Act Two
From Butterflies to Fireworks Amongst Rocks and Amber
Chapter Three: Signs Are Pointing To . . .
As soon as they pass the threshold, Flynn Rider hurries to close the door behind him and Varian. The next moment, Varian feels the man's hands on his shoulders—of course, more unsolicited touching—and gets spun around to look into his hero's eyes. And because he's just that—his hero—Varian preserves a broad smile.
"Listen, buddy; I need you to tell me everything that the princess told you," Flynn requests with a look of expectancy.
"Oh, yeah." Flynn Rider— the Flynn Rider!—just called him his buddy. How could he say no now? And it should be fine to tell him anyway, right? After all, it was Flynn who had saved Rapunzel, so he must be the one she trusts the most, Varian supposes. He walks a few steps ahead and recounts, "Well, okay, first, she said, ' We're looking for Varian ,' and then I said, ' I am Varian! '" A chuckle escapes him at the sound of his voice during the attempt to imitate the low pitch the welding mask had lent him back then. "And then she said, 'Uh, hi, sorry to bother you, sir, but I wanna ask you about my hair.'" Repeating those words of Rapunzel, Varian runs a hand through his bangs with the teal streak in default of a long braid of magical hair, pushing them up just to let them fall into place again immediately. Which unfortunately forces him into rumination the next second. He's lost the thread. Hold on a tic, wasn't there something else? Oh right! "Wait, oh, I'm sorry—let me back up. I forgot to tell you about the raccoon trap. So, there was—"
But Flynn doesn't wait for Varian to finish his sentence. Waiving further explanation, he clarifies, "Yes, that's great, but what I meant is, tell me all the important stuff she said."
And Varian's mien turns serious. "Mr. Rider, when the Princess of Corona speaks directly to you, every word is important," he replies firmly.
Deliberately ignoring the answering facepalm of Flynn, Varian continues for the shed near his house.
.
In the blink of an eye, the two find themselves inside that shed, which mainly functions as a storeroom for Varian. Several racks cover the walls, and those racks are chock-full of alchemy tools, just like pots, jars, and bowls of all materials and sizes. The wooden floor underneath them is cluttered with machine parts, and barrels in the corners hold metal pipes Varian would surely need sooner or later for an invention that might well change the way of living for the entire kingdom. Even though, at the moment, they're merely collecting dust while robbing him of space to move in this small place.
Sifting through the mess—gosh! he really needs to clean it up sometime!—Varian assures, "I know that press must be here somewhere, Flynn."
To which the other responds by mumbling something Varian doesn't quite catch, occupied as he is with his search. Leaning back to gain a glimpse at the top shelf, he stumbles against something big hidden underneath a patch-studded blanket. Heh, it seems he missed the forest for the trees. "Ha! Got it! Here it is," Varian announces, pulling off the improvised cover to reveal the object of their search, the spectrometric press.
By looks, it somewhat resembles a serving cart. Only the tablet's close to the ground and underslung with a copper box holding the technical parts that make it possible for the device to work in the first place. Above that box, a paper web stretches over three platens.
Varian grabs it and proudly shows Flynn the faint letters from his test run a few days ago, enthusing, "And, once the tests are done, it'll print the results on parchment paper—"
But Flynn doesn't care to listen to what Varian's got to say. Instead, he cuts him off once more. "That's muy interesante , but getting back to what the princess said—Whoa, whoa!"
Suddenly, another quake shakes the earth, throwing Flynn into a sort of dance for balance while the things on the racks clink and clang an angry tune. "Why does that keep happening?" he asks the moment the tremor subsides, bearing a distinct trace of worry.
A grin breaks into Varian's face. The press couldn't impress Flynn Rider, alright, but they will compel his admiration for sure. He drops the paper and slightly pushes the man to the side for access to the trapdoor in the shed floor he'd been standing on. Bending down, Varian closes his fingers around the black pull ring. "Flynn Rider! I believe I promised you . . ." He pulls the trapdoor up, revealing a ladder into the darkness below. "A secret."
.
Varian holds up a lantern, waiting at the foot of the ladder for Flynn to follow. Excitement's crept into his bones, and now he's itching to show his hero the fruits of weeks of work. Finally, the man finishes his descent, and Varian leads the way deeper into the tunnel they've just entered, leaving Flynn with no choice but to keep pace with him, or rather with the only source of light in this murkiness.
