Participants:
| Scene Title | Æsahættr |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Elliot comes clean to Seren about an alley full of bodies and makes an audacious proposal. |
| Date | July 10, 2021 |
The rain from last night has blessedly stopped, though not before the temperature plummeted. Ice now crusts the brickwork on the corners of two tenement buildings, as well as the saw horses forming a perimeter around the alleyway between them. The wind still comes as fitfully as it did last night, calm with short instances of sudden violent cold.
“Kinda grizzly,” a grim woman in timeworn police riot gear informs the Administrator as they approach the barricade. Something in the woman’s expression conveys something out of the ordinary about the spectacle. It might just be the way the ice has coated the two most visible bodies like a candy glaze on a fruit cake. It might be the third body all alone further down the alley. Lying down on his stomach, the dead man is pointing toward them more than facing them; it’s clear that the top of him starts with lower teeth, tongue, and open throat.
New Chicago
Saturday, July 10th, 2021
“Got statements from a couple of locals already,” the woman continues, reading from a pad of paper in her hand. “One witness saw, ‘two tall women in matching red coats and a tall man in a trench coat who gave me a thumbs up.’”
Seren regards the scene impassively, an umbrella framing their head and shoulders to keep their overall profile to themself regardless. Baird rustles in their shadow, and they tap a finger along the umbrella handle in response. Their eyes go to the two victims first, the grisly third for only a moment, and then back to the woman. "Brazen. What time was this?" they ask in their usual, clipped tones reserved for the most serious of business.
There’s blood on the walls of both buildings right at the mouth of the alleyway. Two dead men match the general positioning of those sprays of blood. One appears to have died clutching a bullet wound in his throat, the other took two in the side of the head. Not a large caliber weapon, most of the gore stayed inside the skull of the latter.
The real wonder of the tableau is the man who was somewhat decapitated. There’s a pinched quality to the jaw and neck, and several molars speckle the dark ground and ice. The upper portion of the head, including most of the brain, sits a step behind the man’s feet toward the junk fence cutting off escape through the alley. The man is very tall, probably six and a half feet if somebody put the top of his head back on.
“Late last night,” the woman responds. “The other three apparently calmly walked away. Nobody claims to have actually seen what happened though.”
"Fucking phenomenal," Seren voices their reply in a displeased murmur. Were these people even remotely alive still, perhaps they could have looked into their fears– manifested whatever murdered them. Alas. The one in the distance they try very hard not to look at wouldn't have been any help regardless, but… Their eyes narrow on the scene, fingers tapping on the handle of their umbrella again before they look back to the woman wearing the clothes of yesteryear's guardian forces.
"I'm wondering why you called me out here at this hour. Where's Donovan? This is officially a Security-related matter, and until he provides us with an initial investigation report and suspects, Administration's hands won't be on it." Not a requirement in the slightest, but Seren didn't want their or any of their clerks' hands touching this disaster until it was time to hire someone else to deal with whatever caused this scene. It was good, at least, that they knew immediately about the issue, though. "Are you familiar with the phrase 'this meeting could have been an email'?"
They weren't, particularly, but they'd overheard it and decided they liked the now-idiom.
The security officer seems somewhat ruffled by the questions, perhaps just annoyed that administration is involved at all at this point. “Must have been somebody else's call,” she posits. “With that convoy having not left with its full complement, somebody's probably…”
She trails off as she spots a tall man in a trench coat leaning back against one of the saw horses from the inside. His hands are in his pockets, posture completely unbothered by the assorted carnage while his face displays faint chagrin.
“Figured I'd save you,” Elliot says with an awkward smile, “some time on this one.”
Seren is already frowning when they turn to follow the officer's line of sight. Speaking of one of those who didn't continue on with 'that convoy'…
"Elliot," they name him, voice clipped. "Do tell me our witness won't name you our thumbs-upping murderer. Or if you must, tell me swiftly why." Even as they say as much, a hand drifts slightly from their side to signal the officer to hold off on any aggressive action.
