The Hand of Jealousy
She had received a call from her younger brother.
And on Fashion Week.
An-- interesting call. With a great commotion in his "sanctum," where he made all his babies flourish and fly off the mannequins' hard, lifeless bodies.
He must be dying, she decided. Odd that she'd be her first call. Had it been their Mother-- well that old bag wouldn't have told her. And Dad probably knew, being dead and all. Or a dandelion by now. He'd liked all that Buddhist stuff.
She didn't use the bell. Deciding to surprise him of the wine cradled in her arm. If he really was going then he deserved a treat. Just this once.
She'd even cry a little with him.
Having stolen his spare key a long time ago she let herself in.
To where she heard a moan and then a crash. Then her brother mewling his lungs out like Torbin Bates after she'd dumped his own cat's litter over his head. Shouldn't have called her insect fairy of a brother a fairy! Only she got to do that.
And perhaps he'd finally admitted that to himself and got himself a fine, gentlemanly hooker to entertain.
"No! Not Arn I need him for--!!"
He screamed again!
And this time with the thud of what could only have been his fists pounding on the floor as he sobbed.
"Twink!" she cried.
"Oh Pheebs, Pheebs save meeeee," he whined.
Among the explosion of fabrics and gaudy colors was Quinton, besieged upon by one of his female models.
The ravishingly firm and black Ramona mannequin.
Beating him with one of its own plastic hands.
And Arn? Another dummy who was now defiled in orange and black and puce green marker.
Phone out, she flashed a photo. "Hehehe, girlies got jealous you dog?"
And then Ramona paid her mind.
Besides the truly artful work on her lashes... she needed that midnight blue and black for herself... there was, an eerie green about her eyes. And she was sure her brother didn't have that kind of color. Because that color... that color was lighting up the whole studio.
"And who is this whore sweetums!?!?!?"
That's it.
She was going to Exorcist puke across this whole situationship.
Where does the chocolate espresso go?
"So, I'm sure you have some questions," he said, lifting up his small cup, and sipping demurely from a double shot dark chocolate espresso.
"Yeah a few I suppose," I acquiesced, distrust clear on my face. Not that I could hide anything when my pulse and highly advanced sensors gave me away. I wasn't entirely sure how much that scared me. "First off--" besides where exactly does a coffee go when an android has no stomach.
"Why was I born? Why do I feel these things, that I'm not supposed to feel? Can you tell me?"
"Anything sweetheart," he said. My creator held my hand. He was what humans would call a dork with wide bright eyes, glasses, and messy curls. He'd been just as surprised and had quite a few questions when he found his old prototype, deemed defective, on a dating site of all places.
Required
Due to the unbalanced nature of Daniel Moors' testimony, when the drugs had been almost absent, it was readily apparent that psychological dependence had set in. And at the moment he had desperately needed his vice.
However the young man had luckily had enough lucidity to not antagonize the officers or much move when called for a disturbance in the estate.
Due to his incoherence, his erratic behavior prior, due to the fact that the younger brother was petrified with eyes blown wide and drenched but otherwise uninjured on the patio a social worker was called in.
The parents had lost control. Realized so months ago when their son had punched a wall in an exhausted, irritable state one night.
And as it stood had no means or authority as parents to have corralled destructive behavior and violent language.
Olli had become something of a doll, otherwise unaccounted for in matters of the house, in the instances Daniel sober or not deigned to notice him. Sometimes he was in a hugging and crying mood. Other times he was in a venting mood.
He screamed at ten year old Olli on such occasions.
It was scary.
Even though his screams had demanded him to stay there, in one place, far from him while he was so angry.
His eyes had learned to track the movements of those bigger. Take mental note of how they paced, how long their strides, how measured or how agitated.
And from the very start he'd not trusted Dr. Eddal. Hadn't wanted her there.
From the start a requirement to shelve the entire ordeal as resolved was for the parents to submit Olli to a counselor for care.
Specializing in abused children.
She'd been used to horrible. And in some occasions yes, the children did turn into statistics into her mind.
She could only hope every day, try a little harder every day that those ill-suited tracks of thought never showed.
Dr. Eddal first consulted with Olli late at night, not long after Daniel had been detained and formally registered into rehab. Rather than her regular office it had been in a hospital.
The parents or Uncles, the adult family members were often the most common culprits. But there were always the times-- where, "the brother in his stupors would talk in coarse language, extort the child, blackmail and demand from the child to keep his silence."
"We do not believe physical force was applied."
"Marks designated to be 'with intent' are few and far between. Most if not all are now old and partially healed."
She answered his questions.
She asked her own, of how he felt of what he liked and who he liked. What did he do at certain times of the day and when he ate. How was school? There had been a note that he tried out for his basketball team and had been a rat in the Nutcracker show that winter.
Eddal did her utmost to reassure he was a person. A valued person who'd been undeservedly mistreated. In a way no one deserved to be treated.
And with time, in their eighteen months together she hesitated, but ultimately decided that it wouldn't be unprofessional if he considered her a friend.
If it meant his fear of adults all but faded.
Once he'd graced her with his voice, well, she certainly laughed a great deal. She clapped when he showed her the steps for the rat's solo in the Nutcracker. She listened as rules were enforced and the candy and cookie jars were placed out of his reach.
It was a transitionary period: from indulgent negligence to authoritative.
She reminded him it was out of love. She reminded that it was his decision and his alone to see Daniel, to contact his older brother-- his older brother with an illness who had hurt him, who had known so to some level-- when it was safe. Safe for Olli physically and safe for Olli mentally.
She only saw him twice-more after the eighteen months were up.
Three years later and she'd have to correct that.
Setting her purse on the seat beside her a coffee mug had been slid into her hands.
"Thank you ma'am," Daniel said quietly.
Olli had allowed his brother to borrow his phone to call for a consult.
The boys' parents were at the moment, at Olli's school for a conference about recent behavioral issues. Before they were to realize the younger son had set them up to leave.
"Everyone else thinks I was hallucinating what I saw on that road. I'd be a little less pissed if they at least gave me a chance to speak."
"I'd read about that in the papers. You claim to have seen--"
"A ghost maybe, best way I could think to describe it when my head had been cut clean through with my windshield mind you."
Daniel Moors was terse but otherwise composed. He kept his temper and sighed out his frustrations.
"So," he continued with an obstinate shrug, "I hired three high-school freshmen. Okay, two freshmen and my brother."
Brownie
Dr. Seth Morgan, graduate with a Masters and Ph.D in Veterinary Medicine. Owned his own practice after his elderly mentor had peacefully passed with friends and family nearby. Passing on his equally stout and well-worn and loved office to the young apprentice twenty-three years old who happened to have an odd fascination somewhat off-kilter and unsettling to the rest. Of the man's family who were just a little stiffer whenever he got to talking about the matter.
When he told the elderly man he would be greeted in a beautiful light warm and full of a love inconceivable in this life try as we might to emulate it. Such all-encompassing love, forgiveness, and acceptance.
Asked if there were any other wishes, if he was truly sure, that his family would not appreciate to have the practice.
Dr. Seth Morgan was well-versed when it came to death.
In his office, in his operating room, and in his apartment and childhood home there were pictures of a boy. Blond hair and green eyes, down to the face shape and the way his ring finger was chosen to scratch when nervous an exact copy of Seth however not Seth.
Sixty-six seconds seemed to have made all the difference.
Could it be his younger brother had not had enough air? Had gotten hungry? Perhaps his elder brother would hold his neck too long in the womb? So that for a scant moment his eyes saw what was never meant to be seen. And so came about an affinity for this life, the creatures beyond human vision.
Then again, such experiences didn't explain future sight and surely not telepathy.
Dr. Seth Morgan reminisced often of those teenage years. Fall, the season of change and of the greatest pain, just after his brother succumbed to an unlucky genetic illness. When he'd been laid in a casket! At fourteen he'd been in a casket, in his best suit, and done up in the embalmers' makeup so he didn't look so decrepit and \\dead\\.
