.

Crimson Claws

29

"Plate, cup."

"I know!" groaned Brentwood before being dragged on.

"Kitchen island. Why island- "

"Dunno! Dont care."

"Real island made of -of soil. Kitchen chairs! We sit on it!" gushed the obviously now linguistically gifted clone. Everything she showed him she touched and even the doctor and Thailog, who were sitting at the kitchen island, were gently nudged after the chaois they sat on.

"Master Thailog. Doctor Sevarius. Very smart, very important."

"Oh, clever birdie," Thailog said with a smirk over his first cup of coffee to the happily beaming clone before she dragged Brentwood away.

"I just wish she wouldn't talk like a retard. But I suppose I'm fortunate your little flunky didn't permanently damage my Vessel's windpipe. Full sentences come when I'm in this head," the Doctor said, rolling his eyes and slurping his high-calorie supplement.

The clone ripped open the currently unlocked fridge.

"Juice - orange juice, carrot juice. Oat milk - not real milk. Real milk from beneath a cow, don't know what a cow is yet. Roast beef. Stinky cheese, I don't like it. Whiskey - alcohol, high proof only for Doctor and Thailog. Banana and chocolate pudding - yummy, only eat if Brentwood allows."

"Master! Help!" whimpered Brentwood, slamming the fridge shut with his tail as the clone tugged him onwards. His master cackled.

"Enjoy it, Brent. The duckling is showing you what she can do. Just smile and wave."

She dragged him into the adjoining living room and he struggled not to claw her away.

"Books. Cupboard. Curtain. Armchair. Couch. Fireplace- No fire now. Fire bad. Fire hot like stove. Do not touch stove."

Brentwood groaned in annoyance. This had been going on for an hour and he'd heard 90 percent of the words five times already. And she just wouldn't stop. He was glad that the doctor obviously didn't care that she had gotten up alone and wandered around the house and then waited in the attic with the newspaper for them to wake up. But this was unbearable! And she was dragging him around! She was taller but HE was the older one! He finally deserved some breakfast and some REST!

"Clone!" he shouted gruffly and smacked the girl on the thigh with his tail so that her firm flesh made a slapping sound and she shrank back on all fours and ducked. Rightly so - he was a fearsome gargoyle and deserved respect (and breakfast and rest). He glared at her and gripped his head.

"Enough of this. Enough words. Head hurts already, shut up for today."

And really, she was silent. Blinked. Looked at him, not fearfully - but curiously.

"What?" He asked angrily.

She pointed at him. Not directly at him, but at his tail, which had just hit her. "Brentwood red."

"Huh?" he asked, looking at his tail. Now his eyes widened too. There was blood on it! But nothing was hurting him.

"What's that?" the clone asked.

"Blood," he said in confusion, grabbed his tail and rubbed the spot. He had no injury. It didn't smell like his blood either. It smelled - like human blood. He looked at the girl, then his gaze traveled down. Down to the hem of the too-long shirt that went almost to her knees because it was an old one from Thailog. And there was her blood, the blood of Servarius' body back-up, running down her legs.

"Shit!" he shouted and backed away from where the girl was now following his gaze down her body - and searching his gaze again with eyes widened in shock. She reached under her T-shirt between her legs and her hands reappeared, bloody. Brentwood backed away. He had SO fucked up! He had broken Sevarius' vessel.

"Broken," he muttered. "Defective. Damaged."

En.25-1 looked at him with an expression that reflected deepest horror, her bloody hands outstretched and trembling.

"No," she whispered, "No." She took a step towards him and he backed away. He had messed up. But maybe the clone wasn't completely broken. There wasn't THAT much blood. And the girl wasn't writhing in pain like injured people usually did. Or maybe she didn't feel the pain. Brentwood raised his hands to stop the clone from getting any closer.

"You stay. I'll get the doctor. Doctor to help."

"Stay!" He heard behind him, shrill and desperate, like a child whose mother leaves it when it needs her most. And a stab went through Brentwood's heart because he was leaving her alone. Yes - she wasn't quite as stupid as he had thought. Still annoying, but she looked up to him. No one had ever been thrilled by what he could do, what he showed anyone, but this back-up was. No matter if she would soon be gone he didn't want her to be broken or bleeding to death. But it was more important to call for help quickly, even if it meant another beating.