A blackening split of Seren's shadow peels away from them, moving of its own accord toward Elliot. As soon as it becomes its own flat entity, nothing more yet than a ground-contained blackness, it nonetheless begins to emit off something like smoke or mist which tendrils toward its… his target of evaluation. Someone whose fears and anxieties he can draw up and explore and know.
Elliot feels more embarrassed for having caused an inconvenience than regret for being linked to three dead bodies. The deaths don't weigh on him at all. Even the cop seems to notice this much, as she curls her small notepad up in a fist.
“Last night,” he begins, his speech level from being rehearsed, “we were at Tom's Derrick. Tall guy,” a nod toward the one in the alley, “isn't local. Sounded like he was looking for a resident. Local Color One and Two said they recognized her description. So did we, unfortunately for them, sounded to me like a dealer at a local card house. Everything about it felt off, so we tailed them.”
He scratches an eyebrow, running it back in his mind. “Outsider, name of Keith, followed her into this alley. Conversation alluded to them having history and him stalking her here. Guy got possessive, turned violent,” he explains. “My partner went in to attempt a no-hard-feelings extraction of the assault victim, Local Color Two pulled a gun and tried to shoot me. Managed to accidentally shoot Local Color One in the neck, my partner drew down and clipped him in the head. Then I killed the big one.” He does not dwell on the fact that he killed him by cutting off most of his head.
He sighs, honestly sorry for the whole kerfuffle. “The woman was shaken,” he says in summary, “though not significantly hurt. Turns out she's actually the sister of who we'd pegged her for. Took her somewhere she'd feel safe, and left this as is. Figured they weren't going anywhere. Also it was… very late and raining.”
The security officer looks like she wants to interject, but defers to the administration with a look meaning, ‘Do you believe this shit?’
Given Baird senses no fear of being seen through, given Elliot volunteered that he'd done these killings, Seren is somewhat tempted to. Where's Wright, then is a thing to wonder, but not a thing they'll waste time on in this instant.
Their head turns ever so slightly back toward the guard, eyes not leaving Elliot. "I'll let you finish up here before any potential evidence finishes thawing, and I'll take this one back to the Building for a more formal statement." As they say as much, the flat surface of moving shadow runs a half-circle around Elliot's feet, continuing to sniff him even as he seems to shepherd the man in his partner's direction. Seren nods affirmatively, beginning to turn back the way they'd come but not giving Elliot their back.
"If Donovan's in his office, we'll take the statement there," they clarify to the officer.
Elliot is herded without complaining, remembering a cattle dog doing something similar and glad not to have his heels nipped at. He shrugs upward from the sawhorse, flipping his collar up against the wind. The officer seems very unhappy to lose the chance to apprehend the confessed killer, especially with the short, middle-aged man pointing at Elliot while giving an emphatic thumbs up. That's her man alright. Elliot nods to her politely as he's corralled away.
“Sorry about,” he says for Seren’s ears, “the mess. I can get Wright and Gracie if you need their statements, but Toby and some regulars at Tom's can vouch for the initial conversation. Tall guy loved to hear himself talk.” He dangles his hand down toward the smoke as though offering it to the snout of a dog for confirmation of identity.
"Going to be needed," Seren affirms while they walk. The trailing smoke behind Elliot reaches up, tendrils of it waiting into the third dimension to 'sniff' his hand, eventually snorting and retreating entirely to his summoner's shadow – the place he normally hides when in public. "Though if it all played out exactly how you said, then this wasn't pleasant, but it paints you as a good Samaritan who acted in self-defense."
And the two of them could live with that, it seemed. Baird and Seren both.
"You did good getting ahead of it like this," they have to admit as they walk side by side with him, the tilt of their wide umbrella shifting to encompass him in its shade. This is far from a perp walk. "I can work with this."
“Wright will show up in not too much time if I'm detained,” Elliot says. “Not for a jailbreak or anything, that's just the plan if she doesn't hear from me.”
He smiles to have broken the news to seemingly positive reviews. If he's entirely honest with himself, he could have spared Keith's life. He chose not to, having a personal inclination to murder abusers. He remembers putting the gun in Bastian’s small hands. Even though the boy couldn't go through with it, Elliot was content to shoot his father Daniel Nelson in the head and heart for him. It was a healing moment.