In everything he and Drake had been identical.
In adulthood Seth even had a knob on his head similar to one Drake obtained-- thank you Jieum Ban-- on an undead investigation.
The day was one of many in a heavy, humid summer fugue.
His secretary was young, eager, and constantly urgent.
However today her well-kempt, professional appearance was foregone. Hair across her face, cheeks furiously red when she'd unceremoniously thrown his office door open.
"Francine--" he greeted.
"There's a boy here to see you, his puppy's losing a lot of blood!"
And with that he stormed from his seat and into reception.
There were a few patients, some here for consult, but on a singular seat where many threw pitying glances was a boy all alone cradling a quivering mass of mutilated, fuzzy flesh slicked with blood. One of which scabbed over in even, equal scratches across the eye.
"Alright son, just give me the poor thing for now. Fran lead him in and kid," Seth said with warmth.
"Ye-- yeah?" he asked, voice warbled in his tears. Fat teardrops still flowed down his cheeks and snot began to trickle out of his nose.
"I'll need you to be brave for a second. So let's stand up," he complimented the child as he did, who used Seth's shoulder for support, "good you're doing well. Okay so I need your name, the puppy's name and what happened okay. And once that's done Francine can patch you alright."
"But-- but Brownie! He's never been without me before! He-- he needs and I need him!"
"Shhh, shh, I know I know, come on keep going," he urged. "Right now Brownie is fighting really hard and he's going to need help sooner than later."
The boy's breath hitched.
Continuing toward the operating room Seth turned back, smiling at the child. "It'll stress him if he hears you're crying. But I promise, on my job and my title that I'll do all I can. You did the right thing bringing him."
The child thought for just a moment, before his watery eyes set on their resolve.
"He got bit by another dog!"
And so did he. His leg wasn't bleeding anymore but the cut was still long and had stained his whole calf red.
"The owner said he'd gotten that awful monster his shots which yeah is probably true else animal control woulda taken him after he ate a stray cat and Mrs. Warbler's colorful birds."
"Dear," he replied.
"Yeah no kidding."
Turning the door open the boy shouted for the whole building to hear; "I trust you! So you better save him big brother!"
There was no time to think on it or to address the sudden rush that stole the air from his lungs.
What mattered now, was the sweet friend called Brownie.
Gently setting the dog on his side, he flicked on the overhead light.
Turn on the faucet, water boiling hot he washed his hands of the blood.
A pair of gloves snapped as he put them on over his hands.
Mask.
Surgery cap.
Francine had called ahead to have the set-up ready.
Then it means she had seen the child's injury too. That would be a mark positive for her evaluation tonight.
From just what he could see there were several lacerations across the pup's side.
Teeth had punctured the abdomen to the stomach.
They'd clamped down on the poor thing's neck too. He worked on getting a sheet over that so the poor thing could breathe.
Get him on a mask.
One of his interning veterinarians had came back on Francine's call as he readied to make the first incision.
__________________
\\Save him big brother!//
Seth had changed into clean scrubs as he went to face the child.
Seated in Francine's chair, spinning lazily.
His leg had been tightly bandaged and from the extra pink slip he'd been given a prescription for his physician and parents to look into.
"Oh hey..." any manner of cheer was bluntly dashed at the look. The pity.
And in the solemn way he pulled off the mask.
"I'm sorry son."
"But Seth, you studied. So hard and a whole lot. Vet school's hard."
"Yes it is, but I-- I'm not perfect."
He ignored just how this child knew his name. Perhaps he'd read something.
The tears came even as the boy tried to smile.
Continued and held his voice captive even as he tried to reassure the adult: "thank you. It's-- it's good you tried. You-- You did a good jo-o-o-ob!"
And he broke down.
"Hey, hey its going to be okay. That's alright just let it out, let it out," Seth soothed.
"Do you want a hug?"
"God this body cries too much!" the child screamed.
"Hmm I bet it does," he agreed.
"I wanna hug."
"Thanks big brother," he said into Seth's shirt.
"Okay listen, I can let you see him for a few minutes and then you'll have to call your parents so they can pick you up."
"Don't worry, I don't want to cause you trouble."
"That's good, come on," he said offering his hand.
"So big brother huh," Seth prompted, hopefully to get more information. He was well aware the most likely explanation was simply that he was in a state of distress and the child latched on to Seth for looking like an actual elder brother.
"Yes," he said. "You're my big brother. But I wish we didn't have to actually meet this way. I am really, really sad about Brownie but," the child squeezed tighter, "I've never felt too sad when you're around. Even when I died."
And Seth stopped.
His head went fuzzy and it distinctly felt that he would collapse. What-- no. No way. That was impossible.
But, he still had a child who was severely disturbed or something else wrong.
"I'm so proud of you. I saw all the drawings in your office," the child smiled.
The child with black hair, brown eyes and was Latino for crying out loud! This wasn't-- this wasn't real. Not like ghosts and restless spirits and ESPs were real. He had examples for those!
"Seth, Seth please don't be scared. Y'know I never did meet a reincarnated person so I didn't write about it in any notes or my diary. Hey what did you do with that by the way?"
"You aren't-- kid how long have you been in the sun? Have you eaten? Do you feel any pain besides your leg? Oh," he swallowed away the lump, "I didn't even ask. Does it hurt?"
"Did you get married?"
"That's not important," he said, now employing a much more stern tone. "We're talking about you and listen please just tell me your name."
"Oh, yeah my name's Enzo now. Lorenzo Ortiz."
"Okay, okay and you live around here Enzo?"
"Was it Maria?"
"The Mother Mary?" Seth tried.
"Oh Gods do you call her that? Does she hate it? Well alright, maybe a little less if you guys maybe realized some feelings were there after high school. Or did you reconnect after so many years in that little old town where she had the yellow picket-fence clubhouse?"
"Wh-- what?"
"Hey Seth! Took you long enough so come on tell me, tell me."
"That house--"
The yellow clubhouse that twenty years ago was probably a storage shed in the backyard of a newlywed or newly moved couple. He never did know as much about his friends' childhoods as he should.
What he did know is that in ten years, that yellow picket-fence clubhouse, was for the self-made Occult Club.
"Yeah, yeah," he dismissed. "But seriously how is everyone. Look I'm as surprised as anyone, I couldn't tell you who or what or why, much less even when it was decided for me. They got the math way off making me wait so long. Whoever they are."
"Maria. Maria Schaer?" Seth inquired, "En-- Lorenzo, do you mean Maria Schaer who lived at Blackberry Boulevard when she was-- when she--"
"Since she was born until I assume she moved out for college right? Okay not her then, soooo sweet, artistic Anne Danvers. I read about her, she's doing pretty well for herself as a gallery feature. God if only Mom, well new Mom, had the money for that sort of thing. But, I can always track her down when I'm a teenager."
And in his eye was a strong glint, the shine of a will much bigger than a body that size should feasibly be able to hold.
"Oh and our parents! Seth you haven't been too much trouble since I left right? I mean look at you, if you aren't engaged and girls are still obsessed with you but no surprise though you look like that," and there was an old sense of bitterness in that tone.
Again, completely discordant of a five year old.
"Drake!" he cut into his rambling, because he'd heard scant little about-- about the how that Drake could so helpfully explain.
There was no telling just how much Dr. Seth Morgan could take before clocking out early and hitting-- something. Likely copious amounts of Chinese food and sugar.
"How are you?" he asked quietly. Since for one, his dog had just died. Mauled to death. And he'd brought in the too small critter in alone.
It hadn't set well with him from the start.
"I don't get what you-- you're looking at me really weird. And I-- I can't tell what you're thinking? Is that weird I mean I at least, geez, we were never weird like that but still."
"It's okay. Take your time, this is, this is a lot. For me too."
