Season of Reckoning - Episode 8

Season of Reckoning
Ordinary People. Extraordinary Abilities.
Real People. Unreal Adventure.

Episode 8 – Ahedres
Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
Co-directed by: Rebecca Yu and Benedict Almirol

Previously, on SR…
“This detective can’t be allowed to live, knowing what he knows about us.”
“We’re going to create a bank system that sells superpowers.”
“But you do have a record for being this lazy. Chester, you’re failing. Badly.”
“When have you ever needed a second opinion, boss?”
“Patty, you could probably spend time making some pretty, pretty posters.”
“Find David. No…find Adre. He’ll know what to do. Run and don’t look back.”
Now, SR continues.
___________________________________________________________

The smiting power of the gods rocks the battlefield with a terrible tremor. Armored horses clatter to the ground, riders still strapped to the saddles; castle towers collapse, sending frightened holy men scuttling for cover. Royalties take the folds of their robes in hand, defiantly elegant, as their soldiers look up to the heavens for reckoning.
“For Christ’s sake, Terence, stop with your incessant quivering.”
“Godammit, Gab, make a move already!”
With a deep breath, the Living Statue rights all of the fallen pieces, and melds the edges of their chessboard with the table. The sound of Terence’s protests are lost as he retreats further into his own vast mind. Four hundred years’ worth of battle strategies comes into play, crowding around the stars and galaxies, the mountains and cities, the ocean depths, and the faces of his companions. Dimly he makes out the shapes of Lydia and Noel, huddled to one corner.
“When I think about how close we came to ruin…”
“Get off my case, Lyd. I handled it!” Noel retorts. He hastily mixes up a jar of ink with his pipe, as the Tattooed Lady pulls up her divining stool. A clammy gust of wind from outside extinguishes the candles dripping on the shelves; wisps of smoke like ghosts fill the tent.
“Yeah, Lydia, quit bein’ such a stiff,” sneers Terence, just as Lydia drops her sequined shawl to the ground. The speedster averts his eyes; Noel didn’t like anyone messing with his sister. She shouldn’t have been an exhibitionist, then. “Speakin’ of… Gab! Just eat the pawn!”
Lydia clasps her hands together as Noel lightly taps her bare back with the tip of his pipe. Ochre and blackberry sink into her pores; tattoos of Dom, Claud, Yvanne, and Desi bubble to the surface seconds later. “The detective, the runaway, the secretary, and the villainess. The web thickens, and all the specials are flies, drawn to the gossamer.”
Noel runs his thumb over Lydia’s skin. “What’s her name?”
“Desi Mina.”
From the table at the front of the tent, Gabriel stirs. “David mentioned her.”
“Puppetmaster of the Icarus incident,” Noel mutters.
“And conqueror of the Company,” adds Lydia. Noel’s brow creases as Gab’s golden lips straighten into a faint smile. Debts had been paid for at last.
“Whatever she’s planning, we need to get in the way of. What does the ink say?”
“Not enough,” sighs Lydia. “I’m not a precog, Noel. You know that. I only see what my ability lets me. Hmmm… She has a team, but…each eye has its own prize.”
Tattoos of Domz and Renz take their place beside Yvanne and Desi. The four depictions shove and push against each other, hissing and writhing, before settling with their eyes averted from one another.
“Let’s get out there and mess ‘em up,” coughs Terence, brandishing one of his favorite throwing knives. Its curved edge glints before Gab, who urges one of his knights forward.
“Brilliant, Terence!” cries Lydia. “Play into their trap. If a special draws government blood, we’ve all but sealed our fate.”
“I don’t get it,” the speedster shrugs. “What does she want?”
“Us. All of us. We’ll be traded like slaves. Our abilities…rent from our bodies.”
Noel grabs his petrified dahlia staff, resting against the shelves. The coarse wood under his palms moans. “We have to protect our family. If Desi plans on swooping in and snatching up all our brothers and sisters… We have to get to them first. This wouldn’t be a problem if Golda was doing her job properly.”
“You send a teenage girl to a teenage boy. What are you expecting?” scoffs Terence. His hand zips across the chessboard, pushing the rook as far up as it can go.
“Your prodigy won’t be in for a while, Noel. We’ll have to go to the specials one by one. Individually convince each one of them of the danger they’re in and the protection they’ll find under our big top.”
“But where do we start?” asks Noel, as he leans in and begins to tap the chessboard with his tired fingers. The pieces jump up, and Gabriel holds them down.
“With Desi. The key to victory in this game of generals is not in numbers, nor strength, nor Fate or luck. It is not in the mastery of your own pieces, but those of your enemy.”
Terence’s haughty laughter disrupts the silence. More candles flicker out.
“Yeah, karathead? You can’t touch my pieces. That’s against the rules.”
Gabriel laces his stubby, golden fingers together and raises his chin in defiance. Lydia pulls up her shawl and joins them at the table, looking back and forth between the three men.
“I can’t choose your tiles,” the Living Statue concedes, arching forward, “but I can make you choose them for me.” As he says this, he pins one of Terence’s bishops in place with his rook. The speedster, unthinking, flashes another piece into position. Gabriel’s queen barrels forward, cornering the king, and the game is over.
“We need a way to keep track of Desi’s plans. Know her move before she does.”
“How?” asks Terence, rolling his eyes. He picks up his king and tosses it to the ground in disgust. Lydia dusts it off, and places it back in his hand.
“With ink, and a little help from Ms. Patty Bonifacio.”

