Another day, another dollar, and another chapter I had to hack a limb off to make it fit. Originally ~16,000 words in size, I found a good chopping point. Those who have read Redneck of Roanapur, will remember those 20,000 word chapters. That's too much work for you, and me too! Now, this one's a bit, well...it's heavy. Don't expect to feel happy when you're done. It's a band aid that needs ripped off, and we'll all (hopefully) emerge with clearer minds and stronger hearts on the other side. I don't like to info dump on characters, but this should do a lot of explaining; the sort that'll make you go 'Ohhh...I get it now. I'm not happy, but I get it.' With that, resounding endorsement, let's sally forth! C'mon, FLCL isn't for wimps, and there's no crying in FanFiction!
. . .
"Hey, Nao'." Tommy had tapped him on the shoulder. "You and your Dad've really been working hard. I greatly appreciate it, we all do. I think you're overdue for some down time."
"Oh, are you sure?" Naota glanced around at everyone still conducting cleanup. "There's still a lot to…" Tommy waved his worry away.
"You're both exhausted, and when was the last time you ate?" He couldn't remember, then did. Friday evening. "Thought so. The kitchen, somehow, didn't get filled with holes. I want you to go there, make whatever you want to eat and drink, then go downstairs and see Rig. He needs a friend right now, and I believe he promised a conversation with you too. Can you do that for me?"
"That, I can." He moved through the remains of the carport, and into the bullet hole free kitchen. The wind was whistling through blown out windows, but it was otherwise untouched. He made a hefty Dagwood sandwich, snagged a bag of chips, and two cans of pop from the fridge, and headed downstairs. The basement walls, floor and ceiling were dinged and dented, the first three feet of wall next to the sliding doors was studded with nuts, bolts, washers, nails, and ball bearings; and the doors were now empty frames. The stereo, tucked behind and protected by Rig's room (which Naota now suspected was hardened and armored; and so was the rest of the house.) had escaped any damage. Rig himself was on his daybed couch, with a card table in front of him. Field stripped and in stages of cleaning, was what Naota recognized to be Back-Breaker. Rig, who's face first appeared lemon-sucking sour, perked up as Naota made his way downstairs.
"Goodness, Gracious, Great Balls of Fire!" Rig shouted. "Look who survived the night! I knew you could do it, I fuckin' KNEW you would! How's it hangin', have any trouble?"
"Oh, plenty! Looks like you had some of your own. What happened, did you get hit by a truck?" Naota asked as he dragged over an armchair and set his meal on an empty card table corner. Now he got a good look at Rig. Both of Rig's eyes were raccoon mask black, his nose broken and splinted on either side, and dozens of butterfly stiches pockmarked his face; to say nothing of both his hands were wrapped up to the elbow and the other band aids and small gauze pads. Bundles of splints wrapped his abdomen and ribs, from his chest to beltline, both on his front and back, and from his chest down was one continuous bruise. He left shoulder was taped to lock the joint in place. Finally, from his right knee to his toes was encased in a plaster cast.
"Feels like it. You should see the other guy though."
"Who's the other guy?"
"Haruko."
"I...I don't know how to...what?!" Dumbfounded, Naota listened as Rig recapped the morning after he'd left. The story didn't hang quite right, and instead of feeling confused, a flare of annoyance lit off in his mind. What seemed too soon, Rig concluded and passed the conversation back. Naota was getting the impression Rig could feel things coming to a head and was trying to put it off for as long as he could; or at least make bringing the subject up as smooth as possible. "So we put a good hurtin' on each other, but not bad enough that she couldn't escape, or I won't live. So what happened with you? Like I said, I knew you could make it, but I want to know how it went."
"Okay, well…it was a night of firsts; I can say that much. I got shot for the first time."
"No shit, you did?! Where, I don't see any holes in you? Plate caught it?"
"Yeah, it was a deputy's M16; right on my back. The plate caught it, but it knocked the wind out of me."
"Man, that's gotta hurt."
"That wasn't the worst. Wrecking that dirt bike into the ditch was the worst; and it tried to drown me!"
"Where was this?"
"Out by Casanova and Six Mile."
"Casanova and Six Mile? The hell were you doing over there? I plotted the GPS so you'd avoid roads…"
"I got really tired, really quick, of getting slapped in the face with branches every ten seconds. Shit gets old, real quick."
"Mmm…fair. I didn't put a pair of goggles on the bike, did I?"
"No, no you did not."
"Dammit. I knew I forgot something. Okay, so. You've wrecked your bike and…then what?"
"Then I snuck back around, while half the roadblock was looking for me; and two were watching towards Munson. They'd left one of their patrol cars unattended, so I…"
"No. You didn't."
"…Got across the road, and like you showed me how…"
"No, you did not!"
"…Hot-wired the car and drove off. They shot at me a few more times then, too…"
"No way!" Rig could barely contain his amazement, and it triggered a coughing fit. Recovering his breath, he looked at Naota as if they'd never met. "You're really somethin' else. A true original. I'd never thought you'd actually hot-wire and steal a car; let alone a Deputy's!"
"Like I've been trying to tell everyone, I was just trying to avoid getting caught, or shot. Anyone else would've done the same."
"I don't think so." Rig disagreed. "Most people would've lain down and tried to hide; or just given up and died. But you didn't, and that's something you can be proud of."
"Well, I suppose so, I guess…" He trailed off, and his stomach filled the gap by rumbling. His suspicions were momentarily put off by hunger. "Hey, I'm gonna go and eat."
"Do whatcha gotta do, Cochise." Rig continued cleaning Back-Breaker while Naota chowed down. In short order, he devoured his ham, turkey, bacon, salami, provolone, Swiss, sharp cheddar, American cheese, lettuce, tomato, red onion, bell and banana pepper, pickle, mustard and mayo sandwich between two thick slabs of dark wheat bread. The bag of kettle chips similarly received no mercy. Remembering to breathe, he stopped to lick salt crumbs from his fingers. Now refueled and at ease (as at ease as he could be) Naota started doing something that gives politicians, used car salesmen and Televangelists the conniptions: he started thinking.
"You've got a look to yah." Rig one-eyed him. "'Bet I know what it's 'bout too. Alright, hit me. Get it out and over with."
"I don't even know where, or how, to start."
"It's not like I'm going anywhere." Rig pointed at his cast. "I promised an explanation, and I strive to be a man of my word. Take your time." Naota took a steadying breath. He was going to need the air.
