uh, alright, I guess I’m doing that then. When’s she leaving?”
“She’s already gone!” Kenny chastised him, then laughed, “Way to be a screw-up, Daxton. Never change.”
“Shut up,” Daxton groused, “It’s just at that museum, right? I’ll just meet her out there.”
Kenny smirked. “Yeah? And who do you think is gonna drive you out there, huh? I sure as hell ain’t.”
Daxton paused. “Uhh...” He pondered, then it came to him. “Oh,” He said, “I’ll get Laila to take me out there.”
“Get your license,” Kenny said, “You’re the only one of us who doesn’t have it. Or are you too busy getting swole?” The question was obviously barbed. Daxton grumbled.
“Whatever,” He said, “Is that all you called for?”
Kenny nodded. “Yup,” He said, “I figured you’d forget.”
“Thanks,” Daxton showed his teeth, and Kenny seemed satisfied. Before hanging up though, Daxton mulled over a question. “Say, Kenny,” He said, “Did uh... do I have a fat ass now?”
Kenny laughed, “Oh, absolutely.” He clicked his tongue, winked, and flashed him a classy gesture, “Like two--”
“Succulent hams,” Daxton cut him off, “Awesome. Thanks. Bye.” He then abruptly hung up. He glanced back over his shoulder, gave his own rear a few tentative squeezes, and huffed. “Well... whatever.”
-=-
“Sheesh. That guy’s hopeless...” Kenny shook his head in disapproval, sliding his PET back into the pocket of his hoodie.
He sighed. The more things changed; the more things seemed to stay the same. He should’ve figured that after everything that happened, Daxton would barely change a bit. Normally, Kenny would have encouraged that, but those days “change” was the name of the game.
There he was just walking around Harbington, getting a feel for the place. Once there was a time where Kenny thought just walking around was a useless diversion - something that just wasted time better spent on something more important. Kenny thought that if he wasn’t working on schoolwork, or wasn’t working toward something, then he was just wasting time. That was then, and this was now. Things had changed. He had changed.
While the rebuilding of Harbington was at the least a nuisance to some, it was comforting to Kenny. If there was anything more symbolic of a large change in his life, his entire hometown getting renovated and rebuilt was probably hard to beat. He’d never felt terribly connected to the place before since he had moved there from Anchorsway almost eight years back. Seeing it get torn down and put back up again though, Kenny now had much in common with the dome. After everything that happened with Epheral, he’d been doing some rebuilding of his own.
It was time to suck it up and get on with his life. He’d come a hair’s width away from losing it, so it would have been a shame to waste it. Every now and then, just when he’d start forgetting what had happened, he’d get a little phantom pain in his chest. Sometimes it felt debilitating. Sometimes it came with other feelings, leaving him swirling in a mess of thoughts and emotions that would tangle him all up. It was going to be challenging getting through all that, but that’s what the therapy was for.
Kenny had a few new directives to live by: he’d promised to go to therapy to get better, and not waste any more time. More than that, though... he had to exist. He had to allow himself to live.
To do that, he was going to follow her example.
Since there was no school, Kenny had taken to filling his afternoons with patrols. He called them “patrols,” when really, they were more like “casual strolls.” When it came to patrolling, there wasn’t much to look out for. Harbington had always been rather peaceful, and even sometimes managed to be calm. The biggest troublemakers were teenagers, but their lives had been turned so far upside down that it seemed like Ret and his two underlings were the only people willing to cause trouble anymore... at least in the traditional way. Just like how the downtown urban district had taken on a different look with all the new buildings coming up, life’s problems were beginning to take on a different look as well.
Some people just didn’t trust him. This wasn’t some far-gone conclusion that he’d come up with in his own paranoid mind, either. It was right there on their faces, and to what degree depended on the person. It was no secret that life had only changed so drastically because of the Inklings, and since Kenny was bound to one himself, some people really seemed to struggle to remember that Kenny had ever once been a normal human being at all. At least, as normal a human being as he had ever felt.
Still, he may not have ever been normal by any account... but his inner demons were never able to wear his body like a skin or have magnetic powers. For all his troubles, Polaris had been helpful though. While it was true that Inklings had up-ended Harbington in a bad way, it was Inklings who pulled everything back from the brink, Inklings like Polaris. Some people knew that and were big fans. It was just that not everyone saw eye to eye on the issue.
While Kenny walked the streets, some people shied away from him. Others revered him. The boy knew, though, that they weren’t really seeing him. They saw Polaris, avoided Polaris, revered Polaris... They called him “the Steel Knight.” Kenny himself was unimportant. He was downright uninteresting in comparison. In a way, that was comforting. All he had to do was remind himself that the people who were afraid of him were more afraid of the Inklings than they ever would have been by him.
On that same token, he wasn’t about to turn his back on Polaris. They’d promised to improve together. Kenny just had to keep in mind that it was going to be easier for him than it was for Polaris. He didn’t lord that over the Inkling, and he certainly wasn’t proud of it. That’s just the way things were.
Kenny was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the door chime on the grocer he was passing. A girl stepped out carrying several bags with her, and the two of them nearly ran into one another.
“Ah!” The girl stopped suddenly, awkwardly stumbling about. Her long, black, loose braid in her hair spun about.
Kenny practically stumbled over her and turned quickly to face her. “Jeez, sorry!” He apologized, “I didn’t mean to...! Oh! Tomoe?”
Tomoe perked up upon hearing her name. Her four clear wings spread out behind her and buzzed. She was a bee - a bumblebee. Whether it was sub-species genetics at work or just bad luck, she was well-known for being a bit air-headed and clumsy. Still, flighty as she was, she wasn’t particularly disliked by most. Her warm smile was readily available for anyone, and she offered Kenny much the same. She was Kenny’s age and had gone to his school, but they never really got familiar until recently.
“Hello Kenny! I’m sorry, I should really watch where I’m going! I just didn’t expect someone to pass by suddenly!” Tomoe fell into a fluster of apologies, which was normal for her. She didn’t know how else to show that she meant no harm, so she just bowed her head several times, like a little bobble head.
Kenny gave her an honest smile. “I think it might have been me not paying attention...” He said, but Tomoe wasn’t listening. She barely stopped trying to smooth things over long enough for her to remember to breathe. Kenny decided it was best to change the subject. “Groceries?” He asked, “And... a lot, by the looks of it.”
“Oh!” Tomoe snapped out of her flustering, “Right! Well, yes, I just had to run out and pick up a few things... It’s a lot harder keeping up with all the cooking at home than we thought! So many more hungry mouths to feed. It’s kind of nuts. Kids sure eat a lot!”
Kenny leaned forward and held out his hand. “You should let me help you carry some of those.”
Tomoe blushed. “Oh, no! That’s fine! I don’t need...!”
Kenny ignored her and snatched up two of the grocery bags she was holding, just pulling them from her hand. He wasn’t particularly forceful, rather she just surrendered them to him without a fuss. “There we go, there’s two,” Kenny said, holding them both in his other hand and holding the other out to the girl for more.
Tomoe blinked her big, navy-blue compound eyes at him. “More?”