*****

“Keep your fingers to yourself, Albao.”
Desi turns her attention to her technological consultant, reduced to a starry-eyed child at the sight of The Company’s vast collection of scientific instruments. Some of them she could identify – electron microscopes, centrifuges, and those things that looked like irons that doctors were always using to bring the dead back to life. The rest was a complete mystery - massive columns that opened down the middle and swallowed up test subjects, three-pronged needle guns, and something that vaguely resembled a guillotine.
Domz was enjoying what had always been to Desi just another set of shiny trophies that she, the rookie, wasn’t allowed to touch. For her first order she could have Domz explain them to her. Or perhaps have him take them apart. That would drive her prisoners nuts.
As she thinks this, she throws a smug look at the painter gasping on an operating table. Just another sign of The Company’s failure – their best precog was obviously malnourished. She could’ve used scotch tape to tie him down.
“Elucidate something for me, Ms. Mina,” says Domz. Desi smirks; for some reason, the scientist was always trying to put on an air of authority. His efforts were of course thwarted by his constant lisping. She didn’t see why he bothered. Everyone knew who was pulling the strings.
“What is it now, Domz?”
“You wanted to take over your father’s banking corporation so that we could sell people powers. But as I understand it, the abilities are attached to the posthumans. How do you trade something like that?”
Desi had been hoping he’d ask. She’d been dying inside, waiting for someone to bring it up. The suspense was wasted on Renz and the soldiers.
“Evolution gave them powers; now evolution is going to take them away.”
That ridiculous face. How she hated it when Domz’s lip folded in that manner.
“Tell them to bring in the catalyst.”
Sighing, Domz obeys. He steps into the hallway for a moment, and when he returns, he is followed by three armed guards shoving along a bear of a man in shackles. He was uncannily large and hairy, with dark skin, and dead, tired eyes.
“Mr. Albao, meet Catalyst J. He’s a posthuman with a very special ability. It can’t be used for combat. Shall I tell you the history behind him?”
Domz’s shoulders sag as he realizes he doesn’t have a choice. The guards push the catalyst into a corner, and point their guns at his head. Desi pulls up a stool and daintily folds her legs to the side. She primly brushes her blouse with the back of her hand, and clears her throat.
“My uncle, Dale Garcia, was a posthuman researching on genetic mutation. In other words, he was trying to manufacture people with powers. He created J as a way to transfer perfected abilities from imperfect patients, so that they could prolong their studies.”
“You mean this man,” says Domz, gesturing to the so-called creation, “can ---”
“Yes. He can take powers from one person and give them to someone else. Boys, unlock those cuffs. I’m about to give one of you the ability to paint the future.”
The guards waste no time obeying orders. Desi’s puppet strings run taut through J’s veins, and she motions with her fingers to move him forward. Ancer groans against his restraints, now profusely sweating.
Domz watches as J’s broad, plump hands close in around Ancer’s neck. If the catalyst was trying to fight Desi’s power, it showed only in the remorseful black of his eyes. The scientist realizes he must’ve been in her possession for quite some time. His spirit was broken.
Ancer begins to squeal; the CEO closes her fingers around empty air, and J follows suit. The shadows of the guards leap at the walls, rising and bending over the ceiling. Pale, twinkling red light escapes from J’s hand as he sucks the painter’s lifeblood away – not the gentle glow of stars, or the warmth of a candle, but the eerie glint present in a snake’s fang, the hopeless warning light of a speeding truck in the pouring rain.
An audible crack.
Desi maneuvers her beast toward a guard, who flinches. She holds him in her power as well, stilling his quivering legs, and forces J to grab him by the shoulders. The light flashes once more.
The light was dying, Domz thinks. Dying with every ray.

