Season of Reckoning

Ordinary People. Extraordinary Abilities.

Real People. Unreal Adventure.

Episode 7 – The Unnatural Order of Things

Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples

Co-directed by: Rebecca Yu and Benedict Almirol

Previously, on SR…

“This is Rika Meyes; you’ve reached the office of Detective Dominic Ecat.”

“They want us alive. I don’t know what for. They won’t kill us yet.”

“You’re going after our carnivalettes. That’s cute, Lab-labs. I approve.”

“I’m assigning you to make friends with Poco.”

“He might not even go to prom, unless he does a total 360.”

“I have no home. I have no family. Twice promised, twice denied. No more.”

Now, SR continues.

________________________________________________________________________

In just the way it seemed to happen to all secretaries living high octane, caffeine fueled lives, Yvanne read her own thoughts like a continuous shopping list, efficiently skimming and plucking out important clauses and neatly discarding the rest.

Bed. Neatly folded sheets, plush purple, changed last week.

Shelves. Excessive number of books on psychology and the human mind.

Cabinet drawers. Inventory on the floor, care of Detective Ecat.

Her eyes flicker over to the dark skinned, curly haired man rummaging through the polished ancient wardrobe resting against the wall of Claudine’s room. He’d come surprisingly fast, and without asking for directions, which suited Yvanne just fine. She didn’t have time to send him an email, what with all the filing and paperwork Desi had loaded her with in the past two days.

Desktop computer, shut off, I don’t have her password.

Cups holding pencils, irrelevant.

A pair of batteries. Oh my God. I bought those for the new bug zapper!

“You don’t look very worried, for someone who just lost a relative.”

The detective’s voice was raspy. Yvanne realizes he’s talking to her.

“She left a note, told a lie, took some cash. She wasn’t kidnapped and the house wasn’t broken into. She ran away.” Each syllable lengthens as it scrapes through her teeth, as though she is determined to make her statement untrue by grinding it down. “I didn’t lose her; she misplaced herself.”

Dominic Ecat shrugs, and goes back to work. Yvanne was sure she could scramble through all of Claud’s belongings faster, but she’d paid the man already. There was no point in wasting money. She couldn’t afford to.

Failing test papers. This girl is getting lazy. Does she have a boyfriend?

Taxi company number scribbled on post-it. Have we tried calling that already?

Soccer shoes. Thank goodness they’re clean. At least she kept up housekeeping.

Yvanne’s thoughts come screeching to a halt. Where had all those Total Girl magazines gone? And those issues of Seventeen – where were they? She sweeps the room with her eyes and catches a glimpse of them, still in their sealable vinyl wrap, under a disorganized pile of neon nail polish bottles.

That kid is such an ingrate. After all the nice things I’ve bought her…

Yvanne pivots on her heel, and lays a hand impatiently on her hips as she comes face to face with portraits of Claud’s parents, hanging over the bed.

“Oh my God,” she says, and the detective sighs, looking up. “Her parents are going to roast me alive when they find out. You have to find her, Mr. Ecat.” Dominic’s nose wrinkles, and as their gazes meet, Yvanne just barely resists the impulse to put up her hands and shield her eyes. The detective’s contact lenses were an otherworldly hazel.

“Rika and I have put together a few leads. You’re cousin isn’t the only one who’s missing. We have reports of other teenagers, ages fourteen to nineteen, who’ve just disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Somewhere inside Yvanne, a tiny speck of worry manages to bubble to the surface. That minute quantity of anxiety is quickly washed away with all her other thoughts.

“I have some photographs. Maybe you could help us identify these other kids.”

With a flourish, Dominic hands her several pictures. Yvanne squints, sifting through her memories like a file cabinet. She couldn’t place any names; she didn’t even know who Claudine’s friends were. Did Claudine know anyone in braces? Did she have braces? Was she even old enough to get braces? How old was she?

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” she snorts in reply.

“Can you at least tell me where she likes to hang out?”

Another blank.

The detective’s shoes make no sound as he marches into the living room, Yvanne close behind. He clears the coffee table of junk – fast food wrappers, empty soda cans, some receipts and contracts – and like lightning, begins to lay down all of their available evidence.

My God. Our house looks like a circus blew through it.

And just like that, Yvanne’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. A smile breaks across her face, the way it does to secretaries living high octane, caffeine fueled lives when they pick up gossip worth spreading.

“Wait, detective! I think I might have something useful. Before she disappeared, Claud was always yammering on about some carnival or something that stopped at a nearby town.”

*****

“Gizzelle Golda Labalan!”

For the life of her, the magician never could seem to figure out how Alla always knew when she was about to head out. It was as if she couldn’t turn invisible at all – like she had gone through the trouble of putting on a neon sign and announcing her departure over the speakers.

She grins in amusement as one of Alla’s elongated braids snatches at thin air. Her cousin hadn’t quite gotten her location right. She steps out into the light, tips her hat in the usual respectful manner, and toddles over.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I have a story for you,” Alla gushes, taking Golda by the arm. She drags her cousin around the tents, excitedly spewing information in her acquired Southern Valley girl accent. Golda makes sure to nod every now and again, but as she digests the news, she notices Candy and Lydia having a much darker discussion by the dinner table.

“Alla. I have to go. If I don’t hurry -”

“I know, I know,” the Bearded Lady finishes. Golda is glad to see that she is clean shaven for the moment; it was always so difficult to take her seriously when she had a hairy caterpillar above her lip. “You have to go see Jethro.”

“Well, yeah,” shrugs Golda. “He needs me.”

“Oh wow, Gizzy,” Alla smirks. “That’s a big leap from ‘he doesn’t want me around’. I thought you said he found you annoying or something?”

“He’s not totally receptive, is what I said,” says Golda, lightly slapping her cousin’s hand off her shoulder. The two laugh, and pause for a moment to watch the orange and yellow streamers overhead flap in the wind.

“So you haven’t been listening to a word I said?”

“I’m a very good listener, Alla dear. Lydia has a tattoo of a detective on her back and now Noel’s tense because he’s not sure how to handle it. Look, you don’t have to worry. I can still cloak us from PSHS Ilocos.”

“Yeah, like if you can keep your mind on us and off your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” laughs Golda. “Well he is, but he doesn’t know yet.”

“That’s not how it works, okay, Lab-labs,” Alla says, laughing. Her bright pink cheeks swell with glee. Golda raises her eyebrows.

“Yeah, because you would know.”

The Bearded Lady’s nose wrinkles and her hair, trailing freely behind her, snaps into a ponytail. The magician purses her lips, wishing she could take back her words, and begins to fade away. Alla stares her down right until the last pigments vanish.

“I’m sorry,” comes Golda’s quiet voice from the void.

Alla takes a moment to sigh, shoulders sagging. Her cousin materializes behind her and lays a sympathetic head against her jacket.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Past is past; that’s like, whatever already. Anyway, what I was trying to say was that I wanted to go with you this time. See, I figured it would be a good idea to advertise the carnival, because you know, it’s a school, and kids love going out. Well, normal kids do.”

Golda steps back and shakes her head. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“He can’t know I’m from the carnival, dear,” she reminds Alla politely. “He hates us, remember? We have to take this slowly, from the right angle, or we’ll lose him.” Here she pauses. “I’ll lose him.”

“And what about when he figures out you’re trying to ruin his friend’s reputation? How is he going to feel about that? Gizzy, you can’t start a relationship with lies. Or secrets.”

The magician takes Alla by the hand, leading her away from the other carnies just beginning to emerge from their trailers. She adjusts her glasses, and inhales deeply.

“I’m not lying to him. I’m just leaving out the part where I’m not such a perfect person. I want him to like me, okay. Once he likes me, he’ll figure out how to deal with the whole carnival deal.”

Alla turns away, and keeps her eyes on the ground. Golda figures she’s tracing memories through the dirt. She knew what the Bearded Lady was keeping under her hair, and if she didn’t want to talk about it, then Golda would resign to being there for her.

Just not now. She had to see Jethro and push forward with Noel’s plan.

*****

It wasn’t that Poco didn’t like Ma’am Kiel as an adviser; she was certainly an example for all of them, having graduated from the school herself. He only wished that she didn’t keep on wading waist-high into everyone’s issues.

As the rest of Strontium converges at the auditorium’s double doors, anxious to spend the remains of their universal break studying for an upcoming long test, Poco lingers behind. Silence was the cloud by which Poco hid himself – all the unwanted, undesirable quirks – and from which he watched. He could name the burdens they carried on their shoulders.

That was the way it should’ve worked. Poco listening, Poco helping. Not Poco being pitied, which was what Ma’am Kiel’s eagerness had brought upon him. He was scattering eggshells and everyone was tiptoeing over them.

As the auditorium door shuts, Elise’s voice echoes across the sea of seats.

“Hey Poco! I need help with the choreography.”

By the way the girl was hopping up and down, Poco figured she didn’t have much on her shoulders. Come to think of it, Elise was the only one who was smiling a hundred percent of the time. Maybe if he stuck beside her, that talent would rub off on him.

“Why me?” he asks, clearing his throat, as he trots up onto the stage.

“Because I know you can dance. Look at those footsteps. You’ve got rhythm!”