“All of them, preferably.” Kenny grinned, “It’s the chivalrous thing to do.”
Dumbfounded, Tomoe handed him to rest of the bags. Helping her carry them suddenly became him just doing it himself. “Oh, well... thank you!” She said, “I... guess I really can’t argue with that logic.”
“That’s right, you can’t,” Kenny agreed, “And besides, I could use the exercise. Just let me handle it.”
“I’m sure you have more important things to do!” Tomoe insisted.
“Why?” Kenny asked, knowing exactly what she meant. She just stared at him for a moment. He went on, “Look, you’re gonna make me feel bad if I don’t help you out right this second.”
“Well, okay...” Tomoe said as the two of them started walking together.
Sometimes, Kenny thought back on a time where he honestly forgot that people outside of his pack even existed. He lived life with such a narrow scope before, only really caring about anyone who jumped through enough hoops to be worthy of his attention. Then, he got dragged on that stupid adventure by Quincey, and suddenly, the world seemed so much bigger. There were so many more people in it than he remembered, and not nearly as many of them looked down on him than he once thought.
It seemed that he’d taken on the mantle of a hero knight without even realizing who he was swearing to protect. It was one thing to protect his pack, or Shelly and Simon, people he’d come to know and respect. It was entirely another to put himself out for total strangers. It was just easier to do if he knew them, but he couldn’t know everyone. So, he had to try hard to put everyone on a level playing field. And yet, he was compelled to be more personal, like he just couldn’t help it.
Humans really are such social creatures. Or maybe he was just finally open to them. He’d grown so much.
And yet, the past clung to him, tooth, and claw.
“Hey, girlie!”
Kenny and Tomoe were interrupted in mid-conversation on the bridge between the urban and residential districts. They looked up to see a small pack approaching them made up of four other high school students. Neither recognized the group, so they stopped feeling quite confused. Naturally, Tomoe answered, as it was the polite thing to do. “Yes?” She said, “Is there... something you need?”
“Not really,” The boy leading the pack said. He was some kind of ox - a zebu, to be more specific. “But I gotta ask, don’t you work at the orphanage?”
“Yeah,” One of the other teens, a chimpanzee girl, added. “You’re that girl that works with Miss Idony, right?”
Tomoe nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”
“So why then,” The first boy said, “Are you hanging around with him?”
He pointed straight at Kenny, who tensed up slightly. Tomoe hadn’t been expecting the sudden question, and she stared at Kenny, lost for just a moment. She clued back in after a few seconds, her antennae twitching around as she fidgeted. “Um... huh?” She regarded the boy curiously, “What?”
Now the whole pack was staring at Kenny. Though perhaps “staring” was too gentle of a term. It was more like they were glaring at him, and he didn’t like it. His bewilderment gave way to a stern look of his own. Those eyes of theirs were looking for trouble. The oxen boy seemed to get agitated, jabbing his finger at Kenny a few times.
“That guy!” He shouted, “Don’t you get it? He’s part of the reason why you’re so busy in the first place!”
Tomoe just sat there with a truly blank expression on her face. Kenny knew what they were getting at, but even though he took a deep breath to belt out a rebuke, nothing came of it. Something in him kept the words from coming out. It instead replaced them with a flash of memories to remind him just why he should stay quiet. It was only a second, but he remembered what happened at mall when Epheral attacked and turned his powers on innocent people.
He remembered that little frog girl screaming in his face about hating him before she broke down sobbing right in front of him.
It seemed that Tomoe caught on. She clammed up quickly. “That’s... well...”
A feline girl stepped forward to say her piece. “It gets even worse than that!” She said, “Haven’t you read up about those guys on the net? I heard that this guy only moved here suddenly after his mom died in an accident!”
That made Kenny grit his teeth. “Hey...”
“That’s... awful.” Tomoe said with a frown.
“Yeah!” The oxen said, “Because there’s only one reason he’d move out so quick after something like that, don’t you think?!”
“Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about!” Kenny cut back, “Do you believe everything you read on the net?!”
“I’ve seen messages from people who say they knew you back in Anchorsway. They say it’s true!” The boy argued, “That you even admitted to it after it happened!”
Kenny was struck by that, and again he found no words to rebuke the claim. He froze, knowing full well that he’d almost immediately confessed to the first police officer he saw after the incident. He confessed to his own father. Under a cascade of ugly tears and wailing, he’d done everything short of screaming it from the rooftops. That was before he learned it was better to just be silent about it. By then, it was too late.
“What, you have nothing to say? So, it’s true, isn’t it?!” One of the pack said, “Oh my god, and people say you’re a hero??”
“You murdered your own mom when you were just a kid? And people let you carry around a sword?!”
“There’s no way I’m trusting you! I don’t know how anyone can!”
“Someone like you with powers like that could kill anyone they wanted!”
Kenny wanted to scream back at them, but it felt like something had wrapped its icy talons around his heart and was squeezing down on him to keep him silent. All he could do was try not to flinch. His therapist warned him that things wouldn’t happen on his terms all the time, but he wasn’t prepared for this. He knew that Inklings weren’t the most popular things in Harbington, but for people to attack him specifically?
And for what? Because he had the ability to save their lives? It’s like they forgot he’d used it!
Kenny wasn’t certain how long they were yelling at him. Other people had stopped to stare at them as they made a scene right there on the bridge. On instinct, Kenny looked to Tomoe to try and study her face. She was just staring at him, sorrowfully. She looked saddened to be learning about Kenny’s past misdeeds, just like he’d always feared people would. What made it worse was that he knew Tomoe was good. She didn’t deserve that expression.
But was it their fault? Or his? He couldn’t figure it out.
“What with the look on your face? What, you wanna kill me just for calling you out?” The oxen boy jeered, “Don’t tell me. If you had your sword right now, you’d pull it out, wouldn’t you?”
“No,” Kenny said honestly, “Never.”
“Never? I dunno about that, buddy...” The boy said.
Just when Kenny felt like he couldn’t take it anymore, Tomoe shoved her fluffy self between them. Literally, she shoved, arms straight out to push the ox boy away from Kenny ever-so-slightly. It was sudden, drastic, and likely all the strength she had in her body. All she really managed to do was position herself between them.
Everyone was stunned speechless, not the least being Kenny. Tomoe quickly retracted. She wasn’t looking for a fight. Still, quietly, she said, “That’s enough.”
She then turned to Kenny and quietly suggested they leave
Kenny nodded, now more concerned with her than himself. Together, they left the bewildered pack behind. They could still hear them tossing around their accusations as they left, with several more thrown in directed at Tomoe herself. Stupid, they said. They said she was stupid for hanging around with the exact reason Harbington had been almost flattened. Didn’t she realize that Kenny was to blame for so much of what had happened?
It was a quiet walk the rest of the way to Tomoe’s home, the Kindred Hearts Orphan Home. It was nestled in a plot of land fenced off from the surrounding homes, with space for a big yard and a small playground. The building itself was single-story, but spacious. The Orphanage’s sign and walls had been coloured on by the kids, some of whom were running around outside and playing while an older woman watched over them. Aside from looking like a miniature school, it didn’t look that different than the surrounding buildings.