"…WHAT…in the actual…FUCK…is going on here?!" The more he thought on things, the more he processed them, the angrier he got. Such so, that his words were coming out in stumbling blurbs. "I mean, damn, you've got me and Haruko building guns, the Medical Mechanica robots you've kept and rebuilt, the hacking and spy tools, you sent me out to stalk people, there's a, uh, what's the word, garrison! Fuckin' garrison of space marines or some shit up the road, then, ah…what's it's…dammit, you've got me to where I can't think straight! I can't even talk right; just, WHAT THE HELL?!" Bleary-eyed, Rig sat and took it. That, for some reason, made him madder. He wanted Rig to get angry too, to get loud and shout for shout match him, show he actually was invested enough and gave a good goddamn to get emotionally involved. For a fleeting moment, he rathered to be arguing with Haruko; at least she fought back. If anything, Rig just looked stoned.
"And the worst of it all, you USED me; just as free fuckin' labor! Detective work, my ass! You sent me off by myself with a certified lunatic and criminal, to look for MORE lunatics and criminals; one of which has actually killed people. Twice now in my life, I've been played for a fool, and I'm not gonna take anymore shit. I'd better start getting some answers five minutes ago, or…or so help me, I don't know WHAT I'll do! The lying, the bullshit, the secrets, the sheltering of dumb little Naota ends yesterday, and it ends forever…or I'm GONE. I've been shot at, actually shot, near-drowned, and electrocuted all in one night, there's nothing you can threaten me with. I don't give a shit where I'll go or do, but I'm not taking one more minute of this crap! So start talkin', or I start walkin'!" Ohhh…how relieving it felt to have put his foot down. Maybe he ought to do it more often.
"M-Y'okay…you drive ah good point. Fff-puh!" CLANK. Rig spat tobacco into the trashcan. "W'all…first off, sit back down. I'm about to lay some heavy shit on you, and you'll wanna be seated." Naota had not realized he was standing. He'd probably been shouting much louder than he thought too. "Now, 'fore I start. Know this: I am high as balls right now. They've got me on four types of medication, and three types of painkillers…and I cannot pronounce any of 'em. So, make of that whatever you will. But, if you want verification to anything I say, and I do mean, anything…go ask your father or grandfather."
"My Dad, Gramps?! But why do they know about everything, and not me?"
"Because your father is, well, your father. He has Power of Attorney and legal authority over you, and what you get to know; or not. But that's not really why you're here, is it?"
"Yeah, we'll get back to that. Let's start with what the hell YOU are, and go from there." Rig cleared his throat and sat up as straight as his ribs allowed.
"I am Staff Sergeant Jeffrey Raymond Carson, Special Agent of Earthen Overwatch, Section Two-Six-Two. I attended Earth's Overwatch Northwestern Command Non-Commissioned Officer School in Washington, D.C. from the age of twelve to sixteen; finishing six months ago. I placed fifth in my class of one hundred, specializing in mechanical and electrical engineering, drafting, ballistics, instruction and teaching, with minors in vehicular and armored warfare. My primary assignment here is training in S.E.R.E. and safeguarding one Naota Nandaba. Secondary, I am to assist this station in the training and leadership of an irregular force to quell the Medical Mechanica insurrection at Roman's Mining. Third, apprehend or terminate those deemed enemies of the Galactic Republic, including former Space Patrol Officer Haruko Haruhara, and the eldritch being known as Atomsk. I am trained in, and authorized to conduct: electronic and cryptographic attacks and surveillance, S.E.R.E., Survival, Escape, Resistance, and Evasion training, instruction in sabotage and demolition, guerilla and irregular warfare, and subversion, and am permitted deadly force in the course of carrying out any of these duties. How's that for a resume?"
"It's a start." Naota allowed. "How does that fit in with G&R and everyone else?"
"G&R is our front, our cover. My father, Major Emory Carson, was our commander until he was killed in action in early June. George, Major Carson as well, is the commander now, with Tommy, Captain, as his executive officer. Shifty, Master Sergeant Dave Shaufner, is our senior enlisted and Hunter; he is primarily tasked with elimination of aliens like Haruko, and beings like Men in Black."
"What are…?"
"One layer of this onion at a time. First Sergeant Jonathon Shaw is quartermaster and armorer. Sergeant Joshua Copenhaver is our Electronic Warfare Officer. Corporal Michael DuBois is our heavy and complex weapons specialist. Warrant Officer Rita Carson is our combat lifesaver and station manager."
"Is Canti involved?"
"He has been assisting us in our electronic efforts. He has cataloged and analyzed all data we took from the State Police, and Craig and Clyde's phones, all feeds from traffic and surveillance cameras, mapped out their views and blind spots, and has assisted in refitting the two captured M-M robots. He has done so voluntarily of his own free will, and is not on our official roster. He is considered an expert and independent consultant."
"What about me? What am I to you, besides a spare body?" An annoyed vein ticked in Rig's forehead as Naota continued to refer to himself as a spare body and free labor. But Rig didn't say anything about it, and Naota didn't care.
"Recruit Prospect, rank E-Zero. You're the equivalent of a soon-to-be Marine on his first day off the bus at Parris Island. You're on the roster 'cause we pay you."
"And Haruko?"
"Listed, because we paid her too, as a Privately Retained Independent Contractor; a no-good merc'."
"Alright…" Getting a steady flow of answers from Rig was doing wonders for his blood pressure. "How much of the town, or anyone else, is in on this operation out of G&R?"
"The Seven Owners of the Seven Major mines, quarries, and natural gas drillers in the area, and their combined three thousand employees. Jerry, and by extension, Sara of Hi-Way Pizza. Mister Shantz of Shantz Supply Hardware Store. Mister Taero out at Mid-State County Airport. Our Special Agent in Charge, Mister Griggs from Washington D.C. and his own squad of agents. He's our official contact to Command, and our major procurer of supplies. Then there's a few key personnel at Fort Bragg in North Carolina; it's Overwatch Northwest-Com's central operations hub. Lastly, one of my distant cousins flies supplies for Agent Griggs. That's everyone in on it. Everyone else around here, and the rest of the world for that matter, just knows us as welders, truck drivers, and crane operators. I'm just that weird kid on his dirtbike who can fix people's cars or other machines, if they answer whatever questions he asks."
"Questions about what?"
