Chapter 3: In which Malcolm uses his social skills (Part 5/5)
AN: There were 100 hits to the last update before I found out all the formatting (probably just italics?) hadn't been saved by this site after I pasted the text! Ugh. So sorry about that. Something's not working (like a bunch of things on this site, lol). I had to fix the unitalicized text ONE BY ONE. Same with this update. How am I supposed to keep doing this for the next 300,000 words?! This site is driving me insane.
Again, SEE THIS CHAPTER ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN. There are a few images meant to be in this chapter. FanFiction . n e t doesn't allow me to put these in images, but AO3 does.
Short link to read Strategist on AO3 (remove the spaces): b i t . ly/ao3strategist
Outside the pavilion, the fairy lights shined in the summer night. By one of the dimly lit potted trees, Malcolm found Alicia sat a table with Sophie and Rachel.
As Sophie waved at him in the midst of chewing, Rachel stacked an empty plate above another and rearranged another three little plates filled with confections.
"You want some cookies and milk?" Rachel offered him.
"Or churros?" Sophie said.
"I'm good, thanks," he said, and approached Alicia's chair.
Alicia's eyelids were already drooping.
"Hi, Mal," she said, rubbing an eye in a way that reminded him of his mortal sister Sadie.
They shared not a hint of resemblance, but at times their childlike actions would match and he'd realize once more that he'd forgotten how young Alicia really was.
"Ready to go, Allie?" said Malcolm.
"No, I'm okay," she mumbled. "I can just sit here for a little and—" She yawned for an impressive eight seconds. "And close my eyes."
"Not happening," Malcolm said, as Rachel said, "Ohh-kay. Time for you to go, little missy."
"If you nap now, you're not going to be able to wake up until morning," Malcolm tried to reason. "Let's get you to the cabin. Then you can sleep."
But Alicia didn't budge. She let out a little squealy groan in protest.
"I'll go with you," he said more softly.
Alicia leaned on him, pressing her face onto his side.
Malcolm crouched to her level. "Let's go. It's just ten minutes away," he said, reaching for her hand.
Come on, kid. Please don't make this difficult.
He really should've fetched her earlier. His own fault.
Alicia looked at him, protesting with baby seal eyes between her heavy blinks. She was spending too much time with Percy if she could replicate that. Or maybe kids just had that innate ability. (Actually, no. He'd seen some demonic kids.)
Alicia's eyes were closing again. "Aber'chbin so müüüde," she whined.
Malcolm figured he got the point. Ten minutes for him, he remembered, could be fifteen with little legs. With sleepy little legs, probably nearly twenty.
"Okay," he said, both out of pity and desperation. "Okay, come on."
Malcolm maneuvered hoisted Alicia up from her armpits and her arms went around his neck.
Bidding Sophie and Rachel a fun rest of the night (and mouthing a thank you to Rachel behind Alicia's back), Malcolm made his way out and ignored everyone and all the awws around them.
As he strode away from the crowd, commotion muted into indistinct chatter, and in the simple serenity, white noise blared. Alicia's breathing heated his left ear, leaving him a tad uncomfortable from the imbalance.
"How are you doing, Allie?" he said.
"Not good. No, no. Not well," Alicia said. "But I liked the fireworks. And I saw Mommy today."
"Yeah? How was that?"
"It was nice," said Alicia.
"That's nice."
It was Athena's second visit since Alicia's arrival to Camp Half-Blood. Once again, Malcolm had promised his mother he'd help look after his sister. Alicia brought about new challenges for him to deal with, but he swore to himself, too, that he'd take on all the unglamorous and awkward and boring hurdles—snot on his hoodies, eventual explanations about strawberries, discoveries of some of the most basic knowledge, whatever.
"If you need anything or want anything, you let me know, okay?" Malcolm reminded her.
He felt Alicia nod.
"Anything," he said.
"Okay," she said.
Once they reached the cabin, Malcolm set her down, and Alicia hugged him before she started getting ready for bed. For the 56th day in a row, he laid a peck on her forehead, the way Malcolm's father had done to him.
It hadn't even been two months since her arrival at Camp Half-Blood, but Malcolm felt as though they'd known each other for years already. (Which was quite the paradox, though, because the days and weeks had seemed to get shorter since her arrival.)
He knew by now that her favorite color was purple. Her favorite animal was the beaver (because beavers were engineers). She had a beaver plushie named Baz—a present from her father. And she had lost three teeth already and currently had one wiggly canine.
"You did great today," Malcolm said while supervising her tooth brushing. His dad used to tell him that, too.
Later, after he finished combing her hair and helped tuck her into Annabeth's old bed, she asked, "Mommy won't leave, right?"
