Chosen Chapter 9: Saturday, a mask fanfic

Chosen

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Chapter 9 : Saturday

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Burns woke that morning to the patter of rain and the rumble of distant thunder. "How appropriate," were his first words of the day.

"Saturday..." He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. Presuming they began searching for him last Friday, the search would be over.

And so they were gone...either having left last night or heading out this morning. "So what now, Wilson?" He stared up at the corrugated metal roof above him. Nature had decorated it with cobwebs and discarded cocoons. "Build a raft and float away? Torch something big enough to attract attention? Settle down and raise a family with his monstrous mate? Swim for it...again?" He had tried twice to escape by swimming downstream, following the current. It would have to lead him somewhere. The first time she had found him fairly quickly and had dragged him home. The second time he had tried to elude her by moving on land where he could, but he found the travel far too slow and the insects too friendly, and after a while he discovered that she was right there, lurking in the water, stalking him quietly, waiting for him to give up. And so he did, walking back into the water and letting her haul him upstream to the shack.

Burns dragged himself out of the bed and went to the door, marking another streak with a piece of charcoal on the lintel.

He pulled on the long-sleeved shirt, one of the two shirts that Melusine had brought him. Though she lived as naked as any fish in the river, she seemed to have an intense curiosity about clothing. Sometimes she would watch him take pieces on or off, or study the fastenings. The other morning she took the shirt he was laundering in the river and spent nearly half an hour playing with the buttons on it, teaching herself how to fasten and unfasten them.

Not that he had much clothing for her to play with. There was the camp shirt, swimtrunks, and water-moccasins he had arrived in, and she had supplemented his wardrobe with a woman's apron, a baby's dress, the tattered straw hat, and the two shirts. He had laughed at the floral apron when she presented it, and then he put it on her. And it was with some pride that she wore it most of the day. Now it hung on a nail in the cabin.

Burns walked out to the porch of his cabin and sat down on the wobbly chair. The grey sky stretched seamlessly from horizon to horizon. "I think I'll just stay home today... make a big pot of coffee... catch up on my email... maybe catch a game on T.V. or something." He sighed, wondering where the others were. Perhaps loading up the vehicles onto the transport. Perhaps already home. "Maybe I'll shave," he said scratching his fuzzy chin. There were two razors in the cabin, one rusted beyond use, and the other still sealed into plastic. He reached up and ran his fingertips through his hair. Normally he went to a barber religiously every other Friday morning, and he had been summoned just before the next visit. So now his hair felt strangely long, and what would be a cropped thatch was now turning into a headful of ruddy-brown curls.

A splash caught his attention and he looked down the beach to see Melusine coming up out of the water with her net bag slung across her chest, the fishwoman smiling at him. Her delight in the rain was obvious, and halfway up the beach she stopped to turn her face up into it, her mouth open and her eyes closed.

And then she approached the cabin, setting down her bag and opening it up in the first part of their morning ritual. First she brought out a fish, a species he didn't recognize, but it looked edible enough. She presented it to him, and he placed it into the tub of water beside the porch stairs. If the rain stopped he could cook it...if not he could eat it tomorrow.

Then out came a liquor bottle and she handed it to him. He read the label. "Cachaça. Going to get me drunk and take advantage of me?" he asked. "And sealed too." Two bottles of water followed, and then a gaudy plastic package. The previous day she had brought a bag of potato chips, and together they had enjoyed the salt and the fat, something neither got much of in their current diet. But this package proved to be laundry soap. "Oh well. I can use this anyway."

Her final presentation was apparently the best, for she had wrapped it into a large green leaf to protect it. She opened the leaf with much care and pulled out a set of snail shells strung onto a piece of fishing line—a necklace for him. She smiled broadly, her sharp white teeth showing as she leaned forward and put it around his neck, much pleased with herself.

Burns looked down at it and fingered some of the shells. For snail shells they were fairly colorful. Holes had been very carefully bored across the spirals...just like the necklace worn by the man in the picture. "You made this for me, didn't you?" he remarked.

