(Posted January 30th, 2018)

How Low Can You Go?

Year of Water, Winter of the Sunlit River

Friday, December 27th, 1991

It was morning.

Was it morning? She had a heavy, cool blanket on top of her, and it felt like she'd been asleep for a long time. So maybe it was morning.

Betty opened her eyes to a slit like a cat's claw. Even beneath the blanket, her skin prickled with the rasping of the heaters on the walls. It was a soft rumble, a pleasant rumble… but an unfamiliar one.

She lifted her head, still blinking at the piercing lights. They were the really bright yellow kind embedded in the ceiling tiles, like the ones from school. The blanket on top of her was dark blue.

She didn't have a dark blue blanket. Her baby blanket was pink, and she'd outgrown it, like she'd outgrown all her other pink things. Kenny's baby blanket wasn't dark blue either. This quilt was too heavy anyway.

Betty might have believed she'd fallen asleep in the car and Papa had carried her inside in his strong but gentle arms and laid her down in one of the beds in Grandma's basement… if she hadn't been sitting up. And if a boy she didn't know wasn't standing there offering her pizza.

He didn't give off the impression of someone who usually ate pizza. He was so short that he looked pretty young-ish, but the black sunglasses made it a little hard to tell for sure. When he offered her the open pizza box, it was with an attitude of great dignity. It was like she was a lady and he was a butler.

He wore the fanciest clothes Betty had ever seen in real life: A gray suit, with a neat white shirt underneath and a long black tie down his belly like a stripe. His hair had been slicked into two points at the front, and he wore a pointy hat, like a party hat without a string, at the back. And he wasn't smiling.

"Hi?" Betty offered, trying to find the boy's eyes behind his sunglasses.

"Um." He turned his head just slightly and looked at her. Really looked at her. Even through the glasses, she could tell. To her surprise, his voice was deep. Too deep to be a boy's, so maybe he was just a very short man. The very short man shifted the box in his arms. Betty couldn't help but notice that one of the pizza slices was missing. He said, "Hello. Welcome to Pixies Inc. We're pixies. My name is Mr. Sanderson."

"Oh… Hi, Mr. Sanderson." Betty moved her attention away from him and looked around the room. It was probably a living room. It had a typewriter, but having a big purple desk around was kind of weird. And if it was a living room, why was there only one door? A closed door, even, somewhere… to… her… left…

Betty blinked. This place was… strange. There was all this… new stuff to take in all at once. She was on a couch. Most of the room (even the wallpaper, the curtains, the bookshelves, the chairs, and the wooden floor) was light purple, but the couch was white. This uniformity was broken up by a black mat on the floor behind the desk where the big chair was, and by the black and white paintings hanging from the walls. There was a mirror right above her head. The windows behind the desk gazed out a starry sky, all blue and streaked with purples and pinks in different layers like a whole box of colored pencils stacked on top of each other.

Beside her on the couch sat her little brother Kenny, his sleepy head resting against the top of her arm. His blond hair was always a mess, but now it had gotten all ruffled up in swirls and waves. He turned his head, squirming like he knew he should wake up and get started on his chores, but he didn't really want to. Maybe he knew this was a strange place, and he was nervous. Betty put her arm across his chest and wrapped it around his shoulder. The whole time, Mr. Sanderson just stood there with the pizza box without saying anything. He didn't even move very much.

On the other side of the couch sat another boy Betty didn't know. He wasn't wearing a gray suit. He just had on normal clothes: A white shirt with a roaring green monster on it, and a red jacket halfway unzipped. Part of the blue quilt covered his lap and most of his tummy. His hair was as orange as fire. It was spiky like fire too. His eyes were already open. They were a very pretty green. Betty had always thought her pale blue eyes were the prettiest of all her friends', but he had really pretty eyes, even though he was a boy. He sat in a ball like he was nervous and wished the room's only tall, white door was open so he could run away. A chunk of pizza was kind of crumpled in his hand.

He was staring. Right at her. When Betty looked at him, he lifted his hand and gave her a small wave.

"Hi. I'm Gary. I'm lost."

"I'm Betty. Betty Lovell. I'm eight years old. I like the monster on your shirt. Um." She had to think hard for a second. "I was going to my grandma's house, but I think I'm lost too. Oh yeah, this is Kenny."

Kenny snoozed on.

"He's just tired. He's nice, though. Hey, do you like pizza?"