"Master!" he yelled and ran into the kitchen where both males looked up. He gesticulated and searched for words as he always did when he was upset.

"Clone! Doctor clone is bleeding! Not my fault!" he shouted and instantly both human and gargoyle were on their feet. He leapt ahead where they followed, Thailog faster than the restricted doctor with his IV pole.

En-25.1 stood in exactly the same place he had left her and looked up from her bloody hands as the three men came in.

"Not defective! Not. Me not!" she cried, wiping away tears that she seemed as horrified by as the blood on her legs.

The doctor just stared with a gaping mouth.

After a few seconds, Thailog sucked in his breath and laughed out loud.

"Hahahaha, no, girl. You are not defective. Rather the opposite." He patted the frail doctor on the shoulder patronizingly and smearing in his tone. "Congratulations doctor, it's a girl."

"That- I hadn't-"

"- not thought of that? You're creating a near-perfect human being and you don't think to engineer away the ovaries in the product? Unless you want to enjoy motherhood in your new body. Wouldn't have thought you were that type, but to each his own. It's supposed to be natural and... hmmm fulfilling. HAHAHAHA. Preparing for a lifetime of disappointment."

As his master was obviously more than amused, Brentwood joined them, smiling desperately. "Clone okay?"

Thailog patted him on the head. "Put her to bed with a towel between her legs, a packet of potato chips and a hot water bottle - I've heard that helps. And then you obviously need to go shopping. Hahaha."

.

.

As a child, Jayden Jones thought he would become a superhero. Or a supervillian, which at least looked like more fun for a while. Because his name kind of sounded like that. Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Billy Batson, Peter Parker and so on. He had become neither. No poisonous SuperAcme acid that made him crazy but wicked. No spider bite, no sketchy revelation that he was in some way the chosen one. Just the usual run-of-the-mill 0815 everyman idiot with mediocre looks, mediocre intelligence, mediocre life. Not even a city full of gargoyles and mutants had brought a little more magic in his life. Just the usual New York weirdos he had to face on his night shift. Working in a supermarket that was open late into the night was a pain. Since he always worked the late shift, he could sleep late in the morning, but otherwise he and his colleagues really got the cream of Manhattan's crackpots. Like this little albino freak who had come into the store ten minutes ago.

"That guy's been standing in front of the feminine hygiene products for ages, it really creeps you out," Santiago muttered as he pushed the roll bucket and mop back into the dirt room behind the tills after picking up broken glass and pickles and moping up the liquid after another customer had dropped a pickle jar. There were no shoppers to deal with at the time, the store was a little deserted and that left room for conversation.

"It's scary to imagine what he needs that for."

"Maybe he's got a ball and chain at home that got a visit from aunt Flo - whoever chick has kinks like that being albino and-" Santiago spread his little finger to suggest a tiny dick and Jayden laughed with him because he didn't have much else to laugh about. Before he lost his mirth, because Santiago pulled him away from the cash register to stand behind it himself as a tired-looking woman in a nurse's uniform placed her purchases on the conveyor belt.

"What-?" Jayden began and Santiago waved him away with a look that reminded him not to rock the boat.

"Take care of the poor guy. You counsel him so he can finally make up his mind."

"I'm not really qualified at that resort," Jayden sputtered, indicating (at the customer's back) to his crotch - which was currently covered by his employee apron anyway, but he only had one older sister and aside from stocking the shelves with that stuff, he didn't know or WANT to know anything about that department. Women bled every few days, they put shit in their pussies to soak it up - that was already too much info for him. Santiago had once told him that he had grown up with four siblings and three of them were girls. HE would be more qualified. But Santiago, now looking down at the groceries, which he pulled over the scanner one by one with a beep, just said sweetly;

"You'll be fine, fight your way through the selection together."

Jayden turned away grumbling. Santiago was his senior in the store and something like this was really not worth bickering about. If they'd had a female colleague with them tonight - oh Izabella could have talked to the little freak all night about feminine hygiene.