The lantern's glow barely reaches the high ceiling, and most of it gets swallowed before touching the walls either, the timber structure merely silhouetting against them. Flynn lets his eye wander; he must be astounded by how wide these tunnels are. Varian too could scarcely believe his eyes when he first came here . . . against the advice of his father.
"Now, if my dad knew I was down here, he'd kill me," Varian says, giving a slight chuckle. "Of course, if he knew what I was actually doing down here, he'd probably be impressed—or at least I hope he'd be impressed."
His words faintly echo back from the walls, just like their steps as they venture forward. In the distance, light blooms against the dark ahead of them.
"These tunnels run through my entire village, which, make them perfect for my project," Varian explains. Oh, he can't wait to see Flynn's face. Any second now . . .
"What project?" Flynn asks.
Ha, perfect—that caught his interest! Varian leads them a little further along the pathway until they reach a cavern, where he raises his lantern high above their heads. " This project!"
In front of them towers a tremendous contraption—a tank as tall as a house from whose side and top several pipes sprout, like metallic tentacles piercing into the tunnel walls, while dials scattered across the bronze body attire in glows of red, orange, and yellow. Varian beholds his work with a satisfied smile.
"I don't get it," he hears Flynn say behind him.
But that can't dampen Varian's elation. He doesn't mind elaborating on what technical marvel and engineering breakthrough he's presenting to Flynn right now. Walking closer toward the tank and past a vat of chemicals, he explains, "Through the miracle of alchemy—not magic!—I have found a way to heat this entire tank of water with a single drop of my newest, yet-to-be-named compound . . ." He sets the lantern down on a nearby table and scoops up a flask from the same holding a neon green liquid. "Which I'll call Flynnoleum !" Varian announces, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Now this has to excite Flynn, right?
But instead of lifting them in delight, Flynn draws his brows together. "I still don't get it," he says with a shrug of his shoulders.
"I'm gonna surprise my village by bringing the people hot running water!" Varian carefully puts the flask down again and points at the tank. Incidentally, it roars, puffing out clouds of steam that swirl around its massive body. Looks like it wants to approve of his words! Varian can't hold in a chuckle. With a sweeping gesture embracing the whole place, he adds, "I've constructed five of these babies all throughout the caverns."
Now he can finally find surprise streaming into Flynn's features. But other than what Varian expected, it's no pleased or in any way positive expression that paints his hero's face. No, his brows crinkle with worry as he deduces, "Wait, wait, wait. These—these tremors . . . your machines are causing them?"
"No, no, no." Varian shakes his head vehemently while also waving his hands for emphasis. "My machines are not causing them. The chemical reactions they trigger do."
By way of a demonstration, he takes the dropper from the flask of Flynnoleum and dispenses one single drop of the compound to fall into the chemical-filled vat. The reaction equals a small explosion, and a gust of heated air pulls the long bangs out of Varian's forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut to grin at Flynn the next second, expectantly.
Now Flynn approaches him, and Varian prepares for a well-earned gush of words of appreciation. He's going to play it cool, though; he needn't let his hero in on how seldom he receives those from anyone except Lashanie.
But the words he wants to hear aren't falling from Flynn's lips. What comes instead sounds like the beginning of a lecture. "And no one knows you're doing this? Okay, listen, kiddo," he says, and Varian crosses his arms over his chest at the tone of his voice. "I'm no expert in . . . whatever this is," Flynn continues, "But anything that can cause earthquakes cannot be safe. We've gotta warn people about this."
"No! We can't! Okay?" Varian insists. What in the blazes? Flynn should be amazed by what he just learned instead of playing with the thought of ruining the surprise for everyone by blabbing it out. Also, if his dad were to find out before he got the chance to prove the boilers work . . . No, he can't let that happen. "You gave me your word you'd keep this a secret," Varian appeals urgently to Flynn. "Besides, there is someone who knows about all this—Birdy is in the loop." He notices the skepticism oozing from Flynn's demeanor and hurries to add, "And I am an expert, and this is all perfectly safe!"
