Hoshi began working for Princess Fyora.
She didn't tell me what exactly her occupation was, and when I bothered her about it, she frowned and confessed as much as she'd love to tell me, faerie law prohibited her from doing so. Being a scientist, curiosity was a natural characteristic, and Hoshi's denial of feeding this need half killed me. I would sometimes pester her at mealtimes, but after a while this gentle chiding grew her irritable, and resulted in a number of unpleasant ends to dinner. I finally gave up on the subject verbally, but quietly this was not the case. When Hoshi was distracted, I would often sort through her things nonchalantly to find some clue of her activities. Much to my chagrin, she left no suspicious items lying around, despite her messy nature.
I wasn't so much interested in Fyora (I saw enough about her on the grocery store headlines) as I was about the actual work Hoshi did. The fact that she insisted on secrecy only made the facts all the more desirable to know, and it agonized me to no end. Still, I didn't want to become an annoyance to Hoshi, so became silent on the subject. Besides, the job seemed to be improving her well-being—her knit bag was left full far more often, she wasn't continuously dumping powder in her nose, and she showered with a decent frequency.
Still, living with her was far from being a hell of hidden information. While guarded about the subject of her job, Hoshi remained an excellent conversationalist, and often I would find us distracted in the middle of a fuck by a sudden idea she had while kissing my neck. (In the moment, this would frustrate me to no end, but in retrospect, it was one of her most endearing qualities—though it made me worry about how much I engaged in her the sack.)
Instead of trying to weasel the information out of her, I entertained her with information on Jhudora, Illusen, or my other co-workers antics, and updated periodically on the status of the Feepit experiment. She was anxious to attend the lab on the day of the first trials and I had negotiated a way to get her in.
In the mean time, we enjoyed each other's company. I had had girlfriends in the past, but they were mostly detached affairs—often the faerie I was with actually had a main partner, and I was their embarrassing action on the side. Having a live-in girlfriend that actually seemed to give a shit was a drastic change—but also a drastic improvement.
We could sleep in endlessly on the weekends without her having to worry about rushing back to her place—we could even stay in bed the whole day and wait until the next one arrived. Laundry became a secret language between the two of us, where we would veil our faces like children playing maidens with the shirts straight from the dryer, still warm and rose-scented. We went out for dinner occasionally, but mostly we spent those hours cooking together, indulging in the occasional food fight or feeding each other directly and sensually from the ladle. Candle light dinners became a ritual on Friday, where we would both take a breath from our jobs and lives to entwine our arms holding wine glasses, sipping ridiculously expensive rosés Hoshi had stolen from Faerie Castle.
Occasionally, we would go to social events, but even among a slew of people our attention always gravitated back towards each other. People would end up shooting us spiteful glares as we retreated into our own little world in the corner, chatting about the sad people, the ordinary people we saw in the room. Their petty opinions didn't matter—we were engrossed in each other. We showed this in the way we dressed—no matter what style the party was, we came outfitted as we pleased, always complementing one another. To a black tie affair, we would wear a zoot suit and poodle skirt with saddle shoes on each—when we were thrown out, we'd laugh while exiting with a purse full of silverware.
After our exploits, we'd run home to my house and turn the hot water on in the tub. I'd sit on the toilet calmly while she was allowed to do anything she wanted to on my body—when the tub was half-filled, the roles were reversed. Once the bathtub was nearly overflowing, we'd lower ourselves in and spray each other childishly with water, laughing and submerging each other's heads. Sometimes there were bubble baths, and she'd temporarily mask her body with a cloud of bubbles—it was my task to blow them off to re-access what I would announce loudly was 'rightfully mine.'
Our favorite activity, though, was to climb onto the top of my roof and lay down a blanket on the deteriorating shingles. We'd stretch out our backs, my head cushioned in Hoshi's stomach, and stare at the evening sky. Often, we'd bring along a bottle of wine. The heavens, too, had stretched out a blanket for our curiosity, and sewed together a quilt made of the blackest silk, punctured with holes. We'd point out makeshift constellations—the drunker we became, the more lewd the star's sketches were. Mostly, though, we wondered which dots of light were planets, and whether or not we were alone. But then I'd look over at the beauty lying next to me, and realized that I never was.
As it happened, the morning of the Feepit experiment, Hoshi had disappeared; I woke up next to an empty space with crumpled sheets. I looked around the house for her, calling her name, but when it was clear she wasn't home, I reluctantly brewed a pot of coffee and drank it by myself, reading The Communist Manifesto to bide the time. (Light, ridiculous reading was all I could stomach in the morning.)
