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

Episode 10 – Generation Gap
Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
Co-directed by: Jacob Madrid, Candy Dacalos, Rebecca Yu

Previously, on SR…
It wasn’t that Poco didn’t like Ma’am Kiel as an adviser; he only wished that she didn’t keep on wading waist-high into everyone’s issues.
“I’m warning you now; anything less than a perfect score in the periodic exam will get you a 2.75 in my class.”
“I’m hardcore, and stronger than you’ll ever be.”
“Believe it or not, I care about you, ‘cuz, so I’m going to do what’s best for you. I am a grown-up, and grown-ups need to make tough decisions. I didn’t want to have to do this.”
“Yvanne, Domz, Renz – you all have something in common; you all need cash. The secretary, the budding inventor, the politician in the running.”
Now, SR continues.
______________________________________________________________________________

Desi taps her fingers impatiently on her desk as her expensive mahogany office door eases open. A snowy white head, not unlike that of a polar bear, peeps in through the crack.
“May I come in?”
“You’re already letting the air-conditioning out into the hallway,” she replies briskly.
The plush tiger-coat carpet on the floor rustles as Domz makes his way toward her desk. He sets down a small red package before his boss, crudely wrapped in white ribbon, and then places his weekly report beside it.
“This covers all the testing results we’ve gathered. Operation Black Market should be up and running by the New Year if all goes well, Ma’am. Open your Christmas present,” he adds, with a sheepish grin.
“It’s the second week of December,” Desi says, rolling her eyes. She does take the gift though, nimbly untying the ribbon. The box falls apart to reveal a small potted plant, tiny green leaves bobbing up and down on a stump of a stem. “This is the most hideous paperweight I’ve ever seen.”
Domz laces his callous fingers together, twiddling his thumbs. Desi’s eyebrows flatten into a straight line, and the wall clock, gilded gold and silver, ticks through the silence.
“What do you want?”
“I was kind of hoping to ask for an official leave. For Christmas.”
“Evil doesn’t go on holiday, Albao. What could possibly be more important than working for me and doddering around your precious lab equipment?”
Domz fishes a small white handkerchief out of his pocket, and dabs at some beads of sweat on the side of his head. He begins to turn a bright cherry color, which Desi finds disgusting.
“Out with it, Domz.”
“I have to go see my father. He’s in town for a while and we haven’t spoken in months.”
A peculiar feeling washes over Desi as she sits and stares blankly at her technological consultant. She twirls a fountain pen in her hands, and remembers her own father.
Mr. Mina. CEO of the largest banking establishment in the entire country. All these flashes – her sitting on his lap, him at her graduation party, and that tie he was always wearing. Those stupid golf club designs embroidered on it.
She was always forced to stare at them when he lectured her.
“Ma’am?”
“Get out of my sight, Domz. Be back after the New Year. This is not a paid absence, do you understand? Go and see your father.”
The inventor nearly leaps out of his seat with joy. His childish excitement begins to cause Desi an acute headache. “Thank you, Ma’am! Have a Merry Christmas!”
“It’s only the second week of December!” she yells after him, as he speeds out the door. She snaps open her desk drawer, and frowns as she tosses her father’s fountain pen inside.