As if on cue, the tank trembles anew, shaking loose one bolt from its side. With a fierce whistle, it whizzes past Varian's and Flynn's shocked faces and only stops its flight to burry deeply into the wall.
Now that was unexpected . . . and close. Varian tries to quickly swallow his shock. So much for his invention backing him up—that treacherous thing!
Failing to imbue his voice with confidence, Varian fibs, "Yeah—it does—does that all the time," in that somewhat squeaky pitch Lashanie claims he unwittingly skids into when he's twisting the truth.
But Flynn doesn't seem to have noticed. At least he doesn't argue against Varian more. Merely his steps appear a little hastier on their way back.
•●•●•
Another test, during which the princess gets shaken thoroughly, is about to reach its end. Her wide eyes wander to the counter. "Only twelve more tests to go," she shouts, her voice rattling in time with her body.
Lashanie and Cassandra exchange a glance. Sure, twelve doesn't seem like a high number, but considering how exciting these tests are, as Princess Rapunzel put it earlier, each of them feels like an eternity in itself. Especially since they are only getting worse as the end of the whole analysis phase draws nearer.
Finally, the redemptive sound they've been waiting for, the ring of the bell above the counter, meets their ears, and the machine abruptly falls back into stasis. "Yay!" The princess cheers as the last echo of the shaking shivers through her body, her voice trembling with it.
Just that instant, rapid steps come near from the corridor, and the next moment Varian and Eugene jog into the room, the press resting in Varian's arms. At their sight, Lashanie allows herself the briefest sigh of relief.
"Team Awesome is back!" Varian announces in a singsong. He chuckles and forthwith climbs the platform to Princess Rapunzel's side. His sparkling enthusiasm stands in stark contrast to Eugene, who remains close to the door, the facial play bordering on panic.
Lashanie beholds him inquiringly. Something must be badly amiss. And, unfortunately, she can perfectly guess what. She needs to talk to Varian anyway; those tremors are much worse than what he said could happen. She must get his guarantee that everything will be fine.
"Now, Rapunzel, I know my tests have been a pain in the hm-hm ," Varian says with a grin, carrying the press past her.
Although her hair is still getting pulled in every direction by metal claws, the princess smiles at Varian nevertheless and waves his words off. "Aw, I wouldn't say pain."
At that, Varian's lips curl into a satisfied smile as he proceeds to plug the spectrometric press into the substance-testing machine.
And promptly, as if to prove her wrong, the next test sends an electric charge to quiver through Princess Rapunzel's body. "Uh, now I would," she utters, her hair crackling with electricity.
Lashanie's eyes grow wide, a mixture of sympathy and guilt humming in her bones . . . along with a tinge of disbelief. Varian actually would have let her endure this ?! Sometimes he's just—unbelievable!
But he also doesn't respond further to the fact that the Princess of Corona just got electroshocked by one of his devices. No, Varian merrily calibrates his press, unperturbed. A tiny chuckle escapes him as he pats the apparatus. "In a moment, this little guy . . ." the press receives a little kick from him, prompting the platens to rotate, "He'll give us all the answers we want." And that's just so much like him that Lashanie can't be mad at Vary. Her silly alchemist . . .
"Woo-hoo! Answers!" Princess Rapunzel cheers, unbridled joy dancing in her voice. And perhaps also a dash of relief.
Meanwhile, Cassandra begins to approach and circle Eugene, grinning. "So, you got yourself a secret, huh?"
What follows is a moment of sibling-esque bickering. Or at least, Lashanie deems it to be sibling-esque. It's not like she has any experience with that sort of thing; neither she nor Varian—not even Ben—have any siblings. Anyhow, their verbal back and forth marks her chance to speak to Varian a little more privately.
With her newfound animal friend Pascal as their only overhearer, Lashanie walks to Varian's side and requests, "Vary, a word?"
He pauses his task for a tic to look at her directly, and the slightest smidge of insecurity steals into his smile. He's most likely read what nature this conversation would bear in her expression. Well, of course he has; he's her best friend. They know each other inside and out. And so it doesn't surprise Lashanie when he says, "Not now, Birdy. These tests are almost done, and I still need to finetune the press for the printing process," and goes back to fiddling with his invention. Dealing with criticism isn't his strongest suit, especially not when it hits the bullseye, she knows.