“Is aggravated self,” he clears his throat and chuckles, “self defense a thing? That guy was a real piece of work.” He wonders about the other Elliot's ability to share memories, that would probably come in handy right now. He snaps his fingers a few times, softly.
"You Americans were big on shooting each other in 'self-defense' even before the world ended," Seren asides in their arid humor. "Legal or no. And these days? Legal is whoever decides it is."
People like them, namely. When they pass someone on the street who averts their eyes even as they nod politely while being on their way, Seren looks directly at them and nods stiffly back.
The walk back is short, but long enough silence lapses before they speak again, quieter.
"This isn't going to look particularly good, even so," they can't help but note. "Not if you're not planning to stay long-term. It's a good thing you did for that girl, especially if she's a resident, but you not being one?" Seren's eyes slide to Elliot without turning more properly to look at him. "Some of those convoy members you were with didn't return their coins. Misused them. Add this street murder on top of that now, and it might start to look like we're giving preferential treatment to outsiders more than our own. People might become unsettled; start to question the Group's decisions."
Ever a delicate balance to strike– placating the populace to keep them working, so in turn they could be kept safe thanks to those spoils.
"I can run interference on the coin situation, ensure none of the remaining convoy do it again, and make a statement regarding our new partnership with the 'Pelago' to smooth over concerns about passes like that being handed to virtual strangers." They look forward again, eyes traveling up the large building the Group makes their headquarters of. "But you're neither with Marlowe's bunch–" that they know of. "Nor gone away with the rest."
Not a beat has a chance to fully pass before Seren surmises, "Some additional contracts to keep your face better seen could work to mitigate. External affairs sorts of jobs. Not just a stranger with a license to kill, then, but one explicitly present with the Group's blessing."
It'd be easier to turn him away. Tell him he did the right thing but that he should spend some time away. But no, here they were preparing any number of plans to twist others' perception on what happened until it more closely matched their own. Seren starts to frown while they consider specifics.
Elliot doesn't immediately respond, walking quietly while thinking about the real possibility of never returning to this city. The remote possibility of leaving the planet entirely. “I'm all fairness,” he says carefully but tinged with humor, “I didn't shoot anyone in self defense regardless of formerly being American.”
“Our plan was to figure out,” he says after a pause, “what's going on with the rumors of remnant government. Same general direction of the convoy; northwest. Can't imagine a scenario where old imperialism is good for the city, likely they'd roll up tanks first if they got here.”
“But that's…” he adds, looking around for prying ears. “Based on old information. We learned more from Gracie which changes the game plan. It would be better to talk about it in private, though. So that you're the first to know.” He finishes with an emphasis that implies they know what he's going to say. He promised they'd be the first to know that specific thing only two nights previous when they shared a bed.
Seren doesn't stop on their way up the steps, but they nearly do. Their shadow roils with curiosity even as they keep a neutral expression, nodding to the doorguard as they pass, and pulling the umbrella closed when they pass the threshold. They make their way to the elevator in the lobby, stepping within.
Their hand pauses over the floor selector, hovering, contemplating. Rather than hitting any office floor, they opt for the level converted for dwellings - their own included.
"You're right," they absently and belatedly reply during the climb. "If there is a remnant out there in any quality, it'd be bad for business."
While unsure the exact nature of what Elliot has to say next, they head for their loft's front door as soon as the elevator's part, their shadow rushing ahead of them and under the doorway, unlatching the lock to the door with an audible click that allows Seren to open it without breaking stride. Inside, Baird has already ballooned out into his full wolfish self, three dimensional with amber eyes that shine curiously as they fix on Seren, then Elliot.
Seren shuts the door behind them after they both enter, and locks it for good measure. Their brows lift subtly in concern as they ask, "How bad is it? What did you find out?"
Elliot doesn't make himself too comfortable, though he does wander away from the door into the living space. He scratches at his head, not answering immediately as he puts the words in order. “I'm going to tell you something you're probably not going to like,” he begins with a short sigh. “Keep in mind that it's… setup for further explanation.”