"Things out of the ordinary, that give them an uneasy feeling or don't seem right. People who obviously do not belong here, or are out of place. The movements and actions of said persons, shipments and movements of things like construction and mining equipment that isn't normal. Movement of police and their equipment and vehicles, buildups of police or military units…that sort of thing."
"And that's your job?"
"What do you think I was doing all day, every day, when you and Haruko were out? At minimum, I'm putting a hundred miles a day on my bike. I go out and talk to twenty-plus people a day. Gas station attendants, the clerks at the dollar store, hotel bellboys, the girl at the McDonald's drive thru, the homeless bums panhandling, truckers and scale operators, linemen for the railroads and the guys moving boxcars in the rail yards. By their stories combined, I get a picture of what's going on. Did I not tell you that I know 'most everything going on in Clearfield and Centre counties?"
"You did, didn't you…You mentioned M-M. Why are they here again? Why have they sent robots to kill me again, and then why did they stop?"
"They're here again for the same's last time. The only difference is they're trying to be sneaky, and are trying to secure the area around the Iron first. They learned their lesson from Mabase well. Ultimately, they want the planet, its resources, and to convert the people here into their cult; for lack of a better word. They'll strip mine everything of value, kill off everyone over the age of twelve except for the Quisling traitors they've enlisted in the city government and police. Once that's done, they'll fashion Earth into a theocratic tyranny to serve as a new colony and staging area for the next planet. Now, on the robots. They sent them to kill you because you're, well, not dead. Shocker, I know. Opening an N.O. portal in an average human kills them. Full-stop. It requires a great deal of energy, from the human themselves, and the amount that will be transferred with them as a conductor. For most humans, they cannot handle the surge. You and your father both should statistically not be alive. So, M-M sees you as a potential threat, even though you don't seem capable of controlling N.O. They're not stupid, so they tried to off you. But you have not shown any signs of developed N.O. ability, so it was probably deemed cost-ineffective to keep throwing Assassin Units at you. They have probably figured out by now you live in the area they are going to takeover and you'll get caught in the Iron's waves or shot by a Marine anyway, so why waste the resources?"
"Then how did you take on Haruko? You can't manipulate N.O.; can you?"
"My Dad could, on a rudimentary level. I, nor my brother or sisters, cannot. I have a tolerance in that I can handle controlled doses for about an hour. Shifty is on ongoing Overwatch human experiment to force evolve N.O. manipulation by a lifetime of exposure; it seems to be working. Shifty gave me one of the Vials he uses, and that was enough to temporarily put me on par with Haruko."
"I'll have to check that for myself, you know."
"As you should. What else?"
"Why split my Dad and I up? Send him off to Penn State and keep me here?"
"Because here is Butt-Fuck-Egypt nowhere. No one is coming out here to look for anything. Which, ironically, is probably why M-M set up here. It was also to make the two of you harder to pin down, and split enemy resources. I also suspect it was partially to get your Dad to sign off on the whole deal. An assistant editor-in-chief job in Penn State would be very hard to pass on. George and Tommy also have a series of assignments for Kamon. Doing what, I have no idea; I am not privy to them. You will have to ask him yourself. Keeping you here was also to give a quiet place to train you; somewhere that wouldn't attract attention."
"Train me? You keep saying that, for what?"
"The exact series of events that happened last night and this morning! Think back to the Naota of One Year Ago. Where would your past self be if you and him had switched places when that hit squad came through your front door? Imagine the yourself of one year ago getting put on that dirtbike. Where would he be, right now?"
"...Face down in a muddy ditch, filled with bullets."
"If he were so lucky. Most likely...in the State Patrol's basement, missing some fingers, toes, and teeth, half a box of nails hammered into your prick's pisshole, and your nuts hooked up to a field generator; telling anything and everything the cops would like to know, and then some."
"I get the concept, okay? But why use me and Haruko as, detectives, for lack of a better word?"
"Look around you, and realize all you see is IT. This station consists of George, Tommy, Shifty, Johnny, Josh, Mike, Rita, me, and the Dogs. There is no secret staff of agents hidden in the wings, we can't call the precinct for back-up: the eight of us are all there is. We would have my Dad, and he'd have been training you, but he got himself killed. Shifty would have done it, but he wasn't even on this side of the galaxy at the time. We were, and still are, shorthanded; and don't forget: you volunteered. I asked you how far you wanted to go, if you wanted involved, if at all, and gave you Carte-Blanche to tap out whenever you wanted. Was I upfront about it? Was I operating under full disclosure? No. But I never held a gun to your head, and I have never lied to you."
"Yes, yes you did!" Why he hadn't thought of it sooner stuck at him. "You lied about what happened at Clyde's trailer; didn't you?!"
"No, I didn't. You asked if I knew what set the explosion off. Tommy rigged it up, to burn off any of our DNA we'd left behind; and to make it all look like an accident. What you did not ask was: did I kill anyone?"
"Holy fuck...you, you didn't..."
"There were six in all. They weren't supposed to be there, I think Cole Kauffman called them in to hold Clyde until he got there. Tommy and I faced four first, and they came at us in pairs. I shot the first one point-blank in the heart as he tried to disembowel me with a switchblade. The second, I had dropped my gun, so I had to stab him in the face and armpit with my pocketknife. The armpit wound punctured his lung, and I got to listen to him drown in his own blood. The third I fought, I jammed my revolver's barrel into his eye socket, because my hands were coated with blood at this point and I didn't have a good grip, and blew his brains out all over the floor." Rig was monotone as he answered each and every one of Naota's questions. "Tommy shot one in the chest, another in the neck, he bled out in seconds, and the last he thinks he ruptured his diaphragm and crushed his windpipe."
"Is that what you went to Clyde's to do?! Kill him?!"
"Christ, fuck, no. I told you, the six guys were NOT supposed to be there! We were going to bring him in to stand trial. But now we're arguing about Clyde, off in the weeds. I know there's one big question you're drivin' at here. So let's have it."
"You've answered everything so far. I can't verify any of it, but you've given answers that at least make sense. What I want to know now is: why should I stick around a minute longer, and if I do, why should I trust you?"
"...TH-uh-Puh!..." Rig took his time answering. "So you wanna know where we go from here. 'Kay. There are a few options. First though, you ain't allowed to leave; 'least not yet. You're sixteen and your Dad still has legal authority over you. He has decided your best interest is for you and yours to be under our protective custody. And, as your handler, that means I am legally entitled to physically restrain you if I, and I alone, determine you to be a flight risk. Yeah, I know, I KNOW it's not fair. But, you still have three options, and it's all a balance of that age old question of freedom versus security." Rig held up a bandaged finger.