*****

“Good morning, Chester.”
Rubbing the sand out of his eyes, the dormer yawns and tries to take inventory of his early morning surroundings. He couldn’t be in class yet, but somehow Ma’am Kiel’s voice was drifting into his ears. He knew the tone all too well; it was preppy, calm, and dangerous, all at the same time.
He stops at the bottom of the staircase, and grasps the ends of his towel, slung over his neck. His adviser has made herself comfortable on the pale lime couch sitting in front of the reception desk. “You know what they say, Ma’am. Trespassers get shot,” he grunts, looking up to the badly drawn sign hung over the doorway. Boys’ Residence Hall – Main. “Survivors get shot again.”
Ma’am Kiel rises to full height, primly straightening out her blouse. She stands right under Chester’s nose, and hands him a folder full of review material.
“I just thought you’d like to be reminded that you need a perfect score on your periodic exam this week, or you’ll flunk my course. I trust you spent the weekend in tedious preparation.” As she says this, she smiles. Preppy. Calm. Dangerous.
Chester looks back on the last two days. The wild and intoxicating atmosphere of the November Carnival. How the stars seemed to twinkle brighter under their cloudless sky. He was preparing, alright. Just not for the exams.
He thanks his teacher, and tossing the material carelessly aside, he picks up his bathroom kit and walks toward the back of the hall. Ma’am Kiel stops him, though, before he gets very far.
“It’ll be harder for you, of course. With your powers and all,” she sighs.
“Discriminating against me just because I’m a special will get you sued,” Chester answers, teeth grit. There was some talk in his last Social Studies class – or the last one he was awake in, anyway – about a new government organization created to handle posthuman affairs.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ma’am Kiel snaps, just as Jethro, Elise, and Chari appear at the entrance. Poco trots down the stairs in a plain white shirt and some old shorts. “Your friends are here to see you.”
Chester swings around, snatching his backpack from beside the pingpong table. He yanks the zipper open and rummages through the contents, finally tossing Jethro a dowsing rod. It was tipped in topaz and painted gold, a relic exactly like his.
“Carnival souvenir,” he adds, catching Chari’s eye. They take a moment to share a sweet look, before Chester asks the other four to breakfast at the cafeteria.
“Don’t forget your brown enve-” Ma’am Kiel begins to say, but her students walk past her into the lobby. She sees Jethro laugh at a joke Chester cracks, and Chari lay her head on his shoulder, and Poco and Elise following quietly behind. She pauses for a moment, absorbing the scenario.
“Hey,” she cries, anger in her eyes. “Chester, I’ve tried to be patient with you. All I want is for you to pass this quarter. But you’re just pushing me to my limits. As your adviser, it’s my job to make decisions for your own good, so listen carefully – all of you.” Here she turns to his friends. “You are not to get anywhere near him this week. Give him space to organize his thoughts and prepare on his own. No Paskorus practice, no Paskoncert practice, and no playing hooky!”
Elise, Jethro, and Chari each flinch in turn. Poco shrugs and mutters, “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh, Ma’am?”
“Hardly. If I see any one of you so much as say a single word to him all this week, I’m going to send you all to the Discipline Office. You’ll thank me for this Chester; I promise you that you will.”
The other four bite their lips and wait for Chester to react. He does the last thing anyone expects him to. He laughs.
Chester leans back, throwing his hands up in disbelief. His jaw muscles grind and lock, and he hisses as he sucks in air, sputtering pieces of terrible, broken laughter. He kicks the bathroom door open, and glaring at Ma’am Kiel – at all of them – he slams it shut.