“When I was approaching town on foot, I saw and heard the convoy approaching,” he explains. “Had never seen them before, got here and observed from a distance. There was an oddity to it, my ears were ringing kind of… directionally. Toward a person who was in the convoy, who was…” He tapers off.
This is where he got Wright onboard by signing not joking. Seren doesn't know sign, so his only option here is the uncomfortable truth. His eyes come up to theirs in an effort to convey the fact that he's not just winding them up for a laugh. “Who was a version of me from an alternate timeline,” he finishes, “where the world didn't end in twenty-ten.” Didn't end yet, technically, but he'll get to that later.
Other realities where maybe things weren't so terrible were things people dreamed about, of course, but they were only dreams. That's the look Seren gives Elliot, head turning slightly away even as their eyes never leave his. The silvered tear scar that hasn't quite faded still lines down their face and is presented with the action.
Their arms don't lift into a telltale fold of closing themself off, but they counter skeptically, "And Baird's favorite food is purple pancakes."
They sigh and one hand settles on their hip while Baird clambers up onto the couch to settle in and watch the exchange. "But you said this was preamble," Seren allows.
Elliot winces, but doesn't blame them for not immediately accepting it at face value. After all, he almost shot the other Elliot in the street when the man signed the explanation.
“Several of the members of that convoy were from the same timeline,” he continues as instructed. “None of the ones who stayed, I'm pretty…sure. They're on a mission to retrieve something to prevent an apocalypse in their timeline, and it's a one way trip for them. As far as they know, they can never go home to reap the b-benefits.”
He turns slightly toward a window, looking out over the best anyone has been able to manage in his world. “Except I just learned that what,” he explains, “they need is a subtle knife. Wh-which means I'm in a position to barter for transportation to their world with them.”
Feeling no reason to leave them hanging, he softly claps his hands and pulls the world apart into two scintillating hoops of refracted rainbow light. He directs them level and adjacent to each other, showing Seren a portal to Baird and Baird a portal to Seren. “Sorry,” he adds, “I don't usually tell people I can do this.”
If Seren wasn't already on their feet, they'd rise to it instantly. Baird pushes up onto his front paws, expression cat-like and curious suddenly rather than wolfish and threatening. He chuffs audibly at the portal before him, staring at Seren as they stare back at him.
Stunned, they stand there for a solid beat before they breathe out, "A subtle knife."
No wonder he identified so closely with Will.
Their gaze, wide-eyed still, finally drifts from the portal back to Elliot as they slide half a step back to reorient themself. They ask him, "I thought you had all your fingers," in a way that isn't really a question. It's a way to deflect with humor and give them time to process this, even as Baird independently stands on the couch's arm to gingerly wave one paw at the center of the portal opened in front of him.
Elliot, thrilled to not be eaten for startling the shadow monster, chuckles shyly at Seren's joke. He pulls the portal away from them, maneuvering it to above the other side of the couch. Baird is now presented with a view of himself from behind and through the portal once again. It's an infinity mirror illusion in spacetime, and a unique jumping opportunity.
“Seemed like fate, honestly,” he says, his attention on Seren. “Already had the book, but I did manifest on the roof of a building and someone… else died. I think, anyway. He was in bad shape and deserved it so I didn't follow up after I ran away from the group home.”
“The other Elliot can't do this,” he explains, cocking his head back toward the portal playground. “Which is fitting because, bizarrely, the first book in the trilogy in his world is Golden Compass for some… reason.” He has a hard time imagining how the pacing could possibly work. Even more bizarrely, he didn't have an ability at all until one was apparently given to him via mad science.
“So there's apparently a handful of abilities that can be used in conjunction to cross between,” he says, “worlds, and this is one of them.”
He can, the other can't, and the books are different. It's like a Rube Goldberg machine for ability manifestation somehow. Seren can't linger on that, though, barely able to grasp onto all of this to begin with. They're distracted long enough their leash on Baird's activity slips. They only catch him on the jump, not on the wiggle preceding it, and their flinch is a moment too late, words late beyond that.
And there goes Baird– soaring and soaring and soaring, through one portal into the other, seamlessly. Sometimes he swats, so close to batting his own tail.
