3456 words (13 minute read)

Episode Two: Your Brain on Milk (Revised)



You lay a hand on the old man’s chest.

No, you think to yourself. Not “old man.” Lynn. Don’t forget it.

You lay your hand on Lynn’s chest and close your eyes.

Kumara,” you whisper. “Striboga.”

Spells flow from your hand like ink, forming a circular glyph with eight points on Lynn’s shirt.

A quiet breeze ruffles the sleeves of your bathrobe and wraps itself around Lynn’s body. He rises up, stiff as a board, floating in the air like the assistant in a magician’s levitation act or the lead role in an exorcism flick.

Voila,” you say, wiggling your fingers back and forth. “I think I’ll call this one ‘the Invisible Stretcher’.”

Fausta nods in approval. “Useful spells,” she says. “Who taught you?”

You want to scream in frustration. You’re doing magic! Why isn’t she gaping in awe, or insisting that it can’t be possible, or asking how it’s done?

“I learned a few spells from my dad,” you explain, shrugging with a long-cultivated nonchalance, “and the rest from some online classes.”

Fausta frowns at your last statement. You wait for her to ask for an explanation. But like a spoilsport, she choses to move on.

“How long will these spells keep him in traction?” Fausta asks.

You scratch the back of your neck: “Low-balling it…fifteen to thirty minutes?”

Fausta Orobas clenches her teeth. “We need to get him off the street,” she tells you.

“I’ve got an apartment upstairs I haven’t cleaned in days,” you tell Fausta.

Fausta groans under her breath. “It’ll have to do,” she says. “C’mon, Fortuna!”

“Okay, mom!” Fortuna replies. “This way, Cookie!” She gives her dog’s leash a light yank. Cookie springs forward, wheezing loudly as he nearly strangles himself on his chain collar.

Fausta takes the lead with the EMT kit and oxygen cylinder. You follow, pushing the floating Lynn up the stairs. Fortuna and Cookie bring up the rear.

“Third door on the left, the one’s that’s open,” you tell Fausta. “Don’t knock on the other doors. My floor-mates bite.”

Fausta chuckles briefly, but falls silent as she realizes how serious you are.

“Ah yes,” she says. “Cryptatown. The City of Claws.” She shakes her head ruefully: “How does a place like this get put together?”

“Is it really surprising?” you ask Fausta. “Even strange critters need a place to call their own, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Fausta replies bluntly.

…so then. This Dame’s not spooked by magic or frightened by monsters. Maybe she’s got nerves of steel. Or maybe she’s seen things that make ghouls and goblins sound like a mild curiosity.

Judging by the long-barreled pistol she totes around in her purse, you’re inclined to believe the latter.

You tap the handle of your apartment door with your sword, dismantling the lock with a sudden burst of magic. You haul the floating Mr. Lynn into your apartment, kicking a discarded pair of trousers aside as you press him down onto your bed. With a tap of your finger, you pluck your enchantments off his clothes and draw them back into your mind.

Fausta scans your one-room apartment, nose wrinkling. Cookie the pit bull scampers in behind little Fortuna and starts sniffing at your frayed, fuzzy carpet.

“Make yourself at home!” you tell them, laying your sword down on the kitchen counter. “What’s mine is yours and all that jazz.”

"It’s not as bad as a pictured," Fausta says with a visible reluctance. She rests a hand on Mr. Lynn’s brow to check his temperature "But he’s going to need more than basic first aid to mend."

"I got it covered," you say, grabbing your phone from the dresser. You tap out a text message with your thumbs:


__________________________________________

[Civilian attacked. Bruises and fractures. Send help to my flat.]

__________________________________________

Fausta sets the oxygen tank by the foot of your bed. “Do you have ice packs?” she asks.

"There’s a few in the fridge." You say. "Some frozen broccoli too."

“Get them,” Fausta tells you. “We need to reduce his swelling.”

You kneel by your fridge and throw open the freezer, fishing out frozen items and setting it on the counter. TV dinner, TV dinner, jar full of nano-machines, TV dinner...ah!

You grab three ice packs and four bags of frozen veggies and shut the fridge door with a thump.

Fortuna twitches at the loud noise. She’s a skittish one, you realize.

"Here," you say, giving her what you hope is a reassuring smile. "Could you take these to your mom?" You hold out the icepacks. "Like she said –– they’ll help with the inflammation.

Fortuna hesitates.

Cookie, the spotted black-and-white pit bull, nudges Fortuna’s right leg.

Fortuna looks down at her dog.

Cookie bobs his snout up and down, a strangely keen glint in his eye.