*****

Jethro could think of few benefits to having a ghost hovering around him night and day. One of those invented advantages was the ability to blame his awkwardness on someone who wasn’t really there. If he knocked something over, it wasn’t him. It was her. If ever his shoes were to begin sliding away from a confrontation – well, that would be his mysterious voice dragging him away.
If she was here, now, on the second floor back landing, she wasn’t being much help. He was going to have to face Chester himself. Everybody liked his best friend when he was asleep, and to some degree when he was awake, but nobody wanted to be near Chester when he was angry. That would be like stepping on a rabid dog’s tail with a pair of cleats.
“Dude,” he begins, gulping, “we’re super running out of time. We’re completely beyond unprepared for Paskoncert. If you’re not gonna practice Hymn of the Wind with Elise and Ma’am Kiel, then you might as well rehearse with me.”
Chester’s eyes remain shut; the rest of him remains anchored to the unused table sitting outside the stuffy journalism room. Around the corner to their left, the sopranos are threatening to shatter glass.
“Not now, man. Can’t you see I’m not in the mood?”
“Screw that,” pushes Jethro. He was half hoping Chester hadn’t heard him. “I’m gonna pull the you-know-what for you-know-who during our performance. It has to be perfect. Let’s go rehearse.”
His lanky friend grazes his teeth over his lip. “You don’t even have a song yet.”
“Because I need your help with the lyrics!”
Chester leans forward, kneading his temples. “Poco! Jethro says he needs you!”
“What? Wait, I can’t -”
There were a lot of things Jethro was afraid of. And a lot of those things were easily avoidable. All except awkward conversation. He whirls around to leave and comes face to face with Poco, an eager albeit confused look on his face.
Jethro jabs Chester in the shoulder, praying he doesn’t hit back too hard. Instead, the synesthete hisses. “Leave me alone, man. Go be bros with Poco.”
Walking back to his guitar, Jethro casts a quick glance at his much shorter classmate. What did they have in common? Homework. And not having a promdate. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to talk about that.
“Look, dude. Seriously, you don’t have to uh, help me out. I dunno what Chester’s problem is.”
When Poco begins to speak, Jethro jumps. He’d thought the kid had walked away.
“He’s having trouble with acads. He’s in danger of failing some stuff. And uh, dropping out.”
Jethro frowns. “What? Since when? Why didn’t he tell me?”
“You, uhm, never asked.”
The crisp sound of Jethro’s guitar case zipping shut momentarily outweighs the sound of the rest of Strontium hitting high notes. Jethro sighs, and turns to Poco again.
“What else did he tell you?” The musician’s brain scrambles for information, pieces of Chester’s long winded stories. It’d been awhile since he’d had to sit through them. In hindsight, he kind of missed them. Sort of.
“He’s a special and…so are you.” Poco manages a grin.
What did Chester think being special was? It wasn’t some coupon you could wave for free food. Didn’t the guy have any common sense? Never tell anyone you’re a special, unless they’re a special too. Maybe not even then.
There was one exception to that rule, but he was long gone.
“Chester just…thinks he is.” Jethro didn’t know why he’d said that. He knew perfectly well what Chester was capable of. David had told him so. “Anyways, thanks for the concern, Poco, but you really uhm, kind of wouldn’t…get it. You know? Sorry for bothering you.”
As Poco turns away, Jethro hears him whisper. Poco probably didn’t mean to say so himself, but Jethro heard him. “Yeah. I guess we normals wouldn’t get it.”
Perhaps it was his size that so reminded Jethro. Or the distance. Something about the moment was painfully familiar.
“Actually, dude…wait.” Jethro lays a hand on Poco’s shoulder. “Here. This is what I wanted it to sound like. Maybe you can…find me some words.”