Kenny stopped at the entrance to the property and unloaded the grocery bags back onto Tomoe, who was so surprised by the sudden action that it nearly toppled her over. She fumbled with the bags and their weight all over again, her shoulders immediately slumping with the effort. Kenny seemed stiff and dismissive of her struggle, seeking to get away instead. “I’m sure you can handle it from here,” He said, “Have a good one.”
Tomoe spoke up as he turned to leave. “O-Oh! You always walk here and stop. Why don’t you come in? You can stay for dinner if you like.”
“Mm,” Kenny didn’t even consider the invitation, “No. I’ve made enough trouble for you already...”
Tomoe tried to stand up straight. Her strained arms bunched up the tuft of thick off-white fur that hung over her chest and encircled her neck. “About those things those people said...” She spoke, “... How much of it is true? Is any of it true?”
Kenny paused, since he’d turned to leave again. He carefully considered his answer before giving it. “... Enough of it is.”
Tomoe looked worried. “And what you said... about not wanting to attack them...”
“Absolutely true,” Kenny affirmed, “I’d never pull that on anyone unless I absolutely had to.”
Tomoe bowed her head to wrestle with these thoughts. “Is that why... you always stop to help me when you see me out?” She turned to look in toward the orphanage, watching the kids play in the yard. “Because of them?”
Kenny made a sound, like he’d exhaled the smallest sigh. “Tch... You’re surprisingly astute,” He muttered under his breath, “... It’s a wonder I ever hid anything at all.”
Kenny breathed in, then out.
“Have a good night, Tomoe.”
Then he turned and left, leaving the girl holding the bag... or bags, in this case. It didn’t take him long to begin wondering, questioning how far-reaching and deep this web of disdain for him had spread. It seemed that even downtime for an Inkling hero had some challenges.
“Maybe I should just head home...” He said, “... I think that’s enough for one day.”
-=-
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you very nicely to leave Quincey alone.”
Duplex positioned herself between her host and these surprise assailants, holding out her arms and putting on as a stern a glare as her pudgy face could manage. She hoped her tone was more threatening than her appearance, but even that fell short.
Before her stood two men - a cobra and a Scottish terrier. They were adults, and there was something vaguely familiar about the two men. They dressed casually - almost too casually, in flowered shirts and shorts - but they were big and strong. The cobra had a little tuft of ginger hair, while the canine had no hair to speak of other than the risen fur upon his head. Whoever they were, they simply came out of nowhere once Quincey exited the dig. They had approached her with a group of other men and women who looked nothing if not disgruntled. They were even getting involved with the police that were stationed outside of the old dig site that day. There was a lot of yelling and arguing.
But these men singled Quincey out, and Duplex didn’t like their tone. The Inkling clone stepped in to protect her host, as was proper.
“Get out of the way, fakie,” The cobra said, “We’re not talking to you, we’re talking to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Duplex rebutted, “So go talk to someone else!”
“We lost our jobs because of her! And because of you!” The terrier butt in, even angrier. “What’s she have to say to that?! Explain yourself, girl!”
Quincey stood timidly behind Duplex, peeking out from behind her all bunched up to protect herself. She looked, and felt, incredibly distressed. She didn’t know what to do in the face of so many angry people, or even how to explain how she could have lost someone else’s job. Why was this happening to her? This was why she preferred to stay home...
“I didn’t...” Quincey began to explain, or simply answered because people were expecting her too, even though she didn’t know what to say.
“Shut up!” They shouted back at her, making her wince. “Don’t pull that innocent act with us, we know you’re a dirty, rotten, no-good Ink blob. What, did you think people would just forget you were stomping around a few miles off the Locksmouth coast?! Do you think we’re stupid?!”
“N-No!” Quincey answered the last question because she couldn’t keep up. “I don’t think that at all!”
“Stupid blob!” The cobra hissed, marching to make a move toward Quincey. She wasn’t sure what he intended to do, but the air about the place was dangerous. She just wrapped her arms around herself and tried to keep herself safe.
Duplex stepped between them and planted her hands on the man’s chest and gave a mighty shove. The man’s feed slid back in the dirt, leaving little trails as Duplex replicated itself into a chain of pig girls, each newly created one propelling the front of the line further and further, pushing the man back past the other man he was with. He was shocked, to say the least, as were many others who witnessed the bizarre event.
“Don’t!” All the Duplex clones said at once before they simply snapped back starting from the front of the line. Each Duplex clone fell back into the back of the line, all the copies returning to one form standing in front of Quincey. The angry mob that had descended upon the dig site was left unnerved, a wave of unpleasant fear washing over them. That quickly turned to anger, and they all started yelling at them again.
“Keep your grubby hands off him, you blob!”
“Inklings are monsters, menaces!”
“My son was inked! What am I supposed to do now, huh?!”
Quincey was frozen, numb to it all. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to run away, but she’d never have been able to run fast enough to get away. She could have just had Duplex take care of them, or maybe form a protective line between the diggers and the mob. She didn’t want to use Duplex’s powers like that though or ask Duplex to do anything untoward against another human. Neither she, nor Duplex, would have been comfortable with that.
The one feeling that got through strongest was how bad she felt for Duplex. She could see the anger on her face, putting on a strong glare even though she was shaking. Just like Quincey, she got sniffly when she was upset, and it was easy to make her cry. Most of what everyone was screaming wasn’t directed at Quincey, exactly, even if they did make her the face to blame. It was all about Inklings, and Duplex, which she knew had to hurt the most.
Just an hour ago, Duplex had been running around the abandoned underground museum, just fascinated by human history. She wanted to learn everything about being human, and that was why she was apart from Quincey so often. Duplex wasn’t satisfied just being hosted, she wanted to go out and experience things all on her own with her renewed zest for life. She wanted to eat new foods with human taste buds, see new sights with human eyes, and feel new things with a human body. Most Inklings couldn’t have done something like that unless done vicariously through their host.
But Duplex was special. She replicated and simulated Quincey’s body into near-complete autonomy. She may have looked exactly like Quincey, and they may have been connected on a subconscious level, but Duplex’s body was her own. Unfortunately, there was no subtle way to pull that off unless she and Quincey completely switched places - which they had done once or twice before Duplex insisted, she not just pretend to be her host. So, Harbington had to live with the fact that there wasn’t just one Quincey anymore, but two.
That was a change that very few people were comfortable with.
This was what Quincey wanted to hide from. It was getting worse and worse every single day. What made that difficult was that Duplex wanted the complete opposite. She kept wanting to put herself out there just as badly as Quincey wanted to stay away... and Quincey was too much of a push-over to say no. Besides, staying at home made her feel lonely too. The idea that she could have just hid from it all was foolish.
Just as she was looking for some way out, she spotted a familiar truck pull in at the edge of the crowds and police. “... Laila!” Quincey called out to them, relief washing over her.
Just as expected, the arrival of Laila’s truck marked a sudden increase in the over-all agitation of the situation. Suddenly people were getting very heated, and Quincey could see Laila and her white cowboy hat above most of the other people in the crowd. The giraffe used her size to push her way through, though it seemed like the crowds were parting before she even reached them. The reason became obvious as the last few people moved to reveal an angry, muscular corgi boy shoving them aside.