"Sure!" Fortuna says with a sudden cheer. She takes a step forward, her elbow brushing against the jar filled with swirling churning silver liquid.

"Whoah-whoah-whoah!"

You lunge forward.

Fortuna yelps.

Cookie growls.

You snatch the jar of nano-machines off the counter, holding it away from Fortuna with one hand. "Sorry!" You say. Comforting smile, you think to yourself. Comforting smile. "This jar’s filled with some dangerous stuff. Wouldn’t want it to break, now would we?" You place the ice-packs in Fortuna’s hands. "Thank you for your help," you say with the utmost gravity.

Fortuna relaxes. "You’re welcome," she says, taking the ice-packs gingerly.

(Across the room, Fausta withdraw her hand from gun stuffed into her purse. You pretend not to notice).

Fortuna’s nose wrinkles up. “Your room’s cluttered,” she tells you.

You want to object. You really do. But there are too many dishes in the sink and the counter. Your laundry hamper is full to bursting. Your bed still smells like your ex-girlfriend. Your fridge is filled with food past its sell-date, along with a jar of caustic, self-replicating nano-machines....

...actually, you refuse to take the blame for the colony of nanomachines. Those showed up in your mailbox one day. Really, you’re doing the world a service, making sure those Nanites don’t escape from containment and consume all organic life–!

...anyways.

You put the nano-machines back into the freezer. You grab some loose tea leaves from the cupboard and set a kettle on the stovetop, working on the principle that a brewing pot of tea can make the manliest of man caves fancier.

As you make the tea, Fausta and little Fortuna lay your ice packs across Mr. Lynn’s biggest bruises.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Fortuna asks.

“We’ll have to see,” Fausta replies.

Fortuna hugs herself. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

Fausta’s expression softens. She lays a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“It’s okay to be scared,” she tells Fortuna. “I’m glad you’re scared, sweetie. It means you’re a good person.”

“Can’t I be good and not be scared?” Fortuna mumbles. Fausta hesitates, a troubled look in her eyes.

You feel Fausta’s pain: that’s a tough question to answer, especially if you don’t want to invoke empty platitudes.

Your cell phone chimes. You look down and read the latest update:

__________________________________________

[Civilian attacked. Bruises and fractures. Send help to my flat.]

Saturday 11:30 AM

[Understood, DZ. Sending「C」your way.]

__________________________________________

“Good news!” You tell the Orobas family. “The Anarchists are coming!”

Is that a good thing?” Fausta asks.

“They have the best EMTs in Cryptatown. And no,” you add, as Fausta opens her mouth to say something, “I’m not just saying that because they’re the only EMTs in Cryptatown.”

“Which they are,” you reluctantly admit.

Fausta gives you a wary look and says nothing.

Fortuna stares down at her feet, fiddling idly with the zipper on her jacket.

An uncomfortable silence fills the air. Absent any other clever ideas, you fall back on your favored tactic for breaking the ice.

“Hey, Fortuna!” you say, pulling out your phone. “Do you like video games?”

Fortuna’s forehead wrinkles. “Sometimes?” She says. “I’ve got some on my phone. Jewel Quest, Spider Dance...Sprite Quest?”

“I’ve got Sprite Quest too!” you tell her, grabbing your phone from the desk and showing her the app on your screen. “Have you scanned for any Eidolons lately?”

Fortuna perks up. She taps her phone’s screen screen a few times. Her eyes widen. “Oh!” She says. “I can see a Talos. And a Mogbert! And a Bronze Selkie!”

Fortuna starts spinning in a circle, scanning your room with her phone camera’s augmented reality function.

You turn and see Fausta staring at you with a frown.

“Cryptatown’s full of virtual sprites,” you explain. “Something to do with the cell towers. Darnedest thing, really.”

“Mr. Worawoot,” Fausta says with a sigh. “I don’t know you yet. You don’t know me either. Until that changes, I don’t want you playing nice with my daughter.”

You flinch. You open your mouth to say something defensive; how dare she compare you to some creeper with candy and a white van?

No, you tell yourself. It’s not about you. You can’t blame a Dame like her for being cautious.

You swallow your caustic comments and nod toward Ms. Fausta Orobas. “I know who you are,” you tell her.

Fausta stops breathing. The blood drains from her face.

Dammit, you think. What are you doing wrong?

You point down at Lynn, his breath fogging the inside of the oxygen mask strapped across his face. “I know you’ve gotten EMT training from somewhere,” you say. “I know you want to help him. Believe me, that’s something we have in common.”