*****

Even the homeless wanderers who stretched their weary legs by the side of the river rarely ever gave it a second look. Nowadays, Pasig was cloudy and featureless, merely an extended pool of mud that was always looking for a pristine ocean. Anyone who bothered to turn their heads and glance was assaulted by the smell of neglect and dying fish.
Unwatched and unnoticed, two specks travel along the river’s length. The first races over the stagnating foam, just a blur throwing up a soundless, muddy trail behind him; the second soars over the surface of the water, creaky wings straining to keep up with his companion.
The two approach a bridge, and within seconds, have landed on a shabby tugboat bobbing under it. One of the figures throws open the trapdoor on the deck, and both duck inside. Pasig lazily murmurs goodbye, sapped of the vigor needed to lap onto the banks.
“Light, Joseph,” says the older man. He snaps his fingers brusquely.
“Yes, Sir.”
A weak incandescent bulb, hanging on gnawed wiring from the ceiling, flickers open. David takes his fedora off and squints to get a better look at his survivors.
Slumped onto a crate is Wren Benzon, her once long black hair hanging in an uneven cut around her hunched shoulders. She bucks, and the distinct splash of seasick vomit echoes across the room. Benedict Almirol rubs her back, sighing, as one hand goes to his electronic visor. He turns a dial, providing himself some night vision.
Father JI Bautista’s long legs fold underneath the only chair in the room; his priestly robes are draped over some sandbags and rope. Sean Fortuna stands facing the wall, one hand rubbing his neck; his forehead droops and thumps on the wood every now and again. Romeo Manangu has one hand grabbing the low ceiling beams for support; his left arm is in a makeshift cast.
“This is it?” David asks. His mossy brows knot. Again, JI, familiar with the unique sound of a heart pumping sap, turns a jaded eye to him. The plant-man takes a step forward, and puts a hand up. His vascular tissues tense; an empty breath transpires from his lips. “H-how,” he mutters. “How fast?”
“Half a day, eighteen hours tops,” growls Benny. “They took everything. Caught everyone. All except us. You’re looking at the only Company agents left.”
The bulb sways as the boat lurches. It fizzles out for a moment; when it comes back, Jowi has returned with some packets of food and a couple of water bottles. Wren straightens up, and begins to sob.
“Condition,” breathes David. He turns to Benny, who avoids his gaze.
“JI – tired but without a scratch. A couple of razor blades lopped off some of Wren’s hair; apparently the ones sent to the Palawan branch can’t follow orders as well as the others. She’s not so good on water. I’m okay, but my glasses were stepped on. Jowi has a bunch of cuts from running through jungle; he looks like a tiger under those clothes. Romeo’s arm is broken, effectively making him useless in battle. He’s still pretty good for filching supplies though. And Sean…”
Benny turns to the youth dragging his palm across the wood. Sean licks his lips, shakes his head, and then walks away, deeper into the darkness.
“Empaths sustain powers on memory of the special they copied the ability from. When Desi broke his neck, he used a borrowed ability to heal himself. But after that…he couldn’t access any of his memories. Ergo, no powers. Boy’s lost himself.”
