I'd seen and read about these velociraptors running at highway speeds, seen them pouncing on prey from tens of feet away. This one, though?
Hobbled, with its leg wounded in the leg as it was, the raptor just couldn't move fast enough to catch the marsupial when it fled away in a hurried waddle.
The pitiful scene repeated itself several times, but eventually, the raptor, exhausted and breathing heavily, collapsed into a small hollow at the base of a tall tree, its back to the pale bark as it practically steamed in the night.
Resting there for a bit, it eventually curled in on itself to lick at its leg; cleaning its injury.
The image brought back some old memories of Rachel and her dogs, back in Brockton Bay. I sat back, watching it through my bugs' grainy vision, allowing myself to reminisce.
But, while I watched the raptor, the green, chicken-sized dinosaurs began arriving.
In small packs they gathered around the raptor, either local or coming from outside my range and following the trail it had made through the underbrush while following the opossum. Over twenty minutes dozens of them assembled in the foliage and out in the open, jumping in place and chittering at the larger dinosaur, growing braver as more and more arrived.
Procompsognathus, 'Compy's', they had been called in the files.
Their growing numbers drew me from my reminiscing and I sat up, a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Scavengers, the files had described them as, and meant to keep the island clean of the literal tons of crap left by the larger animals and any remains of animals that had died.
Their presence might have told me the raptor was close to death, if not for the fact that they were also opportunistic predators that had a venomous bite, a serotonin laced saliva that would let them eat the raptor alive while it was too stoned to react.
Eventually they would move on the raptor. Maybe just a few at a time at first, small groups that would jump in while keeping out of range and jumping away when the raptor tiredly snapped at those that got too close.
It wasn't difficult to see what they were doing. A simple strategy; it was already tired, and now they were wearing it down until it could no longer fight back. And when that time came…
The mental image came to me unprompted: the little ones jumping in, landing bites until it could no longer fight back and they fell upon it like a tide of green, consuming it while it was still alive, still conscious but unable to do anything. Unable to move while it was pulled apart piece by piece.
And velociraptors were hardy; how long would it endure that before it died?
Massing disparate swarms of fliers I drove them into the scavengers, scattering the little dinosaurs and driving them back to the very edge of my range. The raptor's increasing struggles to rise despite the scavengers being driven off drew my attention.
My attention shifted to focus on it, its previous fate set aside as a suspicion formed. I watched as it kicked up leaves and dirt, digging a trough in the soil in a weak attempt to rise, head looking in the direction the bulk of swarm had gone. In watching it, another detail stood out: its size. Compared to all but one of the raptors I had seen, it was small.
In cleaning up the aftermath of the attack on Artur's team, I'd been unable to account for one that had been shot at by Artur's commander. Maybe five feet tall and twelve feet in length, it certainly fit what I had seen of the survivor.
I had thought it would have bled out after fleeing, but... apparently not. Knowing what I now knew about the species, about their fortitude, and considering this one's injury, this was probably that individual.
Testing my hypothesis, I drew together a swarm and it sat up, watched the swarm with its lips curled back, then dispersing my bugs it eventually settled down again; though, even after several minutes it didn't relax as it had before and instead constantly glanced about its surroundings.
It was confirmation enough that it was the last of the pack that had been following me and attacked Artur's group.
And it was alone.
Beyond the connotations that held for a pack animal, it also meant it had no one to help it recover or bring it food. Eventually the little ones would be back or get to it when it moved on and tried resting against some other tree. Unable to move at speed to catch food or feed itself, it would eventually succumb to a worsening infection, starvation, or predation. And not necessarily in that order.
It wouldn't be a pleasant end, not something I would wish on it; even with what it and its pack had done.
I grimaced.
It would be better off if I put it out of its misery. Distasteful, but better than being eaten alive.
A wandering spider could do it, or an uncontrolled application of the Green. Even a well-placed bullet would work, though it would be wasteful and dangerous besides. Thinking on the options available to me, though, I struck on an alternative.
The raptor had been shot, and a gunshot wound was a glorified puncture wound. That it was still alive days after the fact was a strong indicator that being shot hadn't done too much damage. However, that was only one part of the problem, and possibly the least important part. A puncture wound being what it was, there were most likely debris in the wound. Dead skin, plant matter, dirt, whatever. It could lick as long as it wanted but it couldn't get out whatever was in there.
But I could, using some Blue-infused water. I could clean it out and let its immune system handle the rest.
If there were no adverse reactions that is.
I couldn't overlook the boon the Blue-infused water could provide, but it needed to be tested. After breaking the beetle as I had… I bit my lower lip. That would have been the kind of thing that would have seen my use of the Blue be limited to non-organic contact, and for a legitimate reason beyond it 'looking bad'.
Could the blue be absorbed through osmosis, or through bodily contact? My prosthetic was an indication that it didn't, but that was only skin contact, what about an open wound?
Depending on the answer, it opened up options. A beneficial use to the power beyond offensive or defensive applications.
Healing instead of harm.
But, until I knew more I couldn't say for certain. The Green was capable of growing things beyond their natural limit, but save for some sort of mental interaction, I couldn't even begin to guess what the Blue could do provided sufficient saturation.