Fausta relaxes. “Ah,” she says, sighting with relief. “Yes. That’s true. I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” you say. “Stranger danger. I get it.”

“Still,” Fausta says, “I should be more grateful. You did save us from that Ogre and his...well, fiery magical sword.”

“All in a day’s work, ma’am,” you say gallantly, running a finger along your hat brim.

Fausta’s eyebrows rise. “A day’s work?” she repeats.

“I’m a Private Eye,” you explain. “Of a sort.”

Of a sort?”

“…yes?”

Fausta raises a single eyebrow and says nothing.

She raises a good point: how many mysteries have you solved recently? How many gibbering horrors have you carved into chunks with that ancient sword of yours?

Be honest with yourself: the title “private eye” sounds so much better than “mercenary". Or “butcher".

“The P.I. requirements are pretty specific in this town,” you explain to Fausta. “You could say I’m working towards my certification at the moment..”

“Certification?” Fausta says. “I thought this place was a lawless hellhole.”

You hesitate before replying.

How to explain it to her? You could talk about the unspoken customs of courtesy and honor that keep people from eating each other alive. You could talk about the support groups and networks that provide structure to the community.

You could talk about her. The Alder who burns in the shadows, destroying anyone who tries to set themselves up above her.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last.

“Hmm,” Fausta says. “You picked a strange place to live.”

“Says the Dame who shot an Ogre leg without blinking,” you reply.

Fausta sighs and glances out the open window: “We’re not looking for trouble. I want…” She hesitates a moment before continuing. “I just want to find a place to raise my girl in peace.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why come to Cryptatown, then?”

Fausta glances back towards you, brow wrinkling with confusion. “I’m looking for a place to raise my child in peace,” she repeats, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That makes…two of us, then…” Felix Lynn whispers.

You and Fausta look down. Lynn’s eyes are open and focused, if a little fogged over.

Cookie walks up to your bed and rests his snout on Lynn’s arm. Lynn reaches out and scratches the dog’s ear.

“Hello again, Mr. Lynn,” Fausta says, bending over her patient. “Good to have you back.”

Lynn tries to smile, but manages only a crooked grin.

“On a scale on one to ten, how much pain are you in?” Fausta asks.

Lynn furrows his brow. “Four-point-five, I think?” he says. “Six when I breathe.”

“I see,” Fausta says. She lays a hand on Lynn’s wrist. “Don’t worry, sir. An EMT will be here in about...”

She looks at you. You glance down at your phone and hold up five fingers.

“...five minutes,” Fausta says smoothly. “Just hang tight until then.”

“What about Philip?” Lynn asks, eyes widening. “What about my boy?”

Fausta closes her eyes and sighs deeply. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lynn” she says, “but I can only help one person at a time.”

Lynn grabs her wrist. “Please,” he hisses. “He’s my child!”

“I know,” Fausta replies. She looks back over her shoulder: Fortuna’s engrossed in her smart-phone game, completely oblivious to their conversation. “I know exactly what you’re feeling right now,” she tells Lynn, starring into his puppy-dog eyes without a hint of remorse. “But if you want to find your son, you need to focus on getting well.”

“Assuming you want to find your son,” you say out loud, leaning against the counter and folding your hands against your chest. “I mean, he did try to murder you and all.”

Well, well, well: is this what you call bedside manner, Diesel?

“Diesel!” Fausta growls, glaring at me with eyes narrowed to reptile slits.

Lynn flinches. “It’s not that simple,” he tells you, heat in his voice.

“Then explain it to us,” you say, strolling past Fausta and sitting on the edge of your sturdy nightstand. “Help us understand why all this happened.”

“He needs bed rest, Diesel,” Fausta tells you. “Not an interrogation."

Mr. Lynn grimaces and clutches at your sheets for a moment. “No,” he says, exhaling a ragged breath that fogs the inside of his mask. “I do owe you all some explanation.”

You tug the brim of your hat down to cover your eyes: if Fausta’s insistent on being a good cop, you might as well play the bad. “So,” you say, “how exactly did you get an Ogre for a son?”

“He’s not an Ogre!” Mr. Lynn hisses behind clenched teeth.

You raise an eyebrow, letting the silence eat away at the man in your bed.

“…Philip’s just different,” Lynn mumbles.

“Different how?” You lean in. “Explain it for us. Start at the beginning.”

Felix Lynn falls back onto your pillow and sighs: “It’s...Claudia, my Claudia, died bringing Philip into this world.”

“…ah,” Fausta says under her breath.