The two men, the cobra and Scottish terrier, turned to see Daxton and immediately choked on their words. They froze as if they were staring at some kind of demigod.
“What the hell is going on around here?!” Daxton barked.
“Daxton! Laila!” Both Quincey and Duplex called their names, with Quincey waving her arms to get their attention. Daxton quickly made his way toward them but stopped when the two men didn’t move. It didn’t look like they had been trying to get in his way or stop him... but they hadn’t cleared the path either. They just stared at him with fear and anger in their eyes.
“It’s you!” The cobra said, “You... little punk!”
“More than her, we owe you for all this!” The terrier said, “Or... you owe us! Or something!”
Daxton barely flinched at their yelling. He looked at the men, studying their faces... but then crossed his arms. “Should I... know you?” He asked, and the way the men’s eyes lit up assured him that they did not appreciate the question.
“You know who we are, you little bastard!” The terrier shouted at him.
Laila joined Daxton, rubbing her chin as she examined the pair. “... Mm... Nope. Ain’t got a clue.”
“Oh, come on!” The cobra threw his arms up in frustration.
Daxton’s ears suddenly perked up. “Ohhh! Oooooohhh!” He slapped his fist down into his other palm as the answer came to him. “I remember you two. You’re Tweedledee and Tweedledum from when we bailed on Harbington! You guys were at the gates to stop us!” He then addressed the cobra specifically, and he couldn’t hide his big grin. “I got you with your own damn neurod!”
The cobra hissed. “Shut up!”
He gulped when Daxton was suddenly right in his face, backing up a fraction of an inch as the boy imposed himself upon his space. “You shut up,” Daxton tersely responded, “What are a couple of cops doing here harassing people?”
“We’re not cops anymore!” The terrier shouted, “Because of you!”
That’s when Laila pieced it all together and rolled her eyes. She loomed over the canine man, who cowered away just like his companion. “Oh no, I get it,” She said, “Reckon these two got canned after the police did their spring cleanin’.”
“Oh-ho!” Daxton remarked, shaking his head at the two men. “So, you got fired after selling everyone out to Eos. Well good for you! Seems you boys got a promotion. Now you’re baton boys for the idiot parade.”
“Shut your damn mouth, punk!” The cobra hissed.
Daxton immediately fronted, lunging forward briefly, and scaring the man to make him back off. “Or else what?” He challenged, “You gonna hit me?”
“Daxton!” Quincey called him. When he looked, she shook her head slowly. Daxton considered this for a moment before simply shrugging his shoulders. He rose his hand into the air and made a finger-gun, promptly blasting of a laser ray of light high into the sky like a flare. The sudden dispersal of energy wasn’t silent, so the sound and the flash got everyone’s attention. They all fell silent in the face of such a display.
Daxton then clapped his hands to hustle them. “Alright everyone, show’s over!” He barked, “Go home!”
That one beam of light seemed to take the wind out of everyone’s sails. Slowly, one by one, the angry mob slunk off grumbling. The cobra and terrier men were some of the last to leave, but as they did, they paused to turn around and shout something back at them. “Yeah, well...! Eos Forever!! You damn blobs! You’re gonna get yours!”
Laila chuckled. “Yeah? Well...!”
Quincey... or was it Duplex? It was so hard to tell at just a glance. One of them came over and tugged on Laila’s jacket. The giraffe glanced down at the pig’s pleading expression. It was obvious that Laila was being asked to just let it go. She sighed, tipping her hat up to rub the sweat off her brow. “Whew... Tarnation, they’re as ornery as a bull durin’ matin’ season.”
Daxton continued to Quincey - the real Quincey - and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “When did those guys show up?” He asked. He rubbed Quincey’s shoulders gently to help calm her down. He could feel the tension in her plain as day.
Quincey sighed. “They just... showed up as we were finishing up,” She explained, “They started yelling all kinds of awful things at us...”
“Bah, they’re all talk,” Daxton said, “I don’t think they could hurt you if they tried.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t allow it!” Duplex interjected, “Besides... it’s not her fault any of this happened. It really is my fault.”
Laila pat the Inkling clone on the head. “Don’t be so hard on yerself, Dooples,” She said, “Y’ain’t wrong, but there’s a bit more to it than that.”
“If those guys have a problem with you, then they’ve got a problem with me,” Daxton said, “We’ve got each other’s backs on this.”
Quincey lowered her head to hide her little smile, but when she looked back up at Daxton, the smile was gone. “Where were you?” She asked, “I really wanted you to be here when I started pulling things up.”
Daxton took a moment to look at the various loading trucks and haulers that had been pulled in to take away the old museum exhibits. Some of them had already been packaged up in fragile-safe crates, while other larger things were strapped down and covered. It looked like a lot of work, but then... odds were Quincey could have done it all by herself, with enough duplicates. He sighed heavily and met Quincey’s gaze again. “I was caught up at the gym,” He confessed, and none too enthusiastically, “Then Jimmy showed up and I just... I forgot that this was happening today.”
Quincey frowned, and Daxton felt uncomfortable. “B-But I was really excited on the way here! I wanted to see you going crazy over this stuff!” He insisted, then paused. “... But... I guess that got ruined too. I’m sorry.”
Quincey slumped and gave a terribly unconvincing, “It’s okay...”
“No, it’s not okay,” Daxton said, clapping his hands down on Quincey’s shoulders to startle her back to attention. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go grab Kenny and you guys can come to my house. I’ll make you a pumpkin pie.”
Quincey looked uncertain. She couldn’t even look at him. “Come on,” He said, “... You want some pumpkin pie, don’t you?”
Quincey sighed. “... Yes. I do. Besides, it would be nice to see everyone again.”
“Things have been a little crazy,” Daxton said amidst a laugh, “It’s about time we did something normal.”
“I’d like that.” Quincey smiled.
“There’s the smile I love,” Daxton grinned, “Come on, let’s go home.”
-=-
Daxton’s log cabin home was fortunate enough to survive Epheral’s attack completely untouched. He lived too far outside of the old residential centres. Even now with everything being rebuilt and homes being put up, there wasn’t much interest in building anything around the Kemberge home. That meant that he lived in one of the few forested areas left in the dome. It used to be that the outer ring was mostly trees, but lots had been moved around since then and cleared to make space for an outside ring of crops that stretched for several hundreds of acres. The dome itself had to be expanded to house it all.
That meant that what was once open field across the dirty road from Daxton’s house was now a thoroughly plowed field. Plus, the evening sunset was prone to getting blocked out by the Hanging Garden facilities that had been erected. They didn’t cast much of a shadow thanks to light-bending properties that made them almost invisible when directly in the sun’s path, creating an almost ice-clear structure full of greenery and waterways. The only real downside was how the smell of fertilizer would overwhelm the scent of maple from the nearby sugar bush if the wind went the wrong way.