*****

There was something missing from the PSHS Ilocos oval on that day, David thought. Even as he stood on the roof of the Science and Humanities Building, watching Chester and his friends take off in different directions from the dorms, he licked his lips and thought.
December winds were whipping through the acacias, and their leaves were an ocean of variegated green and brown shades. He listened to them whispering, about something coming. Some catastrophe, a terrible uprising that would lead to the destruction of the school.
Perhaps that was merely the wild imaginings of a troubled mind.
Poinsettia, chuckles David, taking his fedora off. His thick, vine-like hair falls over his muted eyes as he raises his gloved hands toward the field, concentrating.
The ground begins to tremble; something is pushing, wriggling through the earth, breaking into the open air. Tiny stems erupt through the soil, twisting and coiling as they grow toward the sun. Their roots take hold, and their leaves unfurl, and soon, little buds start to sprout.
David exhales, and the rim of the field explodes with brilliant Christmas red – hundreds of flowers swaying left and right amongst the blades of grass. The students walking around on the asphalt squeal with delight, and some astonished cries travel across the field.
A blast of wind to his right alerts him to Jowi’s arrival.
“The soccer team won’t like that at all.”
“How did you get up here?” David asks, smiling. He didn’t think he was going to see Jowi again, after what happened under the bridge.
“I ran up the side of the building,” says Jowi, beaming. “Came to deliver some news. Captain Adre and the others are planning to intercept The Establishment. They’ve gotten word of Desi’s plans somehow and are mobilizing.”
“How? I can count the number of fugitives who can fight on one branch.” Just as he says this, David’s grin collapses. “Well, it doesn’t matter. If Adre’s leading the charge, they’re going to be okay.”
The biology teacher turns toward the field again, and stokes his chin. A strong gust causes his hat to tumble off the edge of the roof. David watches it fall three stories and then disappear.
When he sits on the edge, Jowi hands him his hat back.
“Thanks.”
“Captain Adre wants to know if you’d like to join them for the mission.”
“Does he, now?”
Jowi pauses to consider, and then shoves his hands down the pockets of his pants. “No, but I think they really need you. Don’t you want to go and help?”
The bell rings for first period, somewhere in the halls below them, and David sighs.
“The problem with being around such sublime beauty,” he says, gesturing at the field, now ringed by Christmas flowers, “is that you’re constantly reminded of the contrast. Everything around you is so picturesque, but on the inside, you’re a wreck. Makes you feel crummy.”
Jowi nods his head solemnly.
“I’m starting to hate the holidays like that. I hate the feeling that I’m the only one who doesn’t have anyone to spend Christmas with. And I feel like I deserve it, too. I’m on the naughty list,” he scoffs. “You know, back when the Company was still up, I used to make the list.”
Both men laugh.
“Tell Captain Adre – dear Lord, what a funny thing to call yourself – tell him that I’m sorry. But I’ve gotta put my own life in order first. Figure some stuff out. And take care of these kids, too. I realize that.”
“Don’t you have any family?”
“I have a niece. And maybe some distant, distant relatives.”
“I don’t remember what life was like before the Company,” Jowi confesses. “Everything’s been moving so fast since you guys found me. I’ve lost touch with the outside world. There’s this big gap between me and my parents. I don’t even know where they are, and they don’t know where I am, and…I don’t think they miss me.”
David smiles sympathetically, and notes how young Joseph actually is. Probably no more than twenty-five. He pats him on the back with his creaky tree arms. “Don’t say that. I’m sure they think about you all the time.”
Jowi thanks him, and gets up to leave.
“Are you coming back?” David asks.
“I could. You look like you need someone.”
A moment later, the teacher is alone on the rooftop. The bell rings again.

