Yep, I went back and decided to breakup chapter 1 and put half of it with another scene that I saved for chapter 2. At least I realized this mistake in the very beginning.
Rolling along gravel roads of sectioned trails, a red pickup then pulled to a stop in front of the Flagstaff camper outlined by a soft orangey glow of the sun setting behind it. Deadening the rumbling engine and switching off the bright headlights, he removed the key from the ignition. Garbed in his blue polo and black slacks of Dimmsdale Correctional Facility, he gathered the plastic bags of the 12pc chicken meal that had been riding in the passenger, including the solid black plastic bag from an impulse buy at Dimmsdale Liquor.
Hatted with his Security cap backwards atop his red shag that had grown past shoulder length, he scratched the bottom of his five o'clock shadow now stubby with ingrown hairs as he used his hand to free himself from the truck. Vic had stopped by Chicken Dippin' Dippadome to grab the family dinner for the night…along with a six pack strictly for himself. What better way to bring in the weekend after a tiresome, grueling week than greasy chicken and alcoholic soda water?
Locking his pickup, Vic climbed the two steps and used his other key on the same fob to unlock the door. Entering the camper, he was met with his eldest niece stationed by the single slide out, her hair the same fiery-red as her uncle tied back into a ponytail. Similarly pink eyes listlessly scanned a teen magazine, both legs crossed atop one of the table booth. Sporting a crop top of pear-green and low-rise skinny jeans in black tucked into black combats.
His youngest sat along the bench seating of worn fabric occupied in her favorite pastime, drawing in her notebook. Raven ponytails French-braided down the back of her head hung loosely from the shoulders of her black sweater vest with a dark-purple shirt of three-quarter sleeves, gray plaid skirt over black tights and black Coda boots. The red blemish between her brows now faded into a light-pink scar, she adjusted her purple specs with her left hand as a black pen sketched with her right hand cuffed in black leather littered with silver studs around the wrist, accompanied by her teal cat nestled comfortably beside her.
Shutting the door with his free hand, Vic glanced over at the eleven-year-old observing Tootie's drawing from her other side, hair black as night tied in a low pony and capped with a wool beaning a shade of dark-purple similar to Tootie's undershirt. Only one of her yale-blue eyes was visible through her swooped bang, black-meshed sleeves beneath her now sleeveless grey sweater with a stitched skull in the center tucked behind the buckle of her studded belt looped around raisin-denim jeans. Black leather littered with silver studs cuffed her left wrist, accompanied by a dark-blue raven perched on the armrest closest to her.
As he studied Molly for a moment, Vic still couldn't figure out how a foster license just seemed to magically appear in his possession; had a social worker actually researched his security guard income and his trailer park living conditions, they'd close his file and turn the other cheek on any other occasion. Additionally, he had no memory of ever applying for a license. He'd been so knee deep in adoption proceedings and court battles with his niece's parents…maybe, somehow, he had filled out an application and…somehow forgot? Nah…his lawyer would've mentioned something that significant.
Even so, he couldn't say he wasn't grateful for the stipends; aside from Vicky's babysitting money, stipends were the very anchor keeping the household funds from going underbelly. Of course, fostering was not just about the money. He was happy to open his doors to a child in need, especially for a friend of Tootie's.
He had no clue how Tootie ever meshed with a near polar opposite such as Molly; their chance meeting at Wall 2 Wall Mart on a random shopping trip seemed odd in of itself. Admittedly, he'd already known who she was the moment she'd stepped out of the social worker's car three weeks ago.
He'd recognized her as the same girl covered on the news of when she and some other kids had gone missing, and he also didn't need to see much of her file to know that her mom and mom's boyfriend were bad news after seeing news coverage on their prison sentence as well. That said, he did read some of Molly's file for the educational and medical history on a 'he should probably know this' basis, and his heart broke.
All the awful shit she must've seen, all the terrible things she'd been through…who was he to turn her away?
Approaching the table booth, Vic carried bags filled with buckets of fried chicken, mash potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, and biscuits. Setting them in front of Vicky who, for a second, looked up to see her uncle.
"What took you so long?" she questioned in a semi-lighthearted tone, folding a corner of the page last read as a bookmark to shut her magazine over.
"Slight detour." He set the black back next to the other plastic ones, taking out the pack of Budweiser that snatched a certain foster child's attention from her artsy friend's drawing.