The cabin itself was still familiar though. The wood log walls and slanted ceilings, the way the lighting could cast a warm golden glow over the polished wood floors and soft shadows in the corners, it was all the same as before Epheral’s attack. Daxton’s “other dad” Edward only had the loss of his flower garden at the hands (or more accurately the club legs) of a shuffler to lament. He didn’t seem too hung up on it though, happily prattling around the house to pick up the place and clean to keep himself busy.
Daxton’s kitchen island was replaced, so it looked brand new. His chef-worthy cooking space was stocked to the nines with an impressive array of utensils and appliances. The Kemberges even owned multiple ovens that stacked on top of one another. Separate from all that was the dining room, where Daxton had gathered all his friends at the modestly sized polished wood table. A freshly baked and cooled pumpkin pie sat between them with most of its slices missing, all four of them having plates of pie with an accompanying scoop of ice cream.
There, they finally got a chance to talk. Though Edward did insist that they keep it down, since Daxton’s father, Eddie, had settled in for a nap.
“Wow,” Kenny said as the conversation carried on, naturally focused on recent events. “So, like, it was some kind of protest? Right out in front of the dig? Wild. I had something like that happen to me earlier too. A pack just came up and started talking shit.”
“And I got another transfer request at work today!” Laila complained. She’d taken off her hat and let down her hair to relax, brandishing her fork around to add dramatic flair to her whining. “Sixth one in two weeks, dad said. And they definitely quit on me because of Sylph. I ain’t even guessin’ there, the gal said it right to my face... among other less savoury things.”
“I’m so sorry,” Quincey frowned, “That must be making things really difficult.”
“I’m half tempted to kick ‘em in the keister next time!” Laila exasperated, “They ain’t givin’ us enough time to sort out this mess.” She raised her arms in a shrug and turned up her nose. “Darn kids these days and their wantin’ immediate gratification.”
Daxton laughed. “What the heck happened to these people?”
They didn’t answer that. They knew.
“I really am sorry I’ve caused so much trouble for everyone...” Duplex sighed, morose in her seat, poking at her pie with a fork but not eating any of it. Her ice cream had mostly melted by that point. “I feel so bad about it now, and when I think back to when I first forced Quincey to do whatever I wanted... I feel really disgusting.”
“Hey, come on now...” Kenny groused, “Look, if even I say that you don’t have to worry about it, then you don’t have to worry about it. Everyone does stupid things sometimes. Trust me.”
Everyone looked at Daxton.
“... Hey!” Daxton growled, “Is this how we’re cheering people up now?!”
Duplex giggled alongside the others. It was brief, and they sunk again right after. “... I know that, I do. I really, really do...” She said, “Just... I get the feeling we’re right to be worried. I don’t know if some people will ever be happy until I’m gone.”
“Well they’re just gonna have to live with it,” Daxton said, “Tough titty for them.”
“I don’t want you to go, Duplex,” Quincey said, “None of us do.”
“And we’ll tell you the same thing we always told her,” Laila said, pointing at Quincey, “That just because some folks are jerks don’t mean you ain’t a precious little bean.”
Duplex nodded but continued to lacerate her pie. Finally, she ate a bite of it. “... Being human sure is hard.”
Kenny smirked. “Ain’t that the truth? Being an inkling sure isn’t easy either.”
“Well to hell with all of that!” Daxton dismissed the topic outright, “Quincey, tell us about the dig. Every last detail.”
Quincey seemed to light up at the mere suggestion and didn’t need any further push to start unloading a plethora of recounted tales and fun historical facts about every single artifact she helped excavate that day. Duplex got in on the conversation too, often adding colourful commentary regarding her sheer surprise at some of the things she learned about humans from those historical pieces alone. For the most part, everyone else just sat around and listened. Daxton didn’t even get bored right away.
The hours stretched on, and for the first time in a while it felt like things were normal.
With the pie completely eaten save for some crumbs in the dish, the setting sun gave way to rainfall at night. While everyone was inside warm and cozy, raindrops pitter-pattered onto the windows at a soothing din, and the outside world got the moisture it needed to go one more day. Not looking forward to going home in the rain, Quincey, Laila, and Kenny had no intention of leaving that night.
As the pack sat down around the television screen, Kenny and Daxton playing video games while Laila harshly criticized every aspect of said games, Quincey felt a buzz from her PET. Plucking it out of her top, she flipped it up and looked at the screen. Her expression changed to one of surprise, and Duplex was the first to notice. “What’s that?” The Inkling asked.
“It’s a message...” Quincey said, “... From Jacent.”
“From Jacent?!” Daxton dropped his controller, which allowed Kenny to openly combo his character into a tie-breaking victory. Something Kenny did without remorse. “It’s been a while. See if he wants to spar or something!”
Quincey’s eyes flicked back and forth as she read the contents of the message, and her mouth fell gently agape. “... This is...” She could barely speak as she took in the sudden rush of information that was contained in Jacent’s message.
That brought concern. Laila furrowed her brow. “What’s goin’ on?” She asked, “Somethin’ up?”
Quincey looked up from the message and turned her PET to show everyone the screen.
“He’s asking for our help.”
-=-
Rain beat down over the old dirt roads and grassy nooks. The falling droplets splashed into the flowing accents and canals along the Harbington streets. Dome city rain always fell so evenly, so steadily, in a way that no natural rain could quite match. So perfect it was, that few took ill to it. The rain was part of the cycle - it made plants grow, it cooled the air, and it brought moisture to the earth. People normally felt calmed by its presence - nary an inconvenience or discomfort, but a welcome part of daily life.
Times were anything but normal.
The rain made Marcello’s back hurt. She never believed that scars could be prophetic before, but now she was eating crow. It seemed that when the moisture in the air took a shift, a dull and lingering pain throbbed right where the knife had pierced her skin. There wasn’t even a scar there anymore and most of the damage had healed, but her deep tissue was still off. Her nicked nerve still needed time.
She wasn’t about to let that stop her, though. Rain ache, restless leg and pelvic numbness were all things that got more annoying without distraction. Marcello’s distraction came in the form of work, which had surprisingly continued to trickle in even after Eos and House Caduceus had been thoroughly humiliated by the Inkling Kids, and then brought to justice by her. The revelation after the fact was that no good deed went unpunished. Eos had been stopped, but their intense anti-Inkling sentiment was making waves.
Of course, they hadn’t been the only ones to oppose Inklings - Eos was simply the first to be organized enough to make a move. They rose and fell in a blaze of glory, but the embers left over were catching. Little fires continued to pop up, hot with xenophobic resentment and paranoia. Marcello had encountered these types first-hand. During Epheral’s invasion, several Inked individuals had gone missing. They had been kidnapped by anti-Inkling actors, the reasons for such seeming obvious: Inklings were being targeted for removal.
Though it seemed at first that nobody knew what “removal” was. The victims of the kidnappings had all been subjected to different abuses while the perpetrators explored various methods to eliminate the Inkling presence. Marcello had followed the tracks, even made an arrest, and had charted the experimentation process of these every-day people. Dangerous as it had been, their logic followed a typical scientific structure.