"Vary, plea—Whoa!" Lashanie embarks on another attempt when the world around them starts shaking once again, cutting her off. That violent vibration brings disconcertingly large chunks of the ceiling to crumble down on them, drawing trails of dust into the air.
"Look, Blondie; I think it's time to go. Now ," Eugene demands the instant the tremor ceases.
"Now? You're kidding, right?" The princess cast her boyfriend a suspicious glance. "This is almost finished." And a familiar bell ding lends emphasis to her words while the number on the counter below drops to eight.
Considering everything she had to endure to this point—and some of those tests could positively act as a method of torture—Lashanie can understand why Princess Rapunzel refuses to leave empty-handed. On the other hand, worry is painting Eugene's face so evidently . . . What has he learned when Varian made him privy to his secret ?
Lashanie's about to beg Varian for a word again; she's determined not to let him stave her off this time. But Eugene is faster. He steps between them, asking, "Can we talk?"
For a split second, Varian lets his gaze swivel between him and Lashanie. Then he pushes himself off the floor, rising to his feet, and hops down the platform to Eugene's side. With a smile Lashanie deems at least partially feigned, he answers, "Uh-ha, of course. That's what Team Awesome does."
Is he serious? He can't spend a minute to speak to her, but is ready to leave with Eugene straightaway? Her lips part for an attempt at protest, but before they can send it off, Eugene has already hauled Varian to the door. She can merely watch them scurry out of the room.
A perplexed, "Honestly?!" escapes Lashanie, and promptly the confused glances of Cassandra and Princess Rapunzel seize her. She draws in a deep breath. At least Pascal understands; once more, he pats her hand with his tiny feet.
•●•●•
"Those things down there are dangerous!" Flynn insists, pointing at the ground.
"Dangerous?" Varian repeats, sincere bafflement carried by his voice. "No, they're not dangerous; I—I have adjusted my calculations for every possible outcome."
Mentally, Varian begins to recalculate, to validate the charts and diagrams in his head, while Flynn's pacing up and down nearby. Speaking as if to himself, he determines, "Uh, the margin of error is—is less than point five-six percent. Or . . . now," he tries to recap his calculations again, "Wait, was it point five-seven?" Varian isn't sure anymore. But it doesn't matter; any perceived risk is still neglectable. He knows what he's doing!
Yet Flynn begs to differ. "I don't know!" he calls out and lowers to Varian's eye level by taking a knee—something Varian's dad tends to do when he wants him to understand the gravity of a situation badly, and a stone seems to form in his stomach.
"Look, Varian," Flynn locks eyes with him, "I think you're a good kid, a—a smart kid, and you got great intentions. But I'm asking you, pleading with you, for the love of my life and your entire village, to please shut off those machines until a seisma-quake-atologist can come inspect'em!"
A brief sting of guilt shoots through Varian. Flynn truly worries . . . But he doesn't understand—good intentions are not enough, and as long as Varian can't put his intelligence to use, it's as good as non-existent. He has to prove he can do right and that his ideas and inventions are far from a safe guarantor of trouble, as he recently overheard the farmers phrasing it.
Flynn must have noticed his internal conflict because he uses Varian's hesitance to grab him by the arms. Squeezing them slightly, he begs, "Please! Do it for Team Awesome."
But before Varian gets the chance to explain why he can't just shut them off, another of those bloody tremors wrecks through the earth beneath them, and he has trouble staying on his feet. Alright, he definitely needs to— check on the tanks. "I suppose I can turn them down . . . a bit," Varian allows, already making his way to the shed.
•●•●•
Eugene appears in the doorframe to the counter flipping from seven down to six. But he's all alone.
"Where's Varian," Lashanie asks him but remains short of an answer. Instead, Eugene ascends the platform at once to check for the remaining tests, radiating even more tension than before.
He beholds the number embedded into the repurposed cuckoo clock. "All right! Six more tests. Then we can leave, right? Go someplace far away? Really, really far away?"
Okay, now that's suspicious. And it seems, Lashanie's not alone with that notion. Cassandra starts closing in on him, inquiring, "Why do you want us to leave so bad?"
"Oh, no, you can stay. In fact, it'd be great if you stayed," Eugene gives back, bridging the distance between them on his side by leaping down the platform. "That way, when these things blow—Oh, boy!—never mind!"