David pauses for a moment. His stomach was heaving. But only so slightly.
“Where was I when this happened?”
Benny doesn’t respond, and the words die on David’s lips. Something silvery from the opposite side of the room glints; heavy footsteps, like anvils being dragged across the floor, approach them. Where the pale light touches the figure, there a fist is raised. No one moves to stop it as it connects with David’s jaw, carrying about as much force as a speeding freight train.
“That’s a good motherfucking question, boss!”
Adre seethes as his thrown punch knocks his superior off his feet; the mass of branches and vines tumbles to the ground – the sound of timber collapsing. JI has jumped up, and Wren’s hand goes to her lips in dismay.
The agent raises his fist again, ready to mash David’s face to a pulp. Dust scatters as Jowi zips between them, holding up his injured hands.
“Why are you defending him?” roars Adre, as he pushes Joseph aside. His metallic fingers drag David off the floor by the collar of his trench coat. The two are now eye to eye. “We are broken, goddamn you! How could you do this to us? We mourned your ‘death’, your ‘transformation’. We lost our leader! And things just went downhill from there; heaps of shit piled up on your Company, and we were left to deal with it. And then you came back!”
“Enough, Adre,” says Benny, telekinetically dropping David back on his feet.
“I’m not through with him yet!”
The infuriated agent rams David against the wall, snapping his shoulder blades. As sap leaks out, more vines grow in place, healing the wound. The impact throws clouds of dirt from the ceiling; rats shriek and flee from their hiding places.
“You came back, and I confess, goddamn you, that I had hope. I was glad to see you come back, even if you were screwy in the head, because I thought you were going to save us. I thought about all those years I’d been working for you – I even lost my fucking arm for you – and I thought it was all over, you’d come back! But what in holy hell did you do? You went to teach ABC’s at some high school!”
Adre’s fist moves even faster than Jowi, sinking into David’s stomach.
“What did you think was going to happen, huh, boss? You could turn your back on twenty five years of lives that you changed? You could pretend you never led the Company, that you’d taken the other road? Because you weren’t there on the day that headquarters was attacked, our agents are now at the mercy of some psychopathic bitch!”
Telekinesis forces Adre to his knees; Jowi zooms past him, taking David up on deck. Wren’s tears patter to the floor. Sean sits beside her, taking her hand. His eyes, blank and uncomprehending, scope out the room. Romeo sighs.
“Let me go, Almirol! Let me go!” Adre bellows. “What do you have to say for yourself, David?! Come back down here and man up! Own up!”
“Adre, shut the hell up for a second, and listen to me!” cries Benny in anguish. “Do you think any of us had it easier? I had to leave all of my men, all of my friends, and run! Like a coward! Beating David up over this…it won’t change anything.”
You fought. You did everything you could,” hisses Adre. “I will never forgive this sorry excuse for a man, because it was his fault I couldn’t fight to save the only thing that ever gave me purpose in life. The only thing that ever meant anything to me died with him, and he’s still here, breathing.