"No," Malcolm assured her. "She won't be around nearly as much as your dad was, but she won't leave."
Alicia nodded. Malcolm could see there was a question on her mind. So, he waited beside her.
"Mal?" she said in her squeaky voice.
"Yeah?"
"What is death really like?" Alicia said. "What actually happens to people who die?"
Oh dear. Trust a child of Athena to ask the hard questions. At 1:20 AM. At least this was easier than the question she'd first asked: 'Why?'
Malcolm did what his mortal parents did: tell the truth.
"There are a few answers to that," he said. "Biologically speaking and spiritually speaking. All living things—plants, animals—at least in the mortal world, eventually get…" Decomposed—no, broken down—by fungi and bacteria. Nah, he didn't want to explain that. "Well, they, um…. They change form." Malcolm hoped Alicia wouldn't ask for specifics. "In that process, they get converted into carbon and nitrogen and phosphorus and a whole bunch of other nutrients. And all those things create new life. Without that process, there wouldn't be life. So, whatever came before us and whatever will come after us was created or will be created in that way. That's what they call the circle of life…."
He explained that, on the spiritual side, some people were at peace in Elysium or even the Isles of Blest, that some were not at peace and faced eternal punishment—but that that was only for really, really bad people. He admitted that not all gods get to live forever; some didn't exist anymore and they faded like Pan and old titans. That wasn't an exhaustive list, but he hoped it would be okay for now.
There were some things that Malcolm didn't think she was ready to hear yet—at least not when she was going to sleep and not so soon after her father's death. He wasn't going to mention Tartarus outright—or that their sister had the misfortune to go there and see Tartarus herself.
Malcolm didn't like thinking about it either. Even now, his heart would clench, his eyes would well up, and his air passages would get blocked, bringing him back to the time he'd been most horrified—to the time he'd been scared shitless and fucking furious at the gods that they allowed that to happen to her. To them.
He'd already known there was enough hell on earth without having to go to Hades or Tartarus, but never had he loathed the world so much.
All their siblings had turned to him then. Annabeth was going to be okay, right? Right? Right? Malcolm recalled the time he'd yelled a barrage of expletives at thirteen-year-old Conrad for asking such stupid questions. And that other time, after Annabeth had come back and their siblings still asked the same questions about the sister they sometimes barely recognized. At least then he'd been calm.
She's okay now, Malcolm reminded himself. They both are. And she's here. She just turned 23. She's safe. She's healthy. She's engaged. She's happy.
A call of "Mal?" pulled him from his thoughts. Alicia's young brow creases had disappeared, but her eyes then flitted around his face. "Ähm… is there time for story time tonight?"
Immediately, he was eased, grateful to be grounded by simpler problems.
Alicia still could barely meet his eyes.
"Of course," Malcolm said. "Have I ever said no?"
As Alicia fiddled with her blanket, Malcolm walked over to his bedside shelf that stored the books he'd checked out from the Cabin Six library. Setting aside a pile of his fathers' working papers and manuscript drafts, Malcolm's eyes whizzed through the names: Angrist and Pischke, Bassano, Chomsky, Coates, Collins, Friedman, Foucault, Haley, Homer, Hurston, Kahneman, Krugman, Levitt and Dubner, Mankiw, Marx, Papanek, Peterson, Rand, Rowling… There we are.
Malcolm sat beside her and opened the book to the bookmark. Chapter 32: Flesh, Blood, and Bone.
Yeah, no, this wasn't a good idea right now. Alicia liked Cedric ("He has gray eyes?!"). This wasn't how she should end their special day. Malcolm shut the book.
"Actually, how about something different today?" he asked. "Since it's Annabeth's birthday, I think I could recite you a poem that I think screams Annabeth."
Alicia nodded and snuggled deeper into her covers. He sat on a bedside chair reserved for story time. Malcolm knew just the poem. It was one he'd recited many times to Sadie—a favorite of hers that he knew by heart. Figuring Alicia could benefit from a dose of Angelou, he began:
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size,
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
The words earned a smile upon her small lips. Malcolm continued reciting words of honey bees and inner mysteries. By the fourth and final verse, Alicia's eyelids had fluttered shut and he began to hear soft snoring—or heavy breathing. (Alicia insisted she didn't snore. That was one other thing he opted not to tell her.)
"Good night, Allie," he whispered, and asked their mother to ensure his sister a peaceful slumber.
Malcolm left the nightlight on. He'd gotten used to it years ago when their sister had needed some light.
Returning Goblet of Fire to the shelf, Malcolm's eyes landed on the wall of artworks created by the cabin residents. Of the dozen displayed was a relief sculpture that his older sibling Ray had done of Annabeth studying with a few of their other older siblings.