The first two kidnapped victims - a man and a woman, ages 51 and 39 - had been locked up in the basement of an old home on the outskirts of Locksmouth. There, they were locked in a room with no beds to sleep in and were given no food to eat for several days. People wearing masks to hide their faces brought the victims water, and the room had an attached bathroom. According to the victims, the aggressors grabbed them amid the Harbington Refugee Effort, hit them, kicked them, and demanded that they “leave their planet.”
The theory was that the Inklings couldn’t live without human life force - "prana," as they called it. So, putting the host in danger would force the alien parasite to act out of desperation. To that end, the victims were starved but otherwise left alone. The victims reported that no visitors ever came to the house and that they could hear their kidnappers at all times of the day, their interactions often hostile. Then, one day, there was just silence. The kidnappers left for reasons unknown, and Marcello found the victims only one day later and rescued them. The kidnappers remained at large.
The next victim had been more brutally terrorized and sustained several injuries. A young boy, age 19, had been abducted by two masked individuals, and taken outside of Locksmouth to one of the Ranger Rest Stations. There, he was beaten. According to the boy, his kidnappers had done this to force his Inkling out. They succeeded; however, the kidnappers were unequipped and unprepared. The Inkling took one of the kidnappers as a host, fought back, and then fled. The remaining kidnapper took off in pursuit and left the boy alone, where he stayed until Rangers arrived and rushed him to hospital. Neither kidnapper was ever found.
Another pair of victims were young children, two boys both aged 13, who had run away from home. Marcello tracked their whereabouts to outside Harbington, a few miles out. They were retrieved and brought home to very relieved parents and told police that they had been convinced to leave home because their Inklings were a danger to their friends and family. They willingly left without further force or coercion and were found only suffering from emotional stress and fatigue.
Another incident happened right in the middle of the streets of Harbington, where one man - identified as Kaydan Coleman, age 59 - assaulted a woman, age 37, with a portable work console. The woman was struck once over the head from behind before citizens restrained Coleman and police arrived. Following the arrest, Coleman’s only statement was that he “wasn’t going to let them win,” making no effort to plead innocent.
A total of seven incidents had occurred over the span of nearly three weeks. As winter set in and snow began to fall outside of Harbington, it seemed that anti-Inkling sentiment had boiled over. It was the first time in a long time that police found themselves dealing with assaults and having to physically step in to break up altercations between Identified Inked Citizens and self-declared anti-Inkling actors. Crime was on the rise, and to no one’s surprise it was Inklings at the centre of it.
Her investigation of the incidents had brought her to one more place: an old storage unit in Harbington. The residential area had taken the biggest hit in Epheral’s invasion, with the commercial zone taking up second place. While many of Harbington’s stores, and especially the mall, had been destroyed, a few lucky business owners found their shops unharmed. The storage units were located among those shops, and there weren’t many of them. Most people didn’t live far beyond their means, so needing extra space to keep things wasn’t terribly necessary. Usually, the only people who used the storage units were people who brought their work home with them, so to speak.
Marcello exited her car into the rain, matting down her hair and covering her shades in droplets. Her ARID interface was ready and waiting to pick up traces - anything from chemical residue to shoe prints, but the rain made it difficult for the system to catch anything at a distance. There were only six units available, all closed with shutters and secured with locks, with three on either side creating a corridor of sorts. The gap between them was large enough to get two vehicles into side by side with some room to spare. Otherwise, it was just a lot of empty space among various construction sites that were nearing completion.
The detective was only briefly distracted by the light-up sign on one of the site fences that announced a cocktail bar opening. Music, lights, moody drinks. She wished it were open on a night like this. “The Magic Bell,” it was called... where did people come up with a name like that? The building’s affixed lighting was done up in neon blues and the construct was painted pitch black, creating an abyssal atmosphere, bio-luminescent all its own. Marcello made a note to make a trip there the day it opened.
Returning her attention to the task at hand, she walked to the unit she’d come to inspect - unit four. The expansive lot made her want to hurry, but her cane trumped her need for speed. Her right leg was still numbed from her injury and physio wasn’t progressing as quickly as she would have liked. She was getting tired of hobbling around, especially in the rain. At least it gave her a more authoritative air, somehow. Either that or people didn’t have the heart to deny a request from a cripple. She’d made it a point to abuse that whenever the need arose.
That’s how she got the card that would let her into the unit, which was good, because if she broke into another place, Terry was going to have her ass no matter what she found.
Taking the card out of the pocket of her jacket, she swiped it over the scanner and stepped back as the shutters began to open automatically. She ducked in as soon as it was high enough that she wouldn’t have to bend her knees.
“Alright, let’s see...” Marcello muttered, only to stop in her tracks when the light from outside spread out over what was contained in the unit. “... Whoa.”
At first glance, everything seemed random. When Marcello entered any hideout, any home, or any place that belonged to an individual, there was normally a unifying element to what was in those spaces that would tie it to the individual. Even most mundane things followed a sort of theme or system that determined why it was wherever it was placed. This unit was nothing like that.
Random equipment that belonged to a few different professions hadn’t had the time to collect dust. Two traditional mannequins were beat up, tattered, and worn with scuffs, burns, and dents. Boxes, crates, tanks, and more were stacked on top of one another, sometimes poorly and crooked. There was no real organization at all; only enough space for someone to move around in and be able to access the storage boxes and tanks, and a workbench.
“Definitely looks like it belongs to a crazy person...” Marcello said, “There’s gotta be something here that ties it to them...”
The detective swept raindrops off her jacket and shades and went to work. She started by turning on the lights, bathing the unit in florescent brightness. She then approached the worktable, ARID quickly beginning to process everything on it. A couple of burn marks stood out with a pattern matching that of a welder that sat under the table. She swept her gloved hand over the surface, picking up dust and residue from construction plastics. Off to the side, complicated electronics work she couldn’t understand looked to be destroyed, though not intentionally. The frayed wires and scorched circuit boards were the result of various malfunctions.
The obvious conclusion was that someone was working on something there. The question was what that may have been. She moved to the boxes next and had to reach to pluck one off the top of a teetering stack to open it. The contents didn’t seem remarkable at first - things like old clothes and nick-knacks, proving that at some point someone must have been using the unit for legitimate purposes. It was when she opened one and found protective gear inside that she finally took interest. The gear wasn’t anything fantastic, far from the military-grade gear that Eos once had. It was, however, a collection of knee and elbow pads and helmets that could have outfitted an entire roller-skating posse.
That checked out with descriptions of perpetrators involved in the kidnappings. They wore regular clothes, had holographic masks, used voice modulators, and dressed in helmets, elbow pads, and knee protection. That so much of the protective equipment was stored in one place assured Marcello that she hadn’t missed her mark.
The unit belonged to a woman named Jan Sykes. Marcello had been able to track her on a positive ID from one of the victims. The victim had a personal relationship with Sykes, knew her mannerisms, her build, the tone of her fur, her wallaby subspecies. Up until then, it was normal that the aggressors had been unknown to any of the victims, though the answer to that had been found in Sykes’ PET, where she had stored a list of names. Each name was cross-referenced with citizen registry to reveal that every one of them belonged to a registered Inked citizen. Sykes had been tracking them, painting them as targets for the abductions.