Anxiety neglected me the ability to get down much coffee without upsetting my stomach. The experiment we had been toiling over for nearly a year was coming to head this day with the first day of testing. While I sincerely wished for a smooth trial run, which would show the faerie public that science was just as reliable—done well—as any archaic spell, I tried to repeat to myself that trial and error are a part of science that is unavoidable, and a lousy hypothesis could be just as valuable as a correct one. Still, a fragment deep inside of me loathed being wrong, and selfishly hoped to be proven brilliant.
When I got to work, I immediately pulled on my lab coat inside of idling in the hallways or staff room for muffins with my colleagues, as I usually did when I went in early. The participants in the experiment had been instructed to meet in Room B07, directly opposite the lab, bright and early. Rearranging the materials in my clipboard, I slipped in through the wooden doorway and took a seat on one of the blue, plastic chairs next to a faerie I was particularly chummy with.
"Lucindia," I whispered in a sing-song voice, putting my arm over my shoulder. We both knew this was an exhilarating and nerve-wracking day, as each of us had swapped personalities. Lucindia, a normally peppy, plump, and optimistic faerie, was wringing her hands nervously, her wrists bone-thin as she had contracted an anxiety-induced anorexia in the past few days. I, however, had become social and laid-back hours before, a bit of a gut protruding from my pants in an indication of stress-eating. "How are we doing today?"
"Nervous as fuck."
"I think you just described all of us here today," I laughed, patting her on the shoulder.
"Frank, my skin is flaking."
"And I'm going to puke up a breakfast of coffee and coffee if I don't keep pretending to be light-hearted."
"Coffee and cigarettes have been my three-meals-a-day for the last week. I'm a fucking wreck. Look at this." She held up her pale hand, which quivering independently of her will in mid-air. "I can't hold a test tube with this!"
"Don't worry about it, you just record the data, I'll do the hands-on stuff."
"I'm not gonna trust a faerie like you to record my data." Prejudice against my looks always flared up around stressful days. I learned to forgive this among those I have a shit about.
"Ahh, lighten up, Luci. Everything'll turn out fine."
That was when the director of our project walked out in front of us, clearing his throat officially. We fell silent immediately, as if someone it was a solemn occasion. The director was an older faerie, nearing her ten thousands, and had been around for some of the greatest faerie achievements in science. It was rumored that she was the disowned sister to the Faerie Queen (a great historical scandal brewing before I was born), but nobody could confirm the gossip. Yet I wouldn't be surprised if she did turn out to be royalty—she walked with such ingrained confidence, and despite her age there was a glowing beauty about her with a radius of a meter. She also had an uncanny ability to lead, and direct inexperienced college graduates with kindness and understanding.
"Now, everyone," she spoke, her voice a smoky, serious alto with a bit of a rasp from years of smoking. "This is the moment of truth: our day—or rather our week—of reckoning. I know everyone has grabbed a sheet from the chair upon entering," she began, nodding towards the doorway, "so everyone knows what their task is today, if they didn't already. I trust that everyone did the work that was required of them beforehand, so we don't have any slip-ups. Yes?" She inspected the room, as if to find a guilty face. Her eyes lingered on me momentarily—though we were on good terms, she still had an inherent suspicion towards me—and then turned back to the rest of the group.
She debriefed our mission once again, as if we hadn't heard it or even written it ourselves. Still, the detailed explanation helped us all to focus our minds on what needed to be done, and how each person's role was integral to the completion of the experiment. At the end of that, there was a brief session for questions, wherein faeries with smaller parts asked for a clarification of their task and those with bigger roles nitpicked through their job. The director answered them with grace and eloquence, inciting laughter occasionally with her light sense of humor.
Once no questions remained, she clapped our hands and directed us to get to our tasks, the group coalescing into areas of specialties. My area dealt with the mixing of the chemical to be given to the Feepits, an incredibly important job in precision and handling hazardous materials. We all grabbed our gloves, goggles, and other skin protection on the way to the lab, pulling it on as we walked down the hallway echoing with nervous conversation.
Theoretically, it was easy, but the majority of us were new to this scene of relatively large-scale experiments, so our hands betrayed us with full-body, amateur quivers. Still, we managed to set up the chemicals for the next step, and then it was back to the waiting room for us to hear reports from interns and drink coffee to give us even more severe cases of the jitters.