It drives Seren to turn away from the scene entirely, both hands coming up to cup around their head, guarding and framing their eyes all at once while they look away, distracted, eyes glittering as their world expands and they feel at once so small in it and yet more powerful than they know what to do with. Because Elliot was here. He was telling them.
"They were cagey about why they were so set on the coast," they reason to themself. "They weren't expecting to find us here; so set on their final destination that they only left a handful here." They start to frown thoughtfully, trying to let Elliot's narrative take shape in what they'd seen for themself, shading it and giving it new life. They take in a deep breath.
"And what you have, it's but one piece of the puzzle," they add on. "One they didn't even know to look for."
Seren closes their eyes, visualizing what needs done. The opportunity at hand. Vague and dark shapes – a shadow play of their thoughts – manifest in the loft them during that time, each potential piece categorizing itself. Finally, their eyes open and all goes back to normal; they lower their hands to look at Elliot, diamondlike gaze focusing acutely on him.
"Did they reveal to you any more details about their path, where they're going?" Seren asks with pointed calm. "Something that'll help us track them down and get them to come back here so any cut in reality we might open could be… controlled."
It's only then that the wonder behind such a possibility seems to hit them, and they let out a short, incredulous breath, starting to shake their head. "–I can't believe I just said that."
Elliot messes with Baird while Seren is running the numbers, rotating the portals so that he comes out upside down on the next pass. His attention is drawn to the flickering shadows in the room, and then back to Seren. He moves the portals to the floor, one beside the other, both showing that down is now the ceiling.
“I have access to their,” he admits, “route, but something tells me they're not going to be keen on the idea of Group management of their exit. From what I saw and was told, there are a lot of heavy hitters in that convoy. Some of the most dangerous abilities I've heard of. Plus the remnant… government is in that general geographical region if the rumors can be trusted. I can't imagine they'd make a return trip here if they could get out from there.” Gracie is the one who knows where they're heading, but he doesn't immediately divulge that.
“You could,” he says nervously, “come with us, though. With me. We could potentially go somewhere with stable water pressure and movie theaters and nights out on the town.”
Seren's incredulousness only rises, their attempt at professional composure eroding as tension unravels from their shoulders. They fix Elliot with a look that tries to read his intent, oblivious to how his portal play has affected Baird's sense of direction, making the tiger-like beast of him hover midair, wisps of smoke waft from him toward either portal, pulled toward two places at once and hovering between them as a result.
It's not entirely unlike them in this moment. Trapped in the pull between two gravities.
Baird gathers enough of his senses and orientation to roll himself off of his back, amber eyes darting between the two of them. Seren's diamond gaze wavers, lips parting as they try to find anything to say. The only thing that escapes them, after so long a pause, is the choked sound of a failed protest.
"Just like that?" they whisper to him; not a yes, nor a no as their eyes remain transfixed on him. "And leave everyone, everything behind?"
Elliot is able to understand that Seren wouldn't be immediately onboard with Operation Abandon All You've Built Here. They have ties to this place and its people, they've invested blood, sweat, and silver tears into it for years. They might even like the inhabitants.
He, on the other hand, has never had more than a handful of attachments in his entire life. He's had Wright most of the time, though they were separated from the time she went to military school until the time they reunited when she hunted him down for the DoEA. He had Bastian, who'd been like a little brother until he'd been murdered and Elliot immediately returned the favor on his last day in the office as the world drowned. He's lived on the road since then, leaving everything behind is his standard operating procedure.
He pulls his portals together, letting them collapse into an infinitesimal point of light as he considers a careful answer to Seren’s question. He feels the static start to bleed away, counting down until he can make another wormhole.
“I don't expect it to be easy,” he says with quiet seriousness. “I don't think this place means nothing to you, I get that you've built a life here and that means something real. This is…just a once in a lifetime opportunity. There are no guarantees. The road is unforgiving. But you and your dæmon, me and my knife. We could see a new world.” Maybe kill God while they're at it, Gracie says he's a problem.