Jayden Jones scrutinized the midget from the short side of the shelf, thinking of the quickest way to get rid of him. He currently had two packs in his hand and was quietly muttering to himself with a grimly pissed off look that indicated he was probably one of those poor bastards who'd been shooed out of the house by his menstruating wife to buy "her brand" and had since forgotten what "her brand" was. Poor bastard. He was an albino and that was a rare sight. Aside from that, he looked absolutely ordinary - short (albeit snow-white hair), young as a college student though he could just as easily just have a baby face. And wasn't he the same guy who had been in the store last year when some lunatic had stolen a baby from a shopping cart and put it in one of the freezers? Anyway - okay, it didn't matter now. Jayden cleared his throat, put on his fake friendly smile for customer interaction and walked over to the man. He looked up with his lower jaw thrust forward defiantly as Jayden arrived, his eyes on his apron and his name for a second. He hated customers who remembered his name, those were customers who might have a name to complain about later.

"Hello sir, may I help you?" he said gently and pleasantly because although he wanted to get rid of the guy, he was an empathetic fellow who might have had the dubious pleasure of having a mean wife at home who forced him to buy embarrassing products. And now that he thought of it again ... hadn't the albino been buying adult diapers until last week? Man, did he have a pooping grandma AND a Bloody Mary at home? That would be a double whammy. Suddenly his own life looked fantastic.

The guy groaned as if Jayden's appearance was both a salvation and a curse. His red eyes were disturbing.

"I don't know what take?" he said desperately and almost shrilly and Jayden stared for a moment because- Jesus, he sounded like someone had hit him on the skull as a child and he'd never recovered. He ignored the "speech impediment" and pointed at the packs.

"Well, sir, what does your um, girlfriend need? Because you have tampons right now."

"Not my girlfriend!" the little one hissed venomously, then wrinkled his nose, looking to the side as if he was thinking hard. "Pet," he said, tilting his head and then making a dismissive gesture. "Sister pet - I think. Bleeding. Gotta buy stuff says Mas- uhm ... Dad."

And OOOOOKAY Jayden wanted to go into reverse and call whoever was responsible for everything to do with this guy. The guy was all red flags. Jayden looked at one of the cameras in the main aisle as if Santiago was right behind it - which of course he wasn't, then smiled again at this particular customer and decided on the least disturbing direction of conversation.

"Well, most bitches don't tolerate having tampons inserted- I imagine. Maybe sanitary pads would be better. Before you get bitten?"

The albino stared at him for a moment as if HE were the madman, then nodded slowly.

"Good point," he replied and put both packs back. Jayden nodded - okay, he could work with that. There were a remarkable number of people who bought sanitary pads for their bitches when they were too soft or too poor to have their animal sterilized. And better still, his aunt had a Border Collie bitch who also got special doggy panties with a sanitary napkin in them at this time of her cycle, so Jayden really had a bit of an idea. Yeah, that wouldn't give him nightmares.

"Maybe," he murmured thoughtfully and let his eyes wander over the products. Then he picked up two packs. "Heavy or light bleeding?"

"I didn't look. Should I?" asked the little one and Jayden cleared his throat again uncomfortably without looking at him, instead focusing on the packs like a good diligent employee.

"First heat for the bitch?"

"She doesn't have a fever! I always watch out!" his customer replied again with that pissed-off look. Man, was this guy cranky fast. And somehow they were talking past each other. But if the dog really belonged to his father and he really had no idea, then that was hardly surprising.

"I meant," Jayden said slowly, "is this the bitch's first time bleeding?"

"Yes!" his client replied firmly and that was finally a clear answer.

"Oh, that must be unpleasant."

"Very. I very horrified. But father says normal, so okay. Now has real towel between legs and with hot water bottle on mattress in attic. Is allowed to watch TV but product still whines all the time."

Jayden wanted to pull his hair out but made it look like he was just scratching. God, everything here was cringe level 100. Product, okay, maybe the father was a breeder.

"Does she lick herself a lot or is she rather relaxed?" the supermarket employee dared to ask.

"No licking so far, but I don't watch her all the time!" the albino said almost indignantly and now Jayden felt like the pervert.

"That ... I didn't mean that either. Is it a calm bitch or does she squirm a lot. If she's restless and tends to eat things she shouldn't-"

"Uhg, yeah, eating things I don't allow all the time. Looks so easy with Ceasar Milan dog whisperer but it's not. Had to lock all the cupboards and hide the cookie jar on the top shelf," the albino whined with a laughable groan.

