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Crimson Claws

15

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Brentwood chewed boredly on his sandwich.

It was the third night he'd had to be down here supervising the programming of this thing. Sure, he could go upstairs for hours at a time to clean or cook, but woe betide him if the doctor caught him without his neat smartwatch to remind him of the time intervals. Even grocery shopping was forbidden to him, he had the goods delivered yesterday. A pimply, human delivery boy from the store on HIS doorstep - yikes!

A movement in the corner of his eye made him turn his head. A human wouldn't have seen anything in the shadows between the filing cabinets and cardboard boxes. But he saw the rat crouching there. It was shaggy and rubbing its whiskers with tiny clawed hands. He tore off a small piece of his sandwich and threw it in the animal's direction. It flinched back. And then crawled to the breadcrumb with pitter-patter pawsteps inaudible to humans.

Brentwood watched it eat and took a bite of his sandwich himself.

No. Rats were not his thing. He had eaten the odd one in times of need, of course. But he preferred pigeons. Hollywood hadn't gotten enough of rats, and Burbank had liked them better too, but by now Brentwood thought they only liked rats better because they were so common in the tunnels of the Labyrinth that they almost jumped into your mouth. Malibu and he had preferred pigeons and enjoyed the challenge of snatching them in mid-air. The few times he had been out with Malibu. In the few nights they had all been together under Thailog's reign. He'd never seen Delilah eat live animals, perhaps because of the bit of human in her - something he hadn't held against her - she'd been made that way for Thailog, to unsettle both Demona and Goliath. Why was he thinking about his brothers and Delilah again now?

Did he miss them?

He probably did.

Thailog was a fantastic master and sometimes even nice to him. But he was the master. Even if they were equals in this clan ... he was Thailog.

Could the rat become his friend? He was already feeding it. Just like humans fed their dogs. If not a friend. Then a pet. But the doctor didn't want any vermin in his house... Brentwood was already enough. The little clone grimaced hatefully. Oh, what could he have done to the Doctor in the three hours when the people of New York had been under Demona's submissive spell? Gargoyle Magister Brentwood. The arrogant, brilliant Sevarius would have licked his feet and loved it. Of course ... he would have been punished afterward.

"You go upstairs and nibble on the doctor's body? He's sick but he certainly won't fight back. Sleeps deeply. Strong medication."

Brentwood grinned wickedly at the thought, lost for a few moments, maybe minutes, in imagining whether one or many rats could be sewn into the human's stomach and how quickly they would gnaw their way back to the surface while the doctor was alive. That's why he didn't hear the warning message from the computer at first. He didn't see the sparking from one of the cables behind the incubator, didn't hear the rat getting an electric shock from nibbling on it. He didn't notice the computer turning off the air supply via the breathing apparatus.

But he did notice the twitch that went through the clone two minutes later. Then another one. Involuntary twitching of a body in agony.

Brentwood jumped up with a shrill cry, rushed to the chamber from which the liquid was being drained!

He rushed to the computer screen on which one flashing red alert window after another popped up and his frantic, haphazard typing had no effect, made nothing better, did not prevent the inevitable.

Emergency shutdown. Rejection process? Impending cell death? Safety protocol.

"No! No! WHY?!" he screamed as the clone body, no longer held in place by the liquid, slammed onto the floor of the chamber in his back, tearing the breathing mask from whatever holder it was attached to. The sound of the head hitting the stainless steel grid that was the floor of the chamber sounded like an eggshell breaking. The safety glass lifted and the thing slid to the concrete floor. But he heard the wet slump of flesh on concrete and smelled the blood.

Brentwood rammed his claws into the skin of his skull in horror, pulling at hair that wasn't there.

"Fuckfuckfuck!" he chanted as he leapt to the lifeless thing and scraped wet hair and useless breathing mask from its face. The thing's lips were blue and for a second Brent thought it had a pigmentation disorder like him and the other first gargoyle clones before he remembered that humans got blue lips without air. Without the orange liquid, the clone's skin was almost white. Like the drowned frog that Brentwood had once found and wouldn't have eaten for any money in the world.

