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.”

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.”