"Ooooh!" Vicky discarded the magazine on the booth, her intrigue springing towards the six pack that Vic promptly swiped away from her.
"Aht-aht! Five more years for you, missy." Vic smirked, carrying the six pack straight to the fridge. Unaware of Molly shooting him a watchful stare from the bench seat.
The teenager groaned in her dissatisfied slouch. "Ahh, c'mon! It's just us!"
"Name one time I let you drink under twenty-one."
Vicky's lips caught in a pause. "Well…never. But-"
"And I ain't finna start now!" bits of laughter softened Vic's firm tone, Molly's gaze locked as he shoved the six pack on a bottom shelf of the fridge before he kneeled to punch open the carrier.
"But I'll be seventeen in two weeks!" Vicky still tried to plead her nonexistent case.
"You realize you're jus' arguin' with ya'self, right?" Vic chuckled lightly, removing a can for himself to set on the nearest counter as Vicky pouted, begrudgingly accepting defeat.
Sticking her pen inside the spine of her notebook, Tootie glanced towards Molly's narrowed glare. Her brows knitted faintly when she noticed the subtle curl of Molly's lip. "What's wrong?" her concern was only heard by the ears of those in her immediate vicinity.
"Nothing." Molly's response clipped through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the lone can of Budweiser…Frank's previous poison of choice.
"Don't do that with me." Tootie pouted, and only then did Molly temporarily snap her gaze towards the fellow godchild, mouth twisted in an involuntary grimace.
"…sorry." She muttered, her glare snapping back to the can on the counter. "You just wouldn't understand."
"So you won't even let me try?"
"No."
Disgruntled, Tootie scrunched her chin. Molly was such a closed book sometimes, and while Tootie understood that Molly had her reasons, part of her had hoped their friendship had reached more personable terms than this.
"Speakin' of birthdays…" Vic sorted through the upper cabinets for paper plates and plastic cups, briefly grining over his shoulder towards his adopted daughter. "Somebody's enterin' double-digits in two days."
Tootie swallowed and then smiled uncertainly, though her smile faltered as fast as it came. For a child about to turn the milestone age of ten, Tootie had no memories of celebrating her birthday. In fact, the only reason she knew how old she was is because her parents would inform her of her current age around the same time every year.
Her parents had always justified never celebrating her day of birth, citing that it greatly displeased God; evil influences and spirits had the opportunity to attack and steer you towards the path of sin. Birthday candles were believed to be endowed with special magic for granting wishes, and God's word condemned the use of magic, divination, spiritism, or anything of the sorts.
Servants of God are never depicted as celebrating a birthday, and the Bible presents such celebration in a bad light. In addition, scriptures also noted that the day of death is better than the day of birth, as noted when Jesus's sacrifice for God's forgiveness of sins was of higher significance than the day of his birth.
Moreover, birthdays celebrate you, not God. And as witnesses of Jehovah, you are to praise God and give him all the glory…
…in her old life, that is.
Vicky observed her little sister with a thoughtful gaze. When their parents had shoved the entire family into a nontrinitarian, restorationist organization, she had been the same age that Tootie was about to turn. Making her lucky enough to have memories of blowing out candles and receiving presents on her actual birthday…unlike Tootie. Vicky had seen both sides of the coin, experienced both religious and worldly perspectives, but she could imagine the mental and emotional conflict brewing inside for a kid that had been raised one way but was now free to live another.
"We don't have to do anything extravagant." Vicky spoke to Tootie, leaving the booth to help her uncle set the dinner table. "Not if you don't want."
"Um…actually…" Tootie squeaked, a momentary expression of discomfort crossing her face "…I-I already have plans."
Giving the plates and cups to Vicky, Vic arched a surprised brow towards Tootie "…do you, now?"
More like she had no choice in the matter; Rose had conspired with the other godparents and their godchildren to plan a small get-together at Fairy Fort on the day of her birthday, and no one was taking 'no' for an answer.
"Said plans won't happen 'til the afternoon…" Molly interjected drably, wrapping arms around herself as if forming a protective barrier.
"So we could probably do somethin' that mornin', then." Vic surmised, smiling to the soon-to-be birthday girl. "How's that sound?"
Tootie drummed fingers on her notebook's surface. She didn't think she had a choice in this matter as well. "Sure…"
Her muted tone caused Molly to shoot her a curious glance. It almost sounded like Tootie didn't want to celebrate. In a way, she could relate; no one ever acknowledged her birthday until she'd been granted Swizzle. No one in her life cared, and she had not been made to care for its festive significance.