Sitting back I removed my glasses, rubbing my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. The lack of sleep had to be getting to me. I could just hear Brian telling me what a bad idea this was, and the logic was flimsy, but…
I ran a hand back through my hair and, pushing my chair back from the table, I stood. Leaving the command center, I stepped into the dark hall, turning left and heading towards the storeroom at the end I ran through a mental inventory of what had been in stock.
-I-
I took my time heading out to where the velociraptor was resting. Walking through the oversized and overgrown airlock style gate, I turned off the road and entered the lightless jungle with the faintly glowing sphere of water trailing behind me. Constantly monitoring the raptor, I slowed my pace to a near crawl on the approach. It still heard me.
Sitting up a bit and looking in the direction I was approaching from, golden eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness locking onto me the moment I stepped out into the open. Hissing, it struggled to rise before its injured leg gave out and falling in an ungainly sprawl it let out a warbling cry, but despite whatever pain it was in it tried to get up anyway.
Whether it was an attempt at an attack or a threat display, I didn't need it making its condition any worse than it already was. Tagging it with my bugs, I pulled at the medicine ball-sized sphere of roiling currents suspended behind me and streams of Blue-infused water whipped past to ensnare the dinosaur. Faintly glowing cords trapped foreclaws against its chest, bound its legs to secure its hooked toe claw, and muzzled it just as it got out a raspy, warbling call.
Snorting, head shaking, its muscles bulged as it strained against the bindings. I was forced to hold it to the ground to keep it from breaking free and reinforced the bindings further.
A slit pupil contracted into a thin line as I walked closer and, snorting into the ground, its struggles grew.
It was afraid, in pain, and experiencing something it never had before. The situation was familiar; I thought back to Rachel and her shelter, before Leviathan's attack on Brockton bay. Taking another slow step forward I knelt, maintaining eye contact with the snarling dinosaur while surreptitiously running an umbilical from my prosthetic to the bindings to keep the bindings charged.
Maybe it would stop resisting, but if calming it down didn't work, I'd just tire it out.
Getting comfortable I examined the dinosaur as best I could in the dark, the glow from the Blue-infused water helping only slightly. Much like the others of the pack, prior to dealing with their remains, its pebbled hide was littered with old and new scars that crisscrossed the tiger-stripe-like patterns on its sides and back. However, my attention was drawn to the top of its haunch and the faintly oozing wound there.
Landing a few flies and other fliers in the vicinity, I got a 'taste' of what was going on. Covered in foamy saliva from its licking, the surrounding tissue was swollen and warmer than the rest of it.
Inflamed, and definitely infected, but not septic. Not yet.
The gunshot wound being what it was, it wouldn't matter how long it licked it if there was foreign matter in the wound and, given that it lacked an exit wound, there almost certainly was. Maybe the wound would heal around the bullet, eventually, if it survived, but the chances would be better if I got it out and flushed out whatever may have gotten into the wound.
Sealing it would be an issue, but I doubted it was going to just leave stitches be. It would have to depend on whatever antibacterial properties its saliva had.
It took several minutes for the dinosaur to exhaust itself enough that it stopped resisting, though it didn't take its eye off me. Beaten, but not defeated.
Commendable, but really not what I needed right now.
Further drawing from the Impression of Visitor Center's lab, the marble in the back of my mind dimmed as mist seeped through the red-brown gauze wrapping my prosthetic. Pulling on the bindings in my swarm sense, the dinosaur began to rise on a thin bed of water spread out beneath it. Its struggles renewed as the ground fell away, though its movements were weaker than before.
It was a balancing act, keeping it as immobilized as possible while moving the water in conjunction with its movements so as to not strain it.
Still, troublesome as it was, I didn't rush getting back to the enclosure; if I took my time, it would continue tiring itself out, hopefully leaving it more placable when I got to work.
Though, carrying two hundred-odd pounds of theropod wasn't easy; doing so sipped away at my still regenerating reserves. By the time I entered the enclosure, the Impression of the lab in the back of my mind had darkened and I had been left to tap into the Impression of the cove.
I set the raptor down on a tarp staked to the ground, which itself had been liberally cleared of vegetation, and repositioned the whiptail overhead, tilting the lantern it carried to better illuminate the work area I'd set up. Sitting down beside a water cooler jug taken from the office, I crossed my legs and touched the glass to check the temperature: lukewarm. Cool enough.
Drawing on the Impression of the cove I saturated the jug until it glowed and got to work.
The first thing is getting that bullet out and seeing what the damage is.
There was only a limited supply of sanitary water. I had to be efficient with what I had and make it count.
A small sliver of glowing water, a sliver of luminescence, rose through the mouth of the jug and, as I maintained eye contact with the raptor, was sent into the puckered wound.
For a few moments, there was little reaction on the raptor's part, then the probe began encountering obstructions.
Solidified pus, dead tissue— whatever it was, I was forced to break through whatever got in my way and the raptor clearly felt the probe going deeper and deeper. It kicked and squirmed against the tarp, hissing through the muzzle. I had been ready though, and locking the bindings' movement I kept it as immobilized as possible so as to not inadvertently tear its leg apart with the probe.
I was well aware of how much damage a spatially immobilized object could do to a moving target.
I was forced to wait and eventually the velociraptor ceased struggling, resorting to glaring at me with a half-lidded eye that fluttered shut every so often. It's breathing, even more than before, was labored and rasping.
It gave me the impression that it was finally succumbing to exhaustion. That, or it was faking it, and was biding its time. It wouldn't even be unprecedented with some of the things they had done to escape captivity. Trying to trick their handlers was at the bottom of that list.