All things seemed to be going positively, even with the chemical injected into the Feepit's veins. Reports came that the Feepits were functioning normally hours after a dosage, and were eating and interacting normally. The malnourished group seemed to be sedated, though, and most of them were asleep. When this report came in, I wondered briefly about the status of the Feepit Hoshi had played with that one day, its eyes so wide and innocent through the smoke.
But as soon as our muscles began to relax and our mouths wrapped comfortably around our lunches, the footsteps of a hurried gait echoed through the hallways. We all looked up from our containers of soups, salads, and the occasional cigarette, and one of the interns burst in, breathing heavily. There was worry plastered on his face, and he gripped the side of the doorway to support him, the other hand holding a clipboard. He checked over the briefly, as if to confirm the fear on his face, and then spoke to us in a harsh voice.
"Doctor Quilla"—the director—"wants to see all chemical mixers in the lab observation room immediately."
We were off our seats in seconds, like a crew of fireman called to a burning building. Slinging back on our lab coats, we followed hastily after the intern—not running, but walking briskly enough to heighten the pulse. In minutes, we were in front of the observation screen. Only the head of the chemical team and myself (who was a co-director of that group) were allowed inside the room—the rest were allowed to lurk outside the enormous window, which functioned as a mirror on the other side.
I immediately spotted the problem. The group administering the drugs to the Feepits were watching in dismay towards where the handlers were, each Feepit in a clear box and specifically labeled to what group they fit in.
The group that had been left malnourished, a skinny group with patchy fur to begin with, were convulsing in their cages, seeming to be effected by seizures. Yet simultaneously, their appearance was beginning to distort: their fur flaked away and became spotty blue nests around them; their pale skin began to turn brown and curdled, as if it were old milk; their teeth grew out of their mouths like fangs and their eyes sunk in. Claws formulated from the tips of their soft, furry paws, and it all happened in minutes. Once the transformation had completed, the Feepits dropped like flies—their vital status monitors indicated no life, and when the handlers opened the cages and confirmed their deaths.
The overseeing advisor turned to me, her eyes wide with horror. Dr. Quilla had not arrived yet, by the looks of it, and as an advisor was a higher rank than me, I answered to her. She did not lay the blame on my co-leader, but rather seemed to place the whole of the burden on my shoulders with one accusing glance. "What is this?" she demanded, gesturing towards the Feepits. In a moment, she seemed to realize the unprofessional nature of her comment, and cleared her throat. She rephrased her accusation. "Dr. Frank, can you show me a list of the chemicals added and a sampling of the chemical the way you injected it?"
I nodded dumbly that I would, and turned around to get it only to discover my partner had vanished, off to get the sample. I was about to go after him, half to aid him and half to get out of the glare of the advisor, but the advisor grabbed me by the forearm and stuck me in place. "No. I want you to help the handlers over there." She pulled out a key from her pocket and opened the gate that separate the observation deck from the area of the laboratory. I rushed in and over to the handlers, who were beginning to place the mutated bodies of Feepits into bags for further research.
Already the healthy-to-normal weight class of Feepits were beginning to have the same adverse reaction, though with more excruciating time between the start and the finish of their unseemly demise. If the trend would continue, the chubby Feepits would be the ones to experience the longest of deaths, lasting God knows how long. Even now the screams of the average Feepits ricocheted across the room in an agonizing chorus. I could barely stand their tinny wailings in my ears, their cries once like filling one's lobes with cotton candy.
My eyes immediately darted to the second cage to the last. There sat the Feepit I had removed at Hoshi's whim—same number, same yellow eyes. I rushed to its cage, the other handlers too distracted with the number of bodies to properly label. Its cage was locked flimsily, and I managed to pry it open. The yellow-eyed Feepit lifted its head as I reached in, giving an approving cooing noise. I pulled it out by the scruff and tucked it under my arm, holding it like a football. I walked towards the advisor calmly, devising a lie on my feet.
"Since this group is as of yet unaffected, I'd like to sample its blood. If my hypothesis is correct, their transformation will be slower, and perhaps we'll see the different stages of this … abomination."
The advisor looked over me, as if polygraphing my behavior. Finally, she nodded and stood aside. "Go quickly."
I exited, first turning as if I was going to the part of the lab where liquid samples were taken. Checking behind me to see I was alone, I veered down another pathway into darkness. A sliver of light came from a bathroom (not gender-separated, as the population of men was too small to constitute a separate latrine), and I plunged inside, taking shelter behind a stall door.