*****

The angry blaring of car horns spills into the room as someone enters the café. Mellow music takes over again when the door shuts, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee continues to circulate. Newspaper pages ruffle as quiet sipping resumes, and every now and again the cash register chimes as orders are filled.
Domz plunks into one of the cushioned booths by the wall, and leans back, waiting for the man behind the magazine to look up. Vintage records hang on the walls, flat against solid red brick, and portraits of old artists smile above the heads of the customers typing away on their laptops.
“Hey, dad.”
Albao Sr. puts down his copy of Time, laying it aside, and looks his son over. Dominic had grown some, but the glee in his face reminded his father of the young man who had run off to the city several years ago.
“So are you going to fill me in on everything or are we just going to sit here?” he laughs. “How about we get you something to eat first, huh?” A waitress appears by their table, flipping through her pad and unhooking the pencil from behind her ear. “A cup of decaf for me, and – Domz, what’ll you be having?”
“Just some pasta will do,” Domz says, grinning. His father notices the brand new watch around his wrist, loaded with three tiny screens and a bunch of blinking lights. The waitress nods and leaves.
“That’s a nice piece you’ve got there, Dominic.”
“Made it myself. It has GPS, satellite imaging, weather forecast data, wireless internet connection, a barometer, and can store up to a hundred MP3 files.”
The older Albao laughs, and Domz sinks comfortably into his plush seat.
“I’m assuming there’s a clock in there somewhere?”
Domz frowns. “That was the one thing I couldn’t get right. It’s always too fast or too slow. You won’t believe the trouble I went through trying to figure out where the clock face is supposed to go.”
His father chuckles, digging through his knapsack. Domz notes that he actually looks younger than the last time they saw each other. There were less wrinkles and his hair was surprisingly less gray. He clips a small device onto Domz’s do-it-all watch, and presses a button. The gadget beeps three times, and then unlocks.
“There you go. That’s what I’ve been working on. A way to fix any time-telling device. But where’s the old Rolex I gave you after your graduation?”
“In my apartment somewhere. It was too clunky for all the radiation experiments I’ve been doing.”
“Right, right.” The smallest semblance of sadness twinkles in Albao Sr.’s eye. Just then the waitress arrives with a steaming plate of spaghetti and a cup of lush brown coffee. Domz’s father continues to talk while he stirs. “So, m’boy, which exciting companies are you head honcho of now? Wouldn’t surprise me if you swallowed up Google, really.”
Domz puffs up his cheeks as he decides how to phrase his reply.
“I’m kind of taking it easy for now. I haven’t gotten around to multimillion dollar firms yet, but I am the technological consultant for one of the branches of the PCAT.”
“What? What on earth is that?”
“The Posthuman Crisis Aversion Team. It’s the division that handles specials.”
“Ah,” his father nods, adjusting his glasses. “You mean the people with superpowers. Crazy, isn’t it, how these amazing, unbelievable events just randomly happen? I’ll bet they’ve been living under our noses for centuries and we were just too silly to realize it. It kind of undoes all the science I taught you back in the day, eh Domz?”
“Yeah, but their abilities can be explained in their genes, dad. There’s nothing phantasmal or outrageous about it. It’s just cold, hard science.”
“Maybe, maybe.” Albao Sr. takes another sip of his coffee. He watches his son, big man that he is, gulp down forkfuls of pasta. He leans over to try and wipe the sauce of the side of his face with a napkin, but Domz swats his arm away. “You were always a pretty messy eater, son. You remember the chocolate cake disaster of ’92? You were already, what, eight years old back then, and you still got icing all over the new sweater your mom made you.”
“I’m an adult now, dad. I think I can handle a plate of spaghetti.” Domz places his fists on the table, and goes on. “I was just saying that they’ve got me constructing all of the weapons and containment facilities for their prisoners.”
“Prisoners? What I thought was that they were representing specials, and putting up some kind of big hospital to give them therapy and teach them to control their powers.”
“That’s just the façade,” Domz confesses, leaning in closer. “We’re actually learning how to make powers commercially available. We’re doing experiments on them – don’t worry, it’s all very contained – and monitoring them. It’s going to be the biggest advancement in scientific history, even bigger than stem cells or space missions. We’re going to change the world!”
Domz plops back into his seat, and raises an eyebrow at his father, who is gingerly folding a used table napkin under his saucer.
“Change it into what?” he asks bitterly.
The younger of the two inventors blinks. The café doors open and close, momentarily letting in the smell of car exhaust and wet cement. Rain had started to fall outside.
“Wait, are you disappointed?”
“No, of course not. I’m very proud of you and your job as…techno cashier or whatever.”
“Technological consultant,” Domz corrects him, frowning.
“Sure. All I know is, I taught you to be smarter than that. What’s more is, I raised you to be a better person than that.”
“I don’t understand.”
The waitress returns to clean up the table. She loads the dirty dishes into a tray, and Albao Sr. hands her a tip. Then he flips open his magazine again, and casually browses through some articles.
“Dad.”
“You know what I mean, son. What happened to your work ethics? Your principles? Deceiving people, testing on them – why, in high school, you wouldn’t even train lab mice! Are all of your human specimen agreeable to your arrangements?”
“Well, not exactly, but they’ll see the light soon enough. It’s for them, after all.”
“I thought it was for the rest of humanity?” Albao Sr. says. This time it’s his turn to throw Domz a questioning look. “Which by the way, brings us to an interesting point. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all my lessons about balanced ecosystems and invasive species.”
“No way.”
“Then you’ll remember that it’s a bad idea to introduce drastic change to an environment. If you start handing out superpowers like lollipops, just think about all the backlash on society and our way of living. People like me will start to lose jobs, for one.”
“What is your job now, dad?” Domz says, going red in the face. “Still tinkering with odds and ends? Time-telling devices and chocolate stain removers?”
“The way I work, Dominic, I like to help people out. Improve living conditions. I’m working on a computer system that recognizes voice patterns so that blind people can vocally operate PC’s and laptops. They can access the internet, join social networks, and post their opinions online. And I’m working on something that will eventually help those with spinal injuries exercise and maintain their damaged and paralyzed muscles. Doesn’t that sound more worthwhile? Inventors are supposed to be helping people live outside the box, not put them in one.”
“You don’t understand, dad. The science I’m working on now is exciting. It’s epic, for God’s sake. Coming up with cool guns and lasers like in all those James Bond movies we used to watch. I’m like a super-secret government agent now. You have to move into the future.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Everything I’m doing is about the future.”
“I mean, you’re working on helping out disabled people and making mundane household chores more enjoyable. We’re breaching the limits of science here. You taught me all about evolution, dad. Survival of the fittest. For humanity to carry on, we have to step up our game. Make living like specials possible for everybody- focus on passing on desirable qualities rather than trying to salvage the slackers.”
“Well,” Albao Sr. says, getting up, “if you’re so inclined to power forward, then don’t wait up for old-timers like me.” He swings his knapsack over his shoulder, and heads for the door.
“Dad! Wait!”
“Don’t worry, I paid for the bill,” he says, not looking back. The door swings open, giving way to the sound of unfolding umbrellas and pouring rain.