Elise brushes back a couple of curly locks, and trots over to her iPod on the ground. She turns the dial, raising the volume on the speakers. A light tap, and a new song begins to play.

“I was thinking about doing either this,” she says, waving her arms in front of her face, “or this,” she appends, swaying side to side. “Any suggestions?”

“Go with the gummy worms,” says Poco. The remnants of an old smile just barely run across his lips. Elise chortles, and tinkers with her iPod again. This time, something ethnic, almost feral begins to play.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a corrido from my Capoeira class. Come on, dance with me!”

Poco gulps as their class president falls into the beat, rocking back and forth on her knees, legs alternating behind her along a triangular base. She claps her hands together, and they part to reveal a fire in her eyes and a light in her smile. The Capoeira bateria continues to soar in the background, with long-stringed berimbaus and tambourines overlapping with Brazilian cheers.

“Move…your…feet!” Elise cries, hands touching the ground as she swings her leg in a wide arc. Poco is forced to tilt back, narrowly avoiding her shoe, and as he sweeps forward again, he finds himself caught in the music. He mimics Elise’s techniques, and they match each other, ducking, rolling, and leaping with the drums.

“I thought Capoeira was just a fighting style!”

“It’s a way of life!” beams Elise. “It fills you up.”

Elise tumbles across the stage, falling back on her hands gracefully. She reaches for her iPod, and without warning, jumps to a new song. Synthesized music replaces the Capoeira bateria, and as the chanting fades out, T.I. and Justin Timberlake begin to sing.

Ohhh… I’ve been travelin’ on this road too long (too long)… Just tryin’ to find my way back home (back home)…

“The old me’s dead and gone,” shrugs Elise, shaking her shoulders loose.

“Dead and gone,” echoes Poco, and they begin to dance again. Elise incorporates her Capoeira, wheeling over the aged wood. Poco snatches up his favorite cap, and fitting it snugly over his head, he throws his arms out dramatically. His knees bend and pop under him, and he twists his torso to the left. The weight of his worries thrashes against this chest, knocking the breath out of him, but as the speakers pump up the volume, his thoughts weave into the lyrics. “I turn my head to the east; I don’t see nobody by my side…”

“I turn my head to the west; still nobody in sight…”

“So I turn my head to the North, and swallow that pill that they call pride…”

“That old me is Dead and Gone,” continues Elise, fixing her eyes on Poco. He gazes right back at her, then suddenly bobs his head, pulling the cap over his face. From the shadows he whispers, “But that new me will be alright.”

*****

As a detective, it was important for Dominic Ecat to be cool under pressure. He could stand working long hours in the office, or even digging through archives under the city. He could also give chase, and it didn’t hurt that he knew how to fire a gun.

But he couldn’t handle clowns. He didn’t dislike them, but he preferred that they kept their distance. He also preferred theme parks to carnivals, although his job description left no room for choice in these matters anyway.

The gates of the November Carnival rise before him like iron titans, polished wood carved into titular letters on the arch. A barker ushers in the crowds, and Dom tiptoes on his glossy black shoes to see over them. He wonders how many of these people walk in everyday – and more importantly, how many walk out.

Dark thoughts clash with the lively red and yellow balloons that made their ascent into the sky. There was just too much color here for Dom, who spent all his time pouring over black and white print and sepia photographs.

“My brothah, my man,” says Noel, slapping a smooth palm against the detective’s back. Dom winces, and Noel steers him through the chaos of sightseers. The ringmaster was heavily dressed in chains and spiked leather belts. Automatically, Dom pulls out his handy-dandy notebook and begins to scribble.

“Are you the owner or supervisor of this establishment?”

“Yes, yes I am,” grins Noel. He snorts, and Dom worms his way out from under the carnie’s muscled arm. “We’ve been expecting you, Detective. Why don’t you have a look around? The carnival has something for everyone.”

Lydia watches the two march along the dirt paths; Candy in turn watches a tattoo form between the Painted Lady’s shoulder blades. She recognizes it to be one of the children Noel has recruited.

“He’s here for the bodysnatcher in particular,” sighs Lydia. She combs back her tawny hair, and gulps. “I can see the strings attached to this one. He’s been dealing with shady people.”

“So have you,” mutters Candy. She passes a knife along her fingers.

Lydia ignores the comment. “He’s going to be trouble for us.”

“So off him.”

“It’s not that simple. He’s one of us. A posthuman. Candelen, today we’ve been presented with an extraordinary opportunity. You’ll see the way things are done here. And then maybe you’ll understand why I need your help.”

*****

Jethro tucks his hands into his pockets, and manages to suppress the unease gurgling in his torso. There was something sitting there in the pit of his stomach, not unlike guilt; but that couldn’t be. He’d done nothing wrong. He just had some issues to sort out – prom topping the list – and now this ominous piece of news to deliver.

Chester was in hot water again, for some reason. Maybe he’d ask about it later.

An invisible hand grabs at his sides, squeezing against his hidden layers of fat. He was hoping no one had noticed that he’d gained weight. Apparently, nobody had.

“Please, please stop doing that. Dude, seriously.”

His mysterious voice giggles, and her mirth echoes along in the wistful November air. The backpack slung over his shoulders lurches, and he hears the crisp zzzzt of a zipper closing.

(You’re just begging for a kleptomaniac to take advantage, Jethro Jamon.)

The boy sighs. A year ago, all of these things – the powers, the mutant bio teacher, the faceless entity haunting his locker – would’ve been extremely exciting. They would have qualified for bragging rights. But now that teenage rites of passage were catching up with him – Prom, argh - he just didn’t seem to have the time or patience.

(Tell me about your day so far. I’m dying for a good anecdote.)

“I’m crap at storytelling. Wait, I’ve got to talk to Chester.”

Silence wafts around them, and Jethro’s hairs stand on end. The ghost finally pulls on his polo sleeve, and shoves him toward the ASTB.

(You can do that later.)

“No, Casper, I can’t. Come on, he’s just over there.”

(You don’t want to be the one to break it to him.)

“Break what to him? All I know is he’s needed upstairs,” says Jethro. “Do you know how dumb this looks? I’m talking to empty air. People are starting to stare. Dude, Chester!”

The addressed looks up from his spot on the rails; Jethro feels the entity fade away.

“Are test scores out yet?” Chester yawns. Beside him, Chari’s head tilts very slightly, almost unnoticeably, unto his shoulders. Jethro’s nose tingles at the agonizingly sweet scent of strawberries.

“About that…. Ma’am Kiel wants you to drop by the math unit right now.”

*****

Normally, a detective like Dom would have begun an investigation by recognizing suspicious activity and making a list of things that were out of place. Such an effort would be futile, he realizes, wandering around the November Carnival. For starters, a woman with uncontrolled facial hair was currently making small talk and offering him free rides.

“I’m here on business,” he coughs. Alla looks at him, biting her lip, and then quickly resumes her best smile. “I’m looking for a girl, around sixteen years old. Her name is Claudine Duñgo. We have reason to believe she’s hiding from authorities here.”

“Unless you can give me her hair color, length, and conditioner, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she lies.

“Then allow me to investigate myself.” The Bearded Lady throws one of her braids forward in an attempt to halt the detective’s advance; he smoothly sidesteps it and pats down his fedora. “You should know that any interference could be considered obstruction of justice. If you have nothing to hide, Ma’am, please step aside.”

As Dom takes graceful footsteps further into the crowd, Alla flashes Noel, sitting atop some crates, a silent apology. He shakes his head, and in turn glances at his sister and her honored guest, arms crossed by one of the tents.

For a fraction of a second – one that went back ages and lasted eternities – the ringmaster recalls Lydia frowning the same way as a child. She’d learned early on how to mimic their mother’s disapproval, and she’d been using the face to shame him into obedience for as long as he could remember.

Well, he was a grown man now. He was in charge; this was his carnival. He would do whatever was required of him to protect this new, loving family and the land that they owned. He couldn’t let one nosy detective put them under fire. He jumps down from his vantage point, dust scattering as his boots touch the ground.

*****

“So, how bad did I fail?” chuckles Chester as he plunks onto the Math Unit study bench. His adviser fixes a steely gaze on him, and looks as if she’s mentally breaking him into pieces for closer inspection. She didn’t look too mad, which was good; she looked like she had a long lecture prepared, which was not.

“See for yourself, Mr. Ragudo,” she answers, unusually curt. Ma’am Kiel slides his answer sheet across the table, and folds her hands primly over her knees.

Chester takes one look and is immediately blinded by a spectrum of mismatched colors. His vision cuts through the sore neon oranges and ethereal purples and finally falls upon the score box.

“What?! I got a zero!”

“Or a five, whichever way you want to look at it. Chester, you didn’t get a single item right. Your solutions are only half-written, and you completely disrespected the multiple choice section. There are only four choices, A to D, so I can’t see why you would answer as far as G or L.”

Chester rubs his eyes vigorously, as if the reality sitting in print before him was merely a layer of paint that would peel off if he smudged hard enough. He goes over his answers, and curses, ignoring the presence of a teacher before him. It was true; not a single question right. And yet…

“Wait, Ma’am! This isn’t what I wrote! These aren’t my answers!”