"Option One. You opt for complete security, but no freedom. Pick Option One and I'll chain you to the bed in Tommy's old room over there." Rig nodded to the spare bedroom next to the basement's bathroom. "You'll have no responsibilities, you won't have to do merry fuck-all, make no decisions, you won't have to worry about anything, and life will be how you've always wanted: very easy, safe, normal, and boring. You'll eat, sleep, shit 'n' piss, jack off, and nothing else. I'll even lend you my X-Box. But you will never leave that room until I get the release order from command. Which could come tomorrow...or never. Oh, and if you try to escape, we'll have to shoot you as a security risk."
"Noted. Option Two?"
"Total and complete freedom. A little more involved to get rolling, but worth it if that's your thing. Get your Dad to sign over his power of attorney rights and you can do whatever your heart desires. Become a starving artist in Paris, join the Peace Corps, or shave your head, sell all your worldly possessions, move to Tibet, and become a monk. I won't give a shit, and there would be jack and fuck-all I, or anyone else, could do to stop you if I did. That's what my parents did so I could apply for Overwatch's N.C.O. school early. But, this means we completely wash our hands of you. You were never here, we've never met you, we've never heard of you, we'll lose your number, unfriend you on Facebook, and if you get in trouble of any form or run into M-M, no one, I repeat NO ONE...will bail you out; or be bothered to give a good goddamn. But, you'll be as free as the wind, and never have to worry about doing anything except just what you and you alone want; forever and ever again."
"I'm considering it. Third?"
"Third goes hand-in-hand with your other question. Enlist."
"Excuse you?"
"Enlist in Overwatch. You're already halfway there, Recruit Prospect. You're certainly qualified, and have more than proven yourself. No more misleading, no more bullshit, everything'll be on the up and up. Sure, you'll have to take orders and some bullshit, and there's a guaranteed chance you'll be shot at, a very good chance you'll be wounded in some fashion, and a good chance you'll get killed. But it's better than getting tossed to the wolves, or locked in a closet. You'll give up some autonomy, but will have a much larger say in your life. And, instead of running from M-M 'till the end of time, you'll be in a position to actually fight back in a way that'll do real damage. You don't have to..."
"Wait, wait, wait." The madness of it all staggered his belief. "Wait. You spend three months deliberatlely misleading me, keeping me in the dark, using me as free labor, knowingly put me in danger...and your idea of an apology is to say 'whoops, yah found us out! Guess you can join our Super Secret Squirell Club after all. Meetings are in the treehouse.' That's the best you can do?!"
"My Dude...I cannot disprove the existence of Invisible Gravity Gnomes."
"You really are stoned."
"You're asking me to prove a negative. It cannot be fuckin' done. It's like saying there is no such thing as Gravity. Instead, whenever you drop something, Invisible Gravity Gnomes jump on top of the object and hold it on the ground until you pick it back up. And you're telling me: Rig, if you want me to believe you're not pulling my leg, prove the Gnomes don't exist. Nothing I tell you, you're gonna believe. You'll either think I'm lying, or it's some convoluted scheme to pull the wool over your eyes and hoodwink you once more. No one else from G&R will do, because they're all in on the joke, in your mind. You don't trust your Dad and Gramps anymore because they've lied by omission about why you're here and who your neighbors really are. If Haruko were here, she'd tell you the Moon's made of cheese if she thought she'd get away with it, just 'cause she'd think it's funny to watch you frying your brain trying to rationalize it. You sir, are good and well screwed, and there's nothing I can say or do that'll change your mind 'cause you'll dismiss it out of hand as a lie or trick."
"Holy shit...you're right." An insurmountable brick wall stemmed any chance of moving forward. Much as he hated thinking so, Rig was completely correct. Everyone around him had burned their trust down to the nub and left nothing standing to build it up again. And since he knew nothing of Overwatch, Rig could make stuff up until the sun went supernova and he'd have no way of verifying it. There had to be something...something common knowledge that anyone in town could corroborate, and could even be looked up in official records in needed.
"Rig, I've got it." This was going to hurt, but it needed asked and Naota didn't care about feelings at this point. "Tell me...about your family, and why I shouldn't join Overwatch." A flicker of rage flashed across Rig's face, and he breathed hard through his nose. This was a subject he did not want brought up, which confirmed to Naota all the more he was correct to do so. Rig closed his eyes tight for a quiet moment, before opening them and answering.
"Everything about the first question, you can ask anyone in town and they'll confirm it as Gospel. The second one, you'll just have to judge for yourself if it passes your Shit Test. I...am...I am not happy, doing this and if you were anyone else, I'd beat the fuck outta you for making me do this. But...if jumpin' on this grenade is the only way you'll trust us, trust me, then I'll get to jumpin' and get it over with."
"Ready when you are."
"The Service, being the G.S.P.B., I.I.B., and O.W., has destroyed my family. My family consisting of: my father Emory, my mother Lois, eldest sister Denise, older brother Gregory, and my second oldest sister Mary. It has also fractured George and Tommy's family. There are a few reasons. First, my father was found to be capable of manipulating N.O. at an early age. He was one of the first humans allowed to enter the G.S.P.B.; you have to be able to control N.O. to get in. From then on, he was never home; always off on some mission somewhere that would surely save the Galaxy this time. Everything he did was to further the G.S.P.B. or make him look good. He had a reputation as one of the first human G.S.P.B. officers to uphold, after all. If it didn't fall into one of those categories, he couldn't be bothered to do it. He didn't even come to Denise, Greg's, or Mary's graduations; he was busy. G.S.P.B. stuff. And you can count, so you'll know my mother tried four times the age old absolute fail of a tactic, of having kids to save their marriage and keep her man tethered. Obviously, it didn't work. Y'see, the G.S.P.B. is a meat grinder. It's workload and environment chews people up, spits out the splintered bones, and screams for more. They always need new bodies, because they break. Every. Single. One. Sent to them. So they told my Dad, since he was such a self-proclaimed wham-ah-dime Supraman with superior genetics, to get having future soldiers, I mean kids. All four of us, in some form or another, are duds. That's the reason I exist. Because my mom wanted my Dad to remember he married her, and not his job, and because my Dad's bosses needed more super-soldiers to fire off into the fuckin' sun. Then my Dad turned forty-five and they forced him to retire; because they decided he wasn't worth keeping around. O.W. took him instantly because O.W. is so badly managed, funded, staffed at the top levels, and equipped, they'll take literally anyone with a modicum of talent. And they worked him like a rented mule, sending him everywhere. They were a carpenter and he was a brand new, shiny tool. Supposedly retired, he was now gone twice as much, loving every minute he wasn't stuck in Bore City, PA. Then, in their infinite wisdom, command decided they would let him go whenever, wherever, and however, he merry well fucking pleased, because it was too much to track and reign him in...which saw him go off and get himself killed. Of course, by then my mother had already divorced, packed her shit one night, and left. Gregory had tried the I.I.B., but couldn't handle the stress and had a mental breakdown. They medically discharged him in a nanosecond and now he lives in Florida on disability; doing what, fuck if I know. Denise 'cided she wanted nothing to do with us, no-how and moved off Earth to Vulcan; a planet next system over. And Mary flaked off to Commiefornia to live with the Fruits and Nuts." Rig took a break to spit.