*****

Click. Click. Click click. Click.
“Could you hold it up? Like it’s in mid-air, falling.”
Jethro’s voice echoes into the desolate ruins of the second floor faculty center. Piles of rubble were scattered all around the floor, and singed floorboards and beams were in a heap to one side. Most of the broken glass had been swept under the open windows, where light entered and fell in shafts across the charred remains of last year’s fire.
(Like this?) Golda asks, holding a plank diagonally beside her. She throws up some dust with her other hand, and Jethro’s camera takes shot after shot of the wreckage. The photographer steps back to admire the morbid beauty of the scene.
It didn’t matter that his invisible voice wouldn’t show up in the shots – he could still feel ghosts around him. The terrible laughter of crazed Andro Milla, come to steal his powers; the sizzle of his lightning and the shattering of icicles. The deafening explosion caused by another special’s powers.
All of that, and the sound of Duke’s cries for help.
The haunting strains of Strontium’s Hymn of the Wind, down the hall, weren’t helping his nerves at all. He moves his tripod, and adjusting the aperture, takes several more shots. Jethro recalls the end of quarter assignment – to capture a part of your pain, projected into a photograph. For that, there was no better place than this – where everything stopped making sense. The place he was mercilessly hunted down by a serial killer, and where he lost his best friend.
The first time. Here he lost Duke the first time. Here he realized being special wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
(How is Chester doing?)
“I’m worried for him. His powers might be messing him up.”
(You’re not happy for him and his ability? A lot of people find the whole synesthesia thing fun and… very useful. I’d like to see some color every now and again. From where I’m standing, the grass literally isn’t as green.)
“I learned that just because you have an ability doesn’t mean you have to use it. To show off or anything. It attracts unwanted attention. You saw how hard Ma’am Kiel came down on him for his ability.”
(…well, yes. But that wasn’t all Chester’s fault…)
“Doesn’t really matter.”
(But you’ve got amazing powers, Jethro Jamon. Very flashy. If I liked you, and, uhm, I’m not saying that I do… I would be very impressed. And powers like mine, they come in handy a lot, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t use them.)
“I used to short-circuit everything I touched. TV’s, laptops, cars. Powers cause trouble,” Jethro replies sadly, folding up his equipment.
(But only if you can’t control them. Or yourself. And how can you control them if you don’t practice, right? Go ahead. Use your ability to give your pictures some sizzle. I’ll take the shot,) Golda says, lifting Jethro’s prized DSLR in the air. (Go. Shoot some lightning at that pile of rocks. I’ll capture the explosion!)
“I need to have absorbed the electricity somewhere else first. I don’t make my own energy; I only absorb it,” Jethro reveals.
(No problem. There, some cables. Put your hand on them, and you know. Do your stuff.)
Golda waits patiently as Jethro grapples with his morals. Finally, he sucks some electrical power from the wires running along the walls. The lights fizzle out for a minute, and then come back on.
Jethro stands apart from the ruins of the faculty center, inhaling and exhaling loudly.
(This is a perfect chance to vent some frustrations. Get some stress off your chest.)
Looking behind him to make sure no one can see, Jethro charges up some lightning in his fists. Sparks begin to fly from his fingers. At the count of three, he throws the electricity forward - a blinding blue bolt of fire like an arrow, whizzing through the air. It strikes the pile of debris and causes it to explode, throwing up pebbles and clouds of dust.
His invisible friend hands him the camera back, and shows him the picture. It was glorious, the way the raw anger and destructive forces had been captured.
“This is…not bad at all.”
(See? Powers aren’t all bad. They’re an extension of who you are – a way to express yourself, just like photography. In fact, why don’t you use your abilities when you ask Elise to prom?) Golda nearly chokes on her words. She clears her throat. (If you want her to like you, she has to like all of you. But you have to like all of you first.)