Once the table was set, Vic called the girls over to join them as Vicky made her way to the fridge for the jug of cranberry juice to serve with dinner. As the godchildren complied and stood from the bench seat, the teal tabby stretched on all fours before leaping off the bench seat to the floor, looking behind her at the dark-blue raven eyeing her from the armrest. Giving a signaling look that the raven acknowledged with a small nod.
With the Byrnes and Molly all seated, the teal tabby and dark-blue raven managed to raise their wands and disappear in teal and dark-blue clouds unseen. Materializing in their fairy forms behind the navy curtain of the bedroom, hovering over the queen bed covered with a duvet of black and white plaid.
"Your godkid doesn't seem too excited." Swizzle made astute observation, folding arms across the chest of her dark-green turtleneck sporting short sleeves hemmed loosely over black denim pants footed with black combats. Her indigo curls tied in a low pony tucked behind elfin ears with a puffed bang resting above dark-blue eyes.
Rose scrunched her mouth in thought, fly-like wings protruding from the back of her boysenberry choker halter that was worn over a pink stripped long-sleeve with dark-denim jeans and navy boots. Marmalade-orange curled on her head as teal eyes furrowed. "If I'm honest, I don't think I expected any differently…"
"Well, we can't just call the whole thing off." Swizzle raised her shoulders in her cool remark. "Everybody already cleared their schedules for this."
"No one said we should do that." Rose fixed her gaze as her brows knitted. "But now I'm worried about overwhelming her…"
"We already took out the surprise element by telling her about it."
"I know…" Rose then rubbed her chin. "I should talk to her."
"To do what? Tell her to buck up and be happy about it?" Swizzle probed with a hint of sarcasm.
"No…to gage her mindset." Rose clarified. "If I can do that, then perhaps we could make some adjustments if need be."
"Hey, it's your call." Swizzle loosely shrugged, and Rose tilted her head with lips pressed together. Most kids love to feel special on their birthday…but Tootie was not most kids.
An ombre of orangey magenta glistened within the brown shingles roofing the single-story home sided in yellow panels, a gold 1990 Ford Explorer stationed on the short driveway. Sun-yellow walls and olive linoleum of the kitchen surrounded the family circled around the wooden table, steaming bowls of beef stroganoff fresh out the pot and set before them.
The head of the household, Vlad Vladislapov, stirred with his spoon with glossy blue eyes, bushy eyebrows wrinkled in the matching grey shag beneath his boysenberry tom-mix hat. He wore traditional Ustinkistanian boysenberry overalls over a white button up with knee-high argyle socks footed in tan Oxfords.
To Vlad's left, his wife of forty years scooped a spoonful of beef and noodles, her grey hair tied in a low pony underneath a Viking helmet, skin riddled with wrinkles of both age and stress. Gladys's lighter-blue apron was tied over a blue, puff-sleeved dress that reached all the way to her grey-wool flats.
To his right, his eldest grandson tore off a bite of beef and fed it to the yellow retriever perched patiently at his feet. Jet-black hair gelled in a Greaser style, Gary's red leather jacket sleeved his white tee, washed-denim skinnies cuffed over blue timberlands. Baby-blue eyes half covered with black shades propped on the bridge of his nose, buckteeth identical to the pink-hatted boy next to him.
Dark-denim jeans and navy sneakers paired with the hot-pink t-shirt, the tips of Timmy's brunette shag had grown to reach the top of his shoulders. Arms in a loose fold over his stomach, empty blue eyes stared at the dinner left untouched, lacking any hint of emotion.
As their grandparents ate their dinners quietly, Gary glanced at Timmy who'd hardly reached for his fork, observing his solemn silence. Nothing outside of the norm for Timmy these days, but something felt…darker.
Looking up from his bowl, Vlad studied Timmy's hollow eyes and the dinner he'd yet to dig into. "Something wrong, Timmy?"
Timmy remained silent, unmoving as though disconnected from the world around him.
Taking this as a sign of disrespect, Gladys creased her brow. "Your grandfather is speaking to you!" she chided, and Timmy finally lifted slow eyes in acknowledgement.
"Not hungry…" he mumbled as if speaking to himself rather than to anyone else.
"You eat now or starve tonight!" Gladys barked an ultimatum, her elm eyes bitter in their glare, and Timmy mustered the energy to give a stone-cold stare.