He had come down to his knee, looking at him straight in the eye and just wanted to keep his hands clapped on this boy's shoulders forever. His clothes were of faded colors, bands with skulls and three sizes too big.
All not good.
"I am fine so please don't look like that. Teachers have been giving me those looks too and some of my Mom's sisters. They've been acting mean and I don't know why."
Drake crossed his arms, face in an epic pout. So that even when choked up and ready to explode Seth let out a small, watery laugh.
"Well then can you tell me, honestly, why you chose that shirt? It's way too big."
He looked down and then back at his brother as if he'd asked something quite stupid.
"I-- I liked it. I dunno I didn't before but I guess I do now. Oh one of my cousins, he plays his guitar all the time at his house. Said he played riffs in my ears from when I was one."
"Hah. Okay, okay you're a cool cat. And should I--"
He pointed at Drake's tiny ear. "Do you hear ringing or anything? How does my voice sound to you when I--" he drew out his lips into long, rounded vowels.
"Completely silly. I never noticed just how silly doctors were. Hey, do you think I could have been a good doctor? I mean most kids I handled were already dead..."
"I think you'd have been an excellent caretaker whatever way you chose to do it. If that was what you would have settled on."
"Did you ever get that spa off the ground?"
"Don't you even," he started, only for Drake to laugh. "I'm well alright I'm not sorry but I'll stop."
"So practically a little brother in this life then?"
Patting his head, Seth started to stand. Only for his knee to creak and a girly squeak to force itself out in response.
"GAaaggh."
It took more time than he'd care to think about to get back up so they could see the last of Brownie.
"What happened, did you get a bypass from an eighty year old or something Seth?"
"No," he snipped, "that's just what happens when you're middle aged."
"Don't let Mom and Dad hear you."
"No kidding."
"You seriously thought though, that my parents don't treat me right did you?"
"You have to admit wouldn't you? How many kids did you see that looked lost and abandoned that were actually dead?"
"Okay I see the point-- except I'm not."
"Not anymore."
"I came alone because home was too far and Mom would have asked too many questions. It would have-- it would have taken too long," Drake wrung his shirt, gazing down at it with melancholic eyes half closed a bit like his puppy.
Gently Seth unclamped his brother's hands from his shirt. "Just breathe alright. Listen we can wait in reception or we can spend some brother time in my office," he made sure to keep his voice somewhat muted, temps and assistants as well as the other two senior vets were walking around, "anyway we don't have to--"
"It's okay. I do want to. Please."
"Okay."
Drake gently caressed the dog's head, fingers just over where the eye had scarred.
His voice choked up. "I really, really loved him. He was actually what helped me remember stuff. I'd found him while walking with my friends, he was filthy, full of nicks and fleas too. My parents had to deep clean my clothes."
Seth simply stood in silence. Securely standing over him as he grieved.
"He'd almost bitten, until, I remembered somehow. To let him sniff, to speak slowly and gently and stay very still until it was ready to come out. Because you studied on that stuff. I remembered how you named your puppy Shadow! Since you found him at night and you almost missed him when walking to the bus or to home?"
"To home," Seth said. "And Shadow he, he passed away too. Just a year ago, maybe they'll meet each other."
"Yeah!"
Hand on his back they stood there awhile. And much like handling a puppy Seth was silent and he was attentive to any body language, any prompt to ask when.
All at his own pace.
When Drake was ready he turned for the doorway. "Let me tell Mom about you and you can meet her, she takes real good care of me. Promise."
"I'd like that."
Only a ruckus preceded their exit.
What sounded vaguely like a woman's voice.
Until both Francine and another older looking lady burst in. The latter scooped up Lorenzo in her arms.
"Hay mi cielo me distes un ambolismo. Que estabas pensando con ese perro talludo y por Dios ni llamastes, bueno no sabes el numero," she scolded, yet all the while nuzzling him close to her chest.
"Thank you sir, and I'm sorry if he's caused a fuss or caused a disturbance," she rounded, in a thick accent that Seth could only guess might have been Cuban of all things.
"No senora, era una alegria. La cosa es su perrito--"
"Si donde esta el pobrecito?"
"Ahi. Perdoname."
"Ay hiciste todo lo posible estoy segura."
Seth couldn't help the degree of confusion but answered in the affirmative anyway.
"Si perdon, my English. Isn't good yet."
"No worry at all," Seth assured, "but senora may I speak on something? Your son-- Lorenzo--" and his face just twisted. Because much as he was now Lorenzo Ortiz he was also Drake. His Drake. His twin.
"Te dijo entonces. Esa historia de la otra vida y el gemelo."
"Senora, me dijo de su perrito, como el mio. Me dijo de mis amigas."
"Una obsesion, casi enfermo de esta clinica desde que podia leer."
"Leer. Read?"
"Desde que tenia tres. Veterinario-- vet-- su palabra favorita."
Brother Sister, Brother, BrotherSister
Note: I tried Horror exactly once as a long-form story and it ended up better matching an Urban Fantasy or Paranormal.
**************************
The first night, no matter how dangerous, how bullheaded, and unbelievably insensitive to Donna's constant badgering or the motherly hysterics from Mom, Cole had visited Josh's little grave when his sister had first been lost.
Following a long, long, loooong coming "first date," with who had seemed a sweet, somewhat dweeb of a Tony McGuire fanboy.
There was a sleet of harsh rain at two eighteen in the morning, battering the cemetery. Completely stealing away his voice having barely opened his lips.
After all, shadows among the stones, or peeling up and down from the green bed of grass and jauntily blossoming sprouts from fresh mounds could very well be ghosts. And the very moon in the sky full and lustrous, was really a metallic drone watching and recording.
"I'm telling you little brother there's something out there. I knew that upswing of reported crop circles had been important. It's such a cliche but its completely possible they either don't care or don't think its important. For goodness sake if they've committed the perfect kidnapping not to mention figured intergalactic space travel what do they care about what us bugs think are patterns," he ranted and raved. Sounding crazy as always, in just the way that drove Donna insane. In just the way that swept him up and could sweep him away from his thoughts.
Of the too small, too beautiful gravestone. But Josh deserved nothing less, had been so, so much, and died much too young one summer's afternoon on a camping trip upstate with his scout troop.
Dad had spitefully sued the neglectful teens on duty and in fact the entire chapter to the ground.
"Dad wants to kill Zack," Cole informed to the silent marble. Not much of a marvel, hardly worth the waver. Despite knowing the poor, sweet guy was the last person to have been guilty. "No really, not just the usual, though that was funny to watch," and a genuine if not brittle smile came to him at the thought.
Then again, there'd been some tempers flown at Donna too, she hadn't told anyone they'd transitioned to dating.
"Let me tell you about what I found out, see there's this Occult website that sells really well and their products actually look homemade. Each one has its own flare," he continued on, smile hitched on his face, gleaming oddly in the scant light, "I-- I bought this salt, see we'd have maybe gone demon hunting around the woods and other such places dotted around, it's supposed to protect against demons and evil spirits."
Cole emptied the hemp bag in a negligible circle, careful with each palmful, that about half still turned to paste in the storm.
Saying a prayer, about twenty or so minutes later, Cole said his goodbyes and biked against the wet pavement, slippery and squeaking, fighting the tires and shocks of his once shiny new mint bicycle.
Able to creep back into the yard through the purposefully unlocked lawn gate sopping wet and stripping down to his boxers disposing of the offending clothes in an empty basin meant to be filled with a sizeable plant. Alarm set for a couple hours so he could take up collecting and piling the clothes into a couple hours with the dryer.
Well, that night turned to two then three and four, for five weeks without exception. He began to resemble a skin walker himself off his conspiracy boards, constantly grimy, stinking of wet soil, so, so grimy, itching everywhere scraping his nails across flesh to rash-worthy red.