*****

“I wish I could sit beside him through this. I know how much he hates math.”
Chari looks through the frosted glass door of the library, and sees Chester crumple page after page of pad, tossing it angrily into a nearby wastebasket. Poco leans over, much to the librarian’s chagrin, and takes a peek, too. When their friend looks up, the two move away.
The scent of sweet, sweet strawberries was very strong in the air, and Poco was having a difficult time keeping his distance. There was something about their transferee classmate – more than her hair, her eyes, or her smile – that made her extremely appealing. He knew she belonged with Chester, but against all reason his heart was beating madly.
“You smell nice,” he blurts out, before banging his head on the door. The librarian shoos them away. This was why he disliked talking. Expression was so much safer on paper, where he could erase anything he wrote if it came out bad. Why had he said that? He was almost dizzy from standing next to her.
Chari merely giggles, although she does spread a fan in front of her face. She sighs, then turns back to Chester, vigorously rubbing his head as he attempts more practice inside. “Really? People keep saying that, but really, I promise, there’s nothing there. It’s not a perfume or anything.” Her shoulders sag, and Poco can tell she’s remembering something. “I’m starting to get a cold, too.”
Here she sneezes. Even her sickness is dainty and delicate, Poco thinks.
Snap out of it.
“Maybe you caught something at the carnival,” he says, shrugging.
“Maybe,” Chari replies. “When I was younger, my grandmother used to make me this kind of herbal tea. It was a local remedy for everything, she said. It really worked. I missed that.”
“Being a dormer’s pretty tough. There’s a lot to get adjusted to.”
“Do you ever miss home?” Chari asks.
Poco tries to refuse a reply, but no matter how awkward and complicated the issue is, the scent of strawberries overpowers him. He has to answer.
“Yeah. I miss Pa.”
Chari suddenly remembers the story of Elihu, the farmer who was Poco’s father. He’d been murdered by a special months after Poco came to PSHS Ilocos. That’s all anyone ever said of Poco – except Chester, who insisted he was a talented poet. “I’m so sorry,” she says, placing a hand on his shoulder.
She nearly flinches, but fights the urge to let go. She had to get over her fears. It was only a pat, a gesture of consolation. It was barely even physical contact. Chari gulps, and just as she’s about to let go, Poco hugs her.
What am I doing?! he thinks, but the embrace soothes the ache in his heart.
The door to the library swings open, and Chester walks out, defeated and grim. He sees the two hugging, and they see him. Poco immediately steps back, ashamed and confused, and Chari bites her lip. None of them say a word to each other.
Chester shrugs at them, eyes closed, as if to mean he doesn’t mind. He gives Poco a friendly jab on the shoulder, and smiles at Chari, before turning his back and walking away.