Gradually working the probe deeper and deeper into the wound, I found a resistant mass three and a half inches in. The bullet; A slug, fortunately for the raptor.
The sphere of water at my back shrank a bit further, discreetly reinforcing the bindings to give them a larger surface area. Then I drew more water from the jug and as I sent it into the wound, the raptor bucked. Again I kept it as still as I could while I worked, going so far as to spread the water out to the point the raptor was practically covered in it while I worked the deformed mass out of the wound over the course of a minute.
It was slow work, I re-opened the wound fairly thoroughly, but eventually, it came out followed by a thick stream of foul orange pus speckled with crap that had broken free in the cavity.
I didn't slow down or wait for it to recuperate. Drawing on the water in the jug, a narrow stream of water flowed from the bottle's mouth, through the air, and into the wound, going deep before spreading out into the surrounding flesh and soaking up every bit of pus and foreign matter. All the while the raptor stared back at me, though, occasionally, its tired eyes locked on the flowing water; it watched as the water went in clean and came out contaminated, its nose flaring when it did.
I slowly repeated the process over and over again, cycling out fetid, yellow, green, and red choked streams of water while monitoring the Blue as best as I could for any sign it was being absorbed into the tissues. With energy lost simply by moving the Blue-infused water, it was difficult to say, but it seemed that some was being absorbed when it stayed in one spot for too long; though only a minuscule fraction of a percent. An amount that I wanted to say seemed negligible, I couldn't feel anything happening with it, but couldn't say for certain. Still, it seemed safe, like the usual traces of lead in drinking water. Maybe not healthy, but probably not harmful.
At some point, while I was cleaning the wound something seemed to 'click' for the predator, and for the most part, it stopped resisting with an air of weary resignation. The raptor only resisted again in earnest when I had to press on the surrounding tissue in search of any hidden abscesses that might ruin my work.
I kept at it until the wound wept clear and the remaining water channeled through the wound remained clean.
As the jug finally ran dry I sat back and sighed.
All said and done, the entire procedure took around twenty minutes.
I could barely imagine the nightmare it would have been for any veterinarians trying to do this.
Grabbing the now empty jug by its neck and the bucket by its handle, I disconnected the umbilical to my prosthetic, stood, and backed away from the raptor.
It and I maintained eye contact until the foliage broke line of sight then I turned on my heel, leaving the enclosure through the tall side-sliding gate I'd opened up to gain access to the yard space.
As I stepped through the last of the Blue infused water I had on hand shot out from the small of my back and, spreading it out along the door, I began pushing it shut. Rolling on its track, the heavy steel door rattled slightly and its rusty wheels squealed until it shut with the muted sound of metal hitting metal.
Only then did I release the velociraptor and draw the water back to me.
For a few moments it laid there, seemingly asleep or too tired to move. But then, shifting in place it and discovering it wasn't bound, it was quick to get up— albeit slowly. Standing on the tarp, the old plasticized fabric crinkled underfoot as it shifted, turned to sniff at its wound, then hobbling off the tarp the raptor entered the foliage. Sniffing at the air and plants, it kicking at the soil while moving through the enclosure and quickly enough it reached the vine-shrouded wall, easing itself down with its back to it after hobbling along its length for a few yards.
Once the raptor settled I withdrew the whiptail and sent it out to gather some vermin I had located and begun tracking while setting up. It wasn't a whole cow, but a couple dozen rats would probably do the raptor some good.
Settled in it stuck its snout to the now cleaned wound, sniffed few times, then began to slowly lick at it… like a dog, really. A big, murderous, hyper-intelligent dog.
Turning up a ramp I crossed the loading dock and re-entered the command center.
What it did now was up to it. Maybe with some positive association, it would learn not to be so aggressive towards humans, but if it didn't, well…
Maybe it was all wishful thinking.
—————Standing beside a tire that reached up to my hip, I flicked through a number of keys on a string, searching for one with a Mercedes logo. With an old pillowcase being used as a sack under one arm and gravel poking against the bottom of my costumes soft soles, I was growing a bit irritated at not finding the right key when all the others had been labeled in one way or another.
I looked up and stared the eye level lock set into the utility truck's passenger side door.
It was a big thing, sitting on six wheels with a long flatbed truck. When first seeing it the truck had reminded me of the heavy transports that Coil had used to transport material and personnel through Brockton Bay in the weeks following Leviathan's attack.
Pressing the palm of my prosthetic to the lock, I forced water into the mechanism. Working at the tumblers until it turned, I pulled open the door was hit by the same old-car smell the rest of the vehicles left parked around the veterinary complex had had, a certain mustiness and the faint scent of cigarettes.
I ignored it and hauled myself up, into the cab, and onto the passengers' side seat, dropping my pillowcase full of cassette tapes and other collected clutter onto the driver's seat.
Glancing around my eyes settled on the usual places: center divider, glove box, sun visor, and so on.
In what had become a standard inspection of the vehicles, I flipped down the visors to see if the past drivers had stowed anything there, but nothing. The center console, however, revealed a neat row of cassette tapes; they went into the pillowcase, along with a pair of cheap red sunglasses, a five by eight yellow notepad, and a glasses repair kit.
The glovebox only gave me a pile of car manuals, though there were a couple more cassette tapes that I took before snapping the compartment shut.