Ma’am Kiel frowns, and characteristically uncaps several gel pens. She turns away, and begins to check quizzes; her reply comes shortly afterward.

“They’re on your paper, Chester.”

“But I didn’t write this,” he pushes. “I remember my scratch work, and this isn’t it. Ma’am, seriously, you have to believe me. I’m not this stupid.”

“But you do have a record for being this lazy. The rest of your teachers are saying you can’t keep an eye open in their classes. You don’t pass projects and you won’t take up extra credit. Chester, you’re failing. Badly. This long test and the periodic exam are your last chances, and quite frankly, you’re blowing it.”

The words waft in one ear and out the other. Chester looks up, not having registered anything, and whines in protest. “Ma’am, you can’t grade me for answers that aren’t mine.”

“They’re on your answer sheet in dry ink, Chester!”

“But I can prove I didn’t write this!”

“Really, Chester? Because I’d love to see you explain forty incorrect responses.”

Chester hated it when her voice took that sharp, dangerous turn. But an injustice had been done to him, and a beastly fury was building in his bones. Whatever the teachers had been saying about his tendency to fall asleep, he was wide awake and seething now.

“Well?” Ma’am Kiel sighs. She runs her fingers over her temple in frustration.

“The colors!” Chester blurts out. “The colors are all wrong!”

“What?”

“When I do math, the numbers have colors. That’s how I know I’m doing it right. The colors on this piece of paper don’t match. They’re not my colors!”

Ma’am Kiel stands up, and gathers her things. Typical, Chester thinks. She’s walking out on me. She raises her chin slightly, and her scar throbs in defiance.

“Don’t waste my time, Chester. Just take your paper and go.”

“No, no, no,” moans Chester, slapping a hand on the table to pick up his test. “You don’t understand! I have synesthesia; I can see colors in numbers and letters. I know I wrote different answers. I knew they were right. Somebody changed my work!”

The teacher whirls around suddenly, and Chester plops back onto the bench.

“Let’s say I give you the benefit of the doubt. You do have this, this power, that no one else has, that you’ve only told me about now. How could anyone have changed your answers? I keep my files with me at all times. My cubicle is all the way into the Math Unit. Who could’ve touched it, Chester? And who would?”

“I don’t know,” the boy growls in reply. He drops his head onto the bench. He had known he was failing, but his grades had started to look up when his ability manifested. He couldn’t explain this bull any more than Ma’am Kiel could.

“Look, Chester. I want to believe you. I really do. But your performance speaks for itself. I’m warning you now; anything less than a perfect score in the periodic exam will get you a 2.75 in my class. The third quarter is not a good time to fail, Chester. You’ve made it too far and have too much to lose.”

He didn’t want to hear anymore. A leaden curse escapes his lips as he shoves the door open, and slams it shut.

*****

No investigation would be complete without the thrill of the chase.

Dom had seen Claudine ducking behind one of the game booths. She had known he would be here, and now he knew that she was here, as well. Yvanne would finally cool her heels and another case would be closed, as soon as he caught up with the naughty teenager.

What was interesting was that he’d seen another girl with her. He wasn’t sure yet, but she looked a lot like one of the other missing girls on the posters. The carnival was hiding these kids, or worse, stealing and smuggling them, and would have to be thoroughly searched and scrutinized.

The detective follows the shadows as they retreat into the House of Mirrors. He basks for a few more seconds in the light of day, before plunging into the dimly lit halls. The weak incandescent bulbs along the ceiling serve only to bathe his reflections in a menacing glow.

“Miss Duñgo! I know you’re in here! It’s time to come home!”

Dom flinches as movement catches his eye. He whirls around, and comes face to face with several other detectives, all panting and sweating, perfectly matching the horror dawning on his face. He backs into a row of mirrors, and cautiously gropes along the glass, looking for another passageway.

The corridor thins – or does it? – and his reflections seem to crowd around him, horribly disfigured now. The misshapen doppelgangers bob up and down as Dom hurries past. Voices fill the hallway, and echo off the walls.

“H-hello, Miss Cuesta,” coughs Dom into his mobile phone. A wall of static arises, and he is forced to raise his voice. “I’ve locked onto your cousin’s location. She’s here, at the November Carnival, and she’s trying to avoid me. There’s no need to -”

Suddenly, all the nerves in Dom’s hand erupt into agonizing pain. He drops his cell, but before it hits the ground, a bright orange spear impales it, breaking it apart. The Bearded Lady pulls her hair back, and the detective has just enough time to gasp before Alla swings a mighty braid under his legs, knocking him to the ground.

“I’m really, really sorry I had to that.”

Dom kicks back, bumping into a mirror. The entire hall trembles, and his reflections seem to leap up in surprise. Noel steps into the room, cape fluttering behind him. Candy and Lydia, some distance away, turn their backs and guard the entrance.

The detective reaches for his gun; Noel’s pupils follow the motion of his hand, and once more, lightning thrashes Dom’s skin and bones, threatening to splinter him into pieces. His body convulses under the sudden pain, and he lies like a ragdoll at their feet.

Claudine and Dani squeeze into the hallway, and the bodysnatcher puts a shaking hand to her mouth. “You can’t kill him! He was looking for me; he didn’t know what he was getting into.”

One of the light bulbs in the hall sputters and blinks out; the darkness sweeping across Noel’s face makes him look centuries older. Suddenly Claudine is certain it is within the ringmaster’s power to end Dom’s life.

“What are you going to do?” Alla asks. Her hair tames itself, and her beady, pleading black eyes search Noel for compassion. If only Golda had stayed today. They could have avoided all this.

“Yes, Noel, what are you going to do?” echoes Lydia. She raises an eyebrow at Candy, who tenses and waits. Both Noel and Dom were at the end of their rope.

The ringmaster closes his eyes, and his chest swells with the heartache of all around him. The scars on his back throb, and seconds pass as he soaks in his surroundings.

“I’m not going to do anything,” he announces, and Lydia’s mouth cuts into a straight line. Noel turns to Claudine, sighs, and then finishes, “You are.”

Dani steps in front of her friend, baring her fangs. Her fingers hang like claws in the air, and her arm bends into a crook, making her look like a praying mantis.

Noel ignores this and continues, talking to Claudine, “Your friend came to us in her time of need. She was searching for a home, for a family, and in this carnival she found solace. This detective can’t be allowed to live, knowing what he knows about us. It would put us all in danger. If you want him to survive, and if you want our way of life, Dani’s home, to survive, then do what I say. Get into his head, erase his memory.”

Stillness and silence dominate the hall as Claudine’s heart thumps against her chest. Dom rolls over slightly, and coughs up blood. Whatever Noel had done to him, she couldn’t let him repeat.

The bodysnatcher deftly kneels by the detective’s side, and props his head onto her knees. His eyes flutter open for a moment, and Claudine meets his gaze, vanishing into the brilliant hazel.

*****

Siren wails waft over the arid earth as the last of the carnival’s visitors are ushered out. Candy reads the tattoo forming on Lydia’s back, and the Tattooed Lady realizes the police have come, led by Yvanne, to storm their gates.

“Where is she?” Noel asks, eyes locked on the approaching squad cars. Alla takes his left hand, and Lydia approaches, taking his right. Golda appears before them, reverently bowing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. But you’ll be glad to hear that it’s begun. I’ve planted the seed of doubt, Noel. Chester will be ours in no time flat.”

“That’s great, Golda. But we have a situation to handle. Draw the veils.”

From her cushioned leather seat in the police vehicle, Yvanne strains against the barred windows. These trees were improperly placed, if anyone asked her, and she could not see around them to the carnival.

The procession turns sharply to the left, and instead of a massive Ferris Wheel or a host of orange and white tents, Yvanne’s eyes fall upon an empty field.

“Stop the car!”

A cold wind funnels by, and the scattered tufts of grass along the ground bend beneath it. Obviously somebody had read the map wrong. Yvanne angrily stomps down the incline, denting the soil.

The sound of a twig snapping sends several heads jolting to the left. Yvanne’s eyes widen as she sees the ghostly silhouette of her cousin standing among the trees.

“Claudine? Is that you?” she cries. Sure enough, the figure turns around, and her cousin slides past some parched roots to meet her. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick! What the hell are you doing here?”

The bodysnatcher turns a weary head to the vast, empty space behind them.

“Saying goodbye.”

Yvanne’s hand closes around Claudine’s wrist in a vice grip. As she drags her cousin back toward the squad car, she hisses, “You are in big trouble when we get home, you ungrateful little brat. You have no idea what I’ve had to go through just to find you! I had to hire a detective! Where is he? He said he was with you.”

Claudine sighs. They wouldn’t be seeing Mr. Ecat for a long, long time. She wipes away a single tear as it rolls down her cheek, and wishes Dani a good night’s sleep.

*****

“Noel’s master plan is hundreds of years in the making,” whispers Lydia, as she and Candy step inside her trailer. Outside, bits and pieces of the carnival begin to reappear, one by one. “He has been patient, but the Icarus Incident finally persuaded him to act. When my brother wants something, nothing is too great a cost.”

“You mean the detective. And the girl.”

“They aren’t his first victims, our first losses. Before you came to the carnival, before our brothers and sisters were revealed to the world, we had another ringmaster.”

“So Noel took control by force?” asks Candy, awed. “He killed him?”