Air! The thing needed air, and desperately, Brentwood jerked up an arm and slammed a fist down on the hard spot between the clone's chalky, wiggling tits.

And yes, it snapped its eyes open! Blue eyes that after a second twitched back and forth without rhyme or reason. Motionless except for useless twitches and a mouth, breathlessly gasping for air like a fish out of water.

It was suffocating. The doctor's back-up body was choking! And it was his fault! Maybe not because it was the rat's fault. But the doctor would blame him! The Doctor would die without a replacement body before he had fulfilled Thailog's commission. And that also meant that Thailog would become terribly angry. He might even throw Brentwood out of the clan! Then he would have nothing. Nothing, nothing at all! But the product wasn't dead yet. Brentwood watched Emergency Room almost every night - he could do it, he would fix it. He couldn't make it any better, but he could make it less bad as long as the clone survived.

He dragged it onto his lap, overstretched the thing's head with a rough yank on its long hair, stuck a finger down the clone's throat, felt tender tissue deep in its throat tear under his claw. The thing's eyes widened and it almost rammed Brentwood's claw through flesh and sinew itself in a panic. If Brentwood hadn't ripped his hand out of her mouth as the girl writhed and vomited bloody "amniotic fluid" and slime. Because she didn't do it herself - in fact, she slipped off his legs and slapped the floor again without catching herself - Brentwood turned her on her side where she continued to gasp. Strained wheezing breaths sounded wet and suffering but the clone was breathing. Brentwood sank back, pure relief and numbing shock taking over his limbs. That had been a close call. But the clone was alive. Above him, he heard a thump, and with a shudder he heard the elevator descend, probably agonizingly slow for the occupant but far too fast for Brentwood himself.

Thailog came rushing down the stairs just as the doctor pulled open the accordion grate of the elevator with strength thought lost. Perhaps Thailog had heard his screeching and informed the landlord. Human and gargoyle stood in different parts of the room and stared at the scene for a few seconds. Brentwood wished he'd had time to clean up.

"Damn it, what's going on here?" the human asked, taking in the chaos with bleary eyes. Brentwood ignored him in favor of the opinion of the only person who mattered.

"Master Thailog! I'm sorry. Chamber kaput! Clone almost died! I saved!"

He went to approach Thailog, not expecting any thanks or sympathy for having to endure all of this, but certainly not expecting the doctor's cane to hit his back as he began to pummel him. Brentwood fell to the ground, more startled than in real pain, because after all he was a gargoyle and a weakened human like the Doctor was hardly capable of striking hard. Nevertheless, he was immensely grateful when the huge claws of his beloved master caught the walking stick in flight.

"Now now, Doctor, don't you have damage control and situation assessment to worry about instead of indulging in petty punishment?" Thailog hummed with his fake smile.

Gently, Thailog repositioned the walking stick on the floor and after an annoyed noise, the Doctor hobbled with it to his replacement body. Brentwood crawled over to Thailog, leaned against his leg. It was a gamble but today he won because the Master stroked his head. Brentwood hummed blissfully and pitifully at the same time, appealing to instincts Thailog probably didn't even have. Okay, maybe he was overplaying his suffering, but he really deserved his master's warm hand.

Thailog sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and together they watched Sevarius settle down on the floor with cracking bones, examining and palpating the panting clone, pressing a stethoscope between her breasts and listening. Sevarius bent over the head of his replacement with barely concealed anger in his haggard face, stretched the neck and shone a small lamp into the throat. The thing let him do everything without any visible reaction. The clone was no longer gagging and its breathing was calmer. When it was turned, its head tilted to one side without any muscle tension. Blue eyes stared at Brentwood. Saliva and blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, adding to the impression of mindless imbecility.

"I put my finger down its throat. Prevented choking. Thrown up water. I saved," Brentwood insisted stubbornly, unsettled by the human's tense silence.

The look on the doctor's face as he looked up briefly spoke of pure hatred.

"YOUR fingers with the two inch long claws! Shut the fuck up. Your damn claw ripped open my vessel's throat. And the laceration on her head-?"

" She fell! I couldn't-"

"Shut up! You failed! A tiny little task. You defective, useless product."