"Now, how do George and Tommy fit in? Well, first off, have you noticed how George's teeth are always so shiny and perfectly pearly white? That's because they're fake. Each and every one is a fake implant. Mabase was not the first time M-M have come here, not by a long shot. When George was just a young O.W. Lieutenant, he was a different guy. Bold, daring, and ready to prove himself. One day in the sixties, an M-M recon team landed in Virginia. George and his team went down to investigate, and got captured. The recon team tortured George and his team for information, and in the course of that, pulled out ALL of George's teeth. That fucked him up in the worst kind of way, and only in the past ten years has he un-fucked himself. Rita is his third marriage, the first two divorced because George was a nervous wreck and a drunk; trying to deal with the time spent in M-M captivity and the trauma of having his teeth pulled without painkillers or anesthetic. To this day, he is risk averse and cautious to such a point it has gotten some of our ally's men killed. G&R factors into this, because it is our cover, our front. It is successful, lucrative even. But, about twenty years ago, when George was about to hit rock-bottom, O.W. command got high on their own farts and made an ass-rendingly stupid decision. Since some O.W. stations are staffed by mouth-breathing morons and cannot self-fund with their fronts, command decided ALL stations would pool their funds, and command would decide who gets what. Great for lazy pieces of shit, terrible for us. Now, George being his brother's bro, had some pull in The Service. He could have put his foot down and called them all on their bullshit. But, since his capture he turned into a wishy-washy, non-confrontational, sad, sad drunk, he has since sobered up and got his drinkin' under control, but since he still never wants to cause any trouble or make an adult decision, he said nothing and here we are. That's why Agent Griggs is in D.C. all the time. He's begging on bended knee for supplies. That's why you were building guns. We don't have the fuckin' money to buy near enough." Rig stopped again, this time to spit out what was in his lip and repack.
"That also means George couldn't afford to help his kids go to college, 'cause command has appropriated all the money. That's why cousin George Jr. is in Afghanistan. The U.S. Army is paying off his loans for his skill as a trigger puller, in exchange for the off chance what's left of him comes home in a goddamn matchbox. Cousin Susan is going to be a debt slave for the rest of her life with her associate degree in communications. Tommy commissioned into the I.I.B. as a lieutenant and figured he'd make enough to pay his loans. But, now we get to why the I.I.B. is a paragon of fail-fuckery. Tommy and his platoon were supposed to do a prisoner swap with M-M. But the I.I.B. couldn't be bothered doing the months of prep work required: setting up the site, scrubbing it of anything that could cause problems, investigating every member of the opposite team that would be there...no, no, no. There wasn't enough resources, and there wasn't enough time to properly go through each approval process and get each required officer to sign off on an official operation. Someone up top was looking for a feather in his cap for the promotion review board, and wanted it yesterday. So Tommy was ordered to run it on the fly as a Black Op. And, of course, it went to shit. Half the platoon got wiped out, M-M nabbed Tommy and stuck him with some experimental poison to torture him for info. And he'd have died, if not for some of his guys, unfortunately for Tommy's boss, surviving and putting a rescue together. Tommy's commander got shit-canned, but not before he got Tommy demoted. The I.I.B. also wanted Tommy out because he was raising all sorts of hell about how his mission had been handled, and talk was flying of the big 'M' word that rhymes with 'scrutiny' that NO ONE ever, ever, EVER wants brought up. So they medically discharged him and have quarantined him on Earth until the poison clears out of his system; in another three years." Tiring from his monologue, Rig heaved a sigh and adjusted his couch cushions. Still plenty mad, Naota couldn't think of a response that wouldn't sound like gloating over Rig's family problems.
"...I had no idea it was that bad."
"Mmm-hmm. So that's why my family's fucked up, why I'm fucked up, and you can ask anyone; small towns hold few secrets. And, that's why you shouldn't join O.W., the I.I.B., or the G.S.P.B. if you qualified. The G.S.P.B. is an armed, barely controlled, gang of speed-freaks, psychopaths, and warmongers that never met a fight they didn't like or a war they didn't start, crying only 'Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!' and won't be happy unless they die knee deep in someone else's guts. The I.I.B. is a minuscule group of bad-ass mother-fuckers that actually knows what they're doing, what they're about, and get shit done, who are routinely lead to slaughter by a vast legion of pencil-pushers, paper-shufflers, bean-counters, and dick-less deck jockeys more worried about their budgets and quotas. And O.W. really means well, but gets beaten like a red headed step-child, screwed outta money, guns, information, resources, talent, and is lead by incompetent milquetoast jack-offs that couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag, and even with a battalion of Red Star Marines up the road, can't even get us fucking bullets and BAND-AIDS!...Ble-ughh." Something went splat. Rig coughed a disturbingly large spot of blood onto his little card table. "And...I think I just tore something."
"Do I need to get someone?!"
"No! No...no. It is...okay. I just got carried away, just gimme a minute." Rig took several shaky, shuddering breaths and eased back onto the mound of pillows built behind him. "Whooooo...I'm okay. That's better. So..." Rig managed a grimace imitating a smile. "Yah want more? I can do this all day; plenty of hate and resentment...riiiight here."
"Oh no. I've heard enough, for now. I'm, I'm...good. I'm good." They sat and listened to the whirring of the box fan sitting in the empty sliding door. Rig didn't pressure him into doing or saying anything. If Naota had wanted, he and Rig would have sat there, listening to the fan, until time immemorial. But there were still questions needing answered. "If that's all true, then why did you still join? Are you some kind of masochist?"