To the right were twin diagrams of plant and animal cells, drawn, colored, and labeled by Claire. She'd used to hate the piece because of some typos, but Malcolm, Annabeth and Conrad insisted on displaying it front and center.
Above Claire's drawing was a piece Malcolm and Annabeth had done as children of a man-made mountain range across a lake, under a backdrop of pink and purple skies. Just as Malcolm tried to remember who had done which part, the sudden staccato bursts outside jolted him from his reverie.
Right. The party wasn't over.
Malcolm watched the fireworks from outside the cabin, and inhaled deep breaths of the pure summer air until he could no longer feel the tingling on his stomach.
Perhaps it was ADHD that led him to check the news on his phone, that led him to the library sectioned off in the back of the cabin to call his mortal brother.
Within two seconds, his screen displayed the face of his teenage, beanstalky brother Tyrone.
"Hey," Malcolm said faintly. "How are you?"
"Hey-ey," Tyrone answered in two syllables. "I'm good."
"Yeah?"
"Course," said Tyrone.
As Tyrone set down his phone, presumably, Malcolm noticed his brother was at his desk in his own bedroom.
"What'chu been up to?" said Malcolm.
"Um, I'm right now writing this thing on historical credit rationing here. With models and effects and stuff. Piece o' cake so far. I just need to reset my brain."
Leaning back in his swivel chair, Tyrone stretched and rested his hands behind his head.
On his brother's left wrist, Malcolm spotted the bracelet Athena had given Malcolm as soon as he could walk. The bracelet was made of a soft rope with two adjustable knots to resize the rope's circumference. Beside one of the knots, light reflected off the otherwise unassuming metal bead inscribed with the Greek letters alpha, theta, and epsilon: AΘΕ.
"It's summer, Ty. I think you can take a break," said Malcolm.
"What are those?" Tyrone snickered. "No one's making me do this. I just want to"—His hands moved in circles beside his head—"process and apply, ya know."
"Yeah."
"Oh, dude!" Tyrone sat up, leaning towards his screen. "I made a pretty sick pie today. So, no cake, but you can tell Annabeth we had pie. Banana cream pie."
"Ohhh." Malcolm salivated.
"You could still taste the coconut cream, but at least it didn't taste weird with the banana."
Malcolm smiled. "Bet."
Malcolm wanted to hear the most mundane things: his brother's baking, his reading, their little sister's ballet…. Sadie had finally perfected pirouettes, apparently. But in her attempts to recreate perfection, she'd gotten so dizzy, she face-planted—and then weepingly declared she didn't want to be a ballerina after all.
"You know, it'd be cool if you could come here next year," Malcolm said. "After you graduate."
"Like I wouldn't see your city!" Tyrone said.
"I meant to stay longer."
Tyrone was silent for a while. "I'll think about it. How are things on your end?"
Malcolm caught him up to speed about goings-on in New York until Tyrone decided he was going to work on his paper again before hitting the sheets.
"Send me your essay, 'kay? I wanna read it," said Malcolm.
Tyrone nodded. "Call soon!"
"'Kay. Good night, Ty. I love you. Tell everyone I say hi."
After sneaking in a quick "Okay. I love you more!" Tyrone immediately hung up.
Dammit. Malcolm would make sure to win next time.
Setting aside his phone, Malcolm opened his laptop. He did a routine check on a bookmarked page, studying the figures that were guaranteed to be updated at least weekly and that were accompanied by some sleek yet irksome data viz and a readily accessible but equally annoying CSV file.
He stared at the glaring numbers.
358.
2,149.
358. 2,149. Now 111 and 725 more than 2015's equivalent.
Impressive.
Three fifty-eight. Three hundred and fifty-eight.
Seven hundred twenty-five… more. Before the end of July. Before mid-July.
Seven fucking hundred twenty-five—
Defeat sunk in and turned into searing pangs. Malcolm wanted to break something.
He'd known the rough figures already. He'd already done the math. He'd expected hockey sticks in the summer, naturally. But why the total shift upwards?
Letting out a sigh, Malcolm slumped and stared into nothingness.
His mind took him back to West Monroe, to West Carroll, to East 29th…. Where, on those hot summer nights, he would hide in his father's embrace from the deafening pelts of rain. Where, through brittle windows and walls, lights would flash and sirens would wail. And tires would screech, followed by shouts in the heavy storms.