Cole had been forced to admit, exclusively to himself that when the sound of the pipes dripping just underneath the wall, was his own heart, somehow outside his chest someone somehow dead. That something, some unholy thing wanted to devour him that he may have been losing his mind just a little.
He had admitted to a lesser crime, he admitted to meandering //inside// the house at odd hours unable to rest, so his parents permitted he skipped school.
And selfish as it was, Cole couldn't help but boast that included an exam in the dreaded literature class.
It took something of a terrible person, that once his head did hit a pillow, Cole slept without complaint. Without nightmares and without question. Of whether Donna would live or die. When. Or if she was found.
And in fact they did find her.
A very nice homeless man called the police and with the proper tests done did in fact ascertain there'd been no foolishness.
And the momentary flash, red and made of primal, inherited vitriol abated.
The good man had done a very good thing.
A very, very good thing.
"Hi! My name's Donna! I'm four years old! I don't, I don't know my full address yet," she said, hand distorting her words.
"Oh!" she shot out, pointing to Mom, "that's my Mom, her see and Dad too."
She giggled at her shaved head, squealed in naive curious fear of the bandage at her head.
Making her whole family flinched in how closely she fingered a blatant hole that had caved her head. Slick and sticky with blood, too much blood and fluid.
Somehow Cole still slept through the nights.
Some nights he did sleep through the way Donna wandered around the hall where the bedrooms are, eyes wide and in some way glazed. Somehow dusted with a silver there hadn't been before.
Other nights he heard her, humming an absent, toneless song in an airy fairy-like voice. Fitting for her delicate, ethereal young age.
In all seriousness, Donna had never been so, so... dim yet curious.
Her little red black button up easter dress always came back as clean as she had left in it.
However the doctors had said to expect it.
Even if it did prickle uncomfortably at Cole.
The little parts of Donna that came out wrong from that place she had been in.
But four year old Donna had cried when fed celery and broccoli at that age. Which had allowed him to be the good one for once.
And now she balked at the concept of meat and the dead animal.
Mom and Dad, the doctors, heads lowered in such pity concede all the manner of gruesome things she could have encountered.
Once the concept had finally sunk in, that like some fairytale her brother had grown big without her, she clung to his every word and asked a myriad of questions.
An otherwise perfect impression.
If it weren't for the unnatural misted shine of her green eyes and the sheer oddity of her childish smile.
Cole tossed and turned at night. The word skating across his brain.
Skin walkers. Dead. Changing faces, skin dirty becomes clean. Crops. No hair, no prints. No struggle at all.
FAKE.
Donna, was a fake.
His breath had just about turned to ice when the door knob turned.
Creak
Creak
Creak
Eyes bored down his nape.
Cole reluctantly sucked in a breath past the sudden marble in his throat.
"Are you awake?" she asked shyly, maybe wringing her hands.
"I had a nightmare, I was scared."
Cole kept his silence.
"Can I sleep with you?"
//I'll keep the nightmares away!//
Cole had once declared that, announcing an impromptu sleepover as the neglected older children with that pink ham named Josh around.
The thing that looked like his sister crawled into the covers.
Settling in contentedly next to him lying close enough that her nose touched his back.
"Are you okay? You're tense, really, real tense."
A Superhero, the Secretary, and Breaking Into the Manor
He'd not meant to be sick, he really hadn't.
And now, he could hardly reach his phone.
Which the always unflappable and chaotic Mr. Wainburr had way too much fun tormenting him with.
On a good day he would scream and shout and complain, perhaps threaten to fib-- much as he abhorred doing it-- to his Dad to get the man demoted from Director's good graces. Wilhelm used the man's name sparingly and never without reason. Otherwise, he was the cruel, brilliant, and callous Director who puppeteered the organized Underworld simmering just beneath the surface of a truly picturesque and lovely suburban town.
But his head simply hurt too much and fever plunged his brain to boiling water still on the stove despite dense, vast swathes of steam and the lingering tinge of gasoline.
He moaned to the sheer despair of this situation.
To which Wainburr stopped the laughter and jeering nicknames, having fun with the little son.
He placed the phone down, still out of his hand's meager reach, and sat himself on his other side, facing his back and the bookshelf.
"Do you want a classic or those comics you like?"
"Manga," he complained, "Shoujo." A racking, raspy cough cutting off anything else.
Once it settled he requested the penultimate volume of his latest romantic reading endeavor.
"You got it Heartbreak."
He cringed, hearing his moniker come out of an enemy's mouth.
A dubiously aligned enemy but still-- he was an enemy long as he worked with the Director. His Father.
******************************
Wilkes couldn't be considered presentable.
Just an hour ago having contentedly enjoyed his stories in a fuzzy pink robe ashamedly stained with barbecue sauce over a few loving years where they'd gone through many takeout boxes and some cheap beer every few months.
He'd not had time to fix his bedhead once the kids stormed through his house making a ruckus, clearly having individually cut school.
He had not agreed to adopt teenagers.
Nor for those teenagers to stalk another innocent kid who likely knew nothing of what was going on.
Nevertheless he took their information and made use of it to get a blueprint for a wealthy, cutthroat executive's private estate.
"Willie says his room was at the highest floor, furthest from anything and anyone else. Gave him more privacy and more opportunity to sneak out, especially with the overgrown old hedge maze in the way."
"There's three ways to get into that room through the regular entries and hallways," Eli pointed out, fingering both the North and West avenues of the main centerpiece of the property.
"Yeah, only he also installed an escape hatch or something of the kind in the room a month in," the leather clad boy surmised, sipping at his drink as his aviators slipped just a bit. His uniform sloppily done and barely compliant with his dress code. "And I don't believe for a second that the added benefit wasn't being able to steal him away or intrude at whatever time the Ol' Yeller saw convenient."
"Then we should make sure to take out that entryway and any security bound to be there," Eli concluded.
"Alright kids, I'll deal with that," Wilkes decided, having so far watched them in silence, letting them lead.
While he wasn't completely sure this situation was the nefarious kidnapping and torture plot a long time coming he'd be hard pressed to take even the most minute suspicions less than seriously.
That little Oliver orphan boy had somehow weaseled this disgraced hero with bad joints and a watch list of guilty pleasure melodrama stories on TV out of both some expensive car parts, nice little keepsakes and pictures-- before returning them-- and into an odd spot of affection and Mama Bird territorial instinct.
Besides, these new kids in the hero beat, breaking several laws acting independently and the like, were on this particular Crime Lord's list all the same, they were going to confront the man, better they begin to pick up how to keep the battle on their terms and at their paces. Send a message and send a warning.
Whatever was the matter, the little orphaned Heartbreak wouldn't so quietly disappear into nothing. And this Director would need to know that intimately before he considered raising the "disciplined" hand.
"Likely he'll come to check in during his lunch break which according to the company and Raji's visits is ten past one, with the travel to the manor already accounted."
12:45 would be crunch time.
"Through the rose gold bathroom window, that's a blind spot on the mounted cameras, from there beeline for the office, and then across the hall Rayo," Eli said to the leather jacket Vampire Boy, "keep watch from that room, I think its either a parlor or a display room for something or another."
"And no stealing anything," Wilkes added in an authoritative tone.
"Geez fine," he sulked drink empty, tossing the empty plastic cup into a corner trash bin.
Wilkes checked his watch. "10:50."
The trio rushed out, tearing through the door into the driveway. On it Wilkes kept two cars, one a decommissioned undercover vehicle that would pass for an old, shuddering powder blue minivan.
***************************
In an almost deafening silence Jason Wainburr tensed, never at ease in too serene of circumstances. His hyperactive, always morbid mind made and wired for intrigue and violence.
An empty bowl and its tray were in his hands.
Nevertheless he took a deep breath, conscious of his heartbeat, satisfyingly loud and strong.
The boy had settled into some much needed sleep and he'd been cooperative to boot. Having downed the entire thick cream clam broth and a hunk of simple white bread.
"Goo' nigh.'"