"Ever hear of Five Why Analysis?"
"No."
"When an engineer runs into trouble, one problem solving tool is 'Ask Why?' five times. So, say the Thing doesn't work. Why? Because of This. Why is This an issue? Because of That. Why does That exist? Because of X. Why X though? Because of Z. Why do we use Z in our process? Purple, because fish don't need bicycles; or some stupid twattery like that. Point is, that usually helps you at least get close to the source of the problem. So, Jeff. Your general outlook on life is so many sour lemons. Why? Because my family's fucked up. Why is your family fucked up? They all joined The Service in some form. Why does The Service exist? To protect the Galactic Republic from threats. Why do these threats exist? Because Medical Mechanica attacks us. Why? Because The Red Star of The Solar Federation ordered them to do so...oh. There it is. The source of my misery. And the only way I can strike back at all, is Overwatch. Can't join the G.S.P.B., would go nuts in the I.I.B. And Overwatch was hiring. So here I am."
"Do you really think this will work out? I mean no disrespect but..." He looked pointedly at Rig's leg. "Look at you! What, four times? this summer you've come within inches of death, are no closer to defeating M-M, and have gotten nothing but another chance to get put through the wringer again? Why?!"
"Because I had the same three choices you have right now. I could have gone my own way, become a nihilist, got drunk and stoned, thrown my life away and waited for the Red Star Death Squads if the inevitable Iron pulse didn't get me first. But I was born into this knowledge, knowing about the Galactic Republic, The Service, aliens are real, M-M and The Red Star are gunning for us. I can't un-know that, without destroying my brain until it's fried beyond function, and couldn't live with myself just waiting for The End. And you should know by now the only way you'd catch me in that prison cell of a closet was if I was already dead. Even if the odds are small, doing something about your problems is always better than running away, or doing nothing and just waiting for death."
"Hmm. I will go as far as saying I admire your conviction in what you're doing is right. I don't even know which way is up anymore; let alone what is right."
"Still not convinced, eh? Don't blame you..." Rig seemed to wrestle with himself, then made up his mind. "Tell you what. Technically, I am supposed to turn it over to Agent Griggs as evidence, and submit it as proof I at least attempted to follow my order to apprehend Haruko. But, now that I think about it, it was never really hers to have, and really isn't mine to keep. This comes with no conditions or strings attached; merely a testament of faith and goodwill. And, if I may be so bold, from me as your friend. In my room, on my desk, is something that belongs to you." Rig nodded to his left. "G'on. Door's unlocked."
Most of Rig's bedroom walls were covered with maps, and technical drawings and cutaways of dirtbikes, guns, and tanks. One wall was taken up by a large desk with a powerful computer, and a drafting table with drawings of the rifles Naota and Haruko had built. The bed was overturned, showing a floor safe underneath it. Half the closet was taken up by a gun vault, and the rest of the walls, where not covered with a map or drawing, were floor to ceiling with over-full bookshelves. Of all this, only one item fixated all of his attention, and he was struck dumb seeing it on the desk. Three of its strings were broken, dings, dents, scratches, and a gouge on the head stock, covered its length, and the cream white of its body was marred by dust, dirt, and grit. But there it was, the very same 1963 Gibson Flying-V pulled from his head. And now, it was returning to its rightful owner.
Upon picking it up, a curious thing happened. The Flying-V came alive in his hands, thrumming and vibrating from an unseen power. Every one of his hairs stood on end and an exhilaration flooded him; feeling like it would lift him off his feet. The shuddering passed as quickly as it came, but he was left with a delighted giddiness that made him feel simultaneously silly, and invulnerable. He walked back into the basement with an irrepressible grin from ear to ear.
"Did you know that was going to happen?"
"Did I know what was going to happen? Why, did it git'cha?" Rig appeared genuinely concerned.
"The, the guitar's alive, or something. I touched it and there was this rush, and it shook and..."
"Ohhh...so it remembered you." Concern vanished from Rig's face and he carried on as usual. "Anything pulled into being by N.O., then altered by Atomsk, and reworked by N.O., cannot be expected to behave normally. I'd go as far as to say it's developed a mind of its own, and it feels like it's back where it belongs. Mark my words, once you get if fixed and shined up, and learn to ply its strings just right, it's really gonna scream for you."
"I, I don't really know about that, screaming that is, or the mind of its own..." Naota turned the guitar over in his hands and end over end. Damaged as it was, it was still dazzling to look at. "But, I can agree that, I can't explain why, but it feels...right." And it did, a phantom limb had been reattached. Naota was also pleased to see it was still unmodified. No miniaturized N.O. generator, no shotgun, auto-rifle, or cannon was in sight. A pure product of his very own mind. "Thank you for this. I cannot forget everything, or anything, that has happened, or you and G&R, and O.W., has done...but this really means a lot in ways I cannot explain."
"Please don't think I am trying to buy your favor with a gift that was never mine to give in the first place." Rig dismissed such a ploy. "But, there is one more thing I'd like to say, and then I'll take no more of your time."
"Let's hear it." Naota sat down again, his returned guitar's neck leaned on his shoulder.
"If nothing else I have said has convinced you to at least tolerate our existence, let it be this. It should be obvious by now that my home life isn't ideal, and that at school...I'm the weird kid. And until this June, I had nobody I counted as a friend. You can say it was all just business, and me doing my job of training you. But going bowling or to the arcade at the Y.M.C.A wasn't training. Going fishing on the Black Moshanon wasn't part of work. And I know that while showing you how to do stuff that was for training, at least I had fun. I like to tell myself that you did too. So call it selfish if I don't want you to leave, because I'll not only have failed my orders, but I'll have failed being a decent human being; and we both know which one hurts the soul worse. So...I'm not gonna beg or demand that you stay, but at the same time...I'll be very sorry to see you go."
"You're not making this any easier on me; you know that?" It really wasn't fair, this had all the feelings of a guilt trip. Was that Rig's final argument? 'Don't leave, or I'll get a case of The Sads?' However...that was the one thing Naota already knew to be true. He was Rig's only friend, and it followed Rig would be remiss if Naota went his own way. It was a tenuous foothold at best, but it was something. Everything was still too much. There was no way he could make a decision now. He needed time.
"Your already messed-up world got turned topsy-turvy and dropped on your head in the course of less than twenty four hours. There's no way that could be easy."