“No.”

The sound of Noel’s voice outside sends shivers up Candy’s spine. The Tattooed Lady pauses, taking a deep breath, and continues.

“For now, my brother’s motives remain rooted in the right soil, pointed in the right direction. But his moral compass is starting to stray off course. His ambition threatens all of us, including him. If you think I brought you, Candelen Dacalos, to the carnival to save you, then you are wrong. I found you because I need you…to save us.”

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

Episode 6 –
The Walls of Jericho
Part Two
Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
Co-directed by: Rebecca Yu, Benedict Almirol, and Myrtle Antioquia

Previously, on SR…

The intruders to the island were already at their doorstep.
Rows of windows above them dim as massive silhouettes block out the sunlight. The mind-numbing drone of helicopter propellers fills the mansion, and the ground begins to quake. The glass shatters, simultaneously, as military raiders break through to the front lobby.
The ancient oak double doors tower over them for fractions of a second more, before being blown apart completely. Fire sears through the cracks, and smoke floods the hall. Grappling hooks and rappel lines fall from the sky like rain. Like ants overwhelming their quarry, soldiers spill in from all sides, encircling the two Company Executives.
Once more, the Company was under siege. But this time, there had been no warning.

Now, SR continues.
__________________________________________________________________

The very first thing that pops into Rebecca Yu’s head as the invaders tighten their circle is not escape, or combat techniques, or even the safety of her coworkers. The Company High Executive’s brain is going overtime calculating the odds.
On one hand, there are a hundred or more men, separated into organized platoons, equipped with weapons and tactical knowledge. They are dressed in thick, insulating uniforms and laced leather boots, and wear utility belts stocked with unnamed and unfamiliar projectiles.
And on the other hand, there are the specials - trained in stealth and efficiency. Of course, there was no way to figure powers into the equation, but Becca supposes it would be a boost. How many were they left? Not counting all the Tenten clones, she guesses ten, maybe twenty agents.
Red and orange lights continue to flash through the lobbies and corridors, seemingly changing the flow of time itself. Becca didn’t know how long it took her to realize that the odds were against them.
“This is a government sanctioned raid!” bellows a voice from above. Looking up, the High Executives see Renz Cabanto descending from a rope ladder, megaphone in hand. “All posthumans under the employment and care of the Company are hereby turned over to the Posthuman Crises Aversion Team, or PCAT, effective immediately!”
As his feet touch the ground, Becca marches toward him, huffing. Her armor plates were bulging out of her skin now, and it was taking an incredible amount of self-control not to flatten the politician into a pancake on sight.
“What do you think you’re doing?! Whose idea was this?”
Several men cock their stun guns, awaiting orders. Renz holds up his hand, hair ruffling like grass in the hurricane created by the helicopter propellers. A woman enters the scene, framed by the weak beams of sunlight from outside. She picks her way through scattered glass and charred wood, places a hand on her hips, and raises her chin.
“Mine.”
Becca very slowly cranes her neck toward the voice. Desi.
“You. I should’ve known.”
Desi waves her hand around, dismissing several platoons. They charge down the hallways, systematically kicking down doors and disabling security. The warning lights sputter and lock, leaving the rooms and lobby bathed in a permanent sickening orange.
Becca looks around her; only Myrtle is standing, tense, behind her. The other agents were engaged in battle – she could hear their powers wreaking havoc further into the mansion.
“I guess the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime,” laughs Desi. Becca nearly lunges for her throat. Everything had started with Desi – the Icarus incident, the Company dropouts, and now, this raid.
“I tolerated you,” she hisses, “because back then I had some respect for Iego. I really, really hated your lack of work ethics and your tendency to just fail at everything you did. I wanted to get rid of you. But no. Iego wanted to keep you. So we did. But now that you’ve brought the fight to us, there’s nothing stopping me from pummeling you to the ground.”
Renz, caught up in the bravado, steps forward.
“Any action against us will result in incarceration and other measures deemed appropriate by the leader of this operation!”
Becca’s lip twitches.
“That would be you?”
“Yes,” replies Renz, eyebrow raised defiantly.
“Good.”
The odds were completely against them, Becca knew. Twice, perhaps thrice before the Company had been under siege. By now they’d learned the only way out was fighting. And she would put up a hell of a fight.
Tucking her face and stomach inward, Becca allows herself to be consumed by rage, folding into a massive golden armadillo sphere. The High Executive barrels along the carpet, knocking Renz to the side, before ricocheting off the wall. Men are tossed into the air like bowling pins.
Myrtle smiles grimly, before morphing into a hawk and flying off to assist the other agents.

*****

Joseph zigzags through the corridors, snatching enemy weapons away and tossing them out open windows. He knocks several soldiers down with quick jabs, and speeds away before they can even register what’s happened. Left, right, left, stairs – not even a mansion was too big for his superspeed.
BAM.
Sean collides into him, bangs thrown back by the gust of wind. Both young men screech across the carpet, smarting. Wordlessly they get up, and have only moments to recover before five or six men appear at the corner.
“Don’t move! We don’t want to hurt you!”
“That makes one of us, then,” says Sean, eyes glinting. Joseph reads his expression and bolts into another room, just as a barrage of bone spikes nails several of the intruders to a wall. Domz enters the scene, followed by more minions.
“Relax, relax,” he says in a sticky voice. “There’s no need to get physical.”
“No, of course not. But you are carrying a gun.”
“We just want to offer you a way to learn to master your powers. We can help you protect yourself and others from the nasty side eff-”
Sean holds up his hand, and the men behind Domz flinch.
“Who are you?”
“Dominic Albao, primary consultant and supplier of advanced posthuman control technology.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sean, Company employee for three months, totally pissed. Okay, Mr. Albao: you are an idiot. Don’t give me that speech. This Company has been going at it for almost twenty five years now. It’s our job to watch specials, our job to take care of them. You do not have permission to butt in.”
The PCAT officers all fire their tasers simultaneously; Sean shuts his eyes and freezes time. The needles hang in mid-air, wires taut, and the men stand like statues. Domz’s mouth hangs open, lips contorted as a breathless order waits trapped between his teeth.
Joseph casually walks past them at normal speed, grinning to Sean. He takes all of their weapons, and pulls their pants down. He also makes a note to shift Domz’s position, leaning him forwards, before tying his shoelaces together.
When time snaps back into action, the inventor falls flat on his nose, gathering up a clump of carpet lint in his mouth. His men gasp, looking around for their equipment, before hastily stepping back into their trousers.
“Where are they?” screams Domz, voice pitching higher. “I want those two gagged and chained, immediately!”


*****

It was one of those days, Poco realizes. Every now and again the world would turn away from the important chores of managing the water cycle and encouraging predator-prey relationships to focus on him – a young boy in a government school, dark skin and dark outlook. It was as if everything about today was meant to goad a reaction out of him.
He looks up at the sky. Thousands of feet above him, rain clouds are gathering, and if there was a silver lining, Poco was too far away to see it. The girls’ dormitory, across from where he was sitting on the back steps to the ASTB, was standing tall but tired, shadowed stone housing secrets and whispers. He knew they talked about him – not as someone important, or someone helpful, but as an enigma. The boy whose father was murdered.
Not how he would’ve wanted to be known. He flips open his notebook, and scans the parking lot for inspiration. The words would come easy enough if he tried. The rhythm was no problem – lately there had always been something thump-thump-thumping inside of him. His heart, he guessed.
Eyes fall on the paper now, and as he uncaps his pen, the pitter-patter of rain echoes around him. Further into the hallway, some classes were going on, and Poco was glad to be alone on the steps. He needed silence to write.
“Hey, Poco,” says a familiar voice, and Poco looks up just in time to catch the full, searing brilliance of a camera flash. He staggers back, dropping his pen, and listens to the sounds it makes clattering down the steps.
“Shit, man,” goes another recognizable voice. It was a classroom catchphrase in Strontium now. “Were you trying to blast his eyes out?”
Poco rubs his eyes, registering only half of Jethro’s long, rambling apology. Something about him being small and dark and against the light. Funny, he thinks, since the light always seemed against him.
Chester crashes beside him, just a bit too close for comfort. He begins an awkward “uhm”, but the lanky teenager takes the hint and scoots to the opposite corner. So much for writing.
“Dude, why so emo?” Jethro asks. He appears not to notice Poco flinching. Again, an undesirable label.
“I’m not emo. I just need time to be alone.”
Chester watches the two, smirking. Jethro was big and clumsy, even with his words, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought this was a case of high school bullying. As it was – as it always was – Jethro had neatly walked himself into an awkward situation and it would be Chester’s job to fix it.
“Go, on Jet,” he says, and the photographer shrugs comically, remorse evident in the eyes behind his thick-framed glasses. His DSLR bounces on his stomach as he breathes. “Poco and I are just gonna chill for a minute.”
An audible “argh” and yet another mumbled apology are the last they hear of him before he turns around and walks away. Poco can’t help wondering if Jethro’s tendency for easy-going and culturally-charged conversation made him intolerable. The only way he ever talked was through his poetry, which of course, no one could ever read.
“I know why you’re here,” says Poco. His demeanor had already deflected poor Jethro; he might as well send Chester away too. For his own good. “And I’m fine, seriously. No need to…check up on me.”
Poco didn’t want to call it drunk, but at the moment that was exactly how Chester’s squinty-eyed ear-to-ear grin made him look. His cheek muscles, on the other hand, were out of practice.
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” yawns Chester. The intense smell of the creek in the rain shows up in his vision as diamonds of green and yellow. “Just wanted to ask about your…notebook. Heard you wrote poetry.”
And there it was. Poco could tell it was going to be one of those days, when the universe would irresponsibly take a break from conducting the delicate dance of life and death to pick on him – poor, small, defenseless, shy Poco.