Checking the cassette slot in the center console I found a tape. Going in with a bit of water from my prosthetic I disengaged it from the reader mechanism and pulled it out as it was ejected.
Flipping the tape between my fingers, I examined the title to see it a was an album of assorted classical artists.
I dropped it into the sack with the rest of them and hopped out from the truck to the loading dock, slamming the door shut behind me.
From within the building, Artur glanced up from cinching up his pack. Tightening it one last time, he worked his way through the converted office space we had bunked in to a back room and peered out the windows overlooking the loading dock.
For a second I stopped to look up and wave before moving to a blue tarp I'd laid out over the stained and darkened concrete and had stacked a neat pile of supplies on.
Setting the sack down I walked inside, stepping through floor to ceiling rolling door that opened up to another which led to the surgical theater and from there to a hall and then the large holding pen.
I stooped to pick up a canteen and unscrewing the lid a few balls of ice I'd made rattled inside. I considered the inner roll-up gate as I sipped the cold water.
You could walk from one end of the building to the other if you opened up all the enormous doors. It was an interesting way of treating animals they had to bring here, and simple, considering the weight of the animals in question. Back in at one loading dock, pick up the dinosaur on a pair of gantry cranes (the kind normally used for car engines), roll it to the surgery, then from there the large holding pen, back out, or to one of the smaller holding pens held in the wing that made up the left side of the T part of the building which let out into the yard.
Its form followed its function.
Though, fortunately for me, it wasn't entirely adequate considering some of the larger animals on the island.
Returning the canteen to its place in the shade I turned and sat on the tarp, picking up and upending the pillowcase. A mess of car-clutter gathered from the dozen-odd vehicles parked around the building spilled out onto the blue tarp: a mess of cassette tapes, loose cases, a rewinder, a clipboard, pens, pencils, several pairs of sunglasses, musty smelling hats, and little bits of miscellanea.
Sifting through and putting aside the clutter I sorted the tapes I'd gathered by genre. A mishmash of tastes, the majority came out to be a mix of classic rock, classical, and Spanish with more than a few mixtapes. A decent breadth of options overall. It was going to be nice to have some background music. As relaxing as the quiet could be, it was a little disconcerting at times; a bit a variety would hopefully break up the monotony brought on by long treks across the island.
That was the operating idea at least. The banana yellow walkman I had found while searching the personal effects left behind functional enough, at least after I had cleaned out the old alkaline battery had burst in it. The headphones were little things made of wire and foam, but it was what was available.
It had been an odd feeling though, finding the player. Growing up with CD players and later MP3 players, smartphones… it was odd knowing that the tape player was only a few years old on this world. The computers were one thing, Winslow's systems had probably been about the same age, but the cassette player had really made it hit home. What was an anachronistic level of technology to me was modern only a few years ago… my phone probably had as much processing power as all the computers in the command center. Combined.
Leaving the mixtapes as a surprise for later, I sorted them into their own group and after stuffing them all into a small cardboard box, added it to a neat stack of supplies I had amassed from everything that had been left here.
There was a lot, though I could only take so much and I had some heavier items at the bottom of the pile.
A large part of what I'd gathered had come from the supplies left by the investigation team; however, an even larger portion had been sourced from the building's main store-room.
Despite the system for bringing in dinosaurs that the building had been built around, it could only do so much when several of the dinosaur species averaged in at tens of tons. The veterinarians addressed the problem as well as they could: they brought the hospital to the dinosaur.
Go to the dinosaur, isolate the dinosaur, construct shelter around the dinosaur, sterilize the operating area, clean up, monitor. As a result, though, this ad-hoc method of treatment had necessitated a sizable storeroom that took up much of the top right wing of the building and been filled with the supplies they used to assemble the temporary operating theater.
Ultimately I was only taking a small fraction of what was available, and only what might come in handy, but coupled with the other supplies, it had grown into a sizable pile.
Fortunately, with one of the pipes, a tarp, and a cargo net meant to lift the dinosaurs from the trucks, I figured I had made up a serviceable enough sling and carrying pole. With Artur and I could split the load we should be able to get it up the mountain in one trip.
Hopefully an overall simpler and less tedious method of transporting it all than the hand-truck method.
While straightening up the pile so it could be wrapped up, I monitored Artur as he left the balcony after sitting down to chew on one of his odd sticks for a bit.
The velociraptor was deep asleep, thankfully. Having gorged itself on a few bucketloads of rats it had hidden itself away in the thicker parts of the foliage and been deep asleep since just before dawn. I doubted Artur would react well to seeing it, and I didn't want to deal with him finding out I'd helped it. No need to complicate things at this point with unnecessary drama.
Hefting his rucksack under one arm, Artur made his way downstairs and up the hall to where I was.
"'Morning," I said aloud as he came around the corner, setting aside a pair of pliers I'd been testing.
He didn't approach and stood there a moment, staring at the pile and his posture shifted. More… guarded?
I blinked and twisted in place to look back at him. "What's wrong?"
His eyes flicked back to me and mouth twisted for a second. He reached up to scratch his thin beard before jerking his hand away. "You 'ave pro'duct'ive vatch, Ma'am."
"Yes," I said, bluntly. "There were a lot of supplies left in storage and by the people that made camp here."
He made a noncommittal noise.
"But that's not what you're asking about?"