"I NOT defective!" screeched Brentwood, hot with humiliation at that word. Only Thailog's iron-hard grip on his shoulder kept him from pouncing.

The doctor spat out. "I should have flushed your DNA down the toilet to begin with. You ruined my project. I can't even estimate the damage to the product from the head wound, hypoxia and laryngeal trauma."

Brentwood's Master sighed, sounding rather amused, which was good for Brentwood. "Poor pale thing. She's still oozing blood. As the father so the-"

Thailog raised his huge hands with a grin as the doctor glared at him menacingly. He had gone to the cloning chamber. Perhaps driven there by the smell of burnt flesh, he pulled out a charred rat carcass with pointy fingers.

"Here we have the real culprit. ... Doctor. Let's settle like this," his master began calmly. "A rat that Brentwood was supposed to catch has let the incubator open too early. The cat is now out of the bag - or the fish out of the aquarium and we can't put it back. You can only judge the damage when the clone is more than mere living vegetable and that is only possible with more programming. With your brilliance - the programming must be possible to continue outside the incubator. As long as the clone's brain turns out to be intact and usable for you when you're in that body, nothing is lost here."

Brentwood grinned. His master was THE master of manipulation. Having put it as a challenge, he appealed to Sevarius' delusions of grandeur and fantasies of omnipotence.

Much less agitated, the Doctor gasped after a few seconds of intense thought. "Of course, the programming can be continued outside the incubator. I would have to ... modify some of the machines."

"I would be honored to assist and set everything up so that the clone can continue to be imprinted," Thailog purred. "Then En.25-1 will just live in the air for a few weeks until she is ready to be your body. It's not that bad. Whether there was any permanent damage at all from Brentwood's rescue operation - only time will tell. Perhaps the damaged areas will heal. Brentwood will take care of the girl until then, keeping her clean, fed and undamaged. He will certainly take the utmost care from now on because his own life depends on it."

Brentwood turned cold as ice at these words. He couldn't even protest indignantly, only look up at his master with his mouth hanging agape where he nailed the doctor with his gaze and confident words. Brentwood was horrified! He knew that this line of argument would once again provide him with a position worthy of absolution and usefulness. But he would not and could not take care of this thing. Couldn't he start with a rat and work his way up? He looked to the frog-cadaver pale thing that stared back at him, unblinking. Just as he wondered if it knew how to blink, it did. Probably just a reflex. There was nothing in that thing's brain. Nothing at all. Even human babies knew how to scream. This one did nothing. It was disgusting and really useless. In contrast, he and his brothers with the "obey Thailog" basic programming had been real geniuses.

"What choice do you have, Sevarius?" Thailog asked sensibly.

The same words remained unspoken to Brentwood. What choice did he have?

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On his late evening tour as the clan flew its first patrol, Owen saw the door to the library standing slightly ajar. He stepped inside, knowing full well that his employer and his spouse had already retired for the night and that the nocturnal inhabitants usually only occupied the library for their leisure hours towards morning. The large lounge area with the huge comfortable seating area in front of the mighty fireplace was deserted and dark, with only a single source of light shining through between the bookshelves, and when Owen pushed his way to this secluded corner, he saw his young protégé sitting there. A little late for his normal homework even if he was perhaps slightly behind with his assignments due to his three-day absence for his grandfather's funeral. Alexander was diligent where he needed to be (which was more than could be said for many other twelve-year-olds) but not even he used the night for Algebra, Greek and History.

The boy sat with his back to the room, at a table buried under a dozen books, his head slumped almost to the tabletop, scribbling intently in a notebook, a laptop running beside him. He flinched as Owen announced his presence with a deliberately loud intake of breath and turned around with a expression that looked genuinely caught. Before it changed to the poised smiling lamb of innocence that the bright boy had mastered since the age of three. Not that that ever helped him against Owen or Puck. It worked with the Gargoyles or when he used his wit at the same time to support his case with his parents.

"Master Alexander. If you have problems with your studies, I can hire more tutors for you."

It was clear to the child that Owen had immediately realized that these were not normal textbooks. Well, maybe they had been once, a long time ago. That's why he didn't bother to make any detours or excuses.