Lashanie's voice intermingles with Cassandra's as they simultaneously call out, "What?!" And when she presses, "Is it this bad?" Eugene avoids Lashanie's gaze. He turns his head about between the princess and Cassandra, hesitating to say more, and whatever might be going on between them, she's got no time for that. What he's blurted out suffices to drive her into motion. Lashanie gently sets Pascal down on the platform and strokes his head with two fingers, to which he responds by craning, eyes closed as he relishes. With deliberate calm, she rights herself—Cassandra may not surmise her intention. Because the next second, Lashanie dashes to the door past her and Eugene, her legs moving as if on their own.
And just as she expected, a gloved hand reaches out to capture her. "Hey, you can't leave!" Cassandra commands. Without a doubt, she is strong, much stronger than Lashanie. If she caught her, Lashanie could hardly free herself. Fortunately, she doesn't have to try. Because in terms of agility, she can compete perfectly with the princess's escort and, like before, manage to give Cassandra the slip.
"I'm sorry," Lashanie calls over her shoulder, meaning it, "But I've got to help Vary. If anything happens, just pull the levers!"
•●•●•
Meanwhile, somewhere below them in the underground tunnels, Varian rushes to the tank he had shown Flynn. Even from a distance, he can already make it out to be in a critical state. The construction trembles in a tenacious struggle to keep carrying out its purpose. "Okay, Varian," he says to himself, "I, uh—I guess it was point five-seven. Heh."
A look at the red dial hanging resplendent on the front side confirms the pressure inside the tank is too high—much too high! And it already has forced a few leaks into the plating. This is bad!
Varian stoops for a wrench and bolts to the table, which he forthwith climbs to reach a valve. He can still fix this! If he adjusts the flow of the pipes, he can achieve enough pressure equalization to keep the tank from blowing.
But the valve doesn't move. Has the material been deformed somehow? Varian considers it highly improbable, but no matter how much he exerts himself, that bloody piece of metal stays rigid. It's too pressurized already. Rats!
With as much force as he can muster in his arms, Varian tries again. He clutches the wrench with both hands. Come on, come on, come on—move!
And giving an unwilling screech, the vent finally budges. So abruptly, however, that the wrench slips, and in the course of that flourish, Varian's elbow hits something next to him. It greets the ground with a shattering noise, calling Varian's attention to the puddle of green liquid crawling across the floor. His eyes grow wide with shock. "Oh, no—the Flynnoleum!"
•●•●•
The door to the shed stands wide open; Lashanie hurries inside and finds the ladder into the tunnels underneath the village exposed as well, just as she expected.
No matter what might await her, she's ready to climb down into the dark and search for Varian, but nearing the opening, that plan of hers turns out needless—he is already on his way up, taking the ladder's rungs as fast as he can. An ear-splitting noise from below shatters the silence, spurring Lashanie to bend down and instinctively pull her friend into safety. She slams the trap door shut just when the air inside the tunnel literally explodes in a fireball, the heat still brushing her and Varian. With shock-dilated eyes, they merely stare at one another for a heartbeat.
"That was close," Varian utters through a sigh. He rights himself, and his features adopt a confused touch. "Wait—what are you doing here?"
"What does it look like? I'm helping you."
"Yeah, but—how did you know?"
Lashanie inclines her head. "Well, Eugene gave you away. He didn't say much, but enough to make it obvious that something was wrong. Anyway, what happened?"
Letting his gaze wander to the trap door, Varian admits, "I'm not sure. The tanks—they've somehow built too much pressure, rendering the entire construction unstable now."
Well, that explains the tremors. Lashanie's teeth begin to badger her bottom lip. "What do we do?"
"We have to shut off the remaining pumps. And we need to do it fast," Varian answers without hesitation.
But the explosion they've just witnessed leaves Lashanie beset by doubt. "How? I mean, can we still go into the tunnels?"
"I—I think so, yeah. We'll just take another entrance."
A trace of insecurity bleeds into Varian's voice, and Lashanie fails not to let it infect her. Still, she hears herself say, "Alright, I'm with you."
.