He gave me a look of frustration, the type the exuded a kind of tired exasperation. "You haf choose to stay," he stated.
Ah. We never had finished that conversation, had we?
I turned back to the pile and seeing what it must have meant to him I shook my head. "Not yet, no."
Not wholly at least, I was loath to not keep all my options open.
With my back still turned his hand came up to scratch at his beard, staring into in the distance for a few moments the shook his head. "To poot oof deci'sion make difeecult to plan sto'rie, Ma'am."
"I know"
Setting his pack down he learned his walking stick against the wall and walked around so he was across from me, on the other side of the pile.
"If it helps, just plan as if I was leaving. Tell me what you come up with and we can drill that. If I don't go…" I shrugged. "Then it won't matter."
A brow raised as he knelt to examine the stack, inspecting some of what I had gathered. "You are cone'sider stayed zen? Do noot vant to return to power, vould seemply… retire? Aefter all 'ave done?"
"Staying," I absently corrected, half helping him and delaying for a moment before shaking my head. "And no. I don't know, not for certain yet. Leaving now just doesn't seem that urgent to me as it once did. Besides, it isn't as if I have very much to worry about if I do stay."
The same could not be said if I left.
Leaving with Artur had always been a bit of a dubiously sensible proposal. I had accepted his offer in part because why not? Having the option could only be a good thing. But getting into the confines of a helicopter with mafia goons for a hundred-mile flight over open water after they show up to find out their boss is dead and some stranger is trying to bum a ride with the hired help? Not the most appealing prospect.
The safer option would be to just wait until the island's owners came back and hitch a ride with them, either by approaching them or stowing away on a ship. The way Artur had described it, there would be ships coming through regularly once they made their beachhead, bringing in equipment, men, and material.
It would be uncomfortable, but doable and had the same advantages when it came to what happened after I left the island. Staying off of official channels would have its advantages and allow me to re-enter society on my own terms.
Alternatively, I could introduce myself as a survivor who had washed ashore with some contrived story about amnesia. Fortunately, I had a handy, non-malignant but inoperable brain tumor to give that sort of story some weight.
Or I could come up with something else entirely. I'd have time to figure it out.
All angles considered, it was the safer option to simply stay. The smarter option.
If Artur's information was accurate it would be six months, at least, until someone else came to the island. Barring sudden disasters, I was confident that I could handle myself for that long.
After that, I could do whatever, go wherever; settle down somewhere or see the world. I had options, going the rogue route to keep myself funded was one that I could do just about anywhere. Making silk bodysuits for those willing to pay would simply be an offshoot of what I had been doing for the Protectorate, and could easily be worth a small fortune. Actually getting to that point that was in question though. Just walking away from it all? Could I do that? Could I be that selfish?
But then, why not? Why couldn't I be selfish? Hadn't I earned it? Hadn't I given enough? I deserved the right to be a little selfish for once.
A memory bubbled up. What if I just left? Walked away?
A moment of weakness at the end of the world. But now?
There was no next mission, no impossible objective looming just over the horizon. I could slow down, find some peace for myself and let the world handle its own problems. Maybe I could start a bookstore on the side. I could keep bees.
A wan smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. A little house outside a small town, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, walls of books. Maybe somewhere near the ocean.
It was a good dream. But how long would I be able to convince myself that that was okay? How long could I watch things happen on the news, or hear about them from those around me. How long could I just stand by when I knew I had the power to do something?
How long before I went out for a late night walk that just happened to take me into gang territory?
And what then? Would I go out, solve some problem, and then just go back to my bees and my books and live quietly again? Or would I just get pulled in farther, finding more unacceptable situations that I had to fix? And how long would it be before I started to make compromises again, doing bad things for a possible greater good?
How long until I decided I needed a larger power base to accomplish what I thought needed to be done?
"Vy noot take over crime as did in 'ome? Am sure people of Colom'bia vould velcome change," Artur offered with a wry smile, as if reading my thoughts.
And that was exactly the sort of mess I could fall into. I shook my head. "Being entirely honest, taking control of criminal organizations, that was more of a friend's thing than mine. I just… gave us direction."
"Boot you coold, zo, coold you? Vith bug and joongle, easy, yes?"
My eyes snapped up to meet his, the warmth of the dream fading as I smothered a frown.
Artur had particularly enjoyed listening to my (sanitized) recounting of my warlord phase, likening it to old aristocratic nobility. Apparently, his great grandfather had fought in the White Army, on the side of the Tzar during the communist revolution, and some of that romanticism had been passed down to him by his grandfather.
This though… this sounded more like a legitimate question.
I sat back, considered what I knew of the region, the mess it was before parahumans arose to amplify the pre-existing problems.
Yes, I could very well put an end the drug cartels scattered across South America if I dedicated myself to it. Easily, in fact. Bankrupting their operations would be as simple as destroying their crops, ruining their product manufacturing, disrupting shipments and smuggling operations.
But what would that look like though, where would I stop? Many of those organizations had been tied to the national governments, some of those nations had fallen to internal conflict when civilians suddenly gaining power fought back. How far would I go?
I doubted the endemic corruption that had allowed the South American parahumans to control so much of the continent was overly different here.
Looking up I caught his eye. "It isn't a matter of whether I could do it or not, but if it would it be worth it, if I could stop."
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, and I knew myself well enough by this point to know I wouldn't rest well knowing I could do something.
