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

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

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

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

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.”