Stepping out of the shed, they find the sky shrouded in dark clouds. How fitting. Even the sun resists shining down on this disaster, Lashanie thinks to herself as Varian and her tear across the sandy roads. To their sides, in their backs, and on the road ahead—everywhere!—the ground blasts chunks of earth and machine parts alike into the sky under ceaseless explosions, shaking underneath them like a rowboat on a churning sea. Yet, they keep adamantly working their way forward through the village. They must.
Lashanie's in the lead, avoiding the rubble raining down; her destination the stables. There, in the hay-covered floor, they should find another way down into the tunnels.
Suddenly, a more forceful tremor threatens to throw Lashanie off her feet. She only just catches herself and casts a glance at Varian.
Shouting, "Forget the stables! To the warehouse!" he confirms her suspicion; another pump is lost.
Without questioning or complaining, Lashanie follows his newest instruction while the ground gives no quarter and keeps spewing machine fragments like a geyser spits water. As they speed through the village, skipping over all sorts of hurdles, the distance between her and Varian constantly grows, but Lashanie maintains her pace. Blood rushes through her veins like a torrential stream. The situation is coming to a head now; the breeze is already bearing a faint burned smell. They have to hurry!
A cacophony of noises is their omnipresent companion, and so it takes Lashanie a moment to realize it's really Cassandra's voice meeting her ear seemingly out of nowhere, demanding, "Listen, kid! We gotta get outta here!"
Immediately, she stops dead in her tracks, whirling to meet Cassandra's eyes. "Come here, so I can get you both to safety!" the woman calls, Varian's right arm clenched in the firm grip of one hand and outstretching the other to Lashanie.
But Varian struggles against her to ward off that unbidden rescue attempt, crying, "No, no!" A twinge of panic conquers his features, and after another futile effort to wrench himself free, he nervously pants for air. "Ugh! No, we've got three pumps to shut off, and I can't let this happen again !" he tells Cassandra, sounding just as desperate as he looks.
Despite risking getting that woman really mad at her, Lashanie rushes to Varian's aid. And gets harshly forced to jerk to a halt by another explosion that breaches through the ground, separating them before she can reach him. The same force that tears a hole into the earth propels a massive part of a pipe into the air. The next second, it speeds down on Varian.
Feeling the ground tilt beneath her, Lashanie can merely watch Cassandra pulling him close to shield his skinny body with her own before they both disappear under the heavy piece of metal. Horror seeps into every pore of her being, and a voice that can impossibly be hers screams Varian's name. With unsteady legs, she staggers toward the pipe.
A painful moment goes by. Not even the tremors cessation gets through to Lashanie anymore. Her gaze lingers on the pipe's opening, unyielding. As she silently prays for Varian's frame to appear there, tears begin to obscure her vision.
She doesn't hear the voices drawing near.
But it seems Varian and Cassandra both have a guardian angel smiling down upon them today, for lastly, they emerge from the pipe orifice pointing skyward. A grateful smile adorns Varian's face as he thanks Cassandra for the rescue before reuniting his feet with firm ground.
Numb to anything else but sheer relief, Lashanie runs to him, flinging her arms around his neck. She feels Varian's hand pressing against the back of her head as he gives a chuckle. "I'm glad you're alright, too," he utters through it.
Lashanie gently breaks their embrace, feeling a smile playing on her lips as she gazes into the sky-blue of Varian's eyes. With a touch of embarrassed surprise, she finds herself struggling not to get lost in them as an unfamiliar, soft flutter gradually replaces the uneasy feeling inside her stomach. How peculiar . . . Luckily, a tiny voice in the back of her mind reminds her that she might have lost him if it wasn't for Cassandra, and Lashanie finally manages to avert her gaze. She turns to the older woman. "You saved him. Thank you so, so much!"
Cassandra's lips part, and Lashanie deems to see the ghost of a smile form on them, but before anyone can say more, the desperate calls of a deep voice reach them. "Varian!"
Then, another, slightly higher, call follows. "Mousie! Lashanie!"
.
Close by, people are gathering, slowly finding the courage to leave their shelters. And amidst them, Varian spots his father and Ludwig.
"Quirin! Thank goodness you're here!" a short, chubby man says upon recognizing the village leader, fright evident in his voice as he clutches his cane.
And guilt lets Varian's guts cramp as he watches his dad ignoring that man and everyone around, frantically searching the area for him.