He didn't have a response to that and turning my attention to the pliers I fiddled with them for a few moments, opening and closing them a few times before sighing and setting them aside. Looking up again I gave him a small smile. "But enough on that. How does breakfast sound? There are some powdered eggs I found in the supplies left behind, they should still be good."
Artur stiffly returned my smile, considering me without comment for several long seconds before blinking and nodding sharply. "Da."
Rising to his feet he went to his rucksack and dug deep, pulling out the cooking supplies.
I remained seated for the moment, the image of his face frozen in my mind. Had he finally seen through the romanticism he imagined and to the implications of what I had done? What it meant about who, what, I was?
I stood; a heavy weight bearing down on me. And I'd been making such good progress with him as well.
An hour later, with our stomachs full, everything was packed away and the building sealed up save for a few select windows to help air out the building. Wrapping the tarp around the salvaged supplies and lashing the cargo net to an aluminum pipe, we each hefted an end onto our shoulders and set out.
Leaving the building behind I stopped near the oversized gate to adjust my hold and reached out, willing several gallons of glowing water to rise up from a bucket and open one of the yard doors a few feet, just enough for the raptor to leave, whenever it was ready.
-I-
Two days later and I still hadn't given Artur my decision when we sealed up the radio bunker and left the mountain behind.
Food and shelter were a non-issue at this point, they were planned for. It was the same with fire and clothing, and when it came to keeping myself occupied for that time my research into the colored energy, among other projects, would serve me well until the island's owners showed up.
Still, despite thinking on it for the past two days I couldn't yet give him an answer. Even while sketching out plans for a kayak to get around the island quicker and making some tropical weather clothes, I couldn't quite settle on staying.
It was with things left undecided that Artur and I turned off the main tour road and onto the short drive leading up to the Visitors Center. Ahead, a couple of large, colorful birds were playing in a spot of light shining down from an opening in the canopy overhanging the road.
Pecking and playing in the leaves, they flew off with a screech as we approached.
I didn't pay them any mind, but as we neared the spot they had been Artur stopped and peered up through the opening, squinting against the midday sun before looking into the foliage at the edge of the road.
Seeing him fall behind I stopped and half turned, a moment passing as he stared into the underbrush.
"Beet'tar eef noot 'ave spoken," he finally said, his voice distant and almost musing.
Glancing down, then taking a step toward the foliage, he flicked the end of his walking stick against the leaf-strewn road and a cherry-red shotgun cartridge was sent skittering across the road. The shining brass end-cap glinted in the dim light. Tracking its movement I considered the casing before looking from him to the spot he was staring at; a tall, dense fern beside a tall tree if I had the right of it.
"But you did," I said, perhaps a bit harshly, and he looked to me, his lean features drawn and I sighed.
"I can only suggest that you should not let it bother you. Or try not to. You were just doing the job you were paid to do."
"And what happened because of it?" He let out a bleak little laugh and made a backhand wave. "All team die."
"That still doesn't mean it's your fault. Shit happens, it's a fact of life. It wasn't you who gave the order to act on the information, that was your boss's doing, not yours."
He just looked to me, his features drawn. "Da. Boot still haep'peen. Grandvazer een'strookt beater, boot..." Lips twisting he turned away, shaking his head while he gripped the walking stick tight.
Had he been chewing on what happened this entire time? He'd been keeping himself busy, I knew that and had chalked it up to my first impression, and he'd been better even after our discussion at the veterinary building, but... was this the reason? Some shame for a failure he thought was his responsibility.
From his perspective, I could understand why, he'd been the one to spot me, but he was wrong. It wasn't his fault, it was mine.
The raptors had been hunting me and I had been the one to set them off with my swarm.
"The thing about life is that things happen. Just look at me, I became a criminal because a gang leader decided to use a metaphor."
He turned back to me, brow furrowed and blinking. The confusion brought on by my non sequitur was clear on his face and I shrugged; a small, wistful smile pulling at my lips as I thought back to that night and slowly walked back to him.
It was a rather anticlimactic origin story looking back on the incident.
"He was telling his people to shoot children. I acted," I told him simply, elaborating on what happened that night and his expression hardened.
I nodded. "My reaction as well. I was young and dumb at the time, so after hearing that I didn't give it a second thought. I jumped right in and attacked."
There was still the conflict in his features, he was wound tight enough to snap, but his attention was being drawn away. "Are still young," he told me. His tone conciliatory, he may have been trying to reassure me. Innocence lost couldn't be recovered though. I continued.
"Of course, the children in this case turned out to be the Undersiders." I made a small 'oops' shrug at that, thinking back to the first night out that had set everything into motion. "They arrived on the scene soon after I engaged Lung and together we were able to beat him, they gave their thanks, and I… didn't think things through. Not long after I ended up joining them." I breathed out, recalling the mutual unmasking, the Brockton General heist, Coil and Dinah and Brian. Leaving. Leviathan.
"A few months later, I was their leader and had seized control of half my home city." I finished with a wan smile, remembering what had been and what I'd lost and given up before meeting Artur's eyes. "Shit happens. You can't always control what happens as a result of something you do, not in the long term. Your asshole of a boss ordered you to chase me then led you into the middle of the jungle. They died and you survived, that's all there is to it."
Looking down, to the ground, he pushed around fallen leaves with the toe of his boot and kicked to reveal more shining brass casings.