"Detka, uspokoysya…" Vlad gently coaxed his wife to calm down, noting the rising awkward tension. Yet Gladys's resentment continued.
"That boy not eat what I cook!" she groused with a finger pointed sternly. "He lucky I even bother including him for dinners!"
Gary saw Timmy's deepening frown, and while Vlad shot a brief glimpse towards Timmy, he chose to lower his chin, folding his lips.
"My parents are dead in case you forgot…" Timmy muttered, his voice once detached now laced with disdain.
"She was our doch' first in case you forget!" Gladys fired back, sour in her argument. "But selfish boy like you never think about that!"
Timmy crinkled his nose bridge, gritting his fists as his bucktooth bit down.
"I have empty hole in my heart that grows every passing day without our beloved daughter! Yet I now have to care for an ungrateful bastard that has the nerve to give me lip!" she growled in merciless frustration. "You took our only granddaughter away from us in case you forget that, too!"
Scrunched in his pained grimace, his chair screeched audibly along the limonium tile as Timmy scooted from the table. "I rather starve than keep dealing with this crap…"
"Fine by me!"
Timmy stormed off without scooting his chair in, stomping through the hall into the living room and towards the back door. The door swung before slamming against the wall in his swift exit as Gary looked on, and once his cousin disappeared, confliction lowered his gaze back to his half-eaten bowl before him.
Ever since Timmy had been placed in the custody of his grandparents after the Turners' deaths, Gary would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed their grandmother's persistent animosity. There've been days where she could hardly look Timmy's way without her whole body bristling with unrelenting anger. She'd punish him a lot for the littlest offenses, purposefully denying him of grace and understanding. Outsiders looking in would think a ten-year-old boy was the cause of his own parents' demise and not some unforeseen car accident.
Vlad had noticed this resentment, too. Unlike Gary's inferiority to her as her grandson, Vlad would try to meet his wife at her level, extending compassion to her surmounting grief. Sometimes, he'd step in and defend Timmy by calling Gladys out on her behavior. Remind her that he, too, was grieving, but that didn't mean Timmy deserved to catch the short end.
Adversely, he knew his wife better than anyone; Gladys was as stubborn as an old mule. Some days, his lack of energy would do nothing to stop her tirade. His efforts always ended in vain, anyway.
Blue sneakers stomped along the thick strands of plush grass subtly overgrown throughout the backyard, fenced in by discolored oakwood that'd seen many drops of rain. Approaching near the back corner of the yard where an 8ft x 8ft cube of red cedar walls was roofed in the same brown shingles…the home he now shared with his three magical goldfish.
Yanking on the knob, Timmy charged inside the shed with an irritated slam of the door. The fishbowl on the nightstand next to his single bed quaked upon impact of the reverberating slam as the fairy couple both groaned in their throats.
"Timmy! Not so loud!" Wanda chided as a fairy baby stirred within the bassinet, both hovering near Timmy's bed. Her fuchsia eyes matched the large swirl atop her head and the curl just above her back, garbed in a plain-yellow tee and black jeans with black block-heel Canyons.
Swaddled in a lavender blanket, deep-lilac eyes flickered as Poof Periwinkle Cosma began to whimper into cranky cries, tucked in the purple mattress of his yellow bassinet inscribed with a bold 'P' at the foot.
Dragging fingers down over exhausted eyes of shamrock-green, Cosmo then raked his hands through his green shag, wearing a white button-up collared in a black tie with black slacks and black button-toe shoes. Life with a newborn meant short nights and even longer days, barely functioning off mere fumes.
Wanda scooped her three-week-old son out of his bassinet as he whimpered, far past tired enough to calm himself. Timmy's guilt frowned, lips downturned from the coil in his stomach.
"…I-I'm sorry."
"It's alright, sport…" Wanda sighed, attempting to lull her baby boy back to sleep as she cradled Poof squirming his stubby arms and legs under his blanket.
"No, it's not!" Cosmo groused, bagged eyes shooting a pointed glare at Timmy "Cuz now we gotta start all over again thanks to you!"
Poof's whimpers amplified into screeching wails, and shame deepened the knit in Timmy's brow. Drawing scratchy fingers to his arm, clawing at his skin.
"Cosmo, that's not nice!" Wanda then scolded her husband over Poof's ear-piercing cries.
"It already took us like forty minutes just to get Poof down the first three times!" Cosmo griped to his wife. "Then right when he finally falls asleep, Timmy wants to slam the freaking door!"