"Not that kind of studies. And you know that."

"Do I know?" Major Domo asked, one of the corners of his mouth pulled up barely noticeably.

Alexander rolled his eyes, smirking too.

"Quibbles. All right, then. Not you-you, but the other you."

He picked up the book he had been poring over. One from his father's private collection. Actually locked away. Xanatos had studied myths and legends more intensively. The true myths and legends, embedded in the fickle, repeatedly mended fabric that people used to weave about topics they were not ready for. And the beings that populate this world with, between, behind, above and below humans. With a wife like his and a son like his, a matter of course. His relatives by marriage, who were not always kindly inclined, added to this.

The most unique yet unremarkable employee anyone would ever have raised a thin blond eyebrow. More inquisitive than reprimanding, he said. "This is not a book you have access to."

"Puck would let me read it. Puck would let me try. But I can't find what I need on my own."

"Well, I can't stop you, much less assist you in this matter," Burnett deadpanned as he slowly removed his glasses and pocketed them.

Alex grinned broadly, detecting the tingling energy deep within the human alter ego. Owen Burnett would always be human, wouldn't ask to be the other, couldn't because of Oberon's decree and his contract with his father. But to teach the boy...

Said boy put down the book, stood up, raised his hands, palms up, letting the power that had been groomed and fanned since his birth creep to the surface of his skin before it slithered around him with green magical tentacles.

"My dearest mentor, I want to learn, I need your guidance and protection. Be my anchor and my wings during these lessons."

The stiff adult in front of him began to whirl, entwined by Alexander's energy. His own power spilled out of him at the seams, defying the laws of physics, and with a delighted WHOOP Puck leapt out, flying like an oversized wingless Tinkerbell on amphetamines across the vast room to the ceiling and back, stretching with a groan and cracking his less than substantial joints. Before he invaded Alexander's space to pat his cheek, as he so often did, unaware of people's personal comfort zones. The boy knew no different, sitting back down and smiling as his mentor led his tiptoes weightlessly over the old books on the table.

" What are we up to, my exhilarating pupil? What by the sake of Oberon can you want with these dusty, boring encyclopedias?"

"Since Dad was informed of Grandpa's death ... no, even earlier when he was ill and didn't want help and then at the funeral. I almost felt like I was being crushed by his feelings. From Dad's, I mean, not from the dead, I stay away from that."

" The Puck taught you not to get caught up in the emotions of mortals. It only confuses your soft little human heart..."

The fey sighed sorrowfully as he waved one of the heavy armchairs over, which came running like a dog with wagging tassels. Puck settled down on it as light as a feather, causing the piece of furniture to remain still, once again inanimate. "- just like now. So, what's your plan and how can I dissuade you or steer it in a more constructive direction?"

Alex grinned, took one of the other books and opened a bookmarked page, showing it to Puck. The latter groaned and put his delicate hand over his eyes like a migraine-stricken housewife.

"No, by Oberon's beard! You're your father's son but do you have to sting the same bees' nest?"

"I have resources that Dad didn't have - and never will have. I have my power ... and you," said the Fey Prince smugly and Puck stifled a broad grin. But the rosy glow on his cheeks still betrayed him.

"Lucky for you that I'm so susceptible to shameless flattery."

"Okay!" Alex replied, slamming the book down on the table and running his finger over the parchment. "I already know the stories of what Dad tried. Gargoyle skin and and Anubis is still at the great gathering. The lord decides when it ends, but let's assume Dad and Mom don't have that much time."

"Since we Fey perceive time differently than mortals - yes, good assumption."

"And that's why we use one of the other gods or fae who can influence life and death."

"Others? Alexander, you know that everyone but me poor Trickster is staying on Avalon and needs special permission to leave for a short time. And you know the Supreme Rule-no interference-

"- in the affairs of mortals. Yes, I know, on with the text," the boy said as if that was just a triviality that could easily be avoided. Oh, Puck adored this cocksure little brat.

Alex raised a lecturing finger, grinning puckishly, causing his master to prick up his ears intently.