*****

The cell door glides open, and Yvanne steps inside. Her cousin lifts her head at the sound of three-inch heels clack-clack-clacking on the cold floor. Claudine tries to get up, wrestling with her handcuffs, only to crumble back to the ground, breathing heavily.
“How long…” she grumbles. “How long are you going to keep me here?”
“Until it’s safe.”
“How many days have passed?” Claud pushes. “…Am I spending Christmas in here? Oh god, Yvanne, please, have a stupid heart and let me out of this nightmare. Just untie my blindfold; let me see again! It’s so dark here and nothing ever makes noise and I think I’m going out of my mind.”
“I read your profile before I trashed it. You’re what they call a bodysnatcher. So…the blindfold stays on for now. But I brought you a home-cooked breakfast, for a change,” Yvanne whispers. She slides a tray closer, and neatly arranges the buttered toast and eggs beside the orange juice. “If you promise to behave, I’ll unlock your cuffs.”
“Nope, wait, you’re out of your mind. How could you possibly come in here,” says Claud, heaving, hair matted underneath her pale, dirty face, “and think that this peace offering would make it okay? You’ve made your own cousin a prisoner!”
“Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Claudine. Just let me eat and talk with you. I know how lonely it must feel. I know how trapped you are.”
When Claudine doesn’t move, Yvanne takes it as a sign of resignation. She pulls out a keycard, and runs it along the groove on her cousin’s restraints. The locks pop open, and Claudine wrings her bloody wrists before her, sitting up straight at last.
“Here, let me wipe that -”
“No! Don’t touch me.”
The bodysnatcher cleans up her tarnished hands, wiping them on her skirt, and gropes around for the food. She knocks over the glass, and half of the orange juice has spilled out before Yvanne can turn it right side up again. Finally though, she locates the bread, and brings it to her lips, ravenously devouring it.
Yvanne sighs, and watches sadly.
“We’re not too different, you know. Plans go wrong, circumstances keep us from doing what we really want to. You’re trapped in this cell, and I’m…trapped in this job. Your mother and father used to tell me that the next generation always inherits the sins of the first. I’m so sorry I had to do this to you.”
“No, you’re not,” Claudine growls, before wildly tossing the empty plate through the air. Yvanne ducks, although the dish lands nowhere near her. The shattering sounds alert the guards, who appear at the door of the room.
“Time’s up, Miss Cuesta. Let’s go.”
The secretary gets up, as the guards come in and secure the handcuffs on Claudine once more. Just as she is about to leave, her cousin yells from the corner of the cell.
“You’re wrong, Yvanne. We’re nothing alike, so don’t flatter yourself. Do you know what the difference is? One day, I’ll get out of this prison. I’ll escape. But you? You will always be trapped in your stupid job, in your stupid ‘circumstances’. You have no reason to fight your way out. You’ll never escape.”

*****

Domz finds his father seated under the doorway of an old bookstore. The rain has subsided into a drizzle, and the traffic has disappeared, leaving the street peaceful and empty. He leans over his old man, and smiles apologetically.
“I didn’t know what I was saying in there, dad. I just missed you a lot. I got to talking too much again. Are you okay?”
“There’s the Dominic I remembered. Come here, boy.” The two inventors lean in for a warming embrace. “I’m alright. The fabric in my jacket is self-heating.”
Domz laughs. “That’s just…awesome, dad.”
“I came here because I didn’t know any place else. Big city’s chock full of smoke and gangsters who shove their shoulders at you when you pass by. Makes me miss Davao already.”
After a moment of contemplation, Domz answers.
“Let’s go back.”
“What?”
“Back home, to the old house in Davao. I have the whole month off from work, and I wanna spend some time with you, dad. And I kind of wonder what my room looks like now. Wow – seven, eight years ago. You haven’t cleaned out all my shelves and equipment, have you?”
His father pats him on the back, and the two walk down the street.
“Of course not. Now let’s go, before the weather acts up again.”

*****

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.
Walking into the room, muscles tensed, eyes to the floor.
He knew they were watching him. He knew how hard they were trying – to believe that he could snake his way through this. That he could overcome the impossible mountain before him.
Looking up, meeting their nervous stares.
But he knew what they all thought. He knew that they knew – it was over.
Tossing his bag to one side, sliding into the seat.
Ma’am Kiel was there. Did she have any idea what she’d done? What role she’d played in the decisions he had ultimately come to? His time alone had made him certain.
Passing the papers backward. Setting the timer. Calling out last minute instructions. Acknowledging corrections on the questionnaires. All of it was happening so slowly.
Elise’s mouthed apologies. Didn’t matter – he’d already forgiven her.
Jethro’s meaningful looks. Didn’t matter – it wasn’t his fault.
Poco’s bashful glances. Didn’t matter – he knew it was nothing.
Chari’s beautiful eyes. The only thing that would matter, in the end. He was sorry, utterly and deeply, painfully sorry, in his heart. For what he was going to do. For what was coming. What was leaving.
And finally, the test.
A thousand colors, infinite and blinding, all coming together.
“Begin.”