"Wow, okay, tricky bitch you got there. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Very proud myself," his customer muttered a little sourly and Jayden grabbed two packs of the higher priced sanitary pads to finally wrap things up here.

"Well, small sanitary pads that don't peek out of the panties are less likely to be torn out and gobbled up by the dogs. But the ones with wings stick much better."

The pack with the wings was snatched from his fingers and eyed suspiciously.

"Wings are better, of course! Always better," said his counterpart authoritatively, as if this was about something completely different.

Jayden smiled so broadly it almost hurt, a profound nausea in his stomach.

"Okay! Then you've got what you need," he said chipperly as his customer shoveled two more packs of this brand and variety into his arms. And then another pack. He wouldn't go into the different strengths of sanitary towels now, which were indicated by the drops on the edge of each pack. He was already at the end of his tether and so was his customer. He came forward to the checkout, as did the midget, who dropped his packs on the checkout conveyor belt. Santiago grinned at him.

"I see you got along," he whispered and Jayden gave him the stink eye behind the back of the customer who pulled out a black Mastercard. The next words proved that Santiago had been able to hear at least part of what was being said in the empty store two aisles away.

"Do you also need panties for heat that Jayden can help you with? With the animal products we have-"

"Vessel wears underpants from doctor or me, don't need," the guy said curtly. Santiago professionally ignored him;

"-Because heat panties have a cutout for the tail and often Velcro that they fit better."

Now Santiago got the horrified look from the customer, who labeled him an idiot. Although Santiago was AGAIN able to ignore this perfectly.

"Or a toy?" he tempted, smiling and pointing in the direction of the dog toys because this dirty bastard wanted to torture Jayden. "Many bitches tend to nest and crave babies to cuddle when they come into heat. A cuddly toy helps with that."

The guy grumbled in a rather non-human way, but followed Santiago's finger with narrowed eyes, visibly thinking before he said; "Aaand she still doesn't have a fever ... but thanks", the guy said and headed to the back.

Jayden stayed with Santiago and before he could compel him to give further advice to the freakiest customer of the month (and the standard was set EXTREMELY high), he said with a point of the finger to the alcohol behind them:

"If I pay for one of the shots right away, get it from the shelf and drink it, will you tell on me?"

"Be my guest," chuckled Santiago and Jayden Jones remembered why he sometimes didn't hate him so much.

.

.

"Mr. Turnbull?"

"Yes?"

Grant stopped on his way through the wide lobby of the children's hospital where he was going to pick up Elisa upstairs. A middle-aged man in dark pants and sturdy shoes intercepted him, a gentle, pleasant smile on his face. The man was not unusual, slim and wiry, with a graying three-day beard, not remarkably tall or short. The clean, clearly ironed short-sleeved shirt he wore was a little too baggy, as if he had bought the wrong size or had recently lost some fat or muscle mass. He smelled a bit like alcohol but even more like shampoo as if he'd just showered an hour ago. Grant didn't let on that he noticed the old scars but also some fresher puncture marks in the man's crook of the elbow as he extended a friendly hand to shake his. There were not many fresh marks. But there were some.

"Good evening and sorry to disturb you. Could you spare five minutes?"

Grant appreciated courtesy despite the dubious circumstances and nodded with a smile. His smile probably looked more fake than this man's.

"I have five minutes. How can I help you?"

"I'm Calvin Hill."

The man smiled broadly at Grant's surprised gaping mouth. His gums were pale and slightly receding, his teeth stained and showing signs of poor care or long drug abuse. But the man's speech was clear, his body language smooth and attentive as he spoke as if his head had never been fogged.

"Warren told me you were worried about him. I wanted to reassure you that there was no reason to be."

"Would you like to sit outside the cafeteria?" Grant offered.

"My thoughts," Mr. Hill replied, nodding. And he would probably have offered this place to talk himself, because Warren was sitting at one of the tables there, munching on a Reese cup. The boy looked up as Grant and his father approached. Grant nodded at him with a smile, but the boy just rolled his eyes like pre-teenagers do when they think adults are overprotective and ridiculous.

"What would you like to drink? I insist," Mr. Hill said, pulling a tattered wallet from his trouser pocket. Unfortunately, when he opened it, Grant couldn't stare as hard as he needed to match a name on some ID with what the man had said.