Finally, Quirin's eyes grow wide as they behold him. "Ludwig," he calls for Lashanie's dad, who's searching by the rubble of a collapsed roof, without losing sight of Varian as if he feared his son could vanish the moment he looks away.
They both come running over, and while Ludwig engulfs Lashanie in a tight embrace, his dad kneels before him, resting his big hands on Varian's shoulders, a painful reminder of when Flynn—no, when Eugene begged him to shut the machines off . . .
Allowing a relieved smile to brighten his face, Quirin lightly strokes the back of Varian's head. "Are you okay? What happened?"
The guilt gnawing at him is too much for Varian; he fails to hold his father's gaze as he murmurs, "Dad, I'm—sorry."
Immediately, the relief on Quirin's face gives way to disappointment. It's almost palpable in his voice when he shakes his head, uttering, "Not again, Varian."
"But, Dad—" Varian begins, hoping to at least try to explain. But Quirin turns away, heaving a sigh, unwilling to hear one more word out of him. And Varian's heart grows heavy. Is it that his dad can't even stand the sight of him anymore?
At the same time, a ripple travels through the assembled crowd, waiting for Quirin to take care of their problems. Their stares are silent accusations, boring through Varian. Condemning him.
"Is everybody okay?" he hears his dad ask into the round.
And instantly, an elderly man rises to speak, "Quirin, what do we do? It was terrible."
Varian feels the weight of Cassandra's hand on his shoulder, but without further ado, he frees himself of it, starting to pick up what's left of his construction. And he was so sure to make his dad proud this time.
Before long, Cassandra leaves without another word, and the crowd slowly disperses as well, their whispers scattered by the breeze. But Lashanie's still there, enduring a litany of lectures pelting down on her in a tone that expresses anger and a threat of punishment alike. Well, that means Ludwig's still around, too, of course. And Varian hopes he won't come up with the idea of reprimanding him likewise. He doesn't care a smidge for that man's opinion of him right now! What does Ludwig know anyway?!
Fortunately, fate has decided to have tormented him enough for one day because soon, Varian hears Ludwig's departing footsteps right before a white-gloved hand nudges his, reaching for the same battered piece of a metal plate.
Knee-jerk, Varian raises his eyes to Lashanie's paled face. Heck, she looks so beat. In his mind, he gives himself a kick for putting her through all this . . . and for hoping she'll refuse to leave anyhow as he says, "This isn't your mess, Birdy. You don't have to help me clean it up. Better go home and get some rest."
"Ah, you know I can't do that," she answers with a smile. And Varian can barely hide his relief over those few words, his lips curving up slightly.
Suddenly, all seems not that grim anymore.
•●•●•
When it rains, it pours. Not only had his dad barely spoken another word to Varian yet, but the earthquake had also brought the roof of his laboratory down. And that, while Rapunzel and Eugene were still inside.
Apparently, they weren't able to stop the tests by themselves and get Rapunzel out of the machine in time. It's a wonder they've made it out with their skins intact because—and Rapunzel swears it happened this way—her hair had blossomed out like a giant canopy to protect her, Eugene, and Pascal from getting crushed by debris.
Varian still finds this story hard to believe. Hair that forms a shield as if it had a mind of its own . . . Too bad the test results are lost, buried underneath the stony remains of his lab.
A deep-drawn sigh fills his lungs.
Soft footsteps rustle between the grass, and he hears Lashanie call, "Aw, I got something that'll cheer you up!" coming to join him on their spot on the hill underneath the old tree. She lifts a red, round something into the air, asking with a satisfied smile, "Have you ever seen such a flawless apple?"
By this time, the sky has cleared up, and Varian squints against the setting sun's rays blending his eyes to see the fruit she's holding clearly. It looks like any other apple. "I've practically grown up on our apple orchards, Birdy. I've seen dozens of them putting yours to shame," he says with a teasing smirk.
At that, Lashanie shakes her head, jesting, "I should stick to feeding raccoons; they're more grateful." She sits down by his side and puts the apple in Varian's palm still. "Replacement for the one my friend stole from you this morning."
The crisp red skin almost seems to glow in the light of the golden sunset, and Varian turns the fruit about in his hand. "I didn't expect to see you again today. You know, I was sure you'd be grounded until you come of age and move out of your parents' house," he quips, a little laugh working its way through his words.