*****

Jethro throws open his locker door just a little too hard, and it rebounds off the other lockers standing against the wall. He himself flinches at the noise, and running a broad hand over his face, takes inventory.
Two books, Chemistry and Biology, hardly ever opened; lunch kit, contents digested – dear God, he was getting fat; PE uniforms, carelessly stacked in the back. And a dictionary. Jethro figures if he looked up the word “awkward”, he would find a picture of himself surrounded by blocks of text detailing his failed attempts at conversation.
He couldn’t even make friends with Poco - a boy, younger than him, who would probably have agreed to anything he said. How was he going to pull off a dazzling prom proposal? And for Elise, no less – the loudest, scariest loose cannon of a girl he’d ever met?
The bubbliest, prettiest one, too. But that was beside the point.
The photographer blinks at his camera. That was his language – snapshots, paintings, music, and movies. If he could get her into an animated discussion of The Royal Tenenbaums or Radiohead, maybe he could slip in a sly string of lyrics or quotes, and he’d have asked her without her even knowing.
Facepalming was becoming regular for him, and as he brings down his arm, he snags the strap of his camera. It falls three feet, with him wasting precious seconds uttering a curse. Before it hits the ground, however, something invisible buoys it back up onto his locker.
(You’re welcome,) whispers a voice.
Jethro had watched plenty of movies about ghosts, and being a special, had seen things that were far out of the ordinary. Still, his initial reactions involve prickling hairs and shivers down his spine.
“Who’s there?”
(I’m the spirit that haunts your locker. You’re going to die in seven days.)
The boy might have been convinced, if the voice hadn’t immediately burst into a fit of giggles. Jethro looks around him, and notes that the back lobby corridor is empty. Whoever was talking was a girl, and she was having a good time mocking him.
“Are you serious?”
(No! I’m a special,) she answers, clearly irritated. (My gosh, Jethro Jamon.)
It knew his name. Of course it knew his name.
“A special? So you’re…invisible?”
(Close enough.)
“What do you want?” In Jethro’s experience, specials always wanted something from other specials if they were brave enough to reveal themselves.
(Nothing. Just to hang out.)
Something soft and warm slides under his elbow, and Jethro nearly jumps into the air. He waves his arms around, and touches nothing. He might as well have been blindfolded, but this was worse, because he could see and also not see. Perhaps he was losing his mind.
“Have you been stalking me?”
(Don’t flatter yourself, Jamon. If I have, then you’d never know.)
The voice’s answer was definitely less than comforting. Where had she been following him? And for how long? Jethro resists the urge to look at the boys’ bathroom, just outside.
“I…have to go,” he says, before he can stop himself. It didn’t make sense to continue talking to this figment of his imagination. He should’ve just walked away, but it was part of his charm that the words came out before he could screen them with his brain.
(Off to see the wizard? Your biology teacher arrived on campus half an hour ago.)
Jethro halts. He’d been planning to see David, but how did the voice know that?
“And you know this because…?”
(I’m a stalker, remember? And sometimes you talk to yourself. It’s a bit creepy, but I don’t judge.)
“Hey! Those are private conversations.”
(Being invisible and able to cross between dimensions, I have a little problem with privacy. And boundaries. So are you going to see him?)
Jethro whirls around, backpack straps tightening around his shoulders. A fierce look comes over his face. He looks left, and then right, and settles with talking straight ahead.
“It’s none of your business, whoever you are. Dude, just…leave me alone.”
(You know,) comes the voice from behind him, close to his ear, (I’ve tried talking to a lot of people here. You’re the only one who didn’t faint. Or run away. So I was kind of thinking we could be friends.)
“You saved my camera, okay,” sighs Jethro. “Thanks. But that’s it.”
At that moment, his DSLR appears, floating in the air, and a soft arm goes around his waist. The camera activates, flashing, and then hangs itself around his neck.
(There. To commemorate our first day together.)
“But you’re invisible,” Jethro points out, opening the door to the Biology Unit. The voice remains quiet for a few seconds.
(You are funny, Jethro Jamon. Now go!) she whispers, shoving him through.

*****

If he could help it, Poco almost never looked anyone in the eye. It wasn’t that he was afraid of seeing their disapproval, or worse, their pity – he already knew that would be waiting. He was more worried of what they would see in his eyes.
Unable to form a conclusion based on Chester’s facial expressions as he read, Poco resigns himself to waiting. He wonders if Chester is the type to sugarcoat, and quickly decides he isn’t. This was just what he needed: to have his feelings put under the spotlight. Why had he let Chester get his hands on the notebook?
As these thoughts run through Poco’s head, wild, fanciful colors make their way through Chester’s field of vision. The letters pop off the pages as he scans, fluorescent with vein-river red, floodwater blue, and a green he was sure the young poet must’ve stolen from the kalachuchi trees standing proudly by the field.
Suddenly, something stirs in his bones. The feeling pervades his entire body, climaxing in the gulf of his ears. A tingling, a sort of whimsical ringing.
Music. He was hearing music as he read.
“Poco, my friend,” he begins, peeling himself away from the paper with some difficulty. “You have some real talent here. Incredible colors, man. Thumbs up.”
Relieved, the boy retrieves his notebook respectfully and beams. Not bad for his first critique. Maybe there was hope for a future in writing after all. Something about Chester’s choice of words piques his interest, though.
“What do you mean, colors? I used black ink.”
In the space before Chester’s reply, Poco dimly realizes how parched his voice sounds.
“Your poetry. It’s… I dunno, this sounds stupid, but I wanna say that it’s like, real poetry in motion. Might’ve mentioned it before, but I’m a synesthete. I see sounds as colors, cool stuff like that. And your writing, it literally speaks to me. Sings, actually.”
For once Poco is glad of his dark complexion. Those longs hours helping his father in the field were now hiding the faint red patch on his cheeks.
His father…
“You’re a special, Chester?”
Something that Chari had said to him earlier floats back to memory. Poco’s father was a special murdered by a special. I kind of feel sorry for him. The synesthete wonders how to turn the conversation around.
“Yeah, I guess.” No luck in the evasion department. He was just going to have to be careful with his words. He wondered if Poco was a crier. Then again, anyone who survived the dormitory, like he did, was probably pretty tough. “Powers. World’s saying something to us. Things gotta change.”
“It’s a brave new world we’re walking into,” says Poco thoughtfully. “There’s that feeling – like anyone can do anything now. People are strong. Special.”
Chester grins in reply. That wasn’t so bad. What was everyone making a fuss about? Poco knew how to handle his grief.
“Except…” Poco continues. Chester’s smile sags. “One minute, you’re feeling pretty lucky. And then the next, someone with powers takes away the ones close to you. And suddenly you don’t feel so big or special. Then you just feel…small.”
Chester tries to move his arm, going for an awkward pat on the back. It wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he nods solemnly.
“That’s what my name means,” Poco sighs. “Poco is Spanish…for small.”

*****

Peering behind a large bookcase, Jethro waits as his biology teacher whispers to two men standing at the back entrance to the unit. One of the men shakes his head and stalks off; his companion follows him shortly thereafter.
Cold air on his neck alerts him to the presence of his disembodied voice. Wasn’t she ever going to leave him alone? He merely waves impatiently behind him, and the breath vanishes.
When he turns around, David looms over him.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Jamon?”
For a moment, the teenager is lost in the emerald and lime whorl of David’s pupils. Those were no ordinary eyes, and this was no ordinary teacher.
“I need to ask you something…Sir.”
“Alright, but anything you say can and will be used against your final average.”
The professor leads Jethro further into the unit. All the other teachers either had a class or were eating a late lunch, which suited him just fine, as their discussion would soon turn toward covert matters.
“No offense, Sir,” Jethro begins, “but…why are you here? Does the Company have another mission? Do you need me for something?”
David’s laughter, similar to the sound of crunching bark and bending branches, startles Jethro, and he is taken aback.
“You? Why would I need you?”
Straightening out his labcoat, David gets up and pretends to make himself busy with paperwork. He watches Jethro’s disappointed frown out of the corner of his eye, and licks his lips.
“Maybe I need Chester. Or Chari.”
Jethro had known his trip to the office wouldn’t be a waste of his time.
“You know about his powers? And…wait, what? Chari’s a posthuman?”
“She’s probably in a better position to tell you about it herself. Some touchy stuff there,” David says. “As for Chester? I’ve always known, even before he did. Ancer moonlights as a precog for us; I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
It was difficult for Jethro to digest all this, partly because dozens of new questions were springing up in his mind. He fidgets a bit, and notices that one of the seat cushions is being weighed down by an unseen object.
“Dude. Wow. It’s like we’re everywhere.”
“Specials find each other, Jethro,” says David, rather amused. “It’s hardwired into us, together with the powers and the genes. Safety in numbers and all that. We have to protect our species.”
Jethro finds himself frowning at the notion. His teacher’s use of the word species couldn’t have put him farther away from Elise. He actually liked to think they had something in common.
“We’re all still people.”
“Most of us. I’m currently straddling the line between Kingdom Animalia and Kingdom Plantae. The point is, when you’re a special, there’s no doubt about it – you’re going to run into others like you. And sometimes, you’re going to butt heads with people who aren’t. They won’t have any respect for you and will probably like nothing better than to knock you back down to their level.”
David’s voice is matter-of-factly, and although he hates the way it sounds, Jethro can’t help wondering how often he’s used that tone on Chester lately.
“When you find friends, Jethro,” David continues, a shadow falling over his eyes as the tangles of his vine-like hair are capped by a fedora, “be sure to hold on tight.”
A moment passes, in which the teenager’s ears patiently take in the ticking of the wall clock. David, however, is sifting through memories of his past – a part of his life that seemed light-years behind him.
Normal, uncomplicated laughter. Freedom from the responsibility of uniqueness. And a distant, barely recognizable feeling. The feeling of…belonging. Of family.
“Run along now Jethro,” the professor sighs, plunking into his seat. He reclines, and lets his fedora cover most of his face. “I have some things to think about, and I’d prefer it if you weren’t watching me reminisce.”
Wordlessly, his student gets up and disappears out the door.