Timmy's nails clawed red marks into his arm, tensing his jaw in strain.
Frustrated, Wanda huffed a sigh. "I'm gonna try taking Poof to his room…see if that'll help."
Reaching into her back pocket with her free hand for her wand, Poof's screams silenced in a second's blink once mother and son vanished into the fishbowl's purple castle. Ears ringing, Cosmo ran another hand through his shag before he turned to face his godson, noting the fresh deep-red marks that slanted Cosmo's brow.
"Stop doing that." he grumbled sharply.
Nails halting in their tracks, blue eyes lifted glumly. "Sorry…"
Cosmo exhaled a long breath, slouching his shoulders. "No, I'm sorry, champ…" he apologized, sounding less irritated and more remorseful. "I just reaaaaaally miss sleep."
Same…Timmy swallowed dryly, dropping dark eyes to his feet. Poof's mid-night crying had not been the only affliction denying him of slumber's peace…
Awkward silence led Cosmo to rub the back of his neck. "Uh…I think…I should go help Wanda."
Cosmo fled in a green cloud, leaving Timmy alone within the clutter of the shed. His bed, nightstand, and emptied suitcases were the only personal belongings salvaged from his parents' house, surrounded with other junk that his grandfather had shuffled and scooted into the corners to make room.
Timmy returned his nails to his arm, the corners of his mouth pulled down as his overbite bit down on his lip. Burns raked his skin, and he winced for only a second. A wave of relief prickled clawed burns numb, surging through his arm as it washed over his body. Heavy spirits lightened with each claw of his nails even as his whole forearm began to pulse red. The more pain he inflicted, the less his soul ached. Muting the voices telling him he was better off dead.
[I'm worried about you, Bubba…]
The concern in his sister's voice froze him, shoulders hunched with a wrinkled brow. Rarely did he regret his unintended wish of spiritual connection with his late sister…this was one of those times.
"But I'm not hurting anyone…"
[…just yourself…]
Timmy held onto the stinging throb in his red arm, drawing his arm to his chest. "It's just easier to handle pain when you're the one hurting you." he murmured, bereft of emotion. "Plus, it quiets my head…"
[That's not good, Timmy.] Sophia softly stressed. [You need to talk to Cosmo and Wanda-]
"They already know about my thoughts…" Timmy remonstrated, shamed fingertips clenching the dulled sting in his wrist. "Can't hide them, remember?"
[Not just that; about hurting yourself…]
Along with wish probation, the Fairy Council had ordained a more permanent deal, and if he were to go against it, would result in the complete and absolute wipe of his memories and the memories of the other godkids. He cannot act on any suicidal ideations and cannot keep those thoughts to himself under any circumstances, so to him, all anyone had to know about were his thoughts, not how he coped with them.
Cosmo and Wanda shouldn't have to worry about something that wasn't an active attempt to kill himself. He should be entitled to some secrets, and what they don't know won't hurt them. It'll only hurt him, as it should be.
[Bubba.] Sophia switched gears when audible crunches along the grass could be heard approaching the shed. [Gary's coming.]
"Great…" Timmy deeply sighed, lowering his red arm to his side as he dragged his feet. Turning the knob and opening the door before his cousin's raised fist had a chance to knock.
"What do you want…"
Slightly caught off guard, the twelve-year-old stared as his fairy godfather with cool icy-blue eyes and honey-brown skin floated by his side, shoulder-length hair parted down the middle between raven-black and bright-yellow. Muscles protruded through the fitted button-down in gold, buttoned only near where the bottom was tucked into fitted blue denim looped with black leather and cuffed in black Darbies. A yellow bandana was tied around his left wrist, and he wore black mesh as an undershirt where visible dark spots littered his chest in a birthmark.
Lowering his fist from his cousin's line of view, Gary cleared his throat. "I…wanted to check on you…" he shifted from foot to foot "…y'know…before Alondro and I called it a night."
Timmy blinked slowly, listlessly. "What for…?"
Planting his feet, Gary's brow squinted faintly. There was this flatness to Timmy's eyes. A lack of depth and warmth that he, disturbingly, recognized as if staring into a past mirror "…cuz of what happened at dinner."