"Sh! Don't tempt providence," Lashanie says, knocking on wood posthaste.
And Varian can't help rolling his eyes. Yet, the smile lingering in the corners of his mouth grows a little wider as he bites into the apple. Darn, she was right; it's flawless!
"Papa was too shocked to think of punishment for me yet, you see. But I guess he'll render my sentence tomorrow morning when he had time to take counsel with his pillow," Lashanie explains while Varian chews away the juicy fruit in his hand.
His mouth full, he mumbles, "Your sentence? Don't you think that's a little bit too dramatic?"
"I wish. You should have seen my Mama's reaction— that was dramatic. She even collapsed on the floor, fanning herself and all . . ." Lashanie leaves a pause, her chest heaving under a deep breath. "Never mind! What about your lab?"
Varian swallows the rest of his apple, wiping the heel of his hand over his mouth before he answers, "Reconstruction won't take too long, I guess. I'll help rebuild it—part of my punishment . And your dad's offered to lend a hand too." Planning this out was the only time his dad had talked to Varian after . . . the incident. And he's pretty sure Ludwig only helps so his friend won't have to live in a demolished house longer than necessary. Still, he's grateful.
"What luck that nobody got hurt," it comes from Lashanie, softly, as if said to herself.
"Mhm. You were right, after all," Varian leans back, propping himself on his arms, legs stretched out on the lush green gracing their small hill. "The man from the posters, Eugene, isn't our Flynn Rider. The real Flynn Rider would have known how to prevent— all this ." He tries to sound casual but fails to banish the disappointment from his voice.
"Oh, Vary . . ."
The next second, Varian feels Lashanie's hand slide against his cheek. A touch so familiar, he instinctively closes his eyes as her thumb caresses his skin. Funny how that simple habit of hers always works to make things better, if only a little.
Suddenly, there's a chitter he's undoubtedly heard before, and something fluffy touches his bare skin between the glove and the rolled-up shirt sleeve, disturbing that brief moment of peace.
Varian opens his eyes to that raccoon collecting the apple core and promptly stuffing it into his mouth. "Heh, the apple thief," he notes. He must have followed Lashanie here. And because the little rascal sits still by his side, Varian tickles him under his chin, beholding a pair of buck teeth, inducing his lips to tip up. What a funny coincidence they both share such a striking feature.
To his surprise, Lashanie's raccoon friend gives a satisfied sound and climbs onto his lap to lie down, rolled into a croissant shape. Varian chuckles, "What the . . .?"
"Aw! See?—I told you he likes you!" A giggle dances in Lashanie's voice as she runs her fingers through the raccoon's fur. "Since he keeps coming back, maybe we should give him a name," she suggests.
And Varian shakes his head vehemently. "No way!" The last thing he should do now is get attached to an apple-devouring animal. His dad is fed up with him enough already.
But Lashanie pays no heed and produces name ideas right away. "How about Irvin?"
Varian grimaces. Yeesh! He's almost forgotten how bad Birdy is at coming up with decent names.
"No?" She blinks as if truly surprised by his reaction. "Maybe Gustav, then? Or—Oh! I know! Fridolin!"
"Good grief—No!" Varian objects with a chuckle. What books does she get all that horrendous names from? Even the raccoon's starting to look offended. Before another idea comes to her mind, Varian gives a suggestion. "We could call him Ruddiger."
Prompting Lashanie to beam, "Yeah, I like that one! I think it suits him." She tickles freshly named Ruddiger behind the ear, to which he responds with a satisfied, purr-like sound.
And this instant, Varian realizes he's happy. Despite everything that happened today, this moment under the burning sun, with Lashanie by his side and the cheeky raccoon resting on his lap, just feels right. He strokes Ruddiger's grey coat, touching Lashanie's hand as if by accident, and the tingling inside his stomach returns as he watches her mouth curl into her special Lashanie-smile.
All of a sudden, he feels like nothing is impossible.
.
Neither Varian nor Lashanie could know about the creeping darkness underneath their village. A crystal black as night that keeps mercilessly forcing its way through anything in its path—earth and wood and stone . . . and the pipes of a young alchemist, crucially contributing to the failure of his project.