When he spins it to them the way he does, at least out loud, it's like he takes that knife and puts it to good use. Seren isn't sure whether it was to use its impossible edge to sever them from all they knew or to wound them unthinkably. They fought for this life, they want to protest. They owed everything to the Group. It had – this city had given them a place that unquestionably accepted them for themself, and even valued them for it. They weren't a freak here. The terror they commanded was a respected weapon.
Baird lands on the ground again in as graceful a clatter of claws as he's able, and he paws at the ground with quiet scratches, like if he does perhaps it'll open up again.
"Or we die out there," Seren points out, but the argument is hollow just as much as it needs to be said. Their hard-earned pragmatism demands it. "Having sacrificed everything chasing after something that might not be possible."
But it could be, their hope whispers to them as Baird lifts his head from the ground and looks to them. One ear of his flicks to the side to listen to that foreign temptation, one so quiet it needed that special attention.
In that moment, Seren steps forward toward Elliot, trying to figure out the complexity of their emotions and come up with an answer that's singular. All they can do at first is lift one hand, settling it over the back of his forearm near his elbow as they step past the barrier of personal space. That close, they don't look up directly at him, though their eyes show their thoughts are still churning. The physical contact serves to indicate their desire to not let go of the opportunity – of him even as they waver.
"I would ask you how much time I have to answer, but the truth is the longer I make you wait, the longer of a lead they have on us. And if you're to go– if we're to go… we need to plan to leave immediately."
Their hand firms where it holds onto him, more his sleeve than his actual arm, as their heart and mind race. "And I could tell them– that we are going, and swiftly, with the intent to bring them back," they almost whisper. "Regardless of the reality. Get us equipment that way."
Elliot, unlike his interdimensional interloper identical, doesn't back away or flinch when being touched. That was a relic of a day long past, nights since then free of artifacts of Bastian's lack of control. He gives a soft sigh of relief when they make their decision.
He doesn't have his alternate’s training in logistics, either, and he smiles to have someone as competent as Seren here to help out. “They have a headstart,” he says, “but several large vehicles trailblazing for us. We have the dead outsider's truck for trade. Four of us, including Wright and Gracie, should be able to move faster. Three Specials should take some of the edge off for defense. And for whatever reason I can feel the other Elliot from about a mile away.”
He turns his arm in theirs so he can return the light grip on their forearm, hoping his heartbeat isn't spoiling his level demeanor. The fuzz of his emotions is beginning to overpower the fading wormhole static, he's almost free to make another. “Should probably try to avoid alerting the convoy members who stayed in town that we're going after the others,” he adds.
It hits him suddenly, that Seren did not say no, and his mouth does something complicated before settling on a smile.
It's something they're aware of, too. Not having said yes, explicitly, but absolutely not having had said no. "Fuck you, by the way," Seren asides dryly. "For bringing me this and making me realize… that if I don't try this, then…" They let out a small sigh and lean in briefly, their forehead coming to rest against his sternum. "Then I'll spend forever wondering what if. I'll spend it wondering if you've made it or something happened to you in such a way your bones are something even the earth will eventually forget."
An absolutely undesirable outcome, if their framing that as the bad one has anything to say about it. They frown to themself and then slide half a step back so they can lift their head properly to look up at Elliot again.
"Stay here until I come back. I'll speak with Donovan, and I won't give him the whole picture, but paint an enticing abstraction of it nonetheless. Then I'll pack a bag and we'll…" Seren starts to trail off again, and they squeeze his arm once before letting go. "I reserve the right to turn us around if it seems impossible," they lay out. Not a condition, but a reality. "If it looks like something befell the convoy, especially those sycophants, there's a far better life for us here than dead in the wilderness."
"All right?" they fish for his approval.
“Sounds like a plan,” Elliot says, smiling down at Seren. His first instinct is to assume this is somehow a trap, and he can make accommodations for that. For now though, even if the Group throws their weight around, it would likely only involve more cannon fodder to throw at the government. If it's worse than that, well… he's killed his way out of government buildings before. He's a lot better at it now.
“I've already packed,” he admits. “Got the dead outsider's truck, though on its own we wouldn't get far in it. It's got a cap on it though, space to lay down.” The static fades and he's free to create another wormhole if he needs a quick escape or to commit violence.