"Is noot so seemple," he said soberly.
"No, it is not, but you live with it. You signed onto with your boss in order to support your family and I became a warlord to support my city and save a child. You do what you have to do and deal with what comes after, that's all you can ever do."
Artur looked back to the fern for a few seconds before nodding, and we resumed our walk toward the Visitors Center, a somber atmosphere following us through the doors of the ruined building.
Artur led the way into the lobby and shrugging off his rucksack he set it at the foot of the staircase as he surveyed the entry hall.
A few leaves were scattered over the previously swept floor, but otherwise, it was just as we had left it.
I only stopped long enough to tell him I'd meet him on the roof before continuing deeper into the building.
Walking past the stairs, past the mural painted across the back wall and through the decaying restaurant, I stopped at one of the doors leading into the kitchens and plucked an orb weaver from my hair. Setting the yellow spider to cut the golden cord securing the door I idly looked back on the restaurant, seeing it with new eyes.
My eyes alighted on the ferns and mosses growing in the dark of the ruined restaurant, on the long rotted away tables I had dug through to pull scraps of tablecloth from and to the wracked gift shop. The condition of the building was like night and day when putting it up against the Veterinary Complex.
The orb weaver finished cutting the webbing and, retrieving the spider, I entered the kitchen. I looked left, to the island counters that dominated the center of the room and the nearly sorted piles of salvaged supplies, materials, and equipment spread across their surfaces. Things I had thought would help me survive on the island.
Nearly everything salvageable from Artur's group as well as what I had gathered from the building was here. Everything but the copper wire from the walls, and now it was mostly worthless except as spare supplies.
How much things had changed, and all because of a fallen sign and a damaged map.
While the material shift in my circumstances could be contributed to Artur's misfortune, it was difficult not to muse on how things could have gone had I taken a left and headed for the coast instead of making a beeline for the Visitors Center.
I wouldn't have learned about a lot of things and a lot of things wouldn't have happened, for better or worse.
Slipping off my backpack I set it on a stove and flitted between the island-counters, moving from one pile of supplies to the next, picking out select pieces of salvage or kit before returning and dumping it all onto the island opposite the stove. Tools, pieces of equipment, bits of tattered fabric: all little things to better sell the story of being a castaway.
The details.
Taking off my hat I shucked my poncho, my personal cadre of orb weavers emerging from my hair and descending down the upper half of my costume, aiding me in removing the white armor panels before pulling off the dyed gauze wrapping my prosthetic.
I avoided looking too closely at the glowing blue limb as I stored the armor pieces and the glove in the oven beneath the stove and got to work assembling my outfit.
Another costume, of sorts. A bit of theater and one more mask to don. At least this one was more mundane than all the others I'd worn. I was playing the castaway: the teenager who had recklessly gone looking for a bit of adventure and been marooned on an island filled with prehistoric monsters. Unlikely perhaps, but with what Artur had revealed about his boss's motivations, a cripple who had gotten lucky was more believable than an American spy sent by a Spanish cartel.
It admittedly felt a bit silly, like playing dress-up, but that was the story Artur and I had settled on. It was simple enough. Whether his ride believed it was another matter.
Despite its simplicity though, and the likelihood that I wouldn't be needing it, each component and detail had been thought out in its supposed application and purported purpose.
The long-sleeved shirt taken from the ruined gift shop to show I'd been salvaging from the buildings.
An old rag around my neck as an improvised bandanna to protect it from the sun.
Pieces of extraneous equipment and gear recovered from Artur's team that would help someone get by.
To my left hip, I attached a third, empty, canteen after rigging the cap to look like it was screwed on. Something to let me store away the Blue-infused water that made up my prosthetic, while still keeping it on me, just in case.
A dozen more little additions followed, bits of kit or decoration that painted a picture until I finally combed my hair out and I rubbed a stick of beeswax through to give it a thoroughly greased appearance. That the wax was actually good for my hair was a pleasant bonus.
Once everything was as I wanted it I grabbed my poncho to complete the image I was trying to convey. The garment had changed considerably over the past two days to fit the narrative as well.
Using some of the bedding gathered from the veterinary building, I had sandwiched my silk poncho between two tattered bed sheets and dyed it a dark red-brown. Combined with the additional layers of silk I had applied to the poncho to offset not wearing my armor, it had made it somewhat heavy in appearance, in how it moved. That was disguised with a patchwork appearance I had given it, with faux patches of natural tone fabrics taken from bits of tattered fabric or ill-fitting clothes. Coupled with the crudely cut the neck hole and overall haphazard stitching it looked awful, it was perfect.
Once satisfied with myself I put together Artur's tactical vest as I remembered it, with a few extra bits, and crossing to the island-counter on the far side of the kitchen I stopped at the wrapped tarp Artur had left on the countertop. I unwrapped it to reveal the pile of guns.
Neatly stacked, as much as a pile of guns can be neatly stacked, he had even placed rag cloths between them. He had spent hours working on them, cleaning them of my sabotage and making them ready to use.
Picking a pistol and Artur's long rifle out I set them aside, covering the rest before continuing to the end of the island-counter and kneeling in front of a built-in cooling cabinet.
I rolled up the shutter door and looked in on the piles of magazines and loose boxes of ammo stacked neatly on the wire racks within.