"All the pureblood kin are there. All with enough power to be considered fae. My fate could be averted in that regard. But mom has Fey heritage through grandma and no one thought to take her. Why? Because her powers are too deep within her. But you taught me: this world is full of half-breeds. Quarter-breeds or even more watered down. Descendants of descendants. Forgotten, abandoned or never recognized branches of the mighty tree of the third race."

"And what will you do with these withered branches?" Puck purred playfully and challengingly. Oh, he wanted to wallow in the intelligence and intricacy of his pupil like an excited piglet. It was so delightful to scheme with him in order to act past Oberon's laws. Because wasn't that the essence of a good trickster? Puck would never feel more paternal than he did now. Lovely!

"We must find descendants of suitable "gods", unlock their powers or ... filter them out and use them for our purposes. And don't tell me that such offspring will have blood too diluted and be too untrained to be of any use to us. If Mom- after a lifetime without a spark of magic, was able to bomb Oberon through half the castle, then these mortals have enough of a spark to be handy. It doesn't have to break the rules. Anubis said, if I remember Goliath's story and that fits with your teachings: Death is pointless. That's the whole point." So we don't strive for immortality, not for everything. Our goal will be a long healthy life. We will then negotiate other aspects.

Immortality, that would be an affront to the natural order. But a long and healthy life - that was something that would bend the stalks without breaking them. And yet - as much as Puck hated ifs and buts - he had to be the voice of reason - urrgh, even if it was only to help his pupil understand his train of thought.

"We can't harness descendants of a Fae of the Great Gathering, Alex."

"I KNOW!" the child chirped, chuckling excitedly and frantically flipping through the tomb he'd had at the very beginning. "As soon as we would awaken their powers, the bond to the original Sire would be tangible again. Same energy signature and all. Normally not enough for the fae in question to care, but under these circumstances. WE could hardly hide our involvement because of our energy signatures. Too hot, too dangerous. They could inform Oberon and we don't want him to be interested in you and especially me. He's all about keeping this world in a reasonably good balance and screwing over life and death - well. So-," Alex said and slammed the book down on the table in front of Puck, who lifted his head from the armrest of the armchair with interest.

The title of this chapter was:

'Lost, forgotten, faded gods.

Puck took a deep breath, pride swelling in his chest and a small dose of horror. This child was brilliant. And nefarious when he set his mind to something. It was true that fae could not die. That was already in the name - immortal! But many fae lived on energy. Faith was energy. So what happened to gods who were forgotten by humans? When there was hardly a spark of faith, of memory left in any human being, if at all? Or when belief in them was so distorted by the popular culture of a later era that the origins were barely recognizable? Powerful fey like Oberen, Titania or Puck had other sources to sustain themselves. But there had once been thousands of small deities. In the earliest times, every tree, every stone, every natural phenomenon had been said to have a consciousness - and it hadn't been that far from the truth. In human history AND before, there had been entities that had been worshipped... and then no more. Energy never disappeared completely, but it found other forms, sometimes scattering and dispersing like a drop in an ocean - if humans wanted to call it dying... Puck was not petty enough to correct anyone. His immortality was too short for that. So - withered branches of the tree. Descendants of these had to be found - blood watered down by thousands of years and dozens of generations. It was almost impossible. But at that point, Alexander Fox Xanatos was a child of his parents, more than the brainchild of Puck. Impossible was just another word for challenging. And wasn't that inspiring and revitalized dormant Fae bones?

"Then... let's get started," Puck said, and with a sweeping gesture, hundreds of pages plopped up around them, vastly enlarged and glowing, filling the library.

YEAH! Enya Origin Story! WUHUUU! Isn't it a magical wonderful process when new life is born into a loving family! Congratulations- it's a girl/thing/vessel/vegetable but with SO much potential under Daddy Brentwood's loving tutelage (like the Texas Chainsaw massacre inbreds being entrusted with a foster child- awesome). And not even a poor woman had to rip up her c to her a for this one.

Please always remember, without nice comments here or Kudos and comments in AO3, I'll be withering away. U are an authors water, sun and soil, u are important!

Thanks for reading, Q.T.