*****

“Ugh. Here, take these, Domz – they’re really more your caliber.”
Desi rolls her eyes, and with a flourish, deposits a stack of drawings onto her technical consultant’s lap. Mr. Albao flips through them excitedly, before realizing that the collection of glorious acrylics he was expecting is actually only a series of childish stick figures.
“What happened?” he asks, a similar disgust in his tone.
“That nimrod guard should be sent back to preschool. Maybe then he’ll figure out how to color inside the lines. He says he could see the future flashing before him, but obviously his painting skills weren’t up to par with the special’s.”
Domz tosses the drawings to the floor, and leans back into the velvet cushioning. Desi reaches to her side and brings a delicate glass of wine to her lips, spilling not a single drop even as the limo passes over some jagged road.
“Where are we?” the inventor asks.
“According to Picasso, his drawings are supposed to predict tabloids being published – articles linking me to that bonehead politician Renz and revealing the true nature of The Establishment. Obviously I can’t let that happen. We should be nearing the warehouse now. We’re going in and putting a stop to this.”
Her companion takes a regretful look at the images penciled onto the paper at their feet. They looked nothing like what Desi had just described.
The limousine screeches to a stop, and the new executive practically kicks the door down. Her polished heels make contact with the chipped sidewalk, and as she straightens her blouse, she looks around. The building before them looked more like a shack than any sort of printing press; its roof was lopsided and the windows seemed unusually foggy. There was a big NC stamped across the doorway.
Domz follows Desi inside, brushing aside several cobwebs. “Are you sure this is the place?”
“One of those drawings was of you and me standing right here. I don’t understand. Where are all the newspapers?”
The door slams shut with a gust of wind. Domz is pushed aside as something blurs past him; Desi puts up her hand to protect herself, and feels a light prick to her skin. The door blows open again, and then all is silent.
“What the hell was that?” hisses Desi, through gritted teeth. She looks over her arm, and finds a black liquid oozing into her pores. She screams, and Domz rushes over, grabbing her. The inventor has mere seconds to observe the ink form a tattoo – a she-demon, with wild hair and terrifying claws – before the dye disappears completely.
“Get that looked at,” he says sternly, turning to the door. The mischievous cockroaches scuttling by his shoes alert him to the chaotic pile of grey and black print in the corner. “There are your newspapers. There’s not much on them, though.”
“We’ve been set-up.” Desi dabs at the tattoo with her handkerchief; when she lifts the cloth, her skin is smooth and ink-free. “Somebody’s trying to waste our time, and doing a very good job of it, too. Get moving, you oaf. I have work to do back at HQ.”
As the limousine pulls away out of the street, Domz looks sourly behind him. The warehouse has disappeared, leaving only wild grass growing on the empty lot.