Which reminds him, he killed a guy and Wright also killed a guy who only technically killed another guy. Elliot thinks that one is probably on him too when factoring for wormhole physics. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, “by the way. You sure you don't want me to come with to sort that?”
"All that's become the smaller matter in the face of needing to chase after this opportunity," Seren answers him with certainty. "And if you're planning to leave out of town immediately, there's no feelings to manage. You'll be gone, potentially to never come back, and if you do– it's after time has passed and ideally we bring something of value to the Group back with us." Their brows arch. "The narrative writes itself."
They breathe out and then look to Baird, who draws himself up to his full height and pads to them both. His nose bumps the side of Elliot's hand before he turns for the door first.
"Ten minutes, at most. I'll stress the sensitivity of time, hand off matters here." Seren draws in a breath, steeling themself for that, trying to fold in the hope for something sharper and more realistic. They start to look away, and then their attention snaps back to Elliot, like they're really taking him and this moment in. "You can leave the Silvertongue business to me," they assure him with only an upward quirk of one corner of their mouth.
Then they look away and whisper on an exhale, "Fuck, this is really happening."
Elliot smiles widely at the joke before Seren is out of view. Once the dog who reads fears is gone as well, he begins to think about his escape. It might not be necessary, he doesn't want it to be, but it's a habit.
Sometimes there's a lot of people between you and the exit.
DoEA Operations Center
Chicago, Illinois
Thursday, April 8th, 2010
“It was unsanctioned,” the older woman across the desk tells him through the ringing in his ears. “He's been reprimanded, and is currently being transported to another facility for observation until we can tell if there are lingering effects from the boy’s ability or if this was a simple act of revenge.”
Elliot swims in a state of absolute emotionlessness. He knows at some level that this won't last, that the feeling dripping in around the edges tastes like the time he cut the roof off of the group home and watched Eddie fall to his death. He understands why they were followed into this meeting by two armed agents.
“The short and long of it, though,” the Englishwoman continues, “is that Bastian Nelson was an unparalleled threat. His ability had no use outside of the creation of horrors for horror’s sake.”
Some feature of the ringing in his ears tightens, amplifies. Bastian had control. He had control because Elliot found his father and killed him. He had control because the horrors were never his, they were put there by someone else. Elliot has been in the new Fantastica. He's seen the glorious wonders. He's seen hope and happiness created by the boy who was finally free.
“The Department cannot overlook the service you have provided us over the past two years,” says the woman who is in charge of the Department of Evolved Affairs in all but name. “And you will be given time off to come to terms with this unpleasant occurrence.”
Time off? The world ended. His birthplace is probably underwater. Who needs time? What is the point of anything anymore? These people bagged him right off the street. The only reason he isn't dead like Bastian is that Wright was on the team sent to retrieve him. He doesn't look at her, but he hears the sounds she makes when she's distraught, and the sounds she makes when she's worried he's about to do something very stupid. He finally looks at her, and for a moment sees her father. The man who killed Bastian.
“Mr Hitchens,” Georgia Mayes asks, “are you hearing what I'm saying?”
He kills the man behind him first. It's so simple, he barely needs to get the gun out of the holster beneath his arm. Two shots in the chest, one in the teeth. Through the ringing comes the sound of Wright making the only choice he's left her. Through the emotionlessness comes the rage.
He's screaming, he's pretty sure, as he leans across the desk separating him from Mayes. Screams and screams. Huge breaths and screams. The second body drops, Wright is swearing, Elliot is tearing the world apart. Mayes is backing up, clawing beneath her ridiculous coat for a gun, her arm unceremoniously sheared off above and below the elbow. She's screaming now too, a chorus, and Elliot encapsulates her, tucks her in on herself, shears again. Her body comes apart from right shoulder to lower left ribs.
The ringing stops, replaced with shouts of alarm. Blood orbits the event horizons of his portals, trailing briefly toward the door. Wright, angry but committed, lobs a grenade through one and out the other now in the hall.
They're very good at this, firing through portals, jumping through for better positions. It's an art and she's his brush, dealing out death where he points at the canvas. There were twenty-three people in the building when they arrived.
Only two leave.