"I wouldn't mind a cold water," Grant muttered as he sat down. All of a sudden he was really thirsty.

"Water, of course. I'll have an iced coffee. The machines here can do that, can't they Warren?"

"Sure Dad," Warren said, shoving the last bit of his treat between his teeth and chewing with squirrel cheeks.

"Then be a dear."

His father handed him two five-dollar bills and then tousled his hair, at which the boy let out an indignant sound and swatted his hand away with a grin. Grant saw clearly that the boy did not stiffen, did not flinch. No child who has been mistreated or beaten would react like this to his abuser.

"Can I buy a soda with the change?" the child asked innocently.

Calvin Hill rubbed his forehead with an expression that only a suffering parent could muster. Grant remembered Brooklyn's face.

"Since I'm hoping you'll brush your teeth later after that cup, a soda won't do any more harm. But no cola, the caffeine won't let you sleep properly."

"Oh Dad, jeez I know!"

The child ran off and after a few moments of both men watching the boy at the machine, the supposed Mr. Hill turned around. Grant had no proof that this was not Mr. Hill - but he had no proof that it was him either. What he did know was that people who spent a lot of time in vehicles, like professional drivers, had one arm that was much more tanned, especially in summer. And this man didn't have that. But if this wasn't the boy's father, they were very familiar with each other. They were so natural. The man opposite him didn't seem like an actor. He seemed genuine and open and like what a normal social worker like Andrew Gawain or a concerned man like Grant Turnbull would want to see. Despite the teeth, the puncture marks and the lack of various tans. He looked too good to be real - just like the boy's behavior. And rarely were such coincidences truly coincidental.

"Do you have children?" Mr. Hill asked quietly, obviously wanting to take advantage while his son was away pressing the buttons on the coffee machine.

"My beloved and I didn't happen to be so lucky. But we have children in the family who are like ours."

"Warren told me that your partner is volunteering here. He said Zoey loves her terribly. I'm so grateful that there are people like Miss Maza and you to look after my children where I can't." The man took a deep breath, his face contorting into pure anguished regret. "You must think I'm a horrible father to drive off to work for weeks instead of being there for my boy and my baby. Especially now that she's so ill. But ... I'm not a strong man. My Ester was the strong one of us. I ... I can't see my girl like that. I can't, it's - I know it's rotten but ... I can work, earn money for my children. THAT I can do. And pray, of course. I do that non-stop. Being thankful that I have such a responsible son and pray that a miracle will happen for Zoey."

Mr. Hill looked with moist eyes across the half-dark cafeteria where Warren was making his decision in front of the soda machine. Or not making it - as children were. The supposed Calvin Hill impressed Grant deeply. If he wasn't really Calvin Hill. The way he sat here, clearing his throat uncomfortably, wiping away tears before they could spill over his eyelids and, as most fathers did to avoid showing their child that they themselves were breaking, collecting himself when Warren came back to the table. He placed a water with some crushed ice in front of Grant and the iced coffee in front of his maybe-father.

Then the boy stood awkwardly by them. Grant took two or three big sips of his water. He had been thirstier than usual for nights and blamed it on the summer heat. The cool wetness tasted like it should and did him good as it flowed down his throat. When he looked up again, he noticed the boy staring at him as if he was waiting for something. Grant tilted his head questioningly, causing Warren Hill to avert his eyes and look at Mr. Hill.

"Do you want me to stay?" the child asked.

His father smiled patronizingly at him.

"Just because I'm always out of town for a fair amount of time doesn't make me incompetent. You don't have to play my bodyguard, son."

"I just meant, this is about me, isn't it?"

"Yeah. But you didn't mess up, everything's okay. Jude didn't mention anything negative except that you're always here after visiting hours and the security and nursing staff let you- which I'll talk to them about. And nothing negative was brought up at the parent-student conference last month either. Or are you trying to tell me something?" his father inquired, taking a long sip of his iced coffee while smiling at the boy.

If Grant (or one of his aliases) had been that kind of guy, he would have applauded. This was extremely artful. If it was a game. Grant didn't want to believe it. He really didn't. Suddenly it didn't matter if the man didn't look like a trucker in stature or tan or if he had puncture marks in the crook of his arm. He shook his head in irritation at this thread of thought. It SHOULD matter! Strange.