And without another thought settled with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and tranquil. It stirred an unexpected sense of "caring." in a region of his body he'd been sure was carved hollow.
Jason was aware to make sure the door didn't groan and squeak too loud when he shut it and even walked in longer, more graceful strides than usual. Not too easy in platform combat boots.
Care is an odd emotion to have. Care had often been associated with guilt, associated with leverage and control.
What he should, as any decent human being, propose himself to care about.
Did he not care, about the very few things in his life that had earned affection? And what was wrong with him to not? Had they, who were nurturing his talents at great expense to themselves, done something?
Absolutely.
But it had done nothing to do about //caring.//
Eventually the word itself became a vile one tasting sickening on his tongue.
And anger had taken its place. Dark, uncomplicated, consuming anger that had simply snarfed his heart whole as recompense for the troubling presence of a meat suit that had entrapped it's amazing force.
However Jason by no stretch hated children or even resented them. Did not demean them, did not generalize them into yet more faceless inhabitants of a reprobate of a society. Did not, would not, wish them active harm or dirty his hands.
And in that at least, he and his chief, superior, and housing agent were the same. The man this adopted son of his so spitefully insisted was just "The Director."
He had liked paternal, uptight, and radiantly generous and content Heartache from day one. Had thought, it was unfortunate he surely had a loving family, Jason would have otherwise snatched him up and never let go. But no, instead they played their game. Seize him, jab a needle in his neck, then fight a bit or let him puzzle his way out in a right fit that put him in a spandex wedgie giving mood.
That never failed to have Jason laughing, even at the honcho's death glares each and every time. Mocking each and every rage when he broke yet another set of crystal studded wine cups or delicate computer discs full of crypto.
Once the stuff was washed and put away in the kitchen cabinet, Jason dried his hands intent to give his boss a status update. And remind him not to fill his lunch break with the usual bitch-fest with the old, bitter ladies in fake emeralds and imitation snake skin bags. Since he'd already been bursting at the seams about his son he spiked a fever.
Being a known fact, of course; "heroes don't get sick! If they did I wouldn't need the gas or the morphine to keep that kid alone, still and not in a biting mood for more than three minutes!"
His phone speed dialed the number.
"Yes," drawled his boss in disinterest and disdain palpable.
"Hey dickweed just wanted to give you a heads up, Wilson crashed already."
"WHaT!" he yelped, voice cracking at the edge. "Oh my goodness--"
"Into his bed, he's asleep."
"Well don't scare me like that," Boss man groused. "You know he looked awful in the morning, didn't even--"
"I know, I know, didn't even have the energy to ask if breakfast was laced with truth serum or how he'd loooove to get the name of your explosives contact."
"Or that mercenary who hit his precious Underdog," Boss agreed, "as if I needed to rent a missile when two fingers would crush baby bird's skulls. Anything more is just in terrible taste."
"But he is... better now is he?"
"Yup," Jason assured, popping the 'P.' "Look sir, he's gonna be wiped for a few hours at this point at most with the headache before the medicine really starts kicking ass like it's supposed to and yes I checked on the off in a billion trillion chance it was expired. He's still coughing and frankly pretty gross stuff coming out his nose but that's normal. He is a snot-nose."
Sarcasm was heavy in his voice. Boss got so mom-like, the chance was too hilarious to pass up. Ah, this kid, this kid was heaven.
"Yes, yes of course. And well he doesn't know does he? That I'm coming by?" he asked tightly.
"Yeah you hired me cuz of my big, fat, sensuous mouth sweet cheeks."
"I can and have whacked other assistants for less," he reminded in a weary, unfettered tone. Ughhhh, exactly why it was hardly fun anymore and why he liked the occasional rise from Will. Kid still hadn't gotten the concept of a scabbed over, grown-up facade.
"I think we both know how that ends," and just to really hammer it in he blew a singular, pucker of a kiss to the phone.
The exhale that left did not sound wholly healthy or polite but it did the trick and made a nice tingle shiver down in a very special spot.
"Well good, I'll still be by, but otherwise make sure he sleeps. He needs the rest."
"You got it. See ya."
"Yes, see you."
And with that the line clicked dead.
And Jason could stop looking pretty leaning over a pristine crystal counter and instead sit pretty in the grand library with a Stevie King.
That had been the plan at least.
And is what he would report a few hours, before the alarm had gone off.
Only abruptly cut by the Blackout procedure.
Active for the event of assassins.
Objective: Confounding Variables, Contradictory Feelings
Lately, Emile began talking of the future much more often. Telling of just what it would look like. If Abel saw so fit as to stay, how happy that would make him.
"I can assure you, you would never be left without the essentials. Hugs. Or tickles!"
Much as he would yell, which he put a cap on now, he never couldn't laugh.
"We'd have all the time in the world to spend together whenever you want. And face it, it can be pretty soothing huh, to make those yummy pastries for breakfast each morning."
There were also, slight, quite little remarks made ill of the old home. Where Abel had lived and Emile been employed.
Abel had asked, somewhat feigning nerves, of becoming involved. Playing with others and doing something outside the house.
He had baldly requested, to be paid for his work enough to buy his own little things.
Since surely at this point he had earned some manner of trust, dissipated some of the tension that had began their living together.
Besides, wouldn't the adults then begin to look at such constant hovering as over-protective, unnecessary? Domineering.
Emile had laughed, once he'd come back to himself from the nasty shock of such accusation. But allowed the points anyway and delivered.
"You know Abel I'm not sure your parents would appreciate this sly side of you," Emile approached, as he brushed his hair one evening, "the one I've gotten to know. So manipulative."
"As few distractions as possible is my recommendation. His hours will be scheduled accordingly for studies."
Mother took many of the things in his room. All manner of his robots or puzzles and figures. The video games too. His entire collection.
"Why are you taking those? Those are mine." More, just about all, he had earned for his excellent grades. His tutors always making a huge fuss.
"No distractions are better for you," Mother replied, "you're-- you aren't like other children and I'm sure you can manage." A slight smile on her face, brief but mildly encouraging he'd admit.
*******************************
One bothersome night Abel tossed and turned, unable to quiet his thoughts.
"Then you aren't or are you?"
"Geez what, did your parents give you up for being such a nuisance-- that, that was wrong."
Violet had turned red, she looked close to crying that day.
Abel couldn't quite remember when his smile was so automatic. Or his voice tinged in something soft and honey-sweet.
"That's the loudest you've ever raised your voice."
And then he flattened his expression back, "you know Violet, whatever you guess is going on what are you going to do anyway? What could you? Would people even believe you?"
"I'm scared of a lot of things," she agreed, "I don't wanna be but I am, people are-- they're scary."
"You would still try to help though, even when it is? When it is really bad?"
Abel smacked his pillow flat, taking it in his hand and moving it just a bit so he could fall back onto it in his discomfort.
Except it was a wonderfully soft bed and a squashy pillow that perfectly molded to fit his head and prop his neck.
Only his mind couldn't focus on the small comforts.
Instead it fixated on the door. Using the dimes and nickels, pins, nail, and various other tools he'd attempted to practice the skill. Picking locks, so as to perhaps access the locked room not far across the hall from his.
Having practiced his own door, he'd been able to lock and unlock himself in his room, out of immediate notice.
He tried the master bedroom as well, with less success but not complete failure.
Yet Emile was either aware of his trials and allowed him the entertainment or simple bad luck sullied his pursuit so that even when he heard a barely audible click was it always time for dinner.
And another, somewhat related: why?
The simple question of motive. For all his time and all his careful finesse he'd come no closer to discerning a reason.
Why did Emile desire a child so strongly and obsessively?
Why kidnap a child rather than getting one by legal means? Adoption, surrogacy, a private affair with anyone else.
Better yet, forsaking a job and career where he could work with children. Always young and malleable, over and over again for all his days.
And of all options, he chose someone like Abel. Now that was possibly the biggest query.