Pocketing a pair of spare handgun magazines for myself, I grabbed a few more for Artur and several of the short, waffle-pattern stamped magazines that went to his rifle. Shutting the cabinet I retraced my steps and grabbing the rifle, pistol, and vest I left the kitchen.
Making my way through the building I emerged from the access hatch to find him sitting with his legs hanging over the front edge of the building, leaning against the railing running the perimeter. Having settled in to wait he was working at a block of wood with his little carving knife. He jumped when I came up alongside him and held the rifle out by its barrel.
"Here."
He blinked at it and looked up to me.
"Well? You'll need it to sell the story, won't you? Take it, it's yours."
Looking back to the gun his eyes focused and shuffling back from the roof's edge he took it. The loaded thigh holster I set down beside him earned a glance and I took his spot at the railing, leaning back and watching as he ejected the magazine, grunted at the sight of the rounds, then brushed imagined dirt from his lap and proceeded to strip the rifle, inspecting each part with a critical eye.
"If you think I can work that fast you're giving me more credit than I deserve," I told him. Not precisely true, but no reason to tell him that. Prudent of him though.
He simply grunted in acknowledgment but kept working. I watched without further comment, drawing in the first wave of fliers carrying reinforcements of soldier and leafcutter ants while he was engrossed.
Giving each component a cursory inspection and testing the functionality of the mechanical parts where applicable, Artur eventually reassembled the rifle. Inserting the magazine he manually cycled through the rounds one by one then loaded a new magazine and shouldered the rifle, taking aim at something opposite the stagnant pond.
"Good?"
He had the grace to look slightly abashed as he glanced up from the scope before lowering and resting the butt between his legs so he could lean it against his shoulder. "Da." Looking out at the trees he absently pulled the radio from its place on his belt and set it aside. "Cherez neskol'ko chasov," he muttered.
I nodded. "In a few hours then," I echoed, earning a quick side glance from him as I pushing away from the railing, leaving him to take care of a few more preparations and think.
-I-
When the time came for the helicopter to arrive I stood at the roof access-hatch, waiting, ready to retreat inside and allow Artur to introduce me rather than just being there on the rooftop. A pinch from an ant would have signaled him to my decision.
Whatever my decision would've been though, it was ultimately rendered irrelevant.
Waiting on the roof with Artur, the pickup time came and went, and as the sun began its descent I watched the man wind himself tighter and tighter.
Ten minutes became thirty, thirty became sixty. An hour past the pickup time became two.
For a time I retreated inside but kept an eye on Artur and as the sun sank lower and lower a nervous energy overtook him. I returned to the roof.
Previously having occupied himself with working at the block of wood, Artur increasingly began fiddling with the radio.
Systematically changing channels he transmitted into the aether, repeatedly giving pre-established callsigns and designations in Russian, a combination of the Russian and English, and then straight English. Asking for someone to respond, waiting, then repeating the process on a different channel when no one responded before returning to carving at the block of wood.
The process repeated for a time, but eventually, the asking took on an even more desperate tone. The once patient sitting became twitching and the twitching became slow pacing.
He strode back and forth in front of the railing, radio clutched in one hand and the plastic creaking from how hard he gripped it. Keeping at it for a few minutes he suddenly stopped, sat, set aside the radio and picked up the block of wood. He let out a long, shaky breath before picking up his little knife.
Sitting on the steps leading up onto the roof I pushed back the long sleeve to check my watch.
Three hours past and still, nothing. How long was he going to hold out before acknowledging the inevitable? He had to know.
But was it desperation, or denial?
A slip of the hand, a hiss between clenched teeth, and the smell of blood filling the air was the deciding factor to intervene.
Closing my eyes and waiting a beat I stood, turned, and ascending the steps crossed to where Artur sat. Clutching his wrist he stared, insensate, at the laceration running along the meat of his thumb as blood dripped ran and dripped onto the roof.
Flash boiling a bit of water within a chamber in my prosthetic and mixing in some Blue-infused water I stepped up behind him and reached down; prying his grip free I applied the water to stem the flow.
"Enough, Artur. Let's go inside and get that cleaned up."
He tried to wrench his hand away but my prosthetic's grip was unyielding.
"Mne nuzhno byt' zdes'," he muttered.
"No, you don't. I can leave my bugs up here to listen if they call."
"Yesli." At the muttered word the pent up nervous energy just… released, and the man shrank into himself.
"We'll leave the radio on tomorrow. I'm sure they just had mechanical trouble." That last was a lie, he knew it as well as I. But it meant he didn't have to give up hope quite yet.
I rested my glowing hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"And if they don't arrive then we'll figure out what happens next. I promised I'd help you, didn't I?"
-I-
Standing out in the middle of the jungle, with the moon high overhead and the sounds of the jungle echoing through the trees all around me, I stared into the roiling Green sun suspended over my outstretched prosthetic.
It was a confirmation of my hypothesis. A 'pure' Green. Which mean there was at least another color, maybe more.
One good thing to happen today.
A short ways behind me Artur shifted, leaning up against a tree as he watched; I'd hoped it would help take his mind off things a bit. I looked to the surrounding vines that had broken into bloom in response to the concentration of energy. With the Green mixture up on the mountain consumed by supporting the whiptail, I hadn't had much of a chance to further my experiments with plants. Now?
Sitting down on the rim of the dried mud bowl, I tapped into the newly appeared impression at the back of my mind and reached for a vine.
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