A scoff punctuated Timmy's sharp breath. "Dude, just don't-"
"No, Timmy." Gary interrupted, his tone coming across as if he was atoning for his nonaction. "What babushka said wasn't cool, and…I should've said something…"
He felt his chest tighten, yet he felt devoid of any fire left inside as a deflated sigh escaped his lips. Even if he wanted to be angry, Timmy was in no mood to argue. What was the point? Nothing would change. He'd still be on wishing probation, he'd still be the sole surviving Turner.
And he'd still be nothing but a pathetic burden to everyone around him…
"…goodnight, Gary."
Killing the conversation, Timmy carefully shut the door in the face of Gary's downcast frown, and the fairy godfather hovering beside him lowered a consoling hand to his godson's hunched shoulder.
"Al menos lo intentaste, peque..." Alondro attempted to assure that Gary at least made an effort to reconcile. Yet Gary still felt a fist of regret close over his heart.
Day and night unite in the magical world amongst the clouds, blankets of stars spreading across gradients of indigo and blue. Symbolic, regal colors of taffy-pink, lavender, periwinkle-blue, and turquoise painted the bridge that led to the structure wherein roofs coned in indigo shingles held yellow flags swaying in the subtle breeze atop. These cone roofs hatted the four, statuesque towers framed purple brick walls of yesteryear, and a white star centered the entrance mounted by Greek columns arching the grand central staircase, similar stars lining the purple foundation grounded to the pink, sparkling floor of clouds.
Floating down the lavender walls arched with iris marble and the lavender and white checkered floors of Fairy World HQ, a small fairy with elfin ears and freckles splotching his ivory face fixed lilac eyes on the steaming cup of coffee held tightly, doing his best not to spill the third mug of the day nearly full to the brim. His lavender tunic looped with a black buckle around the waist, white-cuffed sleeves and white-square collar, black fitted tights, and pointy grey shoes appeared stuck in the Middle Ages as his wings traversed towards his boss's office at the end of the hall.
Binky Abdul had high hopes for a successful acting career in Fairywood, even landing a starring role in his sitcom Leave It to Binky that was unfortunately canceled after one season due to low ratings. However, his low confidence tanked all chances of making it as big as his zappy-driven yet zappyless best friend, Blonda Magnifico. When rejections from multiple auditions, zero callbacks, and insignificant background roles stopped paying the bills, it came time to reevaluate what the heck he was doing with his immortal life.
Thus, his main source of income became acting as the right-hand man to the commander of all fairies, Jorgen Von Strangle. Though, 'personal assistant' felt more like a professional word for 'lacky' most days than not, at least the steady paychecks kept him just above 'broke bum.'
Reaching the double doors of the Fairy Commander's office, Binky steadied the mug with one hand as he gave meek knocks with the other, waiting a couple of seconds before pushing on the handle to float inside. The back of the beige-leather executive's chair behind the desk faced Binky upon his entry, seeing nothing but the top of Jorgen's silver flattop. Passing framed photos of the Von Strangle family tree posted on military-green walls, Binky approached the brute fairy sporting a green tank tucked into camouflage pants, steeled-toe combats knee length and littered with spikes equally as spiky as the spiked cuffs around his wrists.
With his grand staff of a giant wand propped beside his chair against the desk, steel-blue eyes glared stern towards the bright row of eight monitors lined before him in rows of two. Clenched jaw protruding his enlarged chin as the smaller fairy cleared his throat. "…y-your dark roast, sir." Binky squeaked, carefully setting the mug on the desk near Jorgen's elbow. "No cream and sugar…just how you like it."
"Thanks." Jorgen gruffly muttered with eyes fixed on the monitors, uncrossing his arms to pick up the mug between two fingers.
Noting his dour expression, Binky took a glance at the monitors, slightly hesitant to float closer to his boss's side. Keeping himself at a distance as to not invade personal space. "Um…h-how's the observation's going?"
Jorgen simply grunted under his breath, deepening his furrowed brow as he pressed the mug's rim to his lips. Yet another late night in the office meant another earful from his teeth-collecting wife. The headquarter's secretary saw him more than she did over the last few weeks, all thanks to the Fairy Council's coercive authority over him.
When he wasn't out enforcing Da Rules, his main task was monitoring the godparents and their godchildren of whom the Fairy Council had gotten themselves so invested in. Whatever the reason, there was no point expecting forthcoming explanation from them, so he didn't bother with interrogation. Still, when being kept in the dark trickled into less answers for his wife's many questions, it stabbed a thorn at his side.
Continuing to study the monitors, Jorgen slurped the rich notes of velvety java equally as bitter as his mood. What were the Council up to this time…