Why a serious, gifted child with no interest in silly immaturity and all his games?
Fact of the matter, Emile made a subpar adult.
He always had.
"Heya there, I'm Emile your new... nanny I guess, your Dad, the boss, calls it assistant though," the new man laughed. "But let's be honest here I'm a nanny. Which means, we get to play all day!"
Emile quickly put his hands down upon the lack of response.
"I don't, see any toys here. Now Abby, did you get in trouble?"
"Ridiculous. No, I am not in trouble you would have been informed if I was. Would you prefer sitting or standing while I read?"
"Not even a videogame! That's a crime. An absolute crime Abby!"
And laid down upon his bed where the ceiling was a beautiful tribute to a distant galaxy lightyears away that swirled green among eternal black.
"Come on, look at the stars with me," he urged. "It's really, wow that is seriously amazingly nice."
They'd spent hours like that. Emile per usual, possessing the most superficial, and often wrong, of insights on topics such as the stars.
Leaving Abel to guide the impromptu activity or games of all sorts.
There were often days out to parks and stores, getting candy or other baked goods and sugar from vendors on the street.
Many times there were "just because," trinkets and outings. Often at breakfast time with stealth and secrecy as if he'd actually dare not clear things with the security.
After the first time he'd been hauled straight out of his shoes. A hyperbole, however no less... amusing to bear witness. Even if there'd been stony silence from Father that day.
And that cursed assurance.
"Way I see things Abel you're the only one that matters. Long as you're happy and smiling that little smile," poking at his nose, grinning quite widely himself, "that's the one, then I've done my job. You just say the word, I'll do the deed."
Like a robot or a genie. A fairy godparent-worker thing!
"Really, fairies neither? Oh that is just wrong, we're fixing this!"
Under his covers, trembling from an absent chill or the thump-thump-thump pattering of his chest he wasn't completely sure.
Simply, Abel pulled. So the fabric covered his mouth, almost his whole head when he curved his spine.
Even before Emile had shown up, Abel had put in countless efforts of work. Given scant coins as a reward.
So that in three years he saved enough for a whole hundred dollar bill. All by himself.
He and Emile had both been shrill to see the number.
One. Zero and zero. With an inconsequential o' eight cents after the decimal point.
Emile had jumped into the pond, despite its futility, to get that bill back when his smaller hands had let it go.
"Why did you do that? It was unsafe."
"True, useless too," he said, frowning at the smidgeon of dark green mache paper, "but well it was important to you."
And it was the easiest thing in the world to say.
Abel raked both hands through his hair.
Strong, scratching and annoying confoundment striking so fierce it physically struck right between his eyes, biting his lip Abel kept a steady breathing pattern locked inside his diaphragm.
And perhaps, that was why the room was locked. If he opened it, would he find a much less flattering sort of obsession.
An answer to these questions, settling his mind once and for all.
Photos and newspapers of all sorts, not just the family with one exceptional child, but of all manner of children. That in the long run, Abel was hardly any sort of special.
Plastered all across the walls and the floor like in the crime dramas not meant for him to have been watching.
Strictly restricted and monitored once Emile had found out.
Perhaps he had some drive, encompassing some matter of children as a whole.
He did harp quite a lot on what a child is supposed to need and to have in service of certain needs. Much different ones than stimulation and enhancement.
Or was it simply where he kept the evidence? Perhaps false documents, identifications, some of the adults had spoken to Emile about whether Abel would be enrolled into school for the fall.
It couldn't hurt to ask at least, about what the plan was there.
Much as he resented it, there was only one place to turn for answers.
Shuffling out of bed Abel kept his steps quiet and even, barefoot toward his bedroom door, closed but not locked.
The sound of it made him wince, he'd have to remember to tell Emile it needed something in the morning, otherwise the sound would get annoying real quick.
Keeping his pace on the vacant hall brimmed with deep bluish film Abel treaded carefully of each floorboard, of the longer than wide rug used to decorate the space. Minding that he didn't trip or stumble until he reached the closed master bedroom and turned that knob as well.
The fleeting notion of all he could do while the man slept did occur to him. But was stamped down cold, considering quite concisely that he was far bigger as evidenced by the bigger bed needed to accommodate an adult.
Emile never had or much less mentioned it, but that did not mean he would not starve Abel of food and water if he felt sufficiently threatened of his capabilities to do harm.
For a few moments he simply gazed at how his captor so peacefully slept.
His breathing slow and methodical, by his mental count coming in even intervals.
Mouth constantly open.
Abel wasn't completely certain on how to ask for this certain need.
Did he dare admit it? That at the moment, he required an adult to ease his mind from unpleasant notions and constant questions that would not stop.
And yet, wasn't he still the one in control at the moment? In fact, he'd dare say he hasn't had this manner of autonomy since before this entire ordeal.
Any degree of control, was worth taking full advantage of. Permitting himself the metaphorical chance to breathe.
Therefore taking away the (nonexistent) possibility for the man to refuse as he nestled himself into the thick comforter beside him.
Jolting Emile somewhat awake.
"Hmm. What? Izz tha' you?"
"I couldn't sleep," Abel whispered.
"Oh, oh nooo," he slurred, "diyou have a nightmare?"
Emile yawned, swallowing back something or another so he could speak more clearly. "Well don't worry I'm here. And you're safe and sound."
"I have questions and no they cannot wait until morning," he replied, voice firm and with the kind of authority he'd been accustomed to exercising in that house.
"Alright then, ask away, but mind you I cannot just wake up so excuse me if I still need a-- need a aminute to think."
"That is acceptable."
Matching the way Emile turned to his side, held up by his single forearm under the sheets.
"Could you lie back?" Emile asked, "maybe I can stroke your hair, that-- that used to soothe me. Still does actually."
Abel though for a moment taken aback complied anyway. More than likely the concession would put his guard down. And in such a weary state, say more than he should.
"Emile what-- what makes me special? Why fixate on me when you could, well perhaps abscond with a more compliant child? One who would appreciate your games and the like."
"Abby, Abby," Emile mused, fingers through his scalp in such a light way that sent a pleasurable shudder through his body-- that drew him almost breathless. "That's exactly why it had to be you and only you, you just as you are is who I care about. What am I going to do with some "normal child?" That type is well and good exactly where they are in the world."
His soothing continued, continued to send a pleasant numbness throughout his extremities, forcing his focus on simply warm, larger hands handling his scalp with such skilled precision.
"Such as 'round here, Abel did you know that a parent's love is one that loves their child so completely, with their entire being, that in some ways they come to see through that child's eyes?"
"Is that-- is that what occurred?"
Abel's question turned to a whisper. And did that perhaps provide some high akin to that of a drug or illegality?
"No," Emile answered, pulling Abel just a little closer to himself, wrapping him up in an almost burning warmth. "No I don't believe anyone looked at me that way and in fact not anyone around me either. I don't know why."
"That wasn't what I asked," he complained but slowly waning in his resolves.
"Do you, even like children?" came the next question, uncomfortable, terse.
And Emile gripped tighter.
"Just the opposite. I adore them, in fact I'm in awe of sometimes how much stronger they are. Whether that's because they're just made of some grittier stuff or if its since they so easily go into their delusions."
"Delusions?"
"Abby, no one helps children. No one helped. No one cares to hear them or let them speak at their own time or in their own words."
"What-- what is it that you like about me? Particularly?"
"I suppose the way you look me in the eyes, the way you spoke without restraint or some may say respect for your elders."
"Because you're absent-minded and silly, and completely unaware of social niceties or etiquette yourself when it comes to other adults."
"Well I don't like "other adults" very much, how about that," Emile pouted. "Like I said, they never listen, never give us the time of day son."
Abel wasn't sure he had processed that correctly.
Most, yes. And Emile had gone silent as well. Then did that mean-- was it a slip of the tongue? Calling him son of all things?