"Uh…" Gary looked at the half-eaten pizza slice in his hand. "The kind my grandma makes is better than this."

Quickly, Betty looked at Mr. Sanderson to see if his feelings were hurt. He didn't look hurt. Just distracted, like he could hear something far away that he wanted to go see. Like maybe the ice cream truck. But instead of going to see it, he had to stay in the room holding the pizza box because that was his job. How much could someone get paid for holding a pizza box, and what he was saving up to buy?

"I can see your eyelashes," Gary said seriously. Betty looked at him again. Gary leaned forward, the quilt scrunching up beneath him. His pants were the same blue as the fabric, and they had pockets. They looked like hers.

Gary stretched his free hand over Kenny's head. His fingers hovered. He looked at Betty, waiting for her permission to complete the movement. Betty didn't know what to say to him, but he seemed nice, and he did have a cool monster shirt. She didn't pull away. Gently, like he was trying to brush dust off a butterfly's wings, Gary touched her eyelashes.

"You have blonde eyelashes," he murmured, almost like he was talking to himself. He patted her gently with his fingertips. "But they're not too blonde that I can't see them."

Before she could think of something good to say back to him, the door opened. Betty jumped at the shoulders. She hadn't heard footsteps outside, and there hadn't been a knock. Only silence. She lifted her head to see past Gary as a very short, pudgy, almost kind of square old man slipped into the room.

This man's clothes looked even fancier than the man holding the pizza box's. True, they were still gray, but he had four buttons on the front instead of one. He wore a black tie too. Or, maybe his clothes weren't really fancier, and he was just bigger so it made him seem really important. He wasn't very tall, but he was still big. His glasses were HUGE. And behind them, he had big, pale blue eyes. Betty concluded that he was probably the one who had decorated this living room place, and that he and Mr. Sanderson were friends.

Maybe the old man had the same color and type of clothes as Mr. Sanderson, but he did have a bigger hat. Betty thought that where it touched his head, the hat looked tight and soft, like the knitted hats Mom made for them to play outside in the orchard when the weather "turned nippy for the year". But instead of a short hat with a pom-pom on top, this hat had a long tail that hung down behind his back. It looked just like a Santa hat with all the colors erased. The gray hat matched his gray suit exactly. Betty wondered where he shopped to find perfect clothes like that.

"Santa?" Gary asked, obviously thinking the same thing.

"Close," said the old man. His voice sounded a lot like Mr. Sanderson's. "My company's technically a subsidiary of Kringle Inc. I worked for him back when I was younger."

"You worked for Santa Claus?" Betty decided that was good enough of a qualification to trust him, even if he was a stranger. When he turned, something on the end of his hat would jingle like a bell.

The old man looked at her. His tall, bald forehead creased up. "Didn't I already say that? I wouldn't lie, and I'm not in the habit of contradicting myself."

Betty didn't know how to answer that. The old man didn't seem to expect her to. He turned to the young man… boy… person. "What's their status?"

Mr. Sanderson looked down at the box in his arms. "Not very hungry."

"Injuries?"

"In place."

"Blood samples?"

"Ralston is running them up right now. He'll have them to Madigan shortly."

"Questions?"

Both men looked at the three children on the couch. Betty decided it was time to pipe up. "Are we at a motel? Mom and Papa said that since the drive was so long, maybe we would sleep at a motel instead of going to Grandma's house tonight."

"Motel," the older man repeated. His shoulders started to lift, sort of… prickling up. His hair ruffled as though blown in the wind, or by something behind him. "Elizabeth, this is no mere motel. You're inside the tallest building in Pixie World, and what you're seeing here is the culmination of ingenious architecture and magical prowess. I don't care what Chicago says. I had the idea first."

"Did… you say 'magic'?" Betty decided not to question how he knew her name, since he worked for Santa Claus and everything. The name Pixie World was new to her, but maybe it was like Disney World. That would make sense.

Again, the old man looked at her. His blue stare broiled behind his glasses, like he thought her question was a huge waste of his time, but at the same time, he pitied her because she didn't know any better and it couldn't be helped. Betty shifted her shoulders.

"Right," said the old man. "Allow me to introduce myself." With that, he held out his right hand for Betty to grab and shake. "I'm the Head Pixie. Just call me H.P. I run Pixies Inc., and I've been known to help and relocate human children who are lost and confused. As far as you're concerned, I'm a type of Fairy called a pixie. And I'm here to give you a good life. Also, I can make all of your wishes come true. If I want to."