Melusine then set down her empty bag and went into the cabin and looked at the picture of the kissing couple. She beckoned him in and then pulled him up behind her, her eyes still focused on the picture. The man did wear the same necklace of tropical land snail shells, each strung end to end on a single strand. Outside the rain began to fall harder, the light shower becoming a downpour.

Melusine very deliberately arranged the two of them in imitation of the picture, pulling one of his arms halfway around her waist and opening one hand over her crotch, sliding her hip in front of his. And then she tried to arrange her arms to mimic the position of the woman in the picture, becoming somewhat frustrated as her proportions were rather different. She was taller and had longer limbs and so did not line up with her mate as well as the dark-haired pin-up beauty did with hers. But eventually she was satisfied and turned her head to look into Burn's face, and stood there some time gazing into his slate blue eyes, looking even darker in the gloom of the unlit cabin and cloudy day outside. Her golden irises shone as old brass despite the low light.

For a while Burns wondered if her species put the same meaning into the activity as humankind did. Or was she simply studying him with her usual curiosity?

And then she leaned in, trying to touch her lips to his.

Burns spun out of her grasp and stepped away. "Sorry..." he said, somewhat guiltily for denying her the wish to complete the picture.

A disappointed noise escaped her throat, catching Burns off-guard. It was a new sound he'd not heard her make before. "I know. You brought me some nice gifts today and were hoping maybe you'd win me over. I suppose that would work for most guys. I mean, what guy doesn't love to get a package of laundry detergent?" He sighed and stepped back out of the shack onto the porch, listening to the music of the rain against the rusting metal roof.

She followed him out, but instead of stopping she walked out into the heavy rain, lifting her face and opening her mouth to inhale it, bending back to expose and open the gill-covers over her ribcage.

"I suppose you like the rain. It lets you stay longer on land...makes you more like us." He picked up the bottle of cachaça from where he had set it on the porch, broke the seal, and took a swig out of the bottle. "Drinking before breakfast, and out of the bottle too," he snickered. "This is bad. See what you've driven me to?"

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Breakfast was eaten in silence that morning. No one seemed to feel like talking. There were none of the usual words of encouragement or optimism. Even Hayes' seemingly indefatigable enthusiasm had succumbed to the gravity of having lost an agent. Sector had not even shown up for breakfast. Even the weather seemed to be in the same mood. It had been raining since before dawn.

Seven full days of searching for Burns had yielded nothing. He had been snatched on Friday. The search began officially on Saturday. And now it was Saturday again...the morning of going home. As it had come down through the PNA to all of the various auxiliary operations, teams were given a week to hunt for lost members. After that, the cases could be turned over to local authorities who probably wouldn't have more involvement than posting a notice where ever they deemed appropriate.

The silence was broken by a sudden "Oh goodness! The clinic opens in fifteen minutes!" from Lopez. He tossed aside his newspaper, threw back the last of his coffee, grabbed his bag, and ran out the door. His morning departures always felt like something straight out of a sitcom.

Somberly they packed up their things and headed for the airport, Trakker phoning a quick goodbye to Lopez as they stood on the tarmac. "Good luck, Julio. I hope you hear something."

"I hope so too. I'm sure I've got the whole town looking for him now."

"Call me if you learn anything."

"Of course. Have a safe trip home. Goodbye."

Trakker switched off his phone and walked up into the transport, some of the hardest steps he had ever had to take. Fortune had always been with him regarding the team, and while there had been injuries and close calls, every agent had come home at the end of a mission. But this time, Lady Fortune had turned her head, and Calhoun Burns had been lost.

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Chosen continues in Chapter 10: "Waterlilies"

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M.A.S.K. and all related concepts, characters, worlds, and events are property of DIC Enterprises, Inc and Kenner Toys. Original characters and story elements are property of E. Potter, writing under the pen name of Miratete.

This fic is dedicated to Ben Chapman (1925-2008), Ricou Browning, and Tom Hennesey (1923-2011)

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