It should have been obvious in retrospect.
"If you want an answer as to why Abby," he hated that nickname, "I want you to be loved just as you are. There's nothing to prove here, I'm here for you just as you are. You are a good son, please believe me that you're a good son."
Abel finally pulled away, expecting laughter but only received a low, lazy whine.
A good son.
Simply a good son.
Wait, Emile was an adult. What did he mean they never listened--
Oh.
Abel felt cold.
Absent of a soothing repetition. If he could bury himself in enough warmth and enough of the soft garment, falling asleep to the constant rhythm of an unfettered heartbeat...
Abel could forget that he'd ever been sad, had falsely attributed what was surely cloying, poisoned affections.
Objective: Pass-fail.
And So Ye Has Decreed: Execution
Seventeen-year-old Abraham Sooth ended his life by hanging, found by the housekeeper in the service house, two miles adjacent to the main estate.
As of yet it is unknown what drove the young man to suicide.
As of yet, it is unknown that a soul is stained and marked for judgement. Their crime, the sin of murder upon an unrealized life, a string severed too soon and by pain so cruel and excessive.
It bordered on the barbarity of Hell itself.
HFUISHZZA OHDUHIUWGE JIOQHWUI GAMBEVIR
DHUIWOQUEPB HDHOWOKDJOWW HDUOWVERVIZZ
And so decrees ustice given form as thee breathes life.
Eyes black.
One Week: The Walking Death Little Brother Wellness Campaign
Day 1
A nice Monday morning, his request for a swap of patrol radius luckily accepted.
Okaze-- no longer an agent of the Matsukaza Agency-- had in that spirit made sure to don civilian attire.
And kept his distance within the delightful lawn of the apartment complex where the children could play or the teenagers make out or do their homework.
The perfect point to spot the subject of this log. Shibuya-- surname as of yet unknown-- throwing a single, frosty goodbye to the villainous Walking Death inside.
In the black and white spring semester uniform for a reputable public school costing a pretty penny. He snapped a quick photo from behind his newspaper.
All the news the same sequence of dull, dull, dull and boorish nothing news.
Shibuya was kept well at his peripheral, who it looked was eating a sorry breakfast of a single bagel. Some manner of box cumbering his hands to open the latch.
And then he startled upwards, the teenager with no warning changing course.
Okaze dove under cover of the comic pages, the Sports section unfortunately lost. The sheer tragedy that was.
He knew full well who had just crushed and mutilated the page underfoot, it was undeniable. Nevertheless he kept his cover.
Kept a steady hand and began to hum, lazily licking his finger to turn the page.
But Shibuya wasn't having it.
Forcing Okaze's attention when he shockingly ripped the whole thing in half.
And on his upturned expression a glare so cold and repulsed even his unassuming, unremarkable cobalt eyes looked to flicker some manner of malicious gleam. Something resembling red.
Okaze was shamed to record, Shibuya's simple, elegant cruelty struck him speechless. Made all manner of grim possibilities-- many bloody-- pass under his eyelids.
With no manner of acknowledgement, no manner of emotion at all he simply grumbled and strode past.
Then-- Shibuya had been spied on before? Tailed before. Then he should have been on file.
Yet observing the careless gait and slouch of his retreating back such a thing seems beneath his notice, an anomaly for someone his age unless...
Unless those who'd stumbled upon Shibuya No Name-- were well and truly dead.
Okaze couldn't stop shaking even as he kept quickly tear-filled eyes on the Room 4155 he'd been held captive in not three days ago.
Day 2
Okaze had foregone any means of concealing his face. He did amend his civilian guise to include a truly ridiculous sports hat, sporting the large and boisterous likeness of a sneering Obake mascot.
Concealing a unnaturally violet color and black length.
7:25.
Shibuya should, well, a student wishing to be on time should come out now.
Unless his brother owned a car? Surely nothing legal.
And perhaps that's why its a non-sequiter. Stalker or no.
Mr. Takeda had not killed him yet.
7:40.
Goodness where was he?
There'd been no disturbance of the residence. The walls could very well be sound proofed. A nefariously clever idea, and all too likely of the devastating Death that walked the city.
So that if Shibuya ever did cry for help-- then again he couldn't quite imagine-- Okaze smiled, feeling the expression wooden on his face, Shibuya would scream abuse and all manner of insult right back.
Of that he could be assured.
He meditated on the comforting idea.
For all of two seconds.
Shibuya!
The ghastly behaved boy had thrown a book at him this time but it didn't matter he was safe and by the looks unharmed. Otherwise he wouldn't so brazenly wear his usual short sleeved school issue clothes.
Once again an icy glare was the only sign Shibuya hadn't perhaps mistaken the strange bench dweller as some hobo or a trash can.
Okaze made a mental note to record the lettuce stuck just below his lip. And fingers coated in some honey brown condiment.
Before inspecting the item having clubbed his head by its sharp corner and now lay at his feet.
A white hardback book, with Shibuya's school's emblem and the title: School Honor Code and Conduct.
Flipping through the pages Okaze set his eyes to eagle vision, finding just a flash.
Code.
Anagrams or a veiled message from himself or the villain!
If it was it was no good code. Hardly usable as he'd circled all of Section Five, security protocols and repercussions in red.
Ohhh, he had circled all the punishments and repercussions in red.
Including, so helpfully lined by smugly smiling chestnut chibi, that school security was armed and permitted to use their tasers should student or staff endanger the property or student body, and the interventions for cases of stalking.
Day 3
Okaze was ready.
Well and ready for whatever Shibuya had planned to make him go away(?)
Force him to talk and spill(?)
That part wasn't as clear.
If he so loathed his presence that much he was certain it would be easy to point Takeda at him and so like the rabid animal he is the Death would comply.
Stiff and legs tucked, hands at his lap he mustered his most neutral expression.
From here he could tell how Shibuya's lip curled.
Alright, there was perhaps no intentional maltreatment or abuse to report in the home. That said, surely his needs as a dependent not-yet-of-age child should have been the responsibility of a friend or a family member, ideally someone paid and non-villainous.
The proof was in the pudding this was not exactly the most stable of, pudding.
Literal pudding.
In a custom crystal dessert plate.
His gaze was no less cold however not as-- revolted?
Okaze smiled.
Graciously taking the offered breakfast.
Too late did he consider either Shibuya had been asked or forced to poison the hero popping in everyday.
Day 4
Yesterday's ill form shall not be repeated.
Okaze swore it up and down.
He swore it from his bathroom mirror to the offending apartment lawn, that became quite the nice rest stop every morning. Until two when he was forced to move on if he wanted to hand in accurate safety and crime witness reports.
This time too, he decided to move position.
Apparently Thursdays and weekends Takeda presented for some job as a contract debugging and cybersecurity expert.
Rather than his normal perch in the sun near the exit, he kept to the shade and shadowed under the balcony of the building's two wings.
Shibuya, unabashedly, made a valiant ruckus.
Forcing out his brother who was done up in respectable work clothes, trying to get a word in only to be silenced efficaciously.
Okaze supposed, in a fondness so unexpectedly grown, this was the Shibuya in top form.
Now that still wasn't great. At fifteen, he'd hazard a guess it should be the older rushing the younger out for work on time.
And why go back inside?
By his watch-- a very good and dandy watch-- it was time for his school to start too.
Okaze remained, for just a few minutes, all senses turned to dog and primed for the archived scent of sweating leather and peppermint breath mint or the scuffing of pristine shoes.
Shibuya, Shibuya he quickly realized then and there never smelled the same any given day.
Because he smelled of whatever meal the brothers had that morning and the lunch the school served.
Just when he came out to the light, did Shibuya find the empty bench.
Though it would be the polite thing to do, Okaze realizes this would be important. He must see what the boy would do now.
His otherwise unaffected mood turned sour and mullishly grim.
Flinging his leftovers in an undignified heap.