"And having to grow up in a family that disfunctional can't have been easy, either. My Dad is weird, my Gramps a stubborn ass sometimes, and my brother's always on the road...but we get along. At least, I don't wanna say 'hate' each other..."
"Nah, you can say it. We Carsons have made our feelings for each other quite candid."
"Then I'll say it. At least we don't hate each other, unlike your relatives. Wow, that felt terrible to say! What am I saying? I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it. Just count yourself lucky you have a family that gives a damn."
"Yeah..." The mood quickly soured, and Naota felt guilty feelings were deserved in this instance. "Hey...wanna drink?" He extended one of the two cans he'd brought down.
"For me? Oh, you shouldn't have..." Rig reached for the can. "Oh-ho! You thieving fox, you!"
"What? What?!" Naota withdrew the can and turned it over. He finally read the label. Big blue letters on a white can.
"You knicked two of George's beers! Nicely done." Lite: A Fine Pilsner Beer.
"I didn't realize, wasn't paying attention. Is this okay?"
"After the morning's we've had, I'd say we've earned them." Rig was openly salivating.
"I guess...hey!" He snatched the can back again. "Won't this mess with your meds?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Man, with what they've got me on, I can't feel...anything. To get through the rest of today, I need at least a tingle; never mind a buzz. Help me out, eh?"
"Aren't we supposed to be twenty one?"
"Look...how's about this? If I can for sure, nuts in a vice if you're lying, trust you to not tattle-tale off to George, you can for sure, my nuts in a vice, trust I won't tattle on you to Kamon. Deal?" Mutual pacts, over a pair of purloined pilsners. The tenuous foothold felt a little more solid. He smiled as he handed the can over.
"Deal."
"A toast! To our close comradeship, via our mutual misery!"
"Cheers."
Crr-ack-psshhhttt! Three glugs of cold, hoppy, bitterness.
'Hmm...' Naota thought, looking at the can and having another drink. 'Bitter...but somehow, it's not half bad.'
. . .
There was no way for him to be sure, but The Head felt like he was being followed. He had checked reflections in mirrors, shop windows, and the street camera feed piped to a store's display of Temple-Visions. He'd even doubled back on his running route, ducked into shop door alcoves, and twice switched street trolleys by stepping from one to the other as they passed each other. But still he could not shake the feeling, nor catch any glimpse of anyone that could be his stalker. Annoyed and fed up, he headed for home.
'If I catch whoever it is pulling this trick, they'll rue the day!' He swore as he rounded the corner to his front walk. A stately home of precision cut and exactly placed and polished stone stood as a testament to his position. In reality, compared to his neighbors, this engineer's efficient and self-designed estate was considered modest and beneath him. Distracted by consulting his heart monitoring wristband, he didn't notice the unexpected guest until The Head was nearly on top of him. On the front porch, in one of the lounge chairs, this guest had patiently waited in silence. This made The Head all the more surprised.
"Ah! Who...what are you doing here?" The Head had begun to ask 'who', but a mere glance told him exactly what was sitting on his porch, in his lounger, reading his Temple-Paper; while consulting its own silver pocketwatch.
"Following you, as a matter of course." The Operative smiled, snapping its pocketwatch closed and neatly refolding the Temple-Paper. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Captain."
"Please, Director is just fine. I retired after the Portum Campaign. Captain hasn't applied to me for, goodness, nine years now."
"Be that as it may. You may not remember me specifically..." The Operative stood and smoothed the wrinkles on its suit. "But an Operative's memory is longer than its reach; and that's saying something if I may be so bold. You not only led us against those heretical Liberas, you helped give us Life. And for that, Captain you will always be to us Operatives."
"And I can never forget what you have done in the service of The Temple, and for the Glory of Syrinx. But, as pleasant as these praises are...I suspect you were not sent here to exchange good graces all morning?"
"Ah, to business. Forgive my reminiscing. Yes, we have a message for you."
"We?" The Operative beckoned for someone behind The Head. He turned around, looking back to where he'd just come, and saw another Operative standing at the front gate he'd walked through only a moment's hence. 'They're getting better still, after all these years. Operatives never fail to surprise.' He smiled at the newcomer, who he suspected had been there all along. "Oh, a friend of yours?"
"In a manner of speaking." The first laughed as the second approached. This additional Operative carried an attache case, similar to a Courier's. The Head realized, just like their pocketwatches, the Operatives had designed a special attache case of their own. "Would you do us the honors, *Bernotsergwis?"
"Certainly, *Bernotsergwis." The second Operative turned away from them, facing the corner of The Head's porch and front door. Now no one could see his face, although The Head could tell the Operative had lifted his sunglasses and held a part of the case to his eyes. If there was one aspect of the Operatives he could have changed, The Head leaned towards their eyes. It wasn't fair they had to wear sunglasses at all times...well, actually. He had never heard, directly or otherwise, of one complaining about their sunglasses, or any ever saying they truly needed the smoked-out spectacles. Maybe sunglasses were just part of the uniform? They were, after all, a unique group.
"Here you are, Captain. Courtesy of Commander Alter." The Head took the once folded letter. The handwriting was so immaculate, it might as well have been typed. It read:
To: Head Director and Chief Officer Doyen, Medical Mechanica Industries, and R.S.N. Captain
I humbly request your presence at our headquarters on the 14th Day of this month. Please arrive no later, nor sooner, than 0930 hours. Your engineering prowess, intuition, and discretion, are greatly needed. If you have any questions, please submit them in writing to the two Operatives before you. I look forward to our meeting.
In the Will of Syrinx, I am respectfully,
-Commander Alter, Operatives Tasking Service, Commanding, and R.S.N. Commander
A summons that required his technological knowledge was not uncommon. In fact, it seemed every other day someone wanted his opinion on some matter. One that required his discretion was rare, but still not unknown. But both, and from his former Executive Officer in the Red Star Navy? This was a first.
"On the fourteenth, at zero nine-thirty? And right outside your headquarters?" The Head had already committed the letter to memory.
"At exactly zero nine-thirty hours, Captain." The first Operative reminded. "Here, Sir. Use mine." The Operative opened, lit, and extended his own lighter. The Head dipped the letter's corner into the flame and kept it pinched between his fingers until the paper burned away. The breeze scattered the ashes far and wide across his lawn and into oblivion.