I didn't unzip my fly—I had no intention to urinate. I sat down, pants still on my butt, and pulled the Feepit out onto my lap. It looked up at me innocently, and gave a sleepy yawn, giving a slight 'feep' in greeting. I began to smile at the sweetness of the gesture, when the 'feep''s began to gargle, as if I were choking it. Before me, the signs of change began to appear on the Feepit, a look of wild terror in its eyes. When I stroked it with my hand cautiously, a clump of fur fell at my feet, revealing pulsating skin beneath.
I stared at the Feepit for a while, an internal struggle pulling inside of me. There was a slim chance that the Feepit could still live—perhaps the process would abort midway, and it would remain altered, but still able to live a decently normal existence. Then, there was the worst scenario, the most likely scenario: that it would suffer the death similar to its fellow experimentees, and die a death slow and gradual, fading in my arms.
I was a man of statistics back then, and still am—numbers rule over my hope, and I like to say that I am pragmatic. But for a moment, in that cold bathroom where the heat was turned off; among the improvised, obscure graffiti wallpaper; on a toilet that gurgled and spurt from a bad plumbing job; on tiles that stared up at me sympathetically, I felt for all the world like sparing the little tyke. Its yellow eyes looked up at me with a heart-crushing sadness, a redness beginning to conquer the outer rims of those pure and trusting eyes. For a moment, I felt like saving its life, to grasp for the hopes of the future where nothing lay unwritten. For a moment, I petted its head gently, and wished it away from the curse now written in its bloodstream. For a moment, I felt merciless.
A moment later, I felt sparing.
I turned around suddenly, my labcoat hitting the stall door with a dull thwack. The Feepit gave a confused 'feep,' a tone of restrained agony in its voice. It had been trying to be quiet and peaceful in my lap, the dumb beast, neglecting itself the pleasure of screaming out its last breaths of life.
But I muffled that tender little voice—muffled it under the lowest water society had, the water used to piss and shit in. With my hand firmly on the back of its head, I shoved the poor bastard's face under the water and waited, trying desperately to ignore its pitiful struggles underneath. Its hind feet, becoming hideously clawed with that cursed chemical, shredded the material in my labcoat as it tried to surface, drawing blood from my wrist. I broke its legs with two quick snaps rather than suffer the injuries of its resistance to merciful execution.
Bubbles emerged from under my hand where it screamed for release—it knew not the more horrid fate that lay in front of it, its loosened fur beginning to float on top of the water. I imagined that soft, nearly toothless mouth opening underwater, its yellowy-reddish eyes opened wide to search for escape. I imagined that naïve voice, vocal chords filling with water to stifle the sound. I imagined slow, painful death of the other Feepits, writhing with no shame and dying hideous, placed in plastic bags like leftovers. I closed my eyes and held my breath, keeping my hand firm with conviction.
Finally, the body became still underneath me. A few intermittent bubbles loomed to the top of the bowl, and I held the Feepit under a few minutes longer to confirm its transfer to death. I pulled its face, fur now matted with water, up from the water—only hints of transformation lingered in its countenance, from bald spots of fur to growing incisors. Its yellow eyes remained open and soaking, gazing into life past the grave.
I closed those terrible, distinctive eyes and grabbed at the Feepit's scruff. I flushed the toilet to rid it of any excess fur, and exited the stall. Turning the air blower on with a wave of my hand, I placed the Feepit underneath, drying its fur to the tune of dripping water. The tiles seemed to close in around me as much as I tried to ignore them, and soon I was in an igloo of accusations from the wall. They screamed at me about ethics—about experimental procedure. They demanded I turn in the body, to be further examined—further exploited—for 'research.' The furry body beneath me began to laugh—laugh without its own knowing, laughing at my sudden wave of pity and my over-emotional science. My credentials seemed to fall in a heap of broken glass before me, and I nearly dropped the Feepit along with it.
I shouldn't have killed the Feepit—the toxin—not chemical—needed to make its way through the Feepit's system, to determine whether Feepits of all different ancestry were effected, and if any had a resistance. But the past was unalterable, and stared me in the face defiantly. Its stony countenance urged me to turn in the body, the fleshy corpse of a being once so full of life. The walls complied with their shrieking, pointing fingers of plumbing at me that burst through the walls.
I closed my eyes and stayed still momentarily to rid them from my conscience, then exited the bathroom, a dry and dead Feepit in my hands. My direction was at first aimed back towards the lab room, but I paused, and thought momentarily. I pulled the Feepit to my face as if for advice for the proper post-life procedure, its body still warm and freshly extinguished. I pulled it away, and considered.
I started looking for a shovel.