Lynn squeezes his eyes shut: “Life without her was—still is—like walking around with a hole in my heart. But I never blamed him! Never!” He insists. “It was challenging, raising him on my own, but I had my family to help.” A ghost of a smile graces his face: “Philip was such a happy little kid. Smart, kind, curious....until…”

“Until?” Fausta asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Philip changed in middle school,” Lynn says. “He got distant, moody. He got into scuffles with other students. I thought it was puberty, so I tried to be patient, let him work through the hormones...” Lynn swallows, a hoarse, sickly-sounding gulp.

“Go on,” you say gently.

“Last year,” Lynn continues, “he must have fallen in with a bad crowd. He was caught robbing convenience stores at gunpoint and stealing their milk...”

“What?” Fausta blurts out. “Milk?”

Fortuna looks up from her mobile game. “Milk?” she asks.

“Milk,” you whisper, stroking your chin in thought.

Lynn winces. “Yes...” he says meekly. “Philip was stealing bottles of milk and honey. He would stuff them into the lining of his coat—”

“And you didn’t find this odd?” Fausta asks, incredulous.

“Philip’s always loved milk!” Lynn protests. “That’s how his bones got so big!”

Hoo boy, you think, stomach sinking.

“My brother’s a lawyer. He managed to get Philip community service,” Lynn explains. “When I tried to take him to his court-mandated therapy, he locked me in our closet and ran away! The police...the traffic cameras caught him walking down this one alleyway, so I went to look there myself…”

Mr. Lynn closes his eyes. Tears run down his cheeks, free and unrestrained.

“Did you see how skinny and gray he’s gotten?” He whispers. “He’s not taking care of himself. My boy needs help. Philip needs help...”

Lynn’s head lolls to the side. His breathing slows down.

“All right,” you say to Fausta, Fortuna, and Cookie the dog. “Group huddle, everybody.”

You ’huddle up’, as it were, behind your kitchen counter. You pour out tea for everyone in your best ceramic mugs and take a sip to soothe your nerves. Cookie sits next to your stool, blissfully leaning his head into your hand as you scratch his ears.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” you say. “The Ogre named Philip isn’t actually Felix’s son. He’s a—”

“Faerie Changeling!” Fortuna blurts out.

“...yes, actually,” you admit. "I mean...not bad. Not bad at all." You give the girl an approving nod. "What gave it away?"

Fortuna wriggled back and forth on her stool, pleased as punch that the grown-ups are all listening to her. “Well…” Fortuna says with a smug yet adorable smile, “he’s got pointy ears. And he likes milk and honey. Oh, and he talks like Shakespeare!”

She shows you and Fausta her phone’s screen. A virtual pixie made of dragonfly wings and mist dances inside the lines of a circuit-stylized pentagram.

“You see?” Fortuna says. “Tinker-Tink’s journal entry says that fairies like milk and honey!”

“That’s nice, sweetie,” Fausta says consolingly, “but that doesn’t explain why Mr. Lynn has a faerie for a child..."

"Because that big guy isn’t actually Philip," you try to explain. "He’s a...well, I suppose you could call him a Not-Philip..."

Fausta continues to look confused. Thankfully, Fortuna picks up the slack.

“Philip’s an imposter,” Fortuna explains to her mother. “The Fair Folk kidnapped Lynn’s real child and left a baby Ogre in its place.”

“Like a cuckoo’s egg,” you add.

“Or an undercover operative,” Fausta says under her breath.

Well, you think. That’s a rather specific comparison to make. What kind of Dame are you, Fausta Orobas? Talk of magic and monsters doesn’t shake you in the slightest. Your hands can patch up wounds and pull a trigger without the slightest tremor. Even Cryptatown doesn’t seem to scare you…but why does it feel like you’re running from something?

Fausta looks over at the sleeping Lynn and shakes her head. “That poor, deluded bastard…” she whispers.

*BANG*

Your apartment door swings inward, slamming into the back wall hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall.

A black-clad figure walks into your flat, taping their bamboo walking stick against the ground, face hidden behind a bone-white mask.

Fortuna screams and raises her hand. Smoke pours off her curled fingernails, and a rotten-egg stench fills the room. Cookie leaps in front of Fortuna, spittle flying everywhere as he barks at the intruders.

Fausta practically flies across the room and snatches her purse from your desk. “You will NOT take her!” she snarls, pulling her pistol free.

“Don’t!” You shout, reaching for the bronze sword you’d set on the kitchen counter.

The masked intruder drops their walking stick, slides a silver wrench from their sleeve and hurls it towards Fausta’s skull.

Next Chapter: Episode Three: Diesel’s on the Case! (Revised)