*****

“Elise, do you mind if I borrow this for awhile?”
Chari was used to getting what she wanted. But early on she had learned it was always infinitely better to ask. After all, Elise was a girl, and Chari was always getting favors from boys. Besides, this was her friend’s treasured keyboard, given to her by an upperclassman from her old school.
If there was one thing Chari could understand, it was mementos.
“Sure,” Elise replies, sticking her tongue out and winking. She turns back to the tenors, and whacks one of them on the head with a copy of their contest piece. “Open your mouth! O-shape!”
The way Chari could feel their eyes on her as she slowly, daintily walked away could’ve been enough to make her drop the keyboard. She takes it, mildly straining with its weight, to Chester, still immovably distraught around the corner.
“Please tell me, Chari,” his eyes closed, “that you’re not here to convince me that I’ll be okay. Because you wouldn’t be the first person to try.”
“How did you know it was me?” she laughs. Chester is unable to fight the grin forming on his face. Her accent was adorable – which was a stretch, as adorable was not really Chester’s word.
“Strawberries,” he says, inhaling. He opens his eyes just as she sets the keyboard on the table beside him. She ropes the cord along the opposite edge, and takes his hand. Gently she presses his fingers to the black and white. A couple of notes trill away.
“I know how the colors make you feel. I wish I could see them with you.”
Chester nods, drifting back into darkness, as he plays with the music. Red, pink, and gold flutter before him, swirling and coiling past.
“So you’re not going to pretend that I’ll pass.”
“No. I was actually going to say that being in a new school isn’t so bad,” she chirps. Moving to Chester’s side, she places her head tenderly on his shoulder. “You might really like it. Leave all of the bad memories behind. Make new friends. Find someone…special.”
“Aren’t you going to miss me?”
“I can go with you,” she giggles. “We can run. I’m pretty good at running,” she adds with a semblance of a sigh. The breath appears before the boy as melancholy lavender. “Chester, what do you want to be? When you leave here?”
“I dunno. An architect. Or a businessman.”
“Really now?”
“My dad always taught me to be practical. Whatever brings on the mullah.”
“But I don’t think that’s what you really want to be,” pushes Chari. She slides her own delicate fingers over the keys, and Chester smiles at the colors. “I know you better than that, Chester. What do you want to be?”
“I want to be…free. I wanna be great. This place is just holding me back.”
“Well you can be just that. You can be as big as you want, Chester. You taught me that. I don’t want to see you leave, but I know that if you put your mind to it… You can get through this.”
Sticky words, thinks Golda. Jethro probably would never speak to her again if he knew that she was going to be behind this terrible accident. She was fated to be behind everything that was going to take Chester away from his best friend. The longer she had to do this – hiding and lying and, to some extent, stealing – the worse her stomach churned.
But the sooner she finished, the sooner Noel would have his protégé. And then Jethro would join them, anyway. In the grand scheme of things, they would all be together. If only she could bring herself to do what was required.
Slowly, invisibly, she walks toward the keyboard’s electrical cord. Firmly, she grasps it, rubbery, tingling with catastrophe, in her hand. She waits for Chester to stretch, to yawn, to have his fingers dangling carelessly by the keys.
And then she pulls.
The keyboard practically flies off the edge of the table. Chari screams in horror, and Chester reaches out in vain to catch it. Elise’s most prized possession clatters to the ground noisily, the impact with the tiles sending it skipping several feet. White and black teeth snap off, and the keyboard moans a low final note before lying defeated on the cold ground.
Elise turns around, eternities passing before she meets Chari’s terrified eyes. Hopeless heartbreak washes over her face, and she drops to her knees before the wreckage. Chester hands her the shattered keys.
“I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened!”
“Oh my god! Chester, how could you?”
Chari gets between them, as Elise rises to her full height. An uneasy coldness has come over their class president, but something wicked burns in her eyes.
“It was my fault, I borrowed it,” pleads Chari, taking Elise’s hand. Her friend’s anger subsides. “I should’ve checked the cord; I’m sorry. I probably tripped on it -”
“It’s not your fault,” Elise says. She throws a broken look at Chester.
“An accident, Elise,” he mutters. “I-I’ll buy you a new one. I can replace it, get it fixed, just please don’t-”
“Maybe it’s better if you leave, Chester.” Elise’s lip quivers; her words are soft but thunderous. The rest of Strontium exchange nervous glances. Jethro, standing in file, gulps. He wasn’t going to get out into the middle of that. “You’re no use here anyway.”
“You don’t mean that, Elise,” Chari intercedes again. This time, Elise merely cradles her busted keyboard in her arms, turns her back, and walks away. Chester angrily swings his backpack over his shoulders.
“I know you saw, Chari. I didn’t touch the stupid thing,” he says as he brushes past her on the way to the stairwell. “It fell by itself. Whenever some bull happens, it’s my fault. Everything always goes wrong around me. So yeah, I’m taking Elise’s advice. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“Where are you going?” Chari cries.
“You said so yourself. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be greater than this. Better than to be yelled at by everyone. I’m going to the one place that’s made me feel home in a long, long time.”
Without asking, Chari already knows. She takes her bag, and takes a few tentative steps. “I’m going with you.”