Marcello had yet to find the co-conspirators, but with how much equipment had been stored there, she estimated that there may have been four to five of them in all. Not enough to identify them as a major organized threat, but a menace.
“C’mon, don’t you guys wear name tags or something? Patches?” Marcello grumbled as she cleaned out box after box, tossing the contents of each carelessly aside as she deemed them useless one after another. There were no DNA traces left on any of the clothing, and all prints on the table, boxes, or anywhere else in the unit were either partial or smudged. That was obviously due to all the gloves she was finding.
Everything had been silent aside from the sound of the falling rain. That made a sudden rattling all too clear, and Marcello looked up quickly to the corner where the sound had come from. It sounded like something had been bumped, but the corner of the unit didn’t have anywhere for a person to hide. Not anyone large, anyway. Even so, the detective took up her cane in her right hand, her neurod from her hip with her left, and rose to her feet. “Someone there?” She called, “I’m from the H.P.D, come out with your hands up.”
She waited for compliance but heard and saw nothing. She took one deep breath to ready herself, flicked out her rod, and then approached one cautious step at a time. “I said I’m police,” She said, “Come out from behind there.”
A lone tank in the corner was the only obstruction available. Marcello hadn’t fully approached it when she heard the sound again. It was like a thump, like something bumping up against the tank. The tank itself jostled. Marcello froze and lifted her neurod at the ready, prepared to strike. “I’m ordering you to come out!” She barked, “Get out from back there! Right now!”
Again, there was no compliance. She hated it when people didn’t respect her authority. Gritting her teeth, she quickly closed in on the tank, throwing her arm over it and pulling it swiftly away from the wall. She brandished her rod and shined the light of her esca into the corner, illuminating... nothing. There was nothing there except for empty space. For a moment, she was confused... then, she was frustrated.
Another thump jarred the tank, bumping it against her knees. She snapped her attention to it quickly, planting her hands down on it to hold it in place. Was there something inside? Marcello’s mind raced trying to figure out what it could be - an animal? The movement within the tank was too erratic to be something man-made. She couldn’t look through the glass, as it appeared to be silver tinted to hide what was inside.
The only logical thing to do was open it.
Marcello rested her cane against a box and then gripped the lid of the tank. The handles at either side of the lid acted as levers and pulling up on them unlocked the mechanism holding it shut. The lid slid off on a swivel, revealing that the tank’s glass had not been silver-tinted, but inside the tank was just a puddle of liquid silver. ARID’s HUD tore through scores of data points, attempting to locate something in the banks to compare the substance to. Words cycled rapidly over Marcello’s vision as she stared curiously at the liquid. ARID never took that long to find a match.
Taking her gloved hand, she dipped a finger inside for a better read on the composition of the stuff.
That was when it latched on to her hand, and she realized what a mistake she had just made.
“Ink!” She cursed, tearing her hand away and stumbling back, nearly falling over. She had tried to pull away before the stuff could really latch on, but even those split seconds were too late. The detective shook out her hand, attempting to flick the stuff off to no avail. It seemed to fight back, making her feel as if the goo was throwing her arm around. She swung her arm involuntarily outward as if to backhand someone, but there was no one there. The ink continued to fight her, even though by then she knew there was no point in trying to get it off.
“Whoa!” Marcello was thrown back into the workbench, hitting her tender back against it harshly. “Gah! Hey, do you have to be such an ass about this?!” She flicked her hand out in frustration, and it moved against her will in retaliation. The ink had already covered up her whole arm and was working rapidly on her chest toward her other shoulder. The more of her that got covered, the less control she had over her own body.
She didn’t just fall to the floor; she threw herself onto it. Her cane, glasses, and neurod were scattered, and Marcello kicked her feet to roll onto her backside and sit up. “Stop!” She shouted, “Look I don’t hate you guys, but you can’t be pulling this kind of stuff! Just... take it easy!”
She was beginning to panic. Her breathing was erratic, and her mind wasn’t tracking logically. It wasn’t every day she found herself getting gobbled up by the gray goop. In a moment of clarity, though, a brief thought told her that she probably should have expected contact with a gray at some point during this whole investigation. She scolded herself for her “rookie mistake” before flopping onto her back on the floor and sprawling out in surrender.
“Alright fine,” She said, “Take me, you big gooey blob. Just don’t mess around.”
-=-
She regained feeble consciousness somewhere else completely. There was sunlight, she was in bed, she was dry, and she was properly indoors. It was a preferable situation, but she found herself unable to enjoy any of it. Weakness and fatigue the likes of which she had never felt before marred the welcoming change in setting. The sunlight was too bright, the sheets felt too cold, and being dry just made her hair feel greasy.
She breathed out a rasp. That got someone’s attention. They touched her arm.
Marcello turned her head and opened one of her eyes in a squint. She recognized Captain Terry Blackwell’s cat eyes and salt and pepper hair. “Terry,” She said, but speaking took more breath than it should have. “... Hey.”
“Hey, Paris.” Blackwell said, “How are you feeling?”
Marcello took one more moment to collect her thoughts, which felt beyond scattered. She felt confused, as if she’d forgotten something, and then forgot what she had forgotten. Finally, she opened her eyes fully, looking down over the pure white sheets of her hospital bed. She looked to Blackwell, whose black fur was showing signs of an age she hadn’t reached - obviously due to restlessness on Marcello’s behalf. That was warming, comforting... a little guilt-inducing.
“Really bad,” Marcello confessed, “And... thirsty? I think?”
“I called for a nurse when I noticed you moving,” Terry said, pressing her hand against Marcello’s forehead and gingerly pushing her hair aside. “I’m sure they’ll get you something.”
Marcello nodded, then tried to sit up. She pushed down on her elbows and found herself incapable of supporting her weight. She grunted in the effort, then released all that tension to slump back into bed. Confused, she addressed Terry again. “How long have I been here?”
“Since last night,” Blackwell said in her official, non-threatening cop tone. “We got a call from the key master at the storage units saying that you left without returning the master key when you went looking into the Sykes connection. We tried calling you and you never answered, so I sent some officers out to track you down. They found you five blocks away face-down in a puddle.”
Marcello furrowed her brow and sucked air in through her teeth. “Ahhh... dignified,” She said, “I don’t know how that happened.” She met Blackwell’s eyes and the Captain simply nodded in easy acceptance. She didn’t doubt Marcello for a second.
“I know,” Blackwell said, pausing to choose her next words carefully, “I suppose you had a bit of an Inkling scare.”
Like flipping a switch, the memory was triggered. Marcello was back in that storage unit, the gray goo had taken over half her body, and the sense of initial panic that had hit her most strongly in that moment came back to her. Her heart rate picked up, her breathing got heavy, and stress set in quickly. The gray Inkling took her more and more, until finally its sticky tendrils latched onto her face and smothered her outright.
When everything went black, the Captain shook her out of her stupor. With a start, she was back in the hospital, safe and sound, and it felt as if she was ripped right out of one moment in time and slapped into another against her will. She felt violated. She remembered to breathe then and took deep, calming breaths while she tried to ground herself again.
“Still with me?” Blackwell asked, “Did you take another trip down Memory Lane?”