*****

Seeing through the eyes of an elephant did nothing to assuage the horror of Desi’s siege on the Company. Myrtle could feel each floor beneath her trembling; the vibrations caused by the merciless march of soldiers made her legs, thick as tree trunks, weak. The wide mantles of her ears could pick up the sounds of their agents losing the battle.
Levynce’s body seizes with electricity just as her fingers brush the door to the control room; Gabby Nolasco’s weight is pinned down and his head is bagged; Hannah is backed into a corner and captured with a heavy steel net; Albert is pelted with a viscous pink ooze that prevents him from escaping.
Myrtle charges down the hallway, tossing her tusks from side to side; she catches men in their ivory curves and hurls them out of sight, giving little thought to their screams of pain.
Another platoon jogs toward her, weapons at the ready. Her tough, gray hide melts to give way to black and orange stripes; she pounces, her tiger claws slicing through their uniforms. They twist and writhe on the ground, bleeding.
Just below her, on the stairs, Becca is pressed against the wall. Pain shoots up her sides as a broken rib juts into her flesh; crimson leaks through the spaces between her bruised armor plates. Renz inches closer, armed with enough nerve to pull his shades off and grin.
“It’s over, Miss Yu. We’ve captured the east and west wings, the function rooms, the wards, and the hills out back. All that’s left is for Desi to secure Level Five. If you give up now, I’m sure we can work out the details of your holding cell.”
Exhausted from combat, Becca merely spits a curse at him. “Fuck you.”
Images assault her, remnants of her once powerful memory – the sight of David squaring off against Micah on the roof of their old headquarters, his ability pumped up way past its limits. Where was their founder now?
Wherever he was, she knew she couldn’t let him come back to this mess. She was a big girl now, a Company High Executive, and she was going to clean this up. But first she would have to knock a few skulls together.
Biting her tongue to keep from screaming, Becca rolls into a golden ball once more, revving up for speed. Before she can launch herself at the politician, Domz appears, holding a massive crossbow. He has mere seconds to look into the crosshairs and pull the trigger.
A metallic diamond shoots forward like a bullet, and as it hurtles through the air, it unfolds into a much larger jointed cross. The contraption clamps onto Becca like a claw; anti-gravity technology wired into the braces lifts her into the air. The ball heaves, and her muffled shrieking eventually fades away.

*****

Desi briskly moves down the hallway, her shadow magnified a thousand times in size by the lamps at her feet. The number 5 is painted at regular intervals along the walls; impregnable glass walls skew her reflections, only inches separating her from The Company’s most vicious prisoners.
Her heels quiver as a deafening stampede turns the corner – all Tenten clones, their narrow eyes and pointed noses giving them the appearance of ravenous vultures. She stands her ground, aiming what looks to be a barcode reader at the approaching swarm. She flips her hair to the side and pulls the trigger.
A beam of red light falls over the army of clones, and rapidly flickers along both walls. The duplicates fizzle out, bursting into angry puffs of smoke. Desi puts her hand on her waist and smirks.
The dull thud of a pale white hand on the glass beside her snaps her to attention. She peers long and hard into the face of a familiar enemy – dressed in a polka dotted hospital gown, Shaula Geraldino bears more than a passing resemblance to her creepy six year old self. Desi notices the IV tubes and sensors hooked up to her arms and face.
Shaula’s head tilts lazily to the side as a tunnel of sound blasts Desi against the wall. She merely yawns as Sean attacks again, knocking away Desi’s weapons.
The traitorous witch begins to get to her feet, but a hooded figure appears before her. Romeo Manangu’s swift Bo staff strike throws her back onto the ground, and she whimpers.
“What did you think you were going to achieve by putting us behind bars?” roars Sean, stepping forward. Desi swings her arms in a wide arc, catching both agents; her ability crawls under their skin, anchoring itself in their bones. She rises, and brings her arms together so that Sean and Romeo are forced to kneel.
“Revenge. Financial security. Control. All of the above.”
Sean glares at her through his mottled bangs; Romeo rages against her invisible strings. She wiggles her fingers, and Romeo tosses his staff to one side, far out of reach.
“Do you have any idea what the world stands to lose if we go down?”
Desi’s sudden, slicing laughter chills the entire floor.
“You’re all self-important pigs. Nothing’s changed – all of you Company cronies think you’re the only ones who can handle a job. You think you’re all that, but you’re not. If you disappear from the face of the Earth for a while, well… We could all do without you. I’m in charge now.”
“Go to hell,” barks Sean, and Desi deftly twists his neck, breaking it. Romeo forces himself up, but before he can do anything, the puppetmaster coils his right arm backward. The bone crunches audibly as it fractures.
She takes two steps toward Romeo, cracking her knuckles. She’d enjoyed putting an end to the Company’s star agent, hero of the eclipse. Now she was going to get a kick out of snapping Romeo like a twig.
A gust of wind sets her spinning, and before she can recover, Joseph doubles back. He snatches up Romeo and Sean’s limp body, straining against their weight, and hurtles up the stairs.

*****

Myrtle grabs a windowsill for support. Becca was down for the count, and she knew she would be too. Soon. There was barely any fight left in her. If Renz was telling the truth, then it was going to be over in minutes.
A streak of orange arrives at her side – Joseph. He sports his own set of cuts and injuries, but puts his arm under her to help her up.
“Jowi, no…Stop. You have to get out of here.”
“No! I can still fight!”
The High Executive’s heart lightens for a brief moment as she meets the determination in his eyes. An explosion erupts bellow them, and dust falls from the ceiling.
“But you’re not a killer, Jowi. None of us are. We can keep on fighting and fighting, but we’re outnumbered. Eventually you’ll tire out and they’ll catch you. We can’t let that happen.”
Joseph can’t bring himself to understand where Myrtle is going with this.
“You have to run,” she says, coughing up blood. “Take whoever you can with you and get the hell out of here. Find David. No…find Adre. He’ll know what to do. Just run and don’t look back.”
“I can’t leave you here to die!” cries Joseph incredulously.
“They want us alive,” says Myrtle. “I don’t know what for. They won’t kill us…yet. There’s still time to regroup. To live to fight another day. Get out now, Jowi.”
Every fibre of the agent’s body tells him to stay. It was like being torn in half, the way his muscles tensed, all of him pulsating with superspeed. Fight? Or flight?
Joseph has his decision made for him, as a plasma noose goes around one of Myrtle’s fragile hands. He tries to pry it off, but it burns his fingers. Myrtle shoots him a pleading look, and opens her mouth to beckon him away, but a second noose goes around her head.
The agent zips to the other end of the corridor, and watches as Myrtle fights her captors. She shapeshifts into a gorilla, a hawk, and a mouse in turn, but the nooses change size along with her. Finally, someone gets several shots of tranquilizer into her system, and she collapses to the floor. Before her eyes close, she mouths him a final warning.
“Go.”
The PCAT soldiers turn their attention to Joseph, but with a final, clammy gust of wind, he vanishes, leaving behind the infested ruins of the Company headquarters.

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

Episode 5 –
The Walls of Jericho
Part One
Written and directed by: David Justin R. Ples
Co-directed by: Rebecca Yu, Benedict Almirol, Domz Albao, and Myrtle Antioquia

Previously, on SR…

“Oh. So you’re still hallucinating.”
“It’s like a superpower, man.”
“Everyone likes the pretty girl until she starts to talk.”
“The result is unique perception – seeing sounds as colors.”
“There is now a division which handles superhuman affairs.”
“We’re going to create a bank system that sells superpowers.”