Betty took his hand carefully. His mood was cool, stiff, and a little uncomfortable overall, but his hand was warm. It wrapped around her much-smaller hand like a glove and made her skin tickle, like holding a squirming grasshopper in her fist. She could feel old scars carved into his palm, making his hand rough in weird places and soft around the edges. The Head Pixie, or H.P., raised his eyebrow at her over the rim of his glasses, and moved past the stirring Kenny to Gary on the end. When Betty glanced over, she could see Gary's eyes actually dripping with wonder and excitement.

"Your name's H.P., just like the alphabet?" he asked. "I'll bet no one ever has to ask you how to spell that. My last name's Cabrera, and I have to spell it out for people. Is 'H.P.' spelled with dots after each letter?"

H.P. looked at him. "I like you. Yes, I go by the letters for two abbreviated words, and they're punctuated properly. That's how English works, I'm told."

Gary grinned and let go of his hand. "And you're a real Fairy? Wow, that's awesome. But you're as big as we are!"

Betty twisted around, trying to catch Gary's eye. Why was "You're a real Fairy?" the third question?

"You can't be a Fairy if you don't have wings," she argued, clenching the blanket in her fists.

"We're Pixies," Sanderson corrected.

"Hm?" H.P. looked down at himself. "Oh, right." Then he did something weird. He rolled his left sleeve as high up as his suit would let him, almost to the elbow. Betty hadn't expected tattoos since he looked so strict in his fancy clothes and everything, but they were there. A blue flower with a snaking green stem wrapped around his wrist. A fat brown squirrel crouched underneath the petals. Further up his arm, a blue fox sat poised to dig a hole while a rat kept watch on his head. Nearby, a piggy bank nosed at the crook of H.P.'s elbow. Those were just the ink designs that Betty could see, and that was just his lower arm. He probably had more on the rest of his body. When Gary saw them, he shot Betty a bug-eyed look like, Do you SEE those?

Big deal, Betty thought. My dad has a lion. AND a lightning bolt.

H.P. brushed his arm with his hand. Glittery pink and purple dust fell from his skin and gathered in a tall heap on the floor. As he brushed, he said, "The magic dust and sweat on my skin makes it difficult for humans to recognize me as anything other than what they expect to see." Then he bent down, and took the glinting powder into his cupped hands. "Fortunately, the short-term cure for idiocy is simply exposure to and comprehension of intelligence." And he blew all the powder into her face.

Betty coughed. The dust stung her eyes. She blinked it away, fighting against her tears, as Kenny mumbled and began to wake. When she found she could look again, the Head Pixie was still in front of her.

"You don't look any different to me," she croaked. Not a lot of the dust had gotten into her mouth, but it still dried her tongue. The old man in front of her was still short and square. H.P. certainly hadn't shrunk so small that he could fit in her hand, which was what Betty would have expected from a fairy. Now that she was looking closer, though, she did notice that H.P. looked even older than she had first realized, his forehead taller and his wrinkles deeper. And instead of blue, his eyes were a light, dusky lavender. Otherwise, she saw nothing very special about him.

And then she did.

It was the tattoos first. The blue fox, black paws above the hole, actually was digging its way beneath H.P.'s skin. Right now! As Betty watched, open-mouthed, it finished its tunnel and vanished inside with a flick of its tail. The rat dove after it. They were gone. A petal from the blue flower drifted down on the squirrel's head. The squirrel sprang into the air and scrambled from H.P.'s wrist up to his elbow. The piggy bank was alive too, trudging around and poking its snout at the gray hairs on the old man's arm.

"Oh?" H.P. straightened, then turned around. Betty choked on her own gasp. "How about now?"

His turning movement was a fluid one, like a ballerina in a music box. Probably, this had to do with the fact that his feet weren't actually touching the floor. After being shocked with the living ink creatures on H.P.'s skin, Betty would have thought she was ready to face anything. But nothing could have prepared her for this.

Wings.

The old man had wings. Real wings.

Big wings.

He had four of them, pale orange in color and laced with stripes of brown all the way to the ends. They ended in ruffled, vaguely square tips. Two of his wings were long, and almost batted at Betty's nose. The other two, shorter, beat just as fast, all in a blur. She realized then that H.P. and Sanderson weren't really standing. They were floating in place, hovering by rapidly beating their wings. The constant whirring, buzzing sound that she had thought was the heating system must be coming from them.