“I didn’t like that one...” Marcello said. “Felt weird.”
“Different?” Blackwell pressed.
“No, weird.” Marcello shook her head, “No, wait... yes, different, but in a weird way. I don’t usually feel so... uneasy?”
The door opened, and a nurse stepped into the room. It was a man, some subspecies of toad whose rusty skin tone matched too closely to his reddish hair. He smiled when he met eyes with Marcello and moved to her bed to check on her vitals at the nearby console. “Hello there, detective,” He said, “You’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”
“Greeeeat...” Marcello answered. “Could I get some water?”
“Are you thirsty?” The nurse asked, “Here, let’s sit you up and I’ll get you something.”
While the nurse engaged the buttons on the side of the bed, causing the mattress under Marcello to move and bend to sit her up without her having to move, someone else rushed quickly into the room. The man didn’t run frantically in, rather he slid on his shoes and came to a theatrical stop at just such a distance as to be acceptable for TV. He was a middle-aged calico cat with neatly combed brown hair dressed in what looked like a tweed-style suit. He wore the jacket open and his shirt open at the collar in a somewhat sloppy manner that betrayed his otherwise clean manner of dress.
Marcello knew exactly who he was. They’d met before.
“What are you doing here, Belfourd?” Marcello demanded.
Dr. Julian Belfourd, former Eos co-conspirator, shot Marcello a quizzical look. It faded into a little smile and then he snapped his fingers, gave a spin on his heels, and ambled closer to Marcello’s bed. “Aren’t you the detective?” Dr. Belfourd asked, “Shouldn’t you know these things?”
The doctor propped his chin in his hand as he leaned against the foot-rail of Marcello’s bed. She gave him a rather incredulous look, which he returned with a grin dripping with mock innocence. Blackwell rolled her eyes and leaned in to interject more physically. “Paris, did you not hear?” She asked, “About the Inkling Research Division?”
“Inkling Research Division?” Marcello repeated.
“The IRD,” Belfourd took over, raising and bobbing his finger with each letter of the acronym, “Is a new medical research initiative created as part of the new Inkling-based focus of an ongoing restructuring of dome politics. Head up by Administrator Mason and housed in this very hospital - in what essentially amounts to a broom closet - a small collective of medical professionals and members of the scientific community undergo the new journey of learning everything there is to know about our new alien friends.”
He swept his arms out in a grand gesture. “Plunging into the unknown... Who are they? Where do they come from? What do they taste like? All these answers and more await our intrepid explorers of the strange and unknown!”
... Marcello hated hearing this man speak almost as much as he clearly loved it. “And you...”
“Hosted an Inkling!” Dr. Belfourd stood up straight and gestured up and down along his own body, “What is known as an ‘Elite,’ actually. Polaris, if you remember correctly.”
He stopped then, and his body language changed from performative and bemused to something more ashamed. “I, ah... had that small episode of, you know... aiding and abetting terrorists. You know, like you do.”
Blackwell stared at him, her expression flat. “We recall.”
Dr. Belfourd shook his head with a bewildered chuckle. “And I am... so... very... sorry about all that!” He said, “And now with my apology accepted, let’s move on!”
“Right so you’re part of the IRD,” Marcello said, “Weird community service.”
“I’ll take it!” Dr. Belfourd chuckled, moving to Marcello’s bedside after the nurse handed her a small cup of water. “So, I must tell you, something strange happened when that Inkling hopped inside of you. The first thing I need to ask though is what you remember from the incident. Do you remember anything at all?”
“Just it jumping me out of a tank,” Marcello said, “An... ink tank, which I should’ve known in hindsight. I’d never seen one in person before.”
“Ink tank?” Blackwell cursed, “Where the hell did, they get one of those?”
Marcello shrugged. “With what was inside the unit, I wouldn’t be surprised if they just made one themselves,” She said, “But that’s just a guess. I don’t have anything concrete. That’s the first time I saw that kinda gear on these guys.”
Dr. Belfourd looked between them as they spoke, and chose that moment to cut in. “Anything after that, detective?”
Marcello lowered her head and closed her eyes and tried to remember back past that point. It was all dark. She’d lost consciousness. The memory just was not there. She shook her head when she lifted her eyes again, and Dr. Belfourd pouted at her expression. He stepped away to stroke his chin and tap his lip in thought, then stopped, and then just shrugged. “Ah, well,” He surrendered, “The more interesting part came afterwards anyway.”
“More interesting part?” Marcello pressed.
Dr. Belfourd began to pace as he recounted what he knew. “As I hear it,” He explained, “After the police found you in the street unconscious, they called for EMT backup. The police were able to discern your condition without touching your body, and so the first people to actually come into physical contact with you were the EMTs.”
He stopped, bracing himself on the foot-rail of the bed again. “According to reports, the first one to touch you?”
“ZOOM!”
The doctor made a swift takeoff motion with his hand, which then grabbed hold of nothing and balled his fingers into a fist. “The gray just shot out of you and went right into the poor EMT instead.”
“Oof,” Marcello winced, “Bad luck.”
Dr. Belfourd laughed at her. “Bad luck? Bad luck?” He repeated, “The man had phenomenally abysmal luck! If his luck had been any worse, a satellite would have dropped out of space and crushed him into paste!”
Blackwell and Marcello stared at him, confused. They looked to each other for clarification - whether that be an answer to what he meant, or just camaraderie between them both not knowing what he was going on about. Seeing their visible gear-grinding, Dr. Belfourd waited for the nurse in the room to finish checking on Marcello before he pulled a chair up from the window to sit at Marcello’s bedside.
“You do know that Inklings require something called ‘prana’ to live, yes?” He began, “The word comes from old Eastern spiritual philosophy - prana, chi, chakra, life energy. Whether or not that is what prana is remains to be seen, but for the moment we’re proceeding under the assumption that this is correct. All humans have prana, and that means that all an Inkling needs to survive is to be bound to a host body. The Inkling itself doesn’t even need to do anything beyond that - there is no need for them to manifest themselves in physical space. In essence, that makes prana one of the easiest things in the world to get.”
Steepling his fingers, he pressed his hands together and gestured toward Marcello. “It’s safe to assume through the usual conservation theorem that any action an Inkling takes, and indeed the mere act of existing at all, uses this prana energy in order to fulfill them. That means that it would use more prana to jump from one host to another than it would to just stay put.”
“Then why did it jump?” Blackwell asked the obvious question.
“That’s just it! We don’t know!” Dr. Belfourd said, “In theory, the only reason an Inkling might have to leave a host body would be the failure of said host body. You obviously weren’t dying, though, so that is off the table. Aside from your injury, you’re in perfect health. On top of that, a human’s physical injuries don’t mean much to an Inkling. When they ink you over, the human body just... goes away, and all injuries with it.”
“So...” Marcello squinted, “... uh...”
Leaning in close, Dr. Belfourd gave her quite possibly the most sincere and serious look he’d given anyone in what was probably weeks.
“There is something about you, detective. Something an Inkling must find... disagreeable. To find out what that is, however... we’re going to have to run some tests.”
-=-