Now, SR continues.
_________________________________________________________

Two Ancers sit at two identical tables, muscles tensed. One of them continues to drip acrylic ever so slightly; the paint dribbles down the cold canvas like blood fresh out of a wound. The other, three-dimensional Ancer drums his fingers on the table, staring grimly at a mug of hot chocolate.
The minute hand on the wall clock across him moves; in the thick silence, it sounds very much like the sky falling. His heart thumps in his chest, and a hopeless mix of panic and fatalism pounds in his ears.
Finally, the doorknob begins to turn.
Ancer glances over at a second painting. His gaze darts across the room, and the prophecy is fulfilled seconds later – several armed men in padded Kevlar armor step onto the dusty wooden floor of his apartment.
“You’re late. You stopped to buy that hotdog, didn’t you?”
Sarcasm welling up in his throat where bravery should’ve been, Ancer rises from his chair. Automatically three stun guns cock into position. Two more paintings by the windows reach completion.
“Don’t know what you want; can’t fight you. I’m just a painter. So…cuff me.”
The intruders circle around Ancer cautiously, boots scraping against the floor. One of them smashes the butt of his gun against the teacher’s head; Ancer’s thin frame goes down all too easily. A second agent bags his head, and another twists his arms behind him to bind.
Desi appears at the doorway, and tacks a notice by the knob.
“And the first has fallen.”
She briskly sweeps through the entire apartment, pulling plugs out of their sockets and switching lights off. Several more men follow close behind, snatching up clothes and personal belongings and tossing them into large, black plastic bags.
“Take the paintings too. All of them.”
Again the minute hand shifts. The room is now empty.

*****

Domz slowly massages his throbbing neck, eyes still glued to the high definition flat screen hoisted upon the wall before him. It was the politician talking – no, rambling – to an eager audience. He could see it in the way they pushed and shoved, the way they strained against gravity to get their microphones nearer his smug, lying grin.
These people were hungry for something. A change, perhaps – any sort of movement. As long as the government was tossing some funding one way or another, as long as they dressed smart and read properly from their Teleprompters, the savagery lying beneath their civilian skins would be assuaged.
Or maybe fed. Domz couldn’t quite decide.
Behind him, Renz swivels around on a cushioned chair, quite pleased with himself.
“What are we doing?” the inventor asks aloud. He keeps his back turned to the row of contraptions lined up on the table behind him. Each weapon was aligned with a file on the corresponding posthuman and their abilities. Domz looks at his hands – pale, calloused, still tingling with anxiety. They’d made those weapons. And in a few hours, they would be using them.
“Creating an establishment in the nation’s best interests,” yawns Renz, repeating his press conference speech verbatim. “We want to protect our regular citizens from the dangers of abilities, which we are now aware of and which we now cannot ignore. At the same time, we want to offer specials a place where they can be protected and where their powers can be catalogued and disciplined.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s half true.”
In the other room, watching them through one-way glass, Yvanne frowns. She puts her phone to her ear, and her teeth graze her lower lip.
Someone picks up.
“Good morning. This is Rika Meyes; you’ve reached the office of Detective Dominic Ecat. How may we help you?”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“For me?”
“No, I want you to give this job to Mr. Ecat.”
“I have to give Mr. Ecat a…job? He has a job, ma’am. He’s a detective.”
Yvanne’s lips tighten into a flat line, and she mentally goes through her colorful vocabulary of swear words. “Listen here, Rika Meyes. Are you his secretary?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“My name is Yvanne Cuesta, and my younger cousin has gone missing. I’m worried something’s happened to her; it’s been two days since I last saw her. Now, I can’t go through all the details over the phone…”
The banker hastily recites her address and contact numbers, hoping to high heaven that the detective’s answering machine was taking notes. Outside, she can see Domz and Renz rising to meet Desi; she hangs up and pockets her phone.
“Look, Desi,” she begins. “I don’t plan on getting my hands dirty for you. I’ll play along but I certainly won’t be on the frontlines.”
“Fine by me. Do what secretaries do: sit on your ass and wait for the important, significant people to give you orders. You can manage that, can’t you?”
Yvanne rolls her eyes, flipping her hair to one side. Desi laughs.
“I’m joking, Yvannity. Hold down the fort, okay?” she adds mockingly. “The two of you,” she barks, turning on Domz and Renz, “let’s head out.”
The inventor bows his head, and trudges through the door.

*****

The door to the Math Unit swings open, and Ma’am Kiel hastily steps inside. Tailing her are Elise and Chari, who are each carrying a stack of quizzes on trigonometric functions. The three ladies take a seat on the practice bench by the whiteboard.
“So girls,” begins Ma’am Kiel, casually. “Do either of you have dates yet?”
“No,” answers Chari curtly. “Why do you ask, Ma’am?”
“I’m trying to distract you from the scores you’re going to get,” their adviser laughs. She uncaps her favorite pink ballpen, and drags the first unwilling test paper out of the bunch. Lazy scribbles merit no partial points, she decides.
“I feel like a zoo exhibit,” sighs Chari. “Everyone looks like they mean to say something but all I get are dropped jaws and mid-sentence excuses to the bathroom.”
“And Elise?”
“Still waiting for Che,” she says, sticking her tongue out. By now, Chari has learned to read between the shiny teeth; there was a hint of disappointment in those gleaming eyes. But only a hint. “I’m pretty sure he’s more interested in Chari though.”
The new student snaps her fan open, creating a wall between her upturned lips and Elise’s apologetic grin. Her shoulders sag, and she begins to inch away. Ma’am Kiel watches their conversation play out, all the while cataloging scores.
“Hey, I was just joking. You know that kind of stuff doesn’t actually bother me.”
Chari breathes a genuine sigh of relief.
“Sorry. It’s just… I’m used to not getting along well with the other girls.”
“Why’s that?”
Elise twirls her hair, waiting.
“They always think I’m going to steal their boyfriends or something,” Chari replies, laughing nervously. The expression on her face tells Elise she’s remembering something from her previous school. “But I’m not like that. Really. Honestly, I’m not.”
“I believe you,” Elise chirps. “And don’t worry. I’m nothing like those girls.” She sticks her tongue out, winking, and slips her fingers between Chari’s. The newcomer flinches slightly, before warmly gripping her hand. “Relax. And besides. Dad says no boys. So prom’s not looking too bright for me.”
Ma’am Kiel finishes checking Elise’s answer sheet; she stamps a star onto the upper right corner. Chari hesitates, and then leans in to whisper.
“But you like Chester, right? Just making sure.”
“It’s not even that big a deal.” Elise’s voice rolls up and down. “He’s just cool and mature and stuff. And well, let’s be frank – he’s kind of hot.”
The two girls laugh; their math teacher smiles good-naturedly.
“Well, since we’re being frank…” Ma’am Kiel says, clearing her throat. “Chester’s not doing so well. Those recent perfect scores on quizzes and seatworks might not be enough to pull up the rest of his grade. He might not even go to prom, unless he does a total 360.”
“Two pi,” mutters Elise. Again they laugh, but the conversational atmosphere in the room has died down. Suddenly, the bench they are seated on jerks back several tiles, and the girls almost fall off. The table tips over, and to Ma’am Kiel’s horror, all her neatly arranged paperwork scatters onto the floor.
Chari bends over to help her pick them up; something heavy presses against her fingers, and she cries out. Elise feels someone shove against her, but when she pulls apart her curly locks, no one is there. Footsteps echo around the room; abruptly, the door swings open and then slams shut.
“What was that all about?” Ma’am Kiel’s nose wrinkles, and Elise can almost see the scar on her chin throbbing. When they finish putting all the test papers in the proper order, their adviser sighs. “Oh. And one more thing. How is our buddy system working out?”
Elise sticks her tongue out yet again. “No one actually pays attention to that.”
“Well okay then. You’re class president. I’m assigning you, Chari, and I suppose Jethro and Chester, to make friends with Poco. You’ve noticed he’s been quite down recently?”
Chari and Elise exchange looks, then nod.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard his father died. He was…murdered. By a special.”
The newcomer quickly slips her fingers into Elise’s hand again; Elise responds by putting her head on Chari’s shoulder. The scent of strawberries was thick in the air.
“That’s terrible.”
“Well, Poco won’t admit it to you, but it’s clear he needs help adjusting. Talk to him a bit; see if you can distract him from thinking about it. His grades desperately need a boost.”
“I don’t think I can help there,” says Chari. “But I’m sure Jethro and Chester can. They’re just full of happy thoughts. And of course, there’s Elise.”
“Well, good luck with that. I’m going to eat lunch now. Don’t forget, Paskorus practice during your next break. I’ve already bought the blacklights.”
Ma’am Kiel gets up, daintily waves goodbye, and then disappears behind cubicle walls. Chari follows Elise out the door, but not before noticing traces of dust and sand in the cracks between the tiles.