Betty looked at Gary, to find him looking back at her. No. He didn't have wings. He was human. Like her. At least she wasn't alone.

"Wings?" she managed as H.P., with a hint of smugness, faced her again. "You really have… wings?"

Gary lifted his finger at her. "Did the dust make it so she could see your wings? I could see Mr. Sanderson's wings as soon as I woke up. Why didn't I need dust?"

Mr. Sanderson looked at the pizza in his box again. "I guess that's because… you ate magic pepperoni from magical pigs and cows."

He didn't sound very sure. H.P. sent him a questioning glance, which Mr. Sanderson responded to with a defensive shrug. Gary looked down at the half-eaten slice still clenched in his hand. "I wondered why it was purple."

Purple pepperoni? Grown-ups with wings? What was going on here?

Was this a dream? Her dreams weren't normally so life-like. She could feel Kenny sitting up, rubbing his eyes and trying to sort out where they all were. She could feel the quilt in her lap, and focus on every spiky orange hair on Gary's head, and every button on H.P.'s suit. She couldn't remember ever dreaming of fairies or pixies before, so why would she start now? As Sanderson set the pizza aside on the desk and H.P. blew glittery dust in Kenny's face, Betty massaged the sides of her head and hunkered deeper in the couch.

"W-where are my Mom and Papa?" she asked.

In this game of life, consider Player 7. Tall. Polite. Vain. Don't let the brown freckles fool you, for he isn't broad-shouldered like the other freckled pixies. Were he to enter a fight, brawn against brawn, it's almost certain he would come off the loser. Such circumstances beg the question: Is he pacifist because he truly believes himself to be one, or only because he knows he could never win?

See how now he sits in the Head Pixie's private break room, which he wasn't invited to enter today, but also wasn't prevented from doing so. That's not his steaming #1 Boss mug he raises to his lips, nor his ottoman he's elected to sprawl his feet across.

… Oh. We set this scene just prior the Head Pixie's intrusion into the conscious lives of Gary Cabrera and the Lovell children, you must understand. Upstairs now, young Gary is just waking, uncertain and hungry. Sanderson sits beside him on the couch, telling tales of miniature golf courses and pixie visits long ago. Betty and Kenny, reluctant even unconsciously to face the reality of their parents' unfortunate deaths, sleep on in restless torment at the other end.

Player 7 rests, the perfect feline, with lazy posture in luxurious seating. His wings, as long as his namesake, dangle over the arm of the chair. Player 7 even brought along a friend to the Head Pixie's private break room, if you could call him that. Quivering little fellow; Mister Addison Rosencrantz is his name. Rosebud there is small, just under a thousand years old. The soft brush in his hand is no cure for the jerky movements of his arm. Nonetheless, Player 7 (Vice President Longwood, really) permits the little pixie to proceed with the wing brushing. Who knows how many days will pass before he can sneak in another chance?

"Rosebud," Longwood says, out of nowhere. Rosencrantz jolts up his head. The wing brush freezes in mid-air.

"W-what?"

Longwood keeps the mug in his hand, tapping the tip of his pointer finger against the handle. He swirls the mug, and the hot chocolate inside swirls with it. Of course it's hot chocolate. It's getting late, and sugar is a temptress guarding pleasant memories. He takes another sip, then smacks his lips around the taste.

"Rosebud, do you believe in passion? Love? Lust?"

"U-um… H.P. says Pixies don't–"

"H.P. isn't here," Longwood snaps. The hot chocolate leaks a small puddle between his legs. Perhaps he doesn't notice his insignificant error. Nevertheless, he crosses one foot over the other at the ankles. First he huffs upwards at the ceiling, and then he adjusts his wings with a flutter and lowers his chin again.

"I'm in love, Rosebud."

It comes out bluntly. The smaller pixie continues brushing the older one's wing, and tries to show interest in the conversation without raising his attention from his work. Finally Longwood notices the chocolate puddle, and swishes it to the floor with several flicks of his hand. "Dear dust," he says, "I'm obsessed."

"With yourself?"

"With children."

Rosencrantz doesn't know how to respond to this. Rosencrantz is pretty sure Longwood has confessed to something illegal.