"This is a grown-up conversation, Warren. And it's getting late," Mr. Hill sighed.

The boy pouted but pointed a finger upward to suggest the upper floors. "Can I go back up and kiss Zizi goodnight?"

Calvin Hill gave his son a hug. A one-armed but heartfelt one. The boy closed his eyes for a moment, his head on the man's shoulder, looking like this was exactly what he wanted and yet not. It looked sorrowful and ... lonely.

"Sure," his dad said, rubbing the kid's arm gently, "and give her one from me, too. But be quiet. And if she's asleep, let her. Then I'll drive you to your aunt."

Warren smiled, nodded again briefly to Grant with a confused frown, and then walked around the corner.

"So that was you at the parent-student conference?" Grant said, undoing the top button of his shirt. Was it suddenly so stuffy in here or was it him?

"Of course," Calvin Hill said, blinking in bewilderment. "Who else would have been there? I can't attend many events concerning my son, but I'll try. Otherwise someone will probably end up thinking I'm dead," Calvin concluded with a wry smile that betrayed the joke. So good. Too good, something shouted in his head. But a stronger part wanted to believe, wanted to let it go and stop chasing leads. Just like the last few weeks. He blinked himself in confusion. Why hadn't he pulled the boy aside much earlier, more forcefully, as soon as he'd seen red flags? What if the child had gone into hiding? He would have ways to find him again. That was not like him.

"Yes, yes of course," mumbled Mr. Gawain, no, he was Grant right now. Turnbull. He found the name rather suspect, but Xanatos had assured him that a less charming name that was so obvious that no sane person would suspect him of being someone else would be perfect. He took a deep breath and drank another sip to clear his head. He didn't usually feel this distracted.

"Regarding his aunt..." Grant began hoarsely, massaging his temple. All at once he felt dizzy. He took another big gulp of water, the ice cubes knocking against his teeth.

"His mother's sister, Judith. I call her Jude - she hates that, but we'll get along as long as I'm a few states away most of the time," Calvin chuckled. Before a worrying wrinkle formed on his forehead.

"Are you all right, Mr. Turnbull?"

"I feel ... a little unsteady," he admitted and took another deep breath. Suddenly there was so much saliva in his mouth, where did all the saliva come from, what happened when the stripe loosened under his tongue? And why had he just admitted that, a warrior never admits weakness in front of a supposed enemy. Was it an enemy? He was friendly, too friendly. He was practically stalking his son - why was Calvin Hill so affable when Ezra Cohen had described him as a choleric drunk?"

"Maybe the heat of the day? Is that the first thing you drank today?" Calvin inquired.

"I ... slept through the day, "Grant admitted, shaking his head, which didn't help the dizziness and sudden headache.

"I meant - I didn't mean to say that."

"Don't worry ... I'll tell you what to say. Just put your head on the table and close your eyes. That's a good idea, isn't it? You'll feel better later," he heard Calvin Hill's voice say when he already had his eyes closed and his head on the tabletop.

.

Ohhh these scenes are all rather disturbing in their own way. And from here on it's all downhill - really WUHAHAHAHAHAHA.

But a serious tone at the end.

Calvin Hill- or whoever it is that intercepted Grant- his behavior (his statements) regarding his sick child is particular but I don't think rare. Maybe the behavior is more pronounced in men - I can't prove that empirically - but they are often raised to be tough and resilient. But there are things they can't stand. Things they would break over. My grandma has been in a care home for 5 years. She came there already quite demented and now she's ... well, no longer there at all. Visually and in terms of her character - there's "nothing" left. My father - her son, the first-born, her undisputed favorite has not visited her once and will not do so. NOT ONCE! I told him he doesn't have to talk to her - she hasn't been able to do that for a long time. He just has to be there and feed her the cheesecake she likes so much (or just hold her hand while I feed her?). Wouldn't he regret not seeing her again or telling her that he loves her? But he can't. He says he just can't do it. He CAN'T see her like this. That's all he ever said when I offered to take him there and accompany him. I assume he won't take the opportunity to see her after she has passed away. I can only speculate what he is afraid of ... and hope that he dies before I get seriously ill and wish he would visit me. Because he won't.

BUT I'm depressing again - let's forget it! Next chapter- Nashville!

Thanks for reading, Q.T.