"Thank you, Operative." Their task completed, both doffed their hats in their right hands, and holding their hat over their heart, gave a salute with their left hand. This display was a practice impressed onto the Operatives to prove their hands were empty, and in case of the hat, too occupied to easily reach inside their coat for a weapon. With the salute returned by The Head in his old Red Star Naval fashion, the Operatives saw themselves out.
"My pleasure, Captain." The first Operative now took the case...or, was it the second one taking it back? The Head couldn't tell. "Do take care. We'll be seeing you." He waited until they had closed the gate and turned the corner. He raced down the front step, wrenched open the gate, turned the corner himself, and...the street was empty. The Operatives were already gone.
. . .
Rig had lent him some extra strings. The Flying-V still played despite the beating it had taken. The tone was fuzzy and the sound buzzed and popped. But, this did make for a perfect and accurate rendition of Norman Greenbaum's 'Spirit in the Sky'. Rig assured him they had the proper tools on hand to make it whole once more. His Backbreaker had come to him under less than ideal condition as well. In the meantime, Naota asked Rig every question he could think of about Overwatch, the I.I.B., the G.S.P.B., the Galactic Government, and the universe at large. As promised, Rig delivered. Naota couldn't verify the answers yet, and still had much to think over, but there was time later. Two reasons kept him in the basement: he wasn't going to leave a painkiller and medication addled Rig alone to suffer in silence, and he was dreading the bloody mess at the bottom of the stairs back home.
"How many people outside of O.W. know about it?"
"Not many. I don't know exactly how it works on other planets. But for the U.S.A., the president and vice-prez don't know. They come and go too much, and can't keep their mouths shut. Not a single Congress-critter, for the same reasons; except worse. There are a few in the Pentagon, probably a few in the C.I.A., N.S.A., D.I.A., N.R.O., N.A.S.A. as a matter of 'duh', and I'd say the Department of Energy too; because of N.O. research. There's also a few guys at Fort Bragg, and then a few Air Force guys running Groom Lake."
"Groom Lake?"
"Area 51, middle of the desert in Nevada. You know Area 51, c'mon."
"I didn't know it had another name; Groom Lake. Why there?"
"It's the spaceport for the United States, Mexico, and Canada. Anyone flying into one of those countries had to clear Groom Lake first."
"So the reports of people seeing U.F.O.'s are true?"
"For the most part. The bulk of sightings really are Air Force testing, but a lot is pure commercial space traffic. Now, if say, you're on official I.I.B. business or some-such, they don't have to go through Groom Lake. But they're supposed to be careful."
"That would make the other U.F.O. sightings..."
"People being jackasses with their flying, yes."
"Amazing."
"What? That aliens exist? But you knew that already?"
"No, that even people in the I.I.B. and G.S.P.B. can be jackasses, too."
"None of us are infallible. I'd say 'we're all just Human' but, well... y'know. We all make mistakes, how's that?"
"That works. I can attest that the lot of you in The Service do in fact, make plenty of mistakes."
"Ow, okay. Uhm, okay, well, no...no...yeah, we deserve that one. It stings, but it's the truth."
"Okay, so what else? Let's see...oh, hey Tommy!"
"Hey..." Tommy made his way downstairs. As he approached, Naota felt his smile fade. Something, even with the day factored in, was dreadfully wrong. Tommy's eyes were sunk into their sockets and had a hollow, listless look to them. No bright Carson Gleam could be seen. He took a chair and quietly sat with them, hands on his knees and eyes on the ground. "Naota...why don't you go upstairs for a bit? Jeff and I, we need to talk some."
"I've made him our Offer. He's considering, in that he didn't say no outright. Whatever it is, Naota gets to at least sit in."
"Okay then." Tommy didn't react to the news. "I'll just get it over with. Doctor Hayward just called. He says did everything he could, and I believe him. But...about ten minutes ago, George passed away."
. . .
If there was any consolation, it was that for George it had been painless; and for me that I was so full of opiates, I was too high to fully feel the blow. Another one gone, and another one where I didn't even get to say goodbye. And what a way to go. With your skull opened, your own brain killing itself, on a table reserved for cats and dogs. Not surrounded by family with whom you've made peace and said last words to. Not after a retirement of golden years spearfishing the Gulf, but cut short; killed by a Traitor's stun grenade.
I think being on the meds also made it easier to let go and weep with Tommy and Naota for George's passing. George had by no means been perfect. He'd been flawed as the rest of us, non-committal, risk-averse, and hands-off to a terrible fault. His inability to stand up to command and his brother had cost him and his family dearly. But despite no obligation to do so, he had housed me, clothed, fed and employed me. A slideshow of the Kauffman's faces flashed before my mind's eye. My self-pity and wallowing in the woes that had befallen me in Clyde. The rage towards my father and mother for respectively forgetting me, and giving up on all of us, shown in Carl's bared teeth. Delusion with self-grandeur to hide it all away, tucked securely behind a super-ego, my mirror, Chris. The whole rotten lot of them, there I go, but for the grace and goodwill of George Carson.
And so I cried. Not for the fact he was dead. That was the reality of The Service and daring to actively defy The Red Star. All of us had accepted upon our induction the likelihood, and even inevitability, of Death. It was because he'd taken me in, kept me from spiraling off into the dark, kept me in the discipline of Overwatch, and I had never been able to properly thank him. And now, I never could.
. . .
*Comrade - Vinculum/Liberas Language
I told you it was heavy. Just skim reading it for final editing and posting has me thinking 'Man, I need to lie down.' Major George Carson of Earthen Overwatch Section 262 has passed away, and now it is up to those he leaves behind to carry on. The police won't be any less willing to give another crack at securing the county, The Man in Black still stalks the land, M-M Marines and combat engineers still do their work in the tunnels of Roman's, Haruko is down but not out, and so it goes.
I have not forgotten The Head and the far-off world of The Red Star, and interesting things are still happening there. A summons from the head spook, the Commander of the Operatives Tasking Service, is no small occasion and is heart-attack serious. The Head'd better bring his A-game when visiting his old Executive Officer.
Last, I am easing myself into using some of the Vinculum/Liberas language. If it starts to get too confusing or cluttered, please let me know. In the meantime, it's fun to play with language generators! I had heard that the Atlantean language from the Disney movie was developed by a linguist they hired to make a real language just for the movie, so I looked into it...and realized it would be WAY too much work! I gotta go to work too, yah know.
So we leave Chapter 24 on a bit of a melancholy note. The best thing, and only practical thing really, is to keep on moving and that's exactly what our characters intend to do. Thank you as always so, so, SO very much for reading!