"Not like that," Longwood clarifies, always one step ahead of the younger pixie and gleaning his thoughts. With a thought and a twitch of the ballpoint pen he uses as a wand, he pings a small picture into his free hand. The frame is dented, the glass shattered long ago. It's not even a real photograph–only a crayon drawing. A child's crayon drawing. Longwood hunkers into the chair anyway, caressing the picture with his eyes while holding the shaking chocolate mug to his mouth. He says, "I'm obsessed with that–that shadowman you used to call a mentor."

"Sanderson?" Rosencrantz presses him cautiously. This does not sound less illegal. Pixies are a close-knit species, after all, and nepotism policies would forbid romantic relations among coworkers even if incest didn't. Yet to his confusion, Longwood squeezes his eyes shut, and he nods.

"I saved his life, Rosebud. You wouldn't remember. It was long ago. Centuries before you were born, I traded the one I held most dear to save that snotlick's life, and I pine after him even now. You didn't know Aspen. But I did. I had the chance. I could have chosen to save what I wanted most. What does that make me feel?" Here he turns, and affixes Rosencrantz with a scalding lavender eye. His sunglasses are slipping. The hot chocolate spills again, across his white shirt this time. "What do you call an emotion with a name you were never taught, and are forbidden to try and learn?"

"Ignorance, sir?"

Longwood ignores this bit of clever humor. "H.P. is bringing three children to Pixie World today. Three human children."

"I heard about that," Rosencrantz tells him politely.

"Rosebud?" His tone is anxious now. Longwood shifts, and it rustles his wings. "Sanderson mentored you, and look how you turned out. Hopeless, clueless, bumbling."

Rosencrantz tightens his teeth. Snarky retorts pound against his mind, but he holds them within, biting his tongue and biding his time.

"Sanderson mentored you, and your place turned out to be in laundry. Knowing that, H.P. wouldn't let Sanderson look after three human children. Would he?"

Longwood isn't sure. After all, he holds with philosophies borrowed from the Anti-Fairies, of destiny and fate. If Rosebud was working in laundry, then that was where he was meant to be at this time of his life, and no part of Sanderson's influence led to or could have led away from that. Longwood believes this, and Rosencrantz knows that, and it doesn't help his quiet wounds heal.

"I guess not," is his light reply.

"I thought so," Longwood says. Inwardly he weeps at the thought. He has watched how Sanderson behaves around children.

All goes well for our Player 7, entitled to his momentary pleasures after that fine game of taxes he most recently played, until all at once, he pricks his ears. A voice through the baby monitor that connects to H.P.'s office downstairs–he'd know that voice even underwater (and has heard it there before, exchanged magic mouth to mouth to survive ocean depths on occasions he'd rather forget).

Longwood despises the wing-jerk reaction screaming at him to rush to its owner's side. It drips from his skin in sweaty splashes. The mug shoots to the side table, sloshing with dangerous froth. Instantly his feet are off the ottoman and he is in the air. His fingernails screech along a chalkboard that doesn't exist.

Rosencrantz pulls the brush, and his head, away from the sudden whirl of wings. "Longwood?"

"He's home," he observes, his mind fainter than his voice. As graceful as a flitting petal, he takes off in a ping of white dust. The scattered remains drift around the room as Rosencrantz sets aside the wing brush and tentatively slips away while the vice president is gone.

The children.

Where are Sanderson and the three human children?

Longwood can't ping directly into the Head Pixie's office due to the amount of safeguards placed around it, so he lands himself outside and waits irritably for the executive secretary of Pixies Inc., Mister Luke Madigan, to grant him entry. Madigan does not. The Head Pixie is downstairs, he says, and has forbidden visitors while he's away. Longwood offers grudging thanks and sees himself out, even knowing the four people sitting on the other side of the office door.

The bells hanging in the tower of the Water Temple begin to count out nineteen chimes. As he floats down the hall, it suddenly occurs to Longwood where he'll likely find the Head Pixie at this time of evening if not in his office. Longwood found his king a man of many faults, and where else should he be just after a successful kidnapping plan, but bragging to a dear rival?

Longwood hovers on his toes a moment more, then pings not just down to the first floor of Pixies Inc. headquarters, but entirely outside. Had the cloud of dust been capable of humor, perhaps it would have spelled out the words Sobriety and piety in his wake. He reappears in a puff several dozen wingspans from the Temple's door. His ears tell him before any of his other senses that he's guessed his boss's location correctly.