*****

“Are you…nervous?”
Blurring green and gray is all Agent Adre can make of his boss, who appears to be ransacking his own office. Ancient files from missions completed long ago flip through the air as David’s branch-like arms dig deeper and deeper into the growing mess.
“Normally people work at my pace. It’s been a while since I’ve had to worry about being late,” he says roughly, before finally hooking out a lesson plan and several reference books. “The green skin and blatant disregard for teachers’ uniforms is bad enough; I don’t want to push the envelope by being tardy.”
“So you are serious,” breathes Adre. The air is cold against his silver lips; David looks up for a moment and comes face to face with the steel in his eyes.
“Look, Abednego. You’re my right hand man,” he begins, realizing too late what it implies for the war veteran. Adre subconsciously hides his metallic hand in his jacket pocket. “If you give me the thumbs up, then I’ll be sure I’m on the right track. I do deserve some time for myself, don’t I?”
Adre shakes his head, and grasps the doorknob. Before he can open it, David continues.
“But if you’re against my leaving, then I’ll have to take that into consideration.”
“When have you ever needed a second opinion, boss?”
Father JI Bautista throws his large, priestly hands up in surprise as the door swings open. His bowl-cut hair quivers as he shakes his head.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. Although I can’t really help it,” he says, pointing to his ears. “But is it true, what I heard? Are you really leaving the island for good?”
David shoots Adre a look. We’ll talk about it later.
“Something to that effect.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take a permanent leave as well.”
The holy man steps inside, and Adre reluctantly shuts the door. David looks up at the wall clock, and wonders if his students would dare walk out on him. He then turns his attention to the priest, slumped heavily against the sofa.
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to be a priest anymore,” JI says, quite plainly. “I don’t know how to explain it exactly. All I know is that since all this business with the powers, things have changed and I think… I think I’ve lost a bit of my faith.”
David gives up on the idea of coming to class on time, and instead takes a shifty seat on the arm of the sofa. He thinks back to a recent Company mass, facilitated by JI of course. He’d come, but hadn’t participated in the praise or communion, choosing instead to sit in the pew farthest from the altar. To do some thinking.
Words didn’t seem to hold enough promise for him nowadays, but the fact that the priest was unsure of what to say troubled him. What was a preacher without his gift of tongues?
“You’re a teacher now, so you’ll understand better, yes,” mutters JI, snapping David out of his reverie. “We can’t go around telling people what to believe, can we? Not if we don’t believe it ourselves. Normality, the right way of living, right and wrong… Do you see how these incredible powers have changed all the rules?”
“Rules and people, friend,” coughs Adre.
“I just need some time off. Take away my robes, but give me back my certainty.”
The question comes to David’s parched lips before he can stop himself.
“Aren’t you afraid that God will be angry at you for turning your back on him?”
The Company founder’s heart, pumping sap instead of blood, begins to race. The priest’s superhearing registers this; his palms begin to sweat. He hadn’t thought about that.
“God will forgive me. There’s nothing I can do but trust that, because sadly my heart’s not in this anymore.”
Adre pushes himself off the table, and opens the door deliberately. David cranes his neck to look, and then rises from the sofa. He pulls the priest up; JI’s nose is just on level with the top of his fedora.
“Why don’t you join me and Adre today? Take a walk; be with your people on the outside. And who knows? Perhaps things will have changed by the time we return.”

*****

Domz unsuccessfully attempts to reposition the podium microphone, cringing as it casts earsplitting feedback across the hall. The platoons of soldiers before him all stand straight and still, waiting for him to continue.
“And this,” the inventor says, “is a thick chemical cream I concocted myself. Cover Agent Satorre with this, and the gunk will cause his pores to close, preventing him from using his signature spike projectiles.”
The next slide of his presentation flashes on screen, displaying a handheld weapon similar to a common grocery barcode reader. Domz picks up a replicate lying on a cart before him, and brandishes it with solemn pride.
“You can call this a Cancellation Ray. Since all of Toni Monserrat’s clones carry the same electrical signature, I’ve created something that effectively terminates all of them simultaneously using a counteracting electromagnetic force.”
On the floor above them, Desi’s head slumps onto the plate glass window.
They don’t want to hear about the technical details. Just show them how to point and shoot, Albao.
Months had passed since the horrors of the eclipse, but Desi could still remember exactly the way Iego’s face looked – disappointed, furrowed eyebrows – when he’d told her she’d been booted out of the mission. She hadn’t even been invited to the general assembly, the biggest of all Company meetings to date. The High Executive needed no reasons; at least, not any he could explain to her.
Desi brings a finger down on the PA system.
“Listen up, all of you. Absorb everything Mr. Albao is explaining to you. Internalize. Because tomorrow, there, on the battlefield of the Company Mansion, it’s every man for himself. There’ll be no time to think, no time to question your orders. You will be doing what no special ops team before you has ever done – you will be taking down an entire hive of super powered mutants.”
Renz leans back in his chair, captivated by Desi’s crisp tone.
“And the bad news is, they’ve got the advantage. It’s everything in our power to even the playing field with these weapons. But these hunks of metal are useless if you don’t have the killer instinct.”
The soldiers’ ears stiffen, listening. Domz can just barely see the deadly look on the bank executive’s face as she continues.
“When you attack, don’t hold back. They might look like people, and they will certainly scream like people. But those Company employees are nothing but monsters. Keep the term in mind, soldiers: posthuman. Used to be. Effectively, never were. They are now to be recognized as terrorists, threats to national security. You will be doing your country the greatest service by subduing them. And one last thing. Renz Cabanto and I hereby authorize you to use whatever means necessary to bring them in…alive. Are we clear?”
Thirty rows of trained agents salute in unison, boots crashing down on the ground. Domz throws Desi a disgusted look, shivers running down his spine.
It wasn’t like she wasn’t one of them. And yet here she was, rallying normals against them. Against her own kind.

*****

“Did you find him?”
Company High Executive Rebecca Yu leans forward, the usual cheerfulness in her face absent as her glasses slide along her nose. Her arms are folded rigidly under her, resting on her desk.
Agent Joseph Villas takes a moment to look around the room. Perhaps the proper words could be located on the extensive bookshelves lining the walls, or bobbing up and down on the strangely balanced artifacts on pedestals, ticking and swinging in rhythm.
“Joseph!”
“No, Ma’am,” comes the bitter reply. Already the gentle veterinarian’s feet are itching to speed away. Becca used to be Company sunshine, filling the halls with her merry, spontaneous laughter. In the past few months she had acquired rain clouds instead, and shadows under her glasses.
“But you ran to the weaver, like I asked? Did Aleysha weave you a map?”
“No, Ma’am.” Strike two, Joseph knew. “She was absent from the village as well.”
Becca jolts from her seat, startling the poor agent. The outlines of armor plates were forming on her arms. If Joseph didn’t find a way to diffuse her anger, the High Executive’s office would become a victim of her own armadillo mimicry powers.
“There’s one more thing, Ma’am.”
“Yes?”
“Ancer is gone as well. I took the liberty of dropping by his house. There was a notice tacked to the door, and all of his belongings were gone.”
Agent Villas hands Becca the brittle letter, written in exquisite cursive.
“What? Extended and indefinite leave? Our contract says we must be made aware of all major travel affairs, doesn’t it?”
“I think so.”
In her fury, Becca’s back begins to arch. She was disturbingly close to rolling into her destructive ball form.
“First my Uncle Jacob. Then the weaver. And now Ancer. Where are all our human resources going?”
Trillions of thoughts race through the speedster’s mind in the time it takes for the second hand of the wall clock to move. Becca was being…overprotective? Was that the word for it? Keeping a hawk’s eye on the few remaining recruits and allies… Since the Icarus Incident and Iego’s mysterious departure, the Company had been shrinking in size.
Soon they probably wouldn’t even be called the Company. Something smaller, more suitable. Like…The Group. Or The Friends.
Deafening siren wails echo through the corridors, snapping both specials back to the present. Blinding orange and red lights fill the room, blinking in warning.
Someone was approaching the island.
“Maybe it’s an airline or shipping vessel?” offers Joseph.
“But then the alarm wouldn’t have sounded.”
High Executive Rebecca marches out into the hallway, the agent at her heels.
“Get up on the roof and ask the surveillance team – all Tenten’s – for a visual. Then rouse all of our agents. The ones that are left, anyway. And get David.”
Delivering bad news was so unfortunate. Joseph hated that part of his job, having to be the storm bringer when the chips were already down. He sighs, and speaks.
“David’s not here, Bex. He…went to school.”

*****

Everything was happening in slow motion. Becca could even see Joseph’s footsteps as he dashed up the stairs; the intervals between flickering neon red and orange seem to stretch into eternities. Her legs are made of lead now, and several tons of anxiety pile onto her shoulders.
She makes her way down the grand entrance staircase, eyes deftly meeting Myrtle’s, which were growing with fear. She could see fingers twitching, legs ready to give way and bolt. She knows that it takes extreme danger for the other High Executive’s animal instinct to override her human reasoning.
Agents scurry past her, left and right, preparing for confrontation. Still, all of them seemed to be wading, wading, wading, hopelessly slow, through a viscous mix of panic and urgency.
The intruders to the island were already at their doorstep.
Rows of windows above them dim as massive silhouettes block out the sunlight. The mind-numbing drone of helicopter propellers fills the mansion, and the ground begins to quake. The glass shatters, simultaneously, as military raiders break through to the front lobby.
The ancient oak double doors tower over them for fractions of a second more, before being blown apart completely. Fire sears through the cracks, and smoke floods the hall. Grappling hooks and rappel lines fall from the sky like rain. Like ants overwhelming their quarry, soldiers spill in from all sides, encircling the two Company Executives.
Once more, the Company was under siege. But this time, there had been no warning.