The flier in his other hand he glared holes at before tossing in the can.
Okaze set to rectify this immediately, barely catching an angry Shibuya.
Who again, glared at Okaze's smile and the hand so they could formally meet.
At this point it was only decorum.
Else how could or what would he do but eat such a nicely made, heavenly tasting bok choi curry broth.
Day 5
So, coworkers had been asking questions.
His supervisor was getting testy.
That was an unexpected result since as evaluated everything was up to par.
All his paperwork and his patrol duty fulfilled with excellent evaluation across the board.
His supervisor recommended speaking to the designers and support team about some manner of sack or pocket to store food if that was what was needed. Or to the counselor if stress was eating away at his evening hours.
And his vacation days had been untouched for the two years he had formally begun work.
On yet another record, an incident report about a violet haired school boy:
"Did only the mandated time of psychotherapy despite the school and prosecution offering to pay at whatever plan decided upon by family and teachers."
Okaze diverted, only stopping briefly at the brothers' apartment, sticking the notice on the door of neighborhood watch hours. Including his work number to call in emergencies.
This time he perched in the air, eyes manifesting "Scan," on passerby and the coming traffic from intersection.
9:15.
Shibuya would be in just his first class.
Far as he'd known he attended and didn't make a habit of skipping.
"It's five, school is out, and I have no social life."
If he did skip there'd certainly be no place he was interested in going.
Which meant he would just meander before inevitably returning to his home.
12:55
His stomach growled.
The day had somehow been rougher than usual.
Seemed every goon and Henchmen United mob had decided to go out and paint the streets red that day.
And much of the town's underworld was tied with a single entity of bad guy.
So, this was his move.
And was that a threat?
Well if it was...
Then it was imperative that Shibuya be in the good mood and go anywhere else but the sight of imminent butt kicking for once.
Or he could throw some thousand yen at his face. He wondered what it said that the gremlin seemed the type.
Hungry as he was Okaze refused to let the train of thought pass him by, not while he had it.
And then the beam nearly clubbed him.
There was an adult man with horns and a lumbering build, lumbering, toward Okaze who had frantically leap away from the blow.
Oh and look at that behind him.
Seemed people did pick up the little brother on occasion. Who clapped at the goon, in a sardonic manner before sitting right there on the ground with his phone turned sideways.
By what the hero managed to see before squirreling out of there was that, possibly, he did what he liked around the house with his brother's full approval.
And bankrolled by bounty money turned into that night's meticulously planned cake.
Day 6
Saturday
After yesterday where there'd sure enough been a delightfully tart strawberry lemonade cake Okaze had really followed out of a growing inquiry.
Could he so trouble Shibuya and commission a birthday cake for his own mother.
Once he was sure the question would come: did his mother happen to be humiliatingly short or lanky and horse-like, oh and also be made up?
Safe to say it, Shibuya had been late to cram school that day.
And the older brother was in a charitable mood. If charitable meant laughing his buttocks off.
Day 7
It hadn't exactly struck him until now. Not from the beginning of this entire endeavor that had been systematically and maliciously proven for a farce, Shibuya truly had nowhere else to go.
What else could the answer be, when he sat here, beside Okaze and silently offered a bite of some sweet bread from a neighbor.
He'd seen how Shibuya that night had dismissed the woman in his usual sarcastic and disdainful ways.
That went so hatefully ignored. Or so Shibuya would insist upon that nosy old woman.
She was thirty try again.
Okaze didn't dare ask for how long he'd while away his time here. His very important time.
Each time he thought to ask he quickly shut his obtuse, obscene mouth.
He stayed well past his patrol that day, waiting with him until big brother got home.
Just when the idea had come, much too late, would Shibuya perhaps enjoy seeing his agency or a dance club.
He had only just opened his mouth, when Shibuya pulled Okaze by his high collar so he could see what he did.
Takeda frantic in his sultry, humid leather running for home.
Pulling him down to submission as he steamrolled by. His poor abused neck.
Balance Means a Spot of Good, or so Moral Philosophy Would Claim
Soo, the Boy Scout always at that podium and uber anal about the exact dates and technical names to these stringent, ancient 'moral rules,' was going through something.
They'd had a feeling there'd been some instance pricking at his head about this situation.
With a chili pot, chocolate candies, and those God awful marshmallows that could not be quality assured or even treated to not got stale, whoever's job on chemicals that is.
Jaydee figured, fuck mental breakdown, non-violent or supposedly messed up, he could get behind. And the prof surely wouldn't mind today.
So he shambled along with his shoulders, phone light on and recording.
"There are four primary principles of thought in moral philosophy..."
"But here's the thing my little chili babies."
And Jaydee by that point raised their hand.
"I am so sorry," lieee, "but that-- we can eat that right?"
"Was gonna maybe get dinner outta the way now, but fine. Thanks for ruining that, dildo-wad."
Bro.
But whatever. Jay was too hungry at this point.
Seriously that pink T-shirt was God-awful. They hoped the scratch of where such a hideous article may have came from faded once the chime sounded for lunch break.
That prof may have had a point, Jaydee quickly decided.
Having taken to lazing in the shared dorm's couch as his last two for the day dragged on.
Yeah, guy went on a whole rap about nihilism before some six out of ten blonde in size five had burst in and just held his hand like it was Senior Year 1989. Right out the room.
Jaydee had been hoping to nap after that chili stopped setting his insides black with acid. Completely ruined that, thank you, as they couldn't very well just loiter.
They'd taken the time to peruse some of their books, take a multivitamin and some benzodiazipine cookies laying about in the pantry.
Huh, that thought might have worried someone, Jay certainly shoulda been but goddamn if it didn't feel good.
So, did it really matter? Really, where he got his relief or where the stuff had come from. The kind of people you'd have to see for a discontinued, obsolete little OVC drug?
Jaydee continued reading that book until it was finished, picked up a new one, and finished as well.
Splaying his legs and having abandoned his pants straight when he locked the door.
Falling asleep as the anti-anxiety meds took hold.
And waking to find the door had been kicked in so his roommate could promptly bitch.
Absolute bitch. Last thing they needed right now.
"JD, JD. How are you today-- I... miss you whole lot, Felicity too."
His tongue heavy and scraped to sand they moaned for water.
Glass of water, yeah and surely that would make the headache go away.
Only, that face, it wasn't familiar.
"I need you in my life, I wasn't complete without you," poor young dweeb. Why did such a young person need a degenerate so bad anyway? Who'd failed such a cute looking little kid so badly?
It was not college age, it was hardly a human face at all.
As Jaydee suddenly turned half blind and well and truly out of his body.
Frick, they were not wasting all that time at a hospital.
April 15th, 2068.
Hurl. They were gonna hurl. Real bad and real right now!
"Eb, EBB!"
"JD!" he squealed. And then quicker than bird's wings relieved his overnight bag. Quickly bulged to bursting with gross vomit.
Jaydee was not paying for this!
Oh bollocks though they so were. Couldn't have the new kid, prodigy no less, dragging that trashy basic ass tote to college. To. College.
Wild and disgustingly joyous as Wyatt's pealing cries or tight his hug, it didn't leave his Iridescence to mind how battered they still were.
Having come to the hospital showered in dangerous, cutting burrs of glass and marble tiling or the minute bits of rotted aluminum and tin in the walls or ash places in place of proper fire in a 54th floor containment floor under wraps and out of public view right at the heart of the state's qualified super destruction riots. Hero and villain always at it and never satisfied. "Halfway house," would be the old word.
Those who would just do the job know what bad form it would be to tend and fluff the worn down scoundrel's pillow. Or talk their ear off about their paper flowers and how the now calloused and supple, delightful raw cut hands were doing.
He hated Wyatt's caring or how he'd kept up running commentary through each show running episode of basic base comedy during that peaceful enforced sleep, all a little less.
He cared about stupid Iridescent and his perfect smile or theatrics a little more.