"Absolutely not!" cries a shrill voice no Pixie, Fairy, or Anti-Fairy could ever fail to recognize. Longwood bobs closer to the source, at the same time keeping back so as not to intrude. As he drifts about, he pays specific, intent concentration to any sensation that might cross his skin or tongue. The Head Pixie, through his strength and authority, projects a sort of aura that even a younger, simpler pixie like him can get a read on. Once he crosses the aura's outer ring, his boss will sense his magical energy and know he's there, waiting politely for a signal to approach. Such is proper etiquette in the cloudlands, and accusations of eavesdropping are not pleasant blotches to see on one's permanent record.

A warm cinnamon and banana taste fills up Longwood's mouth. He's floated within the Head Pixie's circle of awareness, although his boss gives no sign that he's noticed. He's busy talking himself up, as he often is. A smaller figure stands in the Temple doorway, cross and blue in the face. Literally. Like just about all Anti-Fairies, underneath his light blue Temple cloak, Anti-Cosmo wears blue fur instead of smooth Fairy or Pixie skin, and right now it's beginning to prickle and puff around his neck.

Longwood can't help but wonder when Anti-Cosmo last took a real shower. He hopes the High Count hasn't just been bathing in the Water Temple's sacred pools. Sure, Anti-Cosmo belongs to Sunnie, the nature spirit who represents Water on the Fairy zodiac, and he is on pilgrimage this week to pay his respects before most other Anti-Fairies return from migration and swarm the place, but he doesn't have a right to mess with the natural order of things.

"Anti-Cosmo–"

"I said, absolutely not." Anti-Cosmo stamps his foot. His leathery bat wings are folded along his back and he isn't flying, which makes the gesture that much more effective. "I gave that neck of the woods to my dear wife as a present for our 793rd anniversary. It isn't for sale."

The bells stop ringing at nineteen chimes. It won't be long now, and the little bell-ringer will scamper down to interrupt their conversation, which will really put the Head Pixie in a sour mood. A car horn blares nearby. Pixie World only has one city, and is bordered on three sides by a drop of empty sky and one side by woodlands. The World itself is small enough that cloudcars are a silly investment, but enjoyment is infrequent for pixies, and some of them have learned ways to write the acquisition of one off as a business expense.

"All right," says the Head Pixie, always cool and collected. He thrusts his hands into his pockets. "I won't buy it. Yet. But, I'd still like to make use of the location for the summer."

Longwood makes the mistake of skipping a beat of his wings. Instantly, Anti-Cosmo's ears flick in his direction. After a few long seconds, one of them swivels back to the Head Pixie. "I don't really care what you want it for. The fact remains, it's one of the few locations I can visit without having to wonder if you and your horde will interrupt my peace and quiet unannounced. Believe me, I know what pixies do to trees."

"Only one pixie," H.P. says.

Longwood senses Anti-Cosmo's frown even from here. "You only want to send one?"

"One pixie. Two human children."

"You said you had three human children."

"I'm not concerned about the third."

Still, Anti-Cosmo shakes his head. "H.P., Camp Wannahurtastranger was built to give Anti-Fairy children a place to visit while their parents are out on spring migration. If you're serious about this camp thing, you really ought to be enrolling your humans in Camp Ridawingedhorsie with the goody-goody Fairies. They'll fit in better there."

"I know what I'm doing."

With a grimace, "That's what concerns me."

The ringer of the Temple bells, a young anti-fairy drake with wild curls of black hair tucked in front of and behind his ears, appears silently behind Anti-Cosmo's wing. Anti-Cosmo places a hand on his head, clamping him in place. Longwood watches the child flinch and start to strain, his mouth open and obviously sending out small chirps of sonar. Ping. Ping. Ping. Anti-Cosmo does not break eye contact with the Head Pixie for a long time, even when the younger anti-fairy flashes his claws and rakes them at his Temple cloak.

Then he releases the child's head. The younger anti-fairy stumbles, catches his footing, and tries to streak past the Head Pixie without getting intercepted. He does not make it. H.P. catches him by the arm, and holds him there until the struggling anti-fairy looks up at him, blinking dark crimson eyes rapidly behind his glasses.

"Walk," the Head Pixie says. "Don't run."

"Yes, sir."