But logged in his brain was also the memory of Annabeth talking his ear off about the City Beautiful on her trip to his home twelve summers ago. He remembered the two weeks he had spent visiting every architecture tour and every art museum with her. He remembered Annabeth teary-eyed over having to cut short their explorations of Frank Lloyd Wright's structures—all because they'd had to kill some stupid chimaera. So, his fathers had extended her stay, and the siblings had roamed Wright's playground to their hearts' content.
He remembered the boat ride on Annabeth's eleventh birthday—and her marveling at the drawbridges and skyscrapers that straddled the river. And later that night, after cake and candles, heads peeking out under covers, they'd chatted for hours and hours in hushed tones, gazing at the glowing stars on his bedroom ceiling. And Annabeth, with her characteristically certain gaze, had told him her heart's desire in exchange for his.
'Something permanent,' she'd told him. Like the architectural masterpiece Wright et al. had brought to life for the most beautiful great city left in the world.
Malcolm scoffed. Were you blind or dumb, Wright?
Some things were just too permanent. Would Wright have cared or noticed now, 57 years after his death?
The stats hadn't been compiled until 1968, noted a little voice in Malcolm's head.
And could he be blamed for the segregation that might have caused his potential ignorance or apathy (or simple tone deafness, more like)?
And those riots also only happened after he'd died. Those neighborhoods had only been decimated in the '60s.
Not that any of that was captured in Annabeth and Malcolm's picture, which remained aloof and unyielding under Malcolm's searing gaze.
It wasn't Wright's business either, his internal voice continued. What could he have done? He just made buildings.
Maybe Wright would've known—had known—that hidden in all the beauty was a stomach-lurching ugliness.
As if Wright—or Root or Burnham or especially Sullivan—would have been proud of such superficial grandeur. As if anyone could be proud of the unfathomable cruelty and the fucking embarrassm—
'Focus on things you can control,' Athena had long reminded him.
Malcolm closed his eyes and breathed. He counted to four. And repeated. Once he'd reached a state of calm, he opened his eyes.
There was nothing he could do from here. Might as well be productive.
The web bookmark disappeared with a whoosh.
The mirror provided a good enough reminder anyway—as did showers.
The sunken vertical line on his abdomen and the matching craters on his back and his right leg would've been no worse than the Stymphalian feather he'd taken to the shoulder in New York. Except those newer wounds had quickly healed, and their resulting scars had faded. And no wonder. He'd actually had access to nectar that time.
Malcolm had always supposed that was Athena's point in giving him a bracelet that had only warned of dangers—instead of, say, a cap that could turn him invisible. Or maybe a supply of nectar. He'd understood the reasoning. After all, if there was no escaping or changing of any outcome, why should a precedent have been made to ignore the consequences of reckless behavior?
Naturally, Malcolm's father had never agreed. And while his father couldn't hold a grudge against Athena like his grandmother could, Malcolm knew that that was David Pace's final straw.
Malcolm shed the thought as he toweled himself.
Pausing for a sec, he surveyed himself. The tingling was gone.
With one last checkup on Alicia, he repositioned her beaver plushie, which she instinctively cuddled, and drew up her covers to her chin.
Settling into his own bed, Malcolm read himself some bedtime poetry on his phone and checked his messages. Tyrone had sent a link to his essay and photos and videos of his banana cream pie. A clip showed Tyrone and Sadie making the pie, and, with their fathers, wishing Annabeth a happy birthday. Malcolm sent it to Annabeth.
He revisited his photo album, observing Tyrone's latest baking accomplishments, then scrolled up for the old ones. Past Sadie's piano playing, family restaurant outings with himself, and travel pics to Europe, he smiled at those shots of slightly overcooked pie under bad lighting, found another poorly angled shot, and then suddenly encountered… her.
She who kept him from numbness. Who haunted and guided him. Whom he promised the world to—or at least a city. She with her mocking laughs and her mocking name.
Ayesha. His… his what? She'd never been his anything. And yet….
'She would've loved you, too,' his father had told him. It had been an attempt to assuage his son of his irrational guilt, but those words only ever made it worse.
Fuck this. Malcolm just wanted to sleep.
AN: It was fun to edit chapter 3 while also editing parts of chapters 15/16 and 28(?) or whatever number that'll be. There are already many hints of what's to come! Some, you might remember as you read. Some, you'll only catch if you re-read once all's said and done.
I'm also betting that someone's already figured out the culmination of the crouton-sized breadcrumbs that are in each chapter. Any guesses?!
Also, the girl I named Sadie (Malcolm's mortal sister) is not Kane Chronicles Sadie. I thought of many alternatives and I don't know if it might be confusing, but I couldn't name Strategist Sadie after anyone other than the mighty queen, knocker-down of doors, and paver of ways that was Sadie TM Alexander (1898-1989). Because Sadie TM Alexander should be a household name.