*****

“I got into a fistfight once,” David says grimly, swaggering over to the edge of the bridge. He looks down into the dark water, shattered colors trickling down across the surface from the dim lamps along the road. Joseph stands silently beside him.
A few seconds pass before the fallen leader speaks again.
“Well, it wasn’t much of a fight, to be honest. Before the powers set in, I was kind of a wimpy kid. Didn’t like physicality. I read a lot, though. The classics, and then some. Put lots of ideas into my head. Got me asking questions. Has a book ever done that for you, Joseph?”
Only a muffled response escapes into the chilly December air.
“You’re right,” laughs David. He clears his throat, and waits for the echoes of his hollow laughter to diffuse into the night. “Not much time to read nowadays, huh? What with all the earthshaking news and such. Company’s been taken over, I hear. That’s quite…terrible, isn’t it?”
Joseph sighs. “I’m sorry, Sir. I know what it meant to you.”
“Why does everyone call me that? I don’t think I’m that old yet. Forty-something, I guess.” As he says this, David puts a withering branch of an hand to his face, kneading the bruise left by Adre’s lead-heavy fist.
Across the city, lights begin to die out. The last beastly growls of speeding motorcycles fade away, and for a moment the entire world is quiet.
“My life’s been a series of wrong choices, hasn’t it, Jowi?”
“I…wouldn’t know.”
“There are times when I put my hand to my chest and I can’t feel anything. No heartbeat, no blood. Would it be wrong if I said that it didn’t hurt, Jowi? You apologize for me but you don’t understand; there’s this hole in me, and….the Company being torn apart by dogs… Abednego’s anger… it doesn’t mean as much as it should. It doesn’t…hurt.”
Jowi’s wounded hands close around the cold steel of the bridge railings; below them, a heated discussion has begun between Benny and Adre. Their words seem to sail just below David’s tired, olive eyes, and then sink back into the river.
Why won’t you say anything? Aren’t you going to excuse me of being a monster? I don’t blame Adre. He’s right. All of this was my fault. I betrayed everyone by leaving.”
Joseph hesitates. He wonders whether to pat the man on the shoulder, and if it would be right to throw disappointment at him. In the end, nearly a minute later, he does neither.
“I’m not much of a talker,” he begins, slowly. “But your choices and your past are your own. You should do what you think is best now. Maybe find your humanity again.”
David lifts his head, and his fedora casts a shadow across his face. From the depths of that darkness, he flashes Jowi a weak smile, crooked and uneven from the bruise on his face.
A heavy metallic thud behind them alerts them to Adre’s presence.
“I’m leaving in the morning,” he announces, authority in his voice unlike any David has heard from him before. “And when I go, I’m taking the rest of them with me. Joseph can stay with you if he wants, but me and the others – we’re going to salvage whatever we can from your mess. This’ll be the last time, boss. It was…” and here he falters, “a good run.”
Adre turns his back, not waiting to be acknowledged, and disappears down the bridge. The boat below them lurches, and the river groggily laps against the shore. Bats sweep under them, casting shadows all around, as their wings flutter silently through the air.
“You should join him,” David says, some time after, eyes closed. “He has a plan, I think. He could use your help.”
Jowi watches him cast a final, hopeless look into the murk. When David turns to him again, expecting an answer, he shrugs. Then he swings himself over the rails, barely touching the abyssal waters as he lands, and zips away, leaving only a streak of soundless foam in his wake.
4 comments:

Hey guys. Finally, after ages, next episode. \:D/ Appearing: Noel, Lydia, Terence, and Gab; Domz, Ancer, J; Chester, Jethro, Chari, Elise, and Poco; David, Adre.

Guide questions! =)) Joke. Just uhm, try to trace what's been happening since Episode One, especially to Chester and Adre. And, review lang: Carnival, PSHS, Bank, and Company. Four parts of one story. :p


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Can't wait for the next episode!! Kakilig naman sina Chari at Chester :))



-Poco


--> lol XD nice opening =))
--> what does 400 years worth of strategies mean :))
--> exhibitionist XD
--> game of generals :))
--> what's a karathead?? di xa lumalabas sa definition search o.O
--> catalyst J XD parang lebel lang eh :))
--> haha tito ni desi si dale XD
--> ANCER DIED O.O owell babayyy :D XD
--> go be bros with poco XD
--> yeah that's a good motherfucking punch XD
--> woooo new record for most number of curses made in an ep! yeahhh this is getting realistic =)
--> LOL STICKMAN =))
--> the establishment :))
--> ohhh NC is november carnival :)) astig =))
--> uii chester x chari
--> boom. imbaccident :))
--> haha forty-something yeah that i old :D
--> emo naman XD


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