He licks his hand and pushes it through the anti-fairy's tangled hair before he lets him go. The young drake walks, and does not run, vaguely in the direction of the hotel intended specifically for Anti-Fairies (and, on sparse occasions, Fairies too) who journey to Pixie World to see the Water Temple. Longwood narrows his eyes, but takes care to show nothing on his face as the anti-fairy deliberately bats his shoulder with a wing as he pushes past. He knows the young drake will linger in Inkblot City's square for some time first, watching for any careless foot that might tred on a crack in the sidewalk, or break a rear-view mirror on some poor sap's cloudcar. There were always going to be small prices to pay for rebuilding the Water Temple here following the original one's destruction just after the war.

Anti-Cosmo and H.P. are silent. Then, on some shared signal, they turn their backs and part ways, Anti-Cosmo inside the Water Temple, and H.P. in Longwood's direction. Longwood opens his mouth, until he realizes his boss is marking notes in a pocket calendar. He waits. Another car horn blares, three times.

The Head Pixie takes a moment to finish his work, then puts the pocket calendar away. Longwood continues to hover, unmoving apart from his beating wings, as his boss picks up the pace and starts to tail back towards the city square. Skyscrapers and apartment buildings loom against the stars.

"Why are you on my heels after-hours, Longwood?"

As with most of the Head Pixie's acknowledgements, it's permission to speak and a threat rolled into one. Longwood bobs his head, resisting the urge to straighten his bowtie. It may be crooked, but H.P. might not call him out on it if he thinks Longwood hasn't noticed. Adjusting it would double as a confession of negligence and sloth.

"It's about the children, sir. I've finished stocking the grocery store and checking over the internship reports for the season, and I'm available to take on a new project. I think I have the right to request the next task I'm assigned to."

"Right" is a loaded word. Longwood waits a beat, respectfully allowing his boss to correct him if he's wrong. H.P. continues floating down the sidewalk. He doesn't appear impressed, but boredom is the pleasant ticking mechanism of the pixie mind. Longwood goes on.

"Permit me to state my credentials, sir. You know I spent a century raising baby genies alongside Anti-Cosmo as part of his conservation program. I'm good with young inquiring minds."

"The arrangements have already been taken care of, thank you. Sanderson is waiting for the children to wake up while Ralston runs a DNA test on each of them. Keefe and Springs are finishing the paperwork. I sent Wilcox to collect some of Garrett's and Elizabeth's possessions from their homes. Bayard is out somewhere organizing our efforts to distract the Fairies before they start to suspect this was a targeted job. Hawkins is preparing a place for the children to sleep tonight; I doubt an hour was enough for them to rest well. Sanderson will bring them there if they start to tire out."

Hawkins is the name of Sanderson's roommate. Longwood and Wilcox also share in the four-pixie apartment, but Hawkins… is the name of Sanderson's roommate. The children are with Sanderson now. They've been brought to a new location, and they are unfamiliar with the concept of walking off the edge of a cloud and plummeting down to Earth. They must be supervised at all hours, then. Hawkins is preparing the place where they will stay the night, and Sanderson is bringing them over. Coincidence? Longwood is a believer in fate and luck, not coincidence.

Instead, there's a pause.

It's a long pause.

No.

It's longer.

…

…

…

…

"I'm confused, sir. You're entrusting the safety of these human children to Sanderson?"

His boss continues down the sidewalk, his head tilted up as they near the Headquarters building, where the majority of Pixies Inc. operations are run day to day. His penthouse also happens to crown the top, which means he's almost home for the night, which means that Longwood is rapidly running out of time. "He'll be perfect for the job."

Longwood's fingernails curl into the palms of his hands. Fortunately, as most pixies do, he chews his nails regularly into neat, flat coins of keratin. They aren't sharp enough to pierce his skin. He wishes they would.

"H.P.," he says, haltingly, unsure. "After what happened between Sanderson and Aspen, you still intend to give Sanderson full authority and legal guardianship over all three of them? They're children."

"That's correct. Excellent observation."

This pause is shorter. A little. Then Longwood flies in front of his boss, and blocks his path.

"Sir, I had hoped that because I actually have a steady girlfriend, she and I would be your preferred guardians for the human children. That way, we could act as appropriate parental substitutes. Children should have mother figures and we have one available."

H.P. says nothing for a moment. Before the divorce, Longwood had a mother figure. Then he didn't, and life was hard. Using his own girlfriend as a reference in this bitter auction is both desperate and daring. It's meant as a challenge. These two pixies long ago mastered the art of such conversational subtleties.

"Longwood, how well do I know you?"

"Ever since I opened my eyes, sir."

"Even before then." H.P. takes note of every non-movement on his vice president's untwitching face. "Don't you think I'm aware of Naelita's existence and skill set?"

"I expect so, sir."

H.P. draws out the moment as the realization sinks in like a gizzard stone in Longwood's stomach. "If I thought that you and Naelita were more cut out for this job than Sanderson is working alone, don't you think I would have come and asked you to act as guardians instead of him?"

At this, Longwood bends his head, his wings jolting every few beats. He sinks a little closer to the sidewalk. "H.P., I–You owe me for Aspen."

"I owe you for what you chose to do to Aspen?"

Longwood looks away. It's an insult. He shouldn't have asked.

"Sir, it wasn't a choice. I had to. It was his fate. If I'd–If I'd tried to protect Aspen, Sanderson would have died. And…"

This pause is tenser.

"And that's your fault. Isn't it, sir?"

"Look at me when we're having a conversation, Longwood."

He doesn't want to. Yet he does. H.P. is hovering very seriously, with his hands planted at his waist just behind his hips. His glasses reflect the glint of the nearest streetlight. Longwood forces himself to believe there's an honest drop of concern in the older pixie's eyes.

"Longwood," he says. "If I gave you a human child to raise, how attached would you get to it?"

He can't give the correct answer. Something of which they're both aware.

H.P. keeps one hand in place, but lifts the other and points the thumb towards his chest. "These humans are our tools, not pets. You can't raise them as surrogate children. I don't need you to teach them to be strong and independent. I need Sanderson to teach them how to be loyal and patient. I can't have your empathy standing in our way. Longwood, you are squeamish and intense. I'm not looking for a pixie with your kind of demanding attitude to see this project through. This is not your department."

Longwood's fists grow tighter, not looser. He does not raise his head. "I let go of Aspen for you, H.P."

"Pretend that Sanderson is Aspen, and start enjoying his company," the Head Pixie says. Stepping off the sidewalk, he circles Longwood and continues on his way.

"Sir," he says, whisking after his boss, "please."

"What's the issue? Sanderson and Aspen have a lot in common. They both enjoy cheese and crackers. They both play with their food."

Now it's insulting. "Sir–"

"They favor gingertie wands. They do enjoy their music."

"Please–"

"And this one's a gimme, but you know how fond they both are of water."

"Stop it!"

Longwood isn't aware that his own ipewood wand is out of its sheath until it's pointed at the back of his boss's head. H.P. slows. He turns, the metal star on the dangling tail of his hat ringing out in the silent night like a bell on a bobtail. He's amused, not upset. When his eyes glint, they seem to cast a sheen across his glasses as a whole. Longwood suddenly realizes his mistake, and jerks his hand down.

"Sir, I–I didn't mean to–" He grabs for his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ní larki… Please don't make jokes about water at Aspen's expense, sir. He gets night terrors. Calming him down is embarrassing. And if Sanderson ever knew Aspen was still…"

"Longwood?"

"Sir?"

H.P. reaches up to the right side of his collar and pulls it down to expose a small cut of his neck. The gesture is unmistakable. Longwood presses his teeth together. He sighs in his head, but floats obediently over to his boss's side.

He apologizes with his tongue, as insects do. Two quick licks against aging, freckled skin that mean I'm sorry in an ancient Fae language, and wound his pride a great deal more. When Longwood pulls his tongue away, the Head Pixie catches him by the bowtie and jerks his head back to eye level.

"Don't forget your place."

"No, sir."

"My break room. First thing tomorrow. I have a sweater I want you to put on. Turtleneck. That will keep your pheromones under control."

"Yes, sir."

H.P. lets him go, and heads up to his office to find Sanderson and the human children. Once his boss has left, Player 7 pretends to exit the scene. Not in the direction of Rapunzel Tower, where his apartment sits at the top floor. No. Instead, he decides to pay a visit to Ralston and see if he's yet deciphered the DNA from the blood samples at the crash site, all along the way mulling over many subjects like silence and regret.

Player 7 has been code-named a rook, and although neither he nor any other participant in this game of life knows